Robert Ludlum - The Bourne Identity

“And Webb, of course,” added the general.

“Of course,” agreed the senator. “But not at Treadstone, not even him.”

“It wouldn’t matter,” said Conklin, tapping the rug once with his cane. “He knows there’s a board; Webb might have told him we’d all be there, reasonably expecting that we would. We’ve got a lot of questions—six months’ worth, and now several million dollars. Delta would consider it the perfect solution. He could take us and disappear. No traces.”

“Why are you so certain?”

“Because, one, he was there,” replied the intelligence man, raising his voice. “We have his prints on a glass of brandy that wasn’t even finished. And, two, it’s a classic trap with a couple of hundred variations.”

“Would you explain that?”

“You remain silent,” broke in the general, watching Conklin, “until your enemy can’t stand it any longer and exposes himself.”

“And we’ve become the enemy? His enemy?”

“There’s no question about it now,” said the naval officer. “For whatever reasons, Delta’s turned.

It’s happened before—thank heaven not very often. We know what to do.”

The senator once more leaned forward on the couch. “What will you do?”

“His photograph has never been circulated,” explained Crawford. “We’ll circulate it now. To every station and listening post, every source and informant we have. He has to go somewhere, and he’ll start with a place he knows, if only to buy another identity. He’ll spend money; he’ll be found. When he is, the orders will be clear.”

“You’ll bring him in at once?”

“We’ll kill him,” said Conklin simply. “You don’t bring in a man like Delta, and you don’t take the risk that another government will. Not with what he knows.”

“I can’t tell the president that. There are laws.”

“Not for Delta,” said the agent. “He’s beyond the laws. He’s beyond salvage.”

“Beyond—”

“That’s right, Senator,” interrupted the general. “Beyond salvage. I think you know the meaning of the phrase. You’ll have to make the decision whether or not to define it for the president. It might be better to—”

“You’ve got to explore everything,” said the senator, cutting off the officer. “I spoke to Abbott last week. He told me a strategy was in progress to reach Delta. Zurich, the bank, the naming of Treadstone; it’s all part of it, isn’t it?”

“It is, and it’s over,” said Crawford. “If the evidence on Seventy-first Street isn’t enough for you, that should be. Delta was given a clear signal to come in. He didn’t. What more do you want?”

“I want to be absolutely certain.”

“I want him dead.” Conklin’s words, though spoken softly, had the effect of a sudden, cold wind.

“He not only broke all the rules we each set down for ourselves—no matter what—but he sunk into the pits. He reeks; he is Cain. We’ve used the name Delta so much—not even Bourne, but Delta—that I think we’ve forgotten. Gordon Webb was his brother. Find him. Kill him.”

It was ten minutes to three in the morning when Bourne approached the Auberge du Coin’s front desk, Marie continuing directly to the entrance. To Jason’s relief, there were no newspapers on the counter, but the late night clerk behind it was in the same mold as his predecessor in the center of Paris. He was a balding, heavy-set man with half-closed eyes, leaning back in a chair, his arms folded in front of him, the weary depression of his interminable night hanging over him. But this night, thought Bourne, would be one he’d remember for a long time to come—beyond the damage to an upstairs room, which would not be discovered until morning. A relief night clerk in Montrouge had to have transportation.

“I’ve just called Rouen,” said Jason, his hands on the counter, an angry man, furious with uncontrollable events in his personal world. “I have to leave at once and need to rent a car.”

“Why not?” snorted the man, getting out of the chair. “What would you prefer, monsieur? A golden chariot or a magic carpet?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“We rent rooms, not automobiles.”

“I must be in Rouen before morning.”

“Impossible. Unless you find a taxi crazy enough at this hour to take you.”

“I don’t think you understand. I could sustain considerable losses and embarrassment if I’m not at my office by eight o’clock. I’m willing to pay generously.”

“You have a problem, monsieur.”

“Surely there’s someone here who would be willing to lend me his car for, say … a thousand, fifteen hundred francs.”

“A thousand … fifteen hundred, monsieur?” The clerk’s half-closed eyes widened until his skin was taut. “In cash, monsieur?”

“Naturally. My companion would return it tomorrow evening.”

“There’s no rush, monsieur.”

“I beg your pardon? Of course, there’s really no reason why I couldn’t hire a taxi. Confidentiality can be paid for.”

“I wouldn’t know where to reach one,” interrupted the clerk in persuasive frenzy. “On the other hand, my Renault is not so new, perhaps, and perhaps, not the fastest machine on the road, but it is a serviceable car, even a worthy car.”

The chameleon had changed his colors again, had been accepted again for someone he was not.

But he knew now who he was and he understood.

Daybreak. But there was no warm room at a village inn, no wallpaper mottled by the early light streaking through a window, filtered by the weaving leaves outside. Rather, the first rays of the sun spread up from the east, crowning the French countryside, defining the fields and hills of Saint-Germain-en-Laye. They sat in the small car parked off the shoulder of a deserted back road, cigarette smoke curling out through the partially open windows.

He had begun that first narrative in Switzerland with the words ‘My life began six months ago on a small island in the Mediterranean called Ile de Port Noir…’

He had begun this with a quiet declaration: I’m known as Cain.

He had told it all, leaving out nothing he could remember, including the terrible images that had exploded in his mind when he had heard the words spoken by Jacqueline Lavier in the candlelabraed restaurant in Argenteuil. Names, incidents, cities … assassinations.

“Everything fit. There wasn’t anything I didn’t know, nothing that wasn’t somewhere in the back of my head, trying to get out. It was the truth.”

“It was the truth,” repeated Marie.

He looked closely at her. “We were wrong, don’t you see?”

“Perhaps. But also right. You were right, and I was right.”

“About what?”

“You. I have to say it again, calmly and logically. You offered your life for mine before you knew me; that’s not the decision of a man you’ve described. If that man existed, he doesn’t any longer.” Marie’s eyes pleaded, while her voice remained controlled. “You said it, Jason. ‘What a man can’t remember doesn’t exist. For him.’ Maybe that’s what you’re faced with. Can you walk away from it?” Bourne nodded; the dreadful moment had come. “Yes,” he said. “But alone. Not with you.” Marie inhaled on her cigarette, watching him, her hand trembling. “I see. That’s your decision, then?”

“It has to be.”

“You will heroically disappear so I won’t be tainted.”

“I have to.”

“Thank you very much, and who the hell do you think you are?”

“What?”

“Who the hell do you think you are?”

“I’m a man they call Cain. I’m wanted by governments—by the police—from Asia to Europe. Men in Washington want to kill me because of what they think I know about this Medusa, an assassin named Carlos wants me shot in the throat because of what I’ve done to him. Think about it for a moment. How long do you think I can keep running before someone in one of those armies out there finds me, traps me, kills me? Is that the way you want your life to end?”