The sun fell behind the Sangre de Cristo Mountains in central Colorado as the Cobra helicopter roared out of the blazing light—a giant fluttering silhouette—and stuttered its way down toward the threshold on the edge of the timberline. The concrete landing pad was several hundred feet from a large rectangular house of heavy wood and thick beveled glass. Aside from generators and camouflaged communications disks, no other structures were in sight. Tall trees formed a dense wall, concealing the house from all outsiders. The pilots of these highly maneuverable aircraft were recruited from the senior officer corps of the Cheyenne complex in Colorado Springs. None was lower than a full colonel and each had been cleared by the National Security Council in Washington. They never spoke about their trips to the mountain retreat; the destination was always obscured on flight plans. Headings were issued by radio when the choppers were airborne. The location was not on any public map and its communications were beyond the scrutiny of allies and enemies alike. The security was total; it had to be. This was a place for strategists whose work was so sensitive and frequently entailed such delicate global implications that the planners could not be seen together outside government buildings or in the buildings themselves, and certainly never inside adjacent offices known to have connecting doors. There were hostile, inquisitive eyes everywhere—allies and enemies alike—who knew of the work these men did, and if they were observed together, alarms would surely go out. The enemy was vigilant and allies jealously guarded their own intelligence fiefdoms.
The doors of the Cobra opened. A frame of steel steps snapped to the ground as an obviously bewildered man climbed down into the floodlights. He was escorted by a major general in uniform. The civilian was slender, middle-aged, and of medium height, and was dressed in a pin-striped suit, white shirt and paisley tie. Even under the harsh, decelerating wash of the rotor blades his careful grooming remained intact, as though it were important to him and not to be abused. He followed the officer and together they walked up a concrete path to a door at the side of the house. The door opened as both men approached. However, only the civilian went inside; the general nodded, giving one of those informal salutes veteran soldiers reserve for the nonmilitary and officers of their own rank.
“Nice to have met you, Mr. McAllister,” said the general. “Someone else will take you back.”
“You’re not coming in?” asked the civilian.
“I’ve never been in,” replied the officer, smiling. “I just make sure it’s you, and get you from Point B to Point C.”
“Sounds like a waste of rank, General.”
“It probably isn’t,” observed the soldier without further comment. “But then I have other duties. Goodbye.”
McAllister walked inside, into a long paneled corridor, his escort now a pleasant-faced, well-dressed husky man who had all the outward signs of Internal Security about him—physically quick and capable, and anonymous in a crowd.
“Did you have a pleasant flight, sir?” asked the younger man.
“Does anybody, in one of those things?”
The guard laughed. “This way, sir.”
They went down the corridor, passing several doors along both walls, until they reached the end where there was a pair of larger double doors with two red lights in the upper left and right corners. They were cameras on separate circuits. Edward McAllister had not seen devices like those since he left Hong Kong two years ago, and then only because he had been briefly assigned to British Intelligence MI6, Special Branch, for consultations. To him the British had seemed paranoid where security was concerned. He had never understood those people, especially after they awarded him a citation for doing minimal work for them in affairs they should have been on top of to begin with. The guard rapped on the door; there was a quiet click and he opened the right panel.
“Your other guest, sir,” said the husky man.
“Thank you so very much,” replied a voice. The astonished McAllister instantly recognized it from scores of radio and television newscasts over the years, its inflections learned in an expensive prep school and several prestigious universities, with a postgraduate career in the British Isles. There was, however, no time to adjust. The gray-haired, impeccably dressed man with a lined, elongated face that bespoke his seventy-plus years got up from a large desk and walked gingerly across the room, his hand extended. “Mr. Undersecretary, how good of you to come. May I introduce myself. I’m Raymond Havilland.”
“I’m certainly aware of who you are, Mr. Ambassador. It’s a privilege, sir.”
“Ambassador without portfolio, McAllister, which means there’s very little privilege left. But there’s still work.”
“I can’t imagine any President of the United States within the past twenty years surviving without you.”
“Some muddled through, Mr. Undersecretary, but with your experience at State, I suspect you know that better than I do.” The diplomat turned his head. “I’d like you to meet John Reilly. Jack’s one of those highly knowledgeable associates we’re never supposed to know about over at the National Security Council. He’s not so terrifying, is he?”
