The Bourne Identity (29 page)

Question: "What proof do you have?"

Statement: "I heard him say it. He was on a small embankment of grass beyond a ledge. His rifle had a wire shell-trap attached."

Question: "It was never reported; why wasn't he seen?"

Statement: "He may have been, but no one would have known it. He was dressed as an old man, with a shabby overcoat, and his shoes were wrapped in canvas to avoid footprints."

A terrorist's information is certainly not proof, but neither should it always be disregarded. Especially when it concerns a master assassin, known to be a scholar of deception, who has made an admission that so astonishingly corroborates an unknown unpublished statement about a moment of national crisis never investigated. That, indeed, must be taken seriously. As so many others associated--even remotely--with the tragic events in Dallas, "Burlap Billy" was found dead several days later from an overdose of drugs. He was known to be an old man drunk consistently on cheap wine; he was never known to use narcotics. He could not afford them.

Was "Carlos" the man on the grassy knoll? What an extraordinary beginning for an extraordinary career!

If Dallas really was his "operation" how many millions of dollars must have been funneled to him?

Certainly more than enough to establish a network of informers and soldiers that is a corporate world unto itself.

The myth has too much substance; Carlos may well be a monster of flesh and too much blood.

Marie put down the magazine. "What's the game?"

"Are you finished?" Jason turned from the window.

"Yes."

"I gather a lot of statements were made. Theory, supposition, equations."

"Equations?"

"If something happened here, and there was an effect over there, a relationship existed."

"You mean connections," said Marie.

"All right, connections. It's all there, isn't it?"

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"To a degree, you could say that. It's hardly a legal brief; there's a lot of speculation, rumor, and secondhand information."

"There
are
facts, however."

"Data."

"Good. Data. That's fine."

"What's the game?" Marie repeated.

"It's got a simple title. It's called 'Trap.' "

"Trap whom?"

"Me." Bourne sat forward. "I want you to ask me questions. Anything that's in there. A phrase, the name of a city, a rumor, a fragment of ... data. Anything. Let's hear what my responses are. My blind responses."

"Darling, that's no proof of--"

"
Do
it!" ordered Jason.

"All right." Marie raised the issue of
Potomac Quarterly
. "Beirut," she said.

"Embassy," he answered. "CIA station head posing as an attache. Gunned down in the street. Three hundred thousand dollars."

Marie looked at him. "I remember--" she began.

"I don't!" interrupted Jason. "Go on."

She returned his gaze, then went back to the magazine. "Baader-Meinhof."

"Stuttgart. Regensburg. Munich. Two kills and a kidnapping, Baader accreditation. Fees from--"

Bourne stopped, then whispered in astonishment, "U. S. sources. Detroit ... Wilmington, Delaware."

"Jason, what are--"

"Go
on
.
Please
."

"The name, Sanchez."

"The
name
is Ilich Ramirez Sanchez," he replied. "He is ... Carlos."

"Why the Ilich?"

Bourne paused, his eyes wandering. "I don't know."

"It's Russian, not Spanish. Was his mother Russian?"

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"No ... yes. His mother. It had to be his mother ... I think. I'm not sure."

"Novgorod."

"Espionage compound. Communications, ciphers, frequency traffic. Sanchez is a graduate."

"Jason, you read that here!"

"I did not read it! Please. Keep going"

Marie's eyes swept back to the top of the article. "Teheran."

"Eight kills. Divided accreditation--Khomeini and PLO. Fee, two million. Source Southwest Soviet sector."

"Paris," said Marie quickly.

"All contracts will be processed through Paris."

"What contracts?"

"
The
contracts ... Kills!"

"Whose kills? Whose contracts?"

"Sanchez ... Carlos."

"Carlos? Then they're Carlos' contracts,
his
kills. They have nothing to do with you."

"Carlos' contracts," said Bourne, as if in a daze. "Nothing to do with ... me," he repeated, barely above a whisper.

"You just said it, Jason. None of this has anything to do with you!"

"No! That's not true!" Bourne shouted, lunging up from the chair, holding his place, staring down at her.

