The Bourne Identity

'But by this time, hadn't you established the fact that he'd been with Medusa?' asked the Tennessean.

'Yes. Firmly.'

Then with the individual Medusa dossiers, damn it!"

The colonel opened the folder he had removed from the Cain file. These are the casualty lists. Among the white occidentals who disappeared from Operation Medusa - and when I say disappeared, I mean vanished without a trace - are the following. Seventy-three Americans, forty-six French, thirty-nine and twenty-four Australians and British respectively, and an estimated fifty white male contacts recruited from neutrals in Hanoi and trained in the field - most of them we never knew. Over two hundred and thirty possibilities; how many are blind alleys? Who's alive? Who's dead? Even if we learned the name of every man who actually survived, who is he now? What is he? We're not even sure of Cain's nationality. We think he's American, but there's no proof.'

'Cain's one of the side issues contained in our constant pressure on Hanoi to trace M.I.A.s,' explained Knowlton. 'We keep recycling these names with the division lists.'

'And there's a catch with that, too,' added the army officer. 'Hanoi's counter-intelligence forces broke and executed scores of Medusa personnel. They were aware of the operation, and

we never ruled out the possibility of infiltration. Hanoi knew the Medusans weren't combat troops; they wore no uniforms. Accountability was never required.'

Walters held out his hand. 'May I?' he said, nodding at the stapled pages.

'Certainly.' The officer gave them to the congressman. 'You understand, of course, that those names still remain classified, as does the Medusa Operation itself.'

'Who made that decision?'

'It's an unbroken executive order from successive presidents based on the recommendation of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. It was supported by the Senate Armed Services Committee.'

'That's considerable fire-power, isn't it?'

'It was felt to be in the national interest,' Said the C.I.A. man.

'In this case, I won't argue," agreed Walters. 'The spectre of such an operation wouldn't do much for the glory of Old Glory. We don't train assassins, much less field them.' He flipped through the pages. 'And somewhere here just happens to be an assassin we trained and fielded and now can't find.'

'We believe that, yes,' said the colonel.

'You say he made his reputation in Asia but moved to Europe. When?'

'About a year ago.'

'Why? Any ideas?'

'The obvious, I'd suggest,' said Peter Knowlton. 'He overextended himself. Something went wrong and he felt threatened. He was a white killer among Orientals, at best a dangerous concept; it was time for him to move on. God knows his reputation was made; there'd be no lack of employment in Europe.'

David Abbott cleared his throat. 'I'd like to offer another possibility based on something Alfred said a few minutes ago.' The Monk paused and nodded deferentially at Gillette. 'He said that we had been forced to concentrate on a "toothless sand shark while the hammerhead roamed free". I believe that was the phrase, although my sequence may be wrong.'

'Yes,' said the man from National Security. 'I was referring to Carlos, of course. It's not Cain we should be after. It's Carlos.'

'Of course. Carlos. The most elusive killer in modem history, a man many of us truly believe has been responsible - in one way or another - for the most tragic assassinations of our time. You were quite right, Alfred, and, in a way, I was wrong. We cannot afford to forget Carlos.* 'Thank you,' said Gillette. 'I'm glad I made my point.' 'You did. With me, at any rate. But you also made me think. Can you imagine the temptation for a man like Cain, operating in the steamy confines of an area rife with drifters and fugitives and regimes up to their necks in corruption? But he must have envied Carlos; how he must have been jealous of the faster, brighter, more luxurious world of Europe. How often did he say to himself, "I'm better than Carlos". No matter how cold these fellows are, their egos are immense. I suggest he went to Europe to find that better world ... and to dethrone Carlos. The pretender, sir, wants to take the title. He wants to be champion.'

Gillette stared at the Monk. 'It's an interesting theory.' 'And if I follow you,' interjected the congressman from Oversight, 'by tracking Cain we may come up with Carlos.' 'Exactly.'

'I'm not sure I follow,' said the C.I.A. director, annoyed. 'Why?'

'Two stallions in a paddock,' answered Walters. 'They tangle.'

'A champion does not give up the title willingly.' Abbott reached for his pipe. 'He fights viciously to retain it. As the congressman says, we continue to track Cain, but we must also watch for other spoors in the forest. And when and if we find Cain, perhaps we should hold back. Wait for Carlos to come after him.'

'Then take both,' added the military officer.

'Very enlightening,' said Gillette.

The meeting was over, the members in various stages of leaving. David Abbott stood with the Pentagon colonel who was gathering together the pages of the Medusa folder; he had picked up the casualty sheets, prepared to insert them.

'May I take a look?' asked Abbott. 'We don't have a copy over at Forty.'

'Those were our instructions," replied the officer, handing the stapled pages to the older man. 'I thought they came from you.

Only three copies. Here, at the Agency, and over at the Council.'

They did come from me.' The silent Monk smiled benignly. Too damn many civilians in my part of town.'

The colonel turned away to answer a question posed by the congressman from Tennessee. David Abbott did not listen; instead his eyes sped rapidly down the columns of names; he was alarmed. A number had been crossed out, accounted for. Accountability was the one thing they should not allow I Ever! Where was it? He was the only man in that room who knew the name, and he could feel the pounding in his chest as he reached the last page. The name was there!

Bourne, Jason C. - Last known station: Tarn Quan.

What in God's name had happened"}

Rend Bergeron slammed down the telephone on his desk; his Voice only slightly more controlled than his gesture. 'We've tried every cafe", every restaurant and bistro she's ever frequented!'

There's not a hotel in Paris that has him registered,' said the grey-haired switchboard operator, seated at a second telephone by a drawing board. 'It's been more than two hours now; she could be dead. If she's not, she might well wish she were.'

'She can only tell him so much,' mused Bergeron. 'Less than we could; she knows nothing of the old men.'

'She knows enough; she's called Pare Monceau.'

'She's relayed messages; she's not certain to whom.'

'She knows why.'

'So does Cain, I can assure you. And he would make a grotesque error with Pare Monceau.' The designer leaned forward, his powerful forearms tensing as he locked his hands together, his eyes on the grey-haired man. Tell me, again, everything you remember. Why are you so sure he's Bourne?'

'I don't know that. I said he was Cain. If you've described his methods accurately, he's the man.'