“I hope not,” said McAllister, crossing to shake hands with Reilly, who had gotten up from one of the two leather chairs facing the desk. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Reilly.”
“Mr. Undersecretary,” said the somewhat obese man with red hair that matched a freckled forehead. The eyes behind the steel-rimmed glasses did not convey geniality; they were sharp and cold.
“Mr. Reilly is here,” continued Havilland, crossing behind the desk and indicating the vacant chair on the right for McAllister, “to make sure I stay in line. As I understand it, that means there are some things I can say, others I can’t say, and certain things that only he can say.” The ambassador sat down. “If that appears enigmatic to you, Mr. Undersecretary, I’m afraid it’s all I can offer you at this juncture.”
“Everything that’s happened during the past five hours since I was ordered to Andrews Air Force Base has been an enigma, Ambassador Havilland. I have no idea why I was brought here.”
“Then let me tell you in general terms,” said the diplomat, glancing at Reilly and leaning forward on the desk. “You are in a position to be of extraordinary service to your country—and to interests far beyond this country—exceeding anything you may have considered during your long and distinguished career.”
McAllister studied the ambassador’s austere face, uncertain how to reply. “My career at the Department of State has been fulfilling, and, I trust, professional, but it can hardly be called distinguished in the broadest sense. Quite frankly, the opportunities never presented themselves.”
“One has presented itself to you now,” interrupted Havilland. “And you are uniquely qualified to carry it out.”
“In what way? Why?”
“The Far East,” said the diplomat with an odd inflection in his voice, as though the reply might itself be a question. “You’ve been with the State Department for over twenty years since you received your doctorate in Far Eastern Studies at Harvard. You’ve served your government commendably with many years of outstanding foreign service in Asia, and since your return from your last post your judgments have proved to be extremely valuable in formulating policy in that troubled part of the world. You’re considered a brilliant analyst.”
“I appreciate what you say, but there were others in Asia. Many others who attained equal and higher ratings than I did.”
“Accidents of events and posting, Mr. Undersecretary. Let’s be frank, you’ve done well.”
“But what separates me from the others? Why am I more qualified for this opportunity than they?”
“Because no one else compares with you as a specialist in the internal affairs of the People’s Republic of China—I believe you played a pivotal role in the trade conferences between Washington and Peking. Also, none of the others spent seven years in Hong Kong.” Here Raymond Havilland paused, then added, “Finally, no one else in our Asian posts was ever assigned to or accepted by the British government’s MI-Six, Special Branch, in the territory.”
“I see,” said McAllister, recognizing that the last qualification, which seemed the least important to him, had a certain significance for the diplomat. “My work in Intelligence was minimal, Mr. Ambassador. The Special Branch’s acceptance of me was based more on its own—disinformation, I think is the word, than any unique talents of mine. Those people simply believed the wrong sets of facts and the sums didn’t total. It didn’t take long to find the ‘correct figures,’ as I remember they put it.”
“They trusted you, McAllister. They still trust you.”
“I assume that trust is intrinsic to this opportunity, whatever it is?”
“Very much so. It’s vital.”
“Then may I hear what the opportunity is?”
“You may.” Havilland looked over at the third participant, the man from the National Security Council. “If you care to,” he added.
“My turn,” said Reilly, not unpleasantly. He shifted his heavy torso in the chair and gazed at McAllister, with eyes still rigid but without the coldness they had displayed previously, as though he was now asking for understanding. “At the moment our voices are being taped—it’s your constitutional right to know that—but it’s a two-sided right. You must swear to absolute secrecy concerning the information imparted to you here, not only in the interests of national security but in the further and conceivably greater interests of specific world conditions. I know that sounds like a come-on to whet your appetite, but it’s not meant to be. We’re deadly serious. Will you agree to the condition? You can be prosecuted in a closed trial under the national security nondisclosure statutes if you violate the oath.”
“How can I agree to a condition like that when I have no idea what the information is?”