"Our contracts," he added quietly.

"You don't know what you're saying!"

"I'm responding! Blindly! It's why I had to come to Paris!" He spun around and walked to the window, gripping the frame. "That's what the game is all about," he continued. "We're not looking for a lie, we're looking for the truth, remember? Maybe we've found it; maybe the game revealed it."

"This is no valid test! It's a painful exercise in incidental recollection. If a magazine like
Potomac
Quarterly
printed this, it would have been picked up by half the newspapers in the world. You could have read it anywhere."

"The fact is I retained it."

"Not entirely. You didn't know where the Ilich came from, that Carlos' father was a Communist attorney in Venezuela. They're salient points, I'd think. You didn't mention a thing about the Cubans. If
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you had, it would have led to the most shocking speculation written here. You didn't say a word about it."

"What are you talking about?"

"Dallas," she said. "November 1963."

"Kennedy," replied Bourne.

"That's it? Kennedy?"

"It happened then." Jason stood motionless.

"It did, but that's not what I'm looking for."

"I know," said Bourne, his voice once again flat, as if speaking in a vacuum. "A grassy knoll ... Burlap Billy."

"You read this!"

"No."

"Then you heard it before, read it before."

"That's possible, but it's not relevant, is it?"

"Stop it, Jason!"

"Those words again. I wish I could."

"What are you trying to tell me? You're Carlos?"

"God, no. Carlos wants to kill me, and I don't speak Russian, I know that."

"Then
what?"

"What I said at the beginning. The game. The game is called Trap-the Soldier."

"A soldier?"

"Yes. One who defected from Carlos. It's the only explanation, the only reason I know what I know. In all things."

"Why do you say defect?"

"Because he
does
want to kill me. He has to; he thinks I know as much about him as anyone alive."

Marie had been crouching on the bed; she swung her legs over the side, her hands at her sides. "That's a result of defecting. What about the cause? If it's true, then you did it, became ... became--" She stopped.

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"All things considered, it's a little late to look for a moral position," said Bourne, seeing the pain of acknowledgment on the face of the woman he loved. "I could think of several reasons, cliches. How about a falling out among thieves ... killers."

"Meaningless!" cried Marie. "There's not a shred of evidence."

"There's buckets of it and you know it. I could have sold out to a higher bidder or stolen huge sums of money from the fees. Either would explain the account in Zurich." He stopped briefly, looking at the wall above the bed, feeling, not seeing. "Either would explain Howard Leland, Marseilles, Beirut, Stuttgart ... Munich. Everything. All the unremembered facts that want to come out. And one especially. Why I avoided his name, why I never mentioned him. I'm frightened. I'm afraid of him."

The moment passed in silence; more was spoken of than fear. Marie nodded. "I'm sure you believe that," she said, "and in a way I wish it were true. But I don't think it is. You want to believe it because it supports what you just said. It gives you an answer ... an identity. It may not be the identity you want, but God knows it's better than wandering blindly through that awful labyrinth you face every day. Anything would be, I guess." She paused. "And
I
wish it were true because then we wouldn't be here."

"What?"

"That's the inconsistency, darling. The number or symbol that doesn't fit in your equation. If you were what you say you were, and afraid of Carlos--and heaven knows you should be--Paris would be the last place on earth you'd feel compelled to go to. We'd be somewhere else; you said it yourself. You'd run away; you'd take the money from Zurich and disappear. But you're not doing that; instead, you're walking right back into Carlos' den. That's not a man who's either afraid or guilty."

"There isn't anything else. I came to Paris to find out; it's as simple as that."

"Then run away. We'll have the money in the morning; there's nothing stopping. you--us. That's simple, too." Marie watched him closely.

Jason looked at her, then turned away. He walked to the bureau and poured himself a drink. "There's still Treadstone to consider," he said defensively.

"Why any more than Carlos? There's your real equation. Carlos and Treadstone. A man I once loved very much was killed by Treadstone. All the more reason for us to run, to survive."

"I'd think you'd want the people who killed him exposed," said Bourne. "Make them pay for it."

