Robert Ludlum - The Bourne Identity

Jason stood up and edged his face around the column. The Treadstone officer now angled the light directly into the earth in front of him. It was the stationary signal, the beam a lost bird was to home into; it might be other things also—the next few minutes would tell. The man turned toward the gate, taking a tentative step as though he might have heard something, and for the first time Bourne saw the cane, observed the limp. The officer-of-record from Treadstone Seventy-One was a cripple … as he was a cripple.

Jason dashed back to the first gravestone, spun behind it and peered around the marble edge.

The man from Treadstone still had his attention on the gates. Bourne glanced at his watch; it was 1:27. Time remained. He pushed himself away from the grave, hugging the ground until he was out of sight, then stood up and ran, retracing the arch back to the top of the hill. He stood for a moment, letting his breathing and his heartbeat resume a semblance of normalcy, then reached into his pocket for a book of matches. Protecting it from the rain, he tore off a match and struck it.

“Treadstone?” he said loud enough to be heard from below.

“Delta!”

Cain is for Charlie and Delta is for Cain . Why did the man from Treadstone use the name Delta rather than Cain? Delta was no part of Treadstone; he had disappeared with Medusa. Jason started down the hill, the cold rain whipping his face, his hand instinctively reaching beneath his jacket, pressing the automatic in his belt.

He walked onto the stretch of lawn in front of the white mausoleum. The man from Treadstone limped toward him, then stopped, raising his flashlight, the harsh beam causing Bourne to squint and turn his head away.

“It’s been a long time,” said the crippled officer, lowering the light. “The name’s Conklin, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“Thank you. I had. It’s only one of the things.”

“One of what things?”

“That I’ve forgotten.”

“You remembered this place, though. I figured you would. I read Abbott’s logs; it was here where you last met, last made a delivery. During a state burial for some minister or other, wasn’t it?”

“I don’t know. That’s what we have to talk about first. You haven’t heard from me in over six months. There’s an explanation.”

“Really? Let’s hear it.”

“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!”

“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 Löwenstrasse 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 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.”