The Bourne Identity (67 page)

"Really? Let's hear it."

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"The simplest way to put it is that I was wounded, shot, the effects of the wounds causing a severe ... dislocation. Disorientation is a better word, I guess."

"Sounds good. What does it mean?"

"I suffered a memory loss. Total. I spent months on an island in the Mediterranean--south of Marseilles--not knowing who I was or where I came from. There's a doctor, an Englishman named Washburn, who kept medical records. He can verify what I'm telling you."

"I'm sure he can," said Conklin, nodding. "And I'll bet those records are massive. Christ, you paid enough!"

"What do you mean?"

"We've got a record, too. A bank officer in Zurich who thought he was being tested by Treadstone transferred. a million and a half Swiss francs to Marseilles for an untraceable collection. Thanks for giving us the name."

"That's part of what you have to understand. I didn't know. He'd saved my life, put me back together. I was damn near a corpse when I was brought to him."

"So you decided a million-odd dollars was a pretty fair ballpark figure, is that it? Courtesy of the Treadstone budget."

"I told you, I didn't
know
. Treadstone didn't exist for me; in many ways it still doesn't."

"I forgot. You lost your memory. What was the word? Disorientation?"

"Yes, but it's not strong enough. The word is amnesia."

"Let's stick to disorientation. Because it seems you oriented yourself straight into Zurich, right to the Gemeinschaft."

"There was a negative surgically implanted near my hip."

"There certainly was; you insisted on it. A few of us understood why. It's the best insurance you can have."

"I don't know what you're talking about. Can't you understand
that?"

"Sure. You found the negative with only a number on it and right away you assumed the name of Jason Bourne."

"It didn't
happen
that way! Each day it seemed I learned something, one step at a time, one revelation at a time. A hotel clerk called me Bourne; I didn't learn the name Jason until I went to the bank."

"Where you knew exactly what to do," interrupted Conklin. "No hesitation at all. In and out, four million gone."

"Washburn told me what to do!"

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"Then a woman came along who just happened to be a financial whiz kid to tell you how to squirrel away the rest. And before that you took out Chernak in the Lowenstrasse and three men we didn't know but figured they sure as hell knew you. And here in Paris, another shot in a bank transfer truck. Another associate? You covered every track, every goddamned track. Until there was only one thing left to do. And you--you son of a bitch--you did it."

"Will you
listen
to me! Those men tried to kill me; they've been hunting me since Marseilles. Beyond that, I honestly
don't know
what you're talking about. Things come to me at times. Faces, streets, buildings; sometimes just images I can't place, but I know they mean something, only I can't relate to them. And names--there are names, but then no faces. Goddamn you--I'm an
amnesiac!
That's the truth!"

"One of those names wouldn't be Carlos, would it?"

"Yes, and you know it. That's the point; you know much more about it than
I
do. I can recite a thousand facts about Carlos, but I don't know
why
. I was told by a man who's halfway back to Asia by now I had an agreement with Treadstone. The man worked for Carlos. He said Carlos knows. That Carlos was closing in on me, that you put out the word that I'd turned. He couldn't understand the strategy, and I couldn't tell him. You thought I'd turned because you didn't hear from me, and I couldn't reach you because I didn't know who you were. I
still
don't know who you are!"

"Or the Monk, I suppose."

"Yes, yes ... the Monk. His name was Abbott."

"Very good. And the Yachtsman? You remember the Yachtsman, don't you? And his wife?"

"Names. They're there, yes. No faces."

"Elliot Stevens?"

"Nothing."

"Or ... Gordon Webb." Conklin said the name quietly.

"What?" Bourne felt the jolt in his chest, then a stinging, searing pain that drove through his temples to his eyes.
His eyes were on fire! Fire! Explosions and darkness, high winds and pain. ... Almanac to
Delta! Abandon, abandon! You will respond as ordered. Abandon!
"Gordon ..." Jason heard his own voice, but it was far away in a faraway wind. He closed his eyes, the eyes that burned so, and tried to push the mists away. Then he opened his eyes and was not at all surprised to see Conklin's gun aimed at his head.