"I do. Very much. But others can find them. I have priorities, and revenge isn't at the top of the list.
We
are. You and I. Or is that only my judgment? My feelings."

"You know better than that." He held the glass tighter in his hand and looked over at her. "I love you,"

he whispered.

"Then let's run!" she said, raising her voice almost mechanically, taking a step toward him. "Let's forget it all,
really
forget, and run as fast as we can, as far away as we can! Let's do it!"

"I ... I," Jason stammered, the mists interfering, infuriating him. "Where are ... things"

"What things? We love each other, we've found each
other!
We can go anywhere, be anyone. There's
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nothing to stop us, is there?"

"Only you and me," he repeated softly, the mists now closing in, suffocating him. "I know. I know. But I've got to think. There's so much to learn, so much that has to come out."

"Why is it so important?"

"It ... just is."

"Don't you know?"

"Yes ... No, I'm not sure. Don't ask me now."

"If not now, when? When can I ask you? When will it pass? Or will it ever?!"

"Stop it!" he suddenly roared, slamming the glass down on the wooden tray. "I can't run! I won't! I've got to stay here! I've got to know!"

Marie rushed to him, putting her hands first on his shoulders, then on his face, wiping away the perspiration. "Now you've said it. Can you hear yourself, darling? You can't run because the closer you get, the more maddening it is for you. And if you did run, it would only get worse. You wouldn't have a life, you'd live a nightmare. I know that."

He reached for her face, touching it, looking at her. "Do you?"

"Of course. But you had to say it, not me." She held him, her head against his chest. "I had to force you to. The funny thing is that I
could
run. I could get on a plane with you tonight and go wherever you wanted, disappear, and not look back, happier than I've ever been in my life. But you couldn't do that. What is--or isn't--here in Paris would eat away at you until you couldn't stand it anymore. That's the crazy irony, my darling. I could live with it but you couldn't."

"You'd just disappear?" asked Jason. "What about your family, your job--all the people you know?"

"I'm neither a child nor a fool," she answered quickly. "I'd cover myself somehow, but I don't think I'd take it very seriously. Pd request an extended leave for medical and personal reasons. Emotional stress, a breakdown; I could always go back, the department would understand."

"Peter?"

"Yes." She was silent for a moment. "We went from one relationship to another, the second more important to both of us, I think. He was like an imperfect brother you want to succeed in spite of his flaws, because underneath there was such decency."

"I'm sorry. I'm truly sorry."

She looked up at him. "You have the same decency. When you do the kind of work I do decency becomes very important. It's not the meek who are inheriting the earth, Jason, it's the corrupters. And I have an idea that the distance between corruption and killing is a very short step."

"Treadstone Seventy-One?"

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"Yes. We were both right. I do want them exposed, I want them to pay for what they've done. And you can't run away."

He brushed his lips against her cheek and then her hair and held her. "I should throw you out," he said.

"I should tell you to get out of my life. I can't do it, but I know damned well I should."

"It wouldn't make any difference if you did. I wouldn't go, my love."

The attorney's suite of offices was on the boulevard de la Chapelle, the book-lined conference room more a stage netting than an office; everything was a prop, and in its place. Deals were made in that room, not contracts. As for the lawyer himself, a dignified white goatee and silver pince-nez above an aquiline nose could not conceal the essential graft in the man. He even insisted on conversing in poor English, for which, at a later date, he could claim to have been misunderstood. Marie did most of the talking, Bourne deferring, client to adviser. She made her points succinctly, altering the cashiers checks to bearer bonds, payable in dollars, in denominations ranging from a maximum of twenty thousand dollars to a minimum of five. She instructed the lawyer to tell the bank that all series were to be broken up numerically in threes, the international guarantors changed with every fifth lot of certificates. Her objective was not lost on the attorney; she so complicated the issuing of the bonds that tracing them would be beyond the facilities of most banks or brokers. Nor would such banks or brokers take on the added trouble or expense; payments were guaranteed. When the irritated, goateed lawyer had nearly concluded his telephone conversation with an equally disturbed Antoine d'Amacourt, Marie held up her hand.