“Because I can give you a quick overview and it’ll be enough for you to say yes or no. If it’s no, you’ll be escorted out of here and flown back to Washington. No one will be the loser.”
“Go ahead.”
“All right.” Reilly spoke calmly. “You’ll be discussing certain events that took place in the past—not ancient history, but not current by any means. The actions themselves were disavowed—buried, to be more accurate. Does that sound familiar, Mr. Undersecretary?”
“I’m from the State Department. We bury the past when it serves no purpose to reveal it. Circumstances change; judgments made in good faith yesterday are often a problem tomorrow. We can’t control these changes any more than the Soviets or the Chinese can.”
“Well put!” said Havilland.
“Not yet it isn’t,” objected Reilly, raising a palm to the ambassador. “The undersecretary is evidently an experienced diplomat. He didn’t say yes and he didn’t say no.” The man from the NSC again looked at McAllister; the eyes behind the steel-rimmed glasses were once again sharp and cold. “What is it, Mr. Undersecretary? You want to sign on, or do you want to leave?”
“One part of me wants to get up and leave as quickly as I can,” said McAllister, looking alternately at both men. “The other part says ‘Stay.’ ” He paused, his gaze settling on Reilly, and added, “Whether you intended it or not, my appetite is whetted.”
“It’s a hell of a price to pay for being hungry,” replied the Irishman.
“It’s more than that.” The undersecretary of State spoke softly. “I’m a professional, and if I am the man you want, I really don’t have a choice, do I?”
“I’m afraid I’ll have to hear the words,” said Reilly. “Do you want me to repeat them?”
“It won’t be necessary.” McAllister frowned in thought, then spoke. “I, Edward Newington McAllister, fully understand that whatever is said during this conference—” He stopped and looked at Reilly. “I assume you’ll fill in the particulars, such as time and location and those present?”
“Date, place, hour and minute of entry and identifications—it’s all been done and logged.”
“Thank you. I’ll want a copy before I leave.”
“Of course.” Without raising his voice, Reilly looked straight ahead and quietly issued an order. “Please note. Have a copy of this tape available for the subject upon his departure. Also equipment for him to verify its contents on the premises. I’ll initial the copy.… Go ahead, Mr. McAllister.”
“I appreciate that.… With regard to whatever is said at this conference, I accept the condition of nondisclosure. I will speak to no one about any aspect of the discussion unless instructed to do so personally by Ambassador Havilland. I further understand that I may be prosecuted at a closed trial should I violate this agreement. However, should such a trial ever take place, I reserve the right to confront my accusers, not their affidavits or depositions. I add this, for I cannot conceive of any circumstances where I would or could violate the oath I’ve just taken.”
“There are circumstances, you know,” said Reilly gently.
“Not in my book.”
“Extreme physical abuse, chemicals, being tricked by men and women far more experienced than you. There are ways, Mr. Undersecretary.”
“I repeat. Should a case ever be brought against me—and such things have happened to others—I reserve the right to face any and all accusers.”
“That’s good enough for us.” Again Reilly looked straight ahead and spoke. “Terminate this tape and pull the plugs. Confirm.”
“Confirmed,” said a voice eerily from a speaker somewhere overhead. “You are now … out.”
“Proceed, Mr. Ambassador,” said the red-haired man. “I’ll interrupt only when I feel it’s necessary.”
“I’m sure you will, Jack.” Havilland turned to McAllister. “I take back my previous statement; he really is a terror. After forty-odd years of service, I’m told by a redheaded whippersnapper who should go on a diet when to shut up.”
The three men smiled; the aging diplomat knew the moment and the method to reduce tension. Reilly shook his head and genially spread his hands. “I would never do that, sir. Certainly, I hope not so obviously.”
“What say, McAllister? Let’s defect to Moscow and say he was the recruiter. The Russkies would probably give us both dachas and he’d be in Leavenworth.”
“You’d get the dacha, Mr. Ambassador. I’d share a flat with twelve Siberians. No thank you, sir. He’s not interrupting me.”
“Very good. I’m surprised none of those well-intentioned meddlers in the Oval Office ever tapped you for his staff, or at least sent you to the UN.”
“They didn’t know I existed.”