"I don't know how you did it, but you did. The only thing left to do and you did it. You got back to New York and blew them all away. You butchered them, you son of a bitch. I wish to Christ I could bring you back and see you strapped into an electric chair, but I can't, so I'll do the next best thing. I'll take you myself."

"I haven't been in New York for months. Before then, I don't know--but not in the last half-year."

"Liar! Why didn't you do it
really
right? Why didn't you time your goddamn stunt so you could get to the funerals? The Monk's was just the other day; you would have seen a lot of old friends. And your
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brother's!
Jesus God Almighty! You could have escorted his wife down the aisle of the church. Maybe delivered the eulogy, that'd be the kicker. At least speak well of the brother you killed."

"Brother? ...
Stop
it! For Christ's sake, stop it!"

"Why should I? Cain lives! We made him and he came to life!"

"I'm not
Cain
. He never
was!
I never was!"

"So you
do
know!
Liar! Bastard!"

"Put that gun away. I'm telling you, put it down!"

"No chance. I swore to myself I'd give you two minutes because I wanted to hear what you'd come up with. Well, I've heard it and it smells. Who gave
you
the right?' We all lose things; it goes with the job, and if you don't like the goddamned job you get out. If there's no accommodation you fade; that's what I thought you did, and I was willing to pass on you, to convince the others to
let
you fade! But no, you came back, and turned your gun on us."

"No! It's not true!"

"Tell that to the laboratory techs, who have eight fragments of glass that spell out two prints. Third and index fingers, right hand. You were there and you butchered five people. You--one of
them
--took out your guns--plural--and blew them away. Perfect setup. Discredited strategy. Varied shells, multiple bullets,
infiltration
. Treadstone's aborted and you walk out free."

"No, you're wrong! It was Carlos. Not me,
Carlos
. If what you're saying took place on Seventy-first Street, it was him! He knows. They know. A residence on Seventy-first Street. Number 139. They know about it!"

Conklin nodded, his eyes clouded, the loathing in them seen in the dim light, through the rain. "So perfect," he said slowly. "The prime mover of the strategy blows it apart by making a deal with the target. What's your take besides the four million? Carlos give you immunity from his own particular brand of persecution? You two make a lovely couple."

"That's crazy!"

"And accurate," completed the man from Treadstone. "Only nine people alive knew that address before seven-thirty last Friday night. Three of them were killed, and we're the other four. If Carlos found it, there's only one person who could have told him.
You
."

"How
could
I? I didn't know it. I
don't
know it!"

"You just said it." Conklin's left hand gripped the cane; it was a prelude to firing, steadying a crippled foot.

"Don't!"
shouted Bourne, knowing the plea was useless, spinning to his left as he shouted, his right foot lashing out at the wrist that held the gun.
Che-sah!
was the unknown word that was the silent scream in his head. Conklin fell back, firing wildly in the air, tripping over his cane. Jason spun around and down, now hammering his left foot at the weapon; it flew out of the hand that held it.
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Conklin rolled on the ground, his eyes on the far columns of the mausoleum, expecting an explosion from the gun that would blow his attacker into the air. No! The man from Treadstone rolled again. Now to the right, his features in shock, his wild eyes focused on--There was someone else!

Bourne crouched, diving diagonally backward as four gunshots came in rapid succession, three screeching ricochets spinning off beyond sound. He rolled over and over and over, pulling the automatic from his belt. He saw the man in the rain; a silhouetted figure rising above a gravestone. He fired twice; the man collapsed.

Ten feet away Conklin was thrashing on the wet grass, both hands spreading frantically over the ground, feeling for the steel of a gun. Bourne sprang up and raced over, he knelt beside the Treadstone man, one hand grabbing the wet hair, the other holding his automatic, its barrel pressed into Conklin's skull. From the far columns of the mausoleum came a prolonged, shattering scream. It grew steadily, eerily in volume, then stopped.

