Robert Ludlum - The Bourne Identity

“That’s Chernak,” said Gillette, reading the summary. “At least I assume its Chernak. I recognize the name and associate it with the Cain file somewhere.”

“You should,” replied Manning. “It first appeared in a G-Two report eighteen months ago and cropped up again a year later.”

“Which would make it six months ago,” interjected Abbott, softly, looking at Gillette.

“Yes, sir,” continued the colonel. “If there was ever an example of what’s called the scum-of-the-earth, it was Chernak. During the war he was a Czechoslovakian recruit at Dachau, a trilingual interrogator as brutal as any guard in the camp. He sent Poles, Slovaks and Jews to the showers after torture sessions in which he extracted—and manufactured—‘incriminating’ information Dachau’s commandants wanted to hear. He went to any length to curry favor with his superiors, and the most sadistic cliques were hard pressed to match his exploits. What they didn’t realize was that he was cataloguing theirs. After the war he escaped, got his legs blown off by an undetected land mine, and still managed to survive very nicely on his Dachau extortions. Cain found him and used him as a go-between for payments on his kills.”

“Now just wait a minute!” objected Knowlton strenuously. “We’ve been over this Chernak business before. If you recall, it was the Agency that first uncovered him; we would have exposed him long ago if State hadn’t interceded on behalf of several powerful anti-Soviet officials in the Bonn government. You assume Cain’s used Chernak; you don’t know it for certain any more than we do.”

“We do now,” said Manning. “Seven and a half months ago we received a tip about a man who ran a restaurant called the Drei Alpenhäuser; it was reported that he was an intermediary between Cain and Chernak. We kept him under surveillance for weeks, but nothing came of it; he was a minor figure in the Zurich underworld, that was all. We didn’t stay with him long enough.” The colonel paused, satisfied that all eyes were on him. “When we heard about Chernak’s murder, we gambled. Five nights ago two of our men hid in the Drei Alpenhäuser after the restaurant closed.

They cornered the owner and accused him of dealing with Chernak, working for Cain; they put on a hell of a show. You can imagine their shock when the man broke, literally fell to his knees begging to be protected. He admitted that Cain was in Zurich the night Chernak was killed; that, in fact, he had seen Cain that night and Chernak had come up in the conversation. Very negatively.” The military man paused again, the silence filled by a slow soft whistle from David Abbott, his pipe held in front of his crag-lined face. “Now, that is a statement,” said the Monk quietly.

“Why wasn’t the Agency informed of this tip you received seven months ago?” asked the CIA’s Knowlton abrasively.

“It didn’t prove out.”

“In your hands; it might have been different in ours.”

“That’s possible. I admitted we didn’t stay with him long enough. Manpower’s limited; which of us can keep up a nonproductive surveillance indefinitely?”

“We might have shared it if we’d known.”

“And we could have saved you the time it took to build the Brussels file, if we’d been told about that.”

“Where did the tip come from?” asked Gillette, interrupting impatiently, his eyes on Manning.

“It was anonymous.”

“You settled for that?” The birdlike expression on Gillette’s face conveyed his astonishment.

“It’s one reason the initial surveillance was limited.”

“Yes, of course, but you mean you never dug for it?”

“Naturally we did,” replied the colonel testily.

“Apparently without much enthusiasm,” continued Gillette angrily. “Didn’t it occur to you that someone over at Langley, or on the Council, might have helped, might have filled in a gap? I agree with Peter. We should have been informed.”

“There’s a reason why you weren’t.” Manning breathed deeply; in less military surroundings it might have been construed as a sigh. “The informant made it clear that if we brought in any other branch, he wouldn’t make contact again. We felt we had to abide by that; we’ve done it before.”

“What did you say?” Knowlton put down the page summary and stared at the Pentagon officer.

“It’s nothing new, Peter. Each of us sets up his own sources, protects them.”

“I’m aware of that. It’s why you weren’t told about Brussels. Both drones said to keep the army out.”

Silence. Broken by the abrasive voice of the Security Council’s Alfred Gillette. “How often is ‘we’ve done it before,’ Colonel?”

“What?” Manning looked at Gillette, but was aware that David Abbott was watching both of them closely.

“I’d like to know how many times you’ve been told to keep your sources to yourself. I refer to Cain, of course.”

“Quite a few, I guess.”

“You guess?”

“Most of the time.”

“And you, Peter? What about the Agency?”

“We’ve been severely limited in terms of in-depth dissemination.”

“For God’s sake, what’s that mean?” The interruption came from the least expected member of the conference; the congressman from Oversight. “Don’t misunderstand me, I haven’t begun yet. I just want to follow the language.” He turned to the CIA man. “What the hell did you just say? In-depth what?”

“Dissemination, Congressman Walters; it’s throughout Cain’s file. We risked losing informants if we brought them to the attention of other intelligence units. I assure you, it’s standard.”

“It sounds like you were test-tubing a heifer.”

“With about the same results,” added Gillette. “No cross-pollinization to corrupt the strain. And, conversely, no cross-checking to look for patterns of inaccuracy.”

“A nice turn of phrases,” said Abbott, his craggy face wrinkled in appreciation, “but I’m not sure I understand you.”

“I’d say it’s pretty damned clear,” replied the man from NSC, looking at Colonel Manning and Peter Knowlton. “The country’s two most active intelligence branches have been fed information about Cain—for the past three years—and there’s been no cross-pooling for origins of fraud. We’ve simply received all information as bona fide data, stored and accepted as valid.”

“Well, I’ve been around a long time—perhaps too long, I concede—but there’s nothing here I haven’t heard before,” said the Monk. “Sources are shrewd and defensive people; they guard their contacts jealously. None are in the business for charity, only for profit and survival.”

“I’m afraid you’re overlooking my point.” Gillette removed his glasses. “I said before that I was alarmed so many recent assassinations have been attributed to Cain—attributed here to Cain—when it seems to me that the most accomplished assassin of our time—perhaps in history—has been relegated to a comparatively minor role. I think that’s wrong. I think Carlos is the man we should be concentrating on. What’s happened to Carlos?”

“I question your judgment, Alfred,” said the Monk. “Carlos’ time has passed, Cain’s moved in. The old order changes; there’s a new and, I suspect, far more deadly shark in the waters.”

“I can’t agree with that,” said the man from National Security, his owl-eyes boring into the elder statesman of the intelligence community. “Forgive me, David, but it strikes me as if Carlos himself were manipulating this committee. To take the attention away from himself, making us concentrate on a subject of much less importance. We’re spending all our energies going after a toothless sand shark while the hammerhead roams free.”