Robert Ludlum - The Bourne Identity

“When did the flight get in?” asked Conklin.

“Ten thirty-seven this morning. A little over an hour ago.”

“All right,” said the man whose foot had been blown off in Medusa, as he slid painfully around the desk into his seat. “You’ve delivered, and now I want this scratched from the reels. Delete it. Everything you gave me. Is that clear?”

“Understood, sir. Deleted, sir.”

Conklin hung up. New York. New York? Not Washington, but New York! There was nothing in New York any longer. Delta knew that. If he was after someone in Treadstone—if he was after him—he would have taken a flight directly to Dulles. What was in New York?

And why had Delta deliberately used the name Washburn? It was the same as telegraphing a strategy; he knew the name would be picked up sooner or later … Later … After he was inside the gates! Delta was telling whatever was left of Treadstone that he was dealing from strength. He was in a position to expose not only the Treadstone operation, but he could go God knows how much further. Whole networks he had used as Cain, listening posts and ersatz consulates that were no more than electronic espionage stations … even the bloody specter of Medusa. His connection inside the Conseiller was his proof to Treadstone how high up he had traveled. His signal that if he could reach within so rarefied a group of strategists, nothing could stop him. Goddamn it, stop him from what? What was the point? He had the millions; he could have faded!

Conklin shook his head, remembering. There had been a time when he would have let Delta fade; he had told him so twelve hours ago in a cemetery outside of Paris. A man could take only so much, and no one knew that better than Alexander Conklin, once among the finest covert field officers in the intelligence community. Only so much; the sanctimonious bromides about still being alive grew stale and bitter with time. It depended on what you were before, what you became with your deformity. Only so much … But Delta did not fade! He came back with insane statements, insane demands … crazy tactics no experienced intelligence officer would even contemplate. For no matter how much explosive information he possessed, no matter how high he penetrated, no sane man walked back into a minefield surrounded by his enemies. And all the blackmail in the world could not bring you back…

No sane man. No sane man. Conklin sat slowly forward in his chair.

I’m not Cain. He never was. I never was! I wasn’t in New York… It was Carlos. Not me, Carlos! If what you’re saying took place on Seventy-first Street, it was him. He knows!

But Delta had been at the brownstone on Seventy-first Street. Prints—third and index fingers, right hand. And the method of transport was now explained: Air France, Conseiller cover … Fact: Carlos could not have known.

Things come to me … faces, streets, buildings. Images I can’t place … I know a thousand facts about Carlos, but I don’t know why!

Conklin closed his eyes. There was a phrase, a simple code phrase that had been used at the beginning of Treadstone. What was it? It came from Medusa … Cain is for Charlie and Delta is for Cain.

That was it. Cain for Carlos . Delta-Bourne became the Cain that was the decoy for Carlos.

Conklin opened his eyes. Jason Bourne was to replace Ilich Ramirez Sanchez. That was the entire strategy of Treadstone Seventy-One. It was the keystone to the whole structure of deception, the parallax that would draw Carlos out of position into their sights.

Bourne. Jason Bourne. The totally unknown man, a name buried for over a decade, a piece of human debris left in a jungle. But he had existed; that, too, was part of the strategy.

Conklin separated the folders on his desk until he found the one he was looking for. It had no title, only an initial and two numbers followed by a black X, signifying that it was the only folder containing the origins of Treadstone.

T-71 X. The birth of Treadstone Seventy-One.

He opened it, almost afraid to see what he knew was there.

Date of execution. Tam Quan Sector. March 25 …

Conklin’s eyes moved to the calendar on his desk.

March 24.

“Oh, my God,” he whispered, reaching for the telephone.

Dr. Morris Panov walked through the double doors of the psychiatric ward on the third floor of Bethesda’s Naval Annex and approached the nurses’ counter. He smiled at the uniformed aide shuffling index cards under the stern gaze of the head floor nurse standing beside her. Apparently the young trainee had misplaced a patient’s file—if not a patient—and her superior was not about to let it happen again.

“Don’t let Annie’s whip fool you,” said Panov to the flustered girl. “Underneath those cold, inhuman eyes is a heart of sheer granite. Actually, she escaped from the fifth floor two weeks ago but we’re all afraid to tell anybody.”

The aide giggled, the nurse shook her head in exasperation. The phone rang on the desk behind the counter.

“Will you get that, please, dear,” said Annie to the young girl. The aide nodded and retreated to the desk. The nurse turned to Panov. “Doctor Mo, how am I ever going to get anything through their heads with you around?”

“With love, dear Annie. With love. But don’t lose your bicycle chains.”

“You’re incorrigible. Tell me, how’s your patient in Five-A? I know you’re worried about him.”

“I’m still worried.”

“I hear you stayed up all night.”

“There was a three A.M. movie on television I wanted to see.”

“Don’t do it, Mo,” said the matronly nurse. “You’re too young to end up in there.”

“And maybe too old to avoid it, Annie. But thanks.”

Suddenly Panov and the nurse were aware that he was being paged, the wide-eyed trainee at the desk speaking into the microphone.

“Dr. Panov, please. Telephone for—”

“I’m Dr. Panov,” said the psychiatrist in a sotto voce whisper to the girl. “We don’t want anyone to know. Annie Donovan here’s really my mother from Poland. Who is it?” The trainee stared at Panov’s ID card on his white coat, she blinked and replied. “A Mr. Alexander Conklin, sir.”

“Oh?” Panov was startled. Alex Conklin had been a patient on and off for five years, until they both had agreed he’d adjusted as well as he was ever going to adjust—which was not a hell of a lot.

There were so many, and so little they can do for them. Whatever Conklin wanted had to be relatively serious for him to call Bethesda and not the office. “Where can I take this, Annie?”

“Room One,” said the nurse, pointing across the hall. “It’s empty. I’ll have the call transferred.”

Panov walked toward the door, an uneasy feeling spreading through him.

“I need some very fast answers, Mo,” said Conklin, his voice strained.

“I’m not very good at fast answers, Alex. Why not come in and see me this afternoon?”

“It’s not me. It’s someone else. Possibly.”

“No games, please. I thought we’d gone beyond that.”

“No games. This is a Four-Zero emergency, and I need help.”

“Four-Zero? Call in one of your staff men. I’ve never requested that kind of clearance.”

“I can’t. That’s how tight it is.”

“Then you’d better whisper to God.”

“Mo, please! I only have to confirm possibilities, the rest I can put together myself. And I don’t have five seconds to waste. A man may be running around ready to blow away ghosts, anyone he thinks is a ghost. He’s already killed very real, very important people and I’m not sure he knows it. Help me, help him!”

“If I can. Go ahead.”

“A man is placed in a highly volatile, maximum stress situation for a long period of time, the entire period in deep cover. The cover itself is a decoy—very visible, very negative, constant pressure applied to maintain that visibility. The purpose is to draw out a target similar to the decoy by convincing the target that the decoy’s a threat, forcing the target into the open… Are you with me so far?”