"That's your hired shotgun," said Jason, yanking Conklin's head to the side. "Treadstone's taken on some very strange employees. Who was the other man? What death row did you spring him from?"

"He was a better man than you ever were," replied Conklin, his voice strained, the rain glistening on his face, caught in the beam of the fallen flashlight six feet away on the ground. "They all are. They've all lost as much as you lost, but they never turned. We can count on them!"

"No matter what I say, you won't believe me. You don't
want
to believe me!"

"Because I know what you are--what you
did
. You just confirmed the whole damn thing. You can kill me, but they'll get you. You're the worst kind. You think you're special. You always did. I saw you after Phnom Penh--
everybody
lost out there, but that didn't count with you. It was only you, just
you!
Then in Medusa! No rules for Delta! The animal just wanted to kill. And that's the kind that turns. Well, I lost too, but I never turned. Go on! Kill me! Then you can go back to Carlos. But when I don't come back, they'll know. They'll come after you and they won't stop until they get you. Go on! Shoot!"

Conklin was shouting, but Bourne could hardly hear him. Instead he had heard two words and the jolts of pain hammered at his temples.
Phnom Penh! Phnom Penh. Death in the skies, from the skies.
Death of the young and the very young. Screeching birds and screaming machines and the
deathlike stench of the jungle ... and a river. He was blinded again, on fire again.
Beneath him the man from Treadstone had broken away. His crippled figure was crawling in panic, lunging, his hands surging through the wet grass. Jason blinked, trying to force his mind to come back to him. Then instantly he knew he had to point the automatic and fire. Conklin had found his gun and was raising it. But Bourne could not pull the trigger.

He dove to his right, rolling on the ground, scrambling toward the marble columns of the mausoleum. Conklin's gunshots were wild, the crippled man unable to steady his leg or his aim. Then the firing stopped and Jason got to his feet, his face against the smooth wet stone. He looked out, his automatic raised; he had to kill this man, for this man would kill him, kill Marie, link them both to Carlos. Conklin was hobbling pathetically toward the gates, turning constantly, the gun extended, his destination a car outside in the road. Bourne raised his automatic, the crippled figure in his gunsight. A split half-second and it would be over, his enemy from Treadstone dead, hope found with that death, for there were reasonable men in Washington.

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He could not do it; he could not pull the trigger. He lowered the gun, standing helpless by the marble column as Conklin climbed into his car.

The car. He had to get back to Paris. There was a way. It had been there all along.
She
had been there!

He rapped on the door, his mind racing, facts analyzed, absorbed and discarded as rapidly as they came to him, a strategy evolving. Marie recognized the knock; she opened the door.

"Dear God, look at you! What happened?"

"No time," he said, rushing toward the telephone across the room. "It was a trap. They're convinced I turned, sold out to Carlos."

"What?"

"They say I flew into New York last week, last Friday. That I killed five people ... among them a brother." Jason closed his eyes briefly. "There was a brother--
is
a brother. I don't know, I can't think about it now."

"You never left Paris! You can prove it!"

"How? Eight, ten hours, that's all I'd need. And eight or ten hours unaccounted for is all
they
need now. Who's going to come forward?"

"I will. You've been with me."

"They think you're part of it," said Bourne, picking up the telephone and dialing. "The theft, the turning, Port Noir, the whole damn thing. They've locked you into me. Carlos engineered this down to the last fragment of a fingerprint. Christ! Did he put it together!"

"What are you doing? Whom are you calling?"

"Our backup, remember? The only one we've got. Villiers. Villiers'
wife
. She's the one. Were going to take her, break her, put her on a hundred racks if we have to. But we won't have to; she won't fight because she can't win. ... Goddamn it, why doesn't he answer?"