Robert Ludlum - The Bourne Identity

“What we know about him is incomplete. He’s managed to remove most of the vital records, a lesson he undoubtedly learned from Carlos. But not all; we’ve pieced together a sketch. Before he was recruited into Medusa, he supposedly was a French-speaking businessman living in Singapore, representing a collective of American importers from New York to California. The truth is he had been dismissed by the collective, which then tried to have him extradited back to the States for prosecution; he had stolen hundreds of thousands from it. He was known in Singapore as a reclusive figure, very powerful in contraband operations, and extraordinarily ruthless.”

“Before that,” interrupted Jason, feeling again the perspiration breaking out on his hairline.

“Before Singapore. Where did he come from?” Be careful! The images! He could see the streets of Singapore.

Prince Edward Road, Kim Chuan, Boon Tat Street, Maxwell, Cuscaden.

“Those are the records no one can find. There are only rumors, and they are meaningless. For example, it was said that he was a defrocked Jesuit, gone mad; another speculation was that he had been a young, aggressive investment banker caught embezzling funds in concert with several Singapore banks. There’s nothing concrete, nothing that can be traced. Before Singapore, nothing.”

You’re wrong, there was a great deal. But none of that is part of it… There is a void, and it must be filled, and you can’t help me. Perhaps no one can; perhaps no one should.

“So far, you haven’t told me anything startling,” said Bourne, “nothing relative to the information I’m interested in.”

“Then I don’t know what you want! You ask me questions, press for details, and when I offer you answers you reject them as immaterial. What do you want?”

“What do you know about Cain’s … work? Since you’re looking for a compromise, give me a reason for it. If our information differs, it would be over what he’s done, wouldn’t it? When did he first come to your attention? Carlos’ attention? Quickly!”

“Two years ago,” said Mme. Lavier, disconcerted by Jason’s impatience, annoyed, frightened.

“Word came out of Asia of a white man offering a service astonishingly similar to the one provided by Carlos. He was swiftly becoming an industry. An ambassador was assassinated in Moulmein; two days later a highly regarded Japanese politician was killed in Tokyo prior to a debate in the Diet. A week after that a newspaper editor was blown out of his car in Hong Kong, and in less than forty-eight hours a banker was shot on a street in Calcutta. Behind each one, Cain. Always Cain.” The woman stopped, appraising Bourne’s reaction. He gave none. “Don’t you see? He was everywhere. He raced from one kill to another, accepting contracts with such rapidity that he had to be indiscriminate. He was a man in an enormous hurry, building his reputation so quickly that he shocked even the most jaded professionals. And no one doubted that he was a professional, least of all Carlos. Instructions were sent: find out about this man, learn all you can. You see, Carlos understood what none of us did, and in less than twelve months he was proven correct. Reports came from informers in Manila, Osaka, Hong Kong and Tokyo. Cain was moving to Europe, they said; he would make Paris itself his base of operations. The challenge was clear, the gauntlet thrown.

Cain was out to destroy Carlos. He would become the new Carlos, his services the services required by those who sought them. As you sought them, monsieur.”

“Moulmein, Tokyo, Calcutta …” Jason heard the names coming from his lips, whispered from his throat. Again they were floating, suspended in the perfumed air, shadows of a past forgotten.

“Manila, Hong Kong …” He stopped, trying to clear the mists, peering at the outlines of strange shapes that kept racing across his mind’s eye.

“These places and many others,” continued Lavier. “That was Cain’s error, his error still. Carlos may be many things to many people, but among those who have benefited from his trust and generosity, there is loyalty. His informers and hirelings are not so readily for sale, although Cain has tried time and again. It is said that Carlos is swift to make harsh judgments, but, as they also say, better a Satan one knows than a successor one doesn’t. What Cain did not realize—does not realize now—is that Carlos’ network is a vast one. When Cain moved to Europe, he did not know that his activities were uncovered in Berlin, Lisbon, Amsterdam … as far away as Oman.”

“Oman,” said Bourne involuntarily. “Sheik Mustafa Kalig,” he whispered, as if to himself.

“Never proven!” interjected the Lavier woman defiantly. “A deliberate smokescreen of confusion, the contract itself fiction. He took credit for an internal murder; no one could penetrate that security. A lie!”

“A lie,” repeated Jason.

“So many lies,” added Mme. Lavier contemptuously. “He’s no fool, however; he lies quietly, dropping a hint here and there, knowing that they will be exaggerated in the telling into substance.

He provokes Carlos at every turn, promoting himself at the expense of the man he would replace.

But he’s no match for Carlos; he takes contracts he cannot fulfill. You are only one example; we hear there have been several others. It’s said that’s why he stayed away for months, avoiding people like yourselves.”

“Avoiding people …” Jason reached for his wrist; the trembling had begun again, the sound of distant thunder vibrating in far regions of his skull. “You’re … sure of that?”

“Very much so. He wasn’t dead; he was in hiding. Cain botched more than one assignment; it was inevitable. He accepted too many in too short a time. Yet whenever he did, he followed an abortive kill with a spectacular, unsolicited one, to uphold his stature. He would select a prominent figure and blow him away, the assassination a shock to everyone, and unmistakably Cain’s. The ambassador traveling in Moulmein was an example; no one had called for his death. There were two others that we know of—a Russian commissar in Shanghai and more recently a banker in Madrid …” The words came from the bright red lips working feverishly in the lower part of the powdered mask facing him. He heard them; he had heard them before. He had lived them before. They were no longer shadows, but remembrances of that forgotten past. Images and reality were fused. She began no sentence he could not finish, nor could she mention a name or a city or an incident with which he was not instinctively familiar.

She was talking about … him.

Alpha, Bravo, Cain, Delta …

Cain is for Charlie, and Delta is for Cain.

Jason Bourne was the assassin called Cain.

There was a final question, his brief reprieve from darkness two nights ago at the Sorbonne. Marseilles. August 23.

“What happened in Marseilles?” he asked.

“Marseilles?” the Lavier woman recoiled. “How could you? What lies were you told? What other lies?”

“Just tell me what happened.”

“You refer to Leland, of course. The ubiquitous ambassador whose death was called for—paid for, the contract accepted by Carlos.”

“What if I told you that there are those who think Cain was responsible?”

“It’s what he wanted everyone to think! It was the ultimate insult to Carlos—to steal the kill from him. Payment was irrelevant to Cain; he only wanted to show the world—our world—that he could get there first and do the job for which Carlos had been paid. But he didn’t, you know. He had nothing to do with the Leland kill.”

“He was there.”

“He was trapped. At least, he never showed up. Some said he’d been killed, but since there was no corpse, Carlos didn’t believe it.”