“That status will change,” said Havilland, abruptly serious. He paused, staring at the undersecretary, then lowered his voice. “Have you ever heard the name Jason Bourne?”
“How could anyone posted in Asia not have heard it?” answered McAllister. “Thirty-five to forty murders, the assassin for hire who eluded every trap ever set for him. A pathological killer whose only morality was the price of the kill. They say he was an American—is an American; I don’t know, he faded from sight—and that he was a defrocked priest and an importer who’d stolen millions and a deserter from the French Foreign Legion and God knows how many other stories. The only thing I do know is that he was never caught, and our failure to catch him was a burden on our diplomacy throughout the Far East.”
“Was there any pattern to his victims?”
“None. They were random, across the board. Two bankers here, three attachés there—meaning CIA; a minister of state from Delhi, an industrialist from Singapore, and numerous—far too numerous—politicians, generally decent men. Their cars were bombed in the streets, their flats blown up. Then there were unfaithful husbands and wives and lovers of various persuasions in various scandals; he offered final solutions for bruised egos. There was no one he wouldn’t kill, no method too brutal or demeaning for him.… No, there wasn’t a pattern, just money. The highest bidder. He was a monster—is a monster, if he’s still alive.”
Once more Havilland leaned forward, his eyes steady on the undersecretary of State. “You say he faded from sight. Just like that? You never picked up anything, any rumors or backstairs gossip from our Asian embassies or consulates?”
“There was talk, yes, but none of it was ever confirmed. The story I heard most often came from the Macao police, where Bourne was last known to be. They said he wasn’t dead, or retired, but instead had gone to Europe looking for wealthier clients. If it’s true, it might be only half the story. The police also claimed informants told them that several contracts had gone sour for Bourne, that in one instance he killed the wrong man, a leading figure in the Malaysian underworld, and in another, it was said he raped a client’s wife. Perhaps the circle was closing in on him—and perhaps not.”
“What do you mean?”
“Most of us bought the first half of the story, not the second. Bourne wouldn’t kill the wrong man, especially someone like that; he didn’t make those kinds of mistakes. And if he raped a client’s wife—which is doubtful—he would have done so out of hatred or revenge. He would have forced a bound husband to watch and then killed them both. No, most of us subscribed to the first story. He went to Europe, where there were bigger fish to fry—and murder.”
“You were meant to accept that version,” said Havilland, leaning back in his chair.
“I beg your pardon?”
“The only man Jason Bourne ever killed in post-Vietnam Asia was an enraged conduit who tried to kill him.”
Stunned, McAllister stared at the diplomat. “I don’t understand.”
“The Jason Bourne you’ve just described never existed. He was a myth.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Never more so. Those were turbulent times in the Far East. The drug networks operating out of the Golden Triangle were fighting a disorganized, unpublicized war. Consuls, vice-consuls, police, politicians, criminal gangs, border patrols—the highest and the lowest social orders—all were affected. Money in unimaginable amounts was the mother’s milk of corruption. Whenever and wherever a well-publicized killing took place—regardless of the circumstances or those accused—Bourne was on the scene and took credit for the kill.”
“He was the killer,” insisted a confused McAllister. “There were the signs, his signs. Everyone knew it!”
“Everyone assumed it, Mr. Undersecretary. A mocking telephone call to the police, a small article of clothing sent in the mails, a black bandanna found in the bushes a day later. They were all part of the strategy.”
“The strategy? What are you talking about?”
“Jason Bourne—the original Jason Bourne—was a convicted murderer, a fugitive whose life ended with a bullet in his head in a place called Tam Quan during the last months of the Vietnam war. It was a jungle execution. The man was a traitor. His corpse was left to rot—he simply disappeared. Several years later, the man who executed him took on his identity for one of our projects, a project that nearly succeeded, should have succeeded, but went off the wire.”
“Off the what?”
“Out of control. That man—that very brave man—who went underground for us, using the name Jason Bourne for three years, was injured, and the result of those injuries was amnesia. He lost his memory; he neither knew who he was nor who he was meant to be.”
“Good Lord …”
“He was between a rock and a hard place. With the help of an alcoholic doctor on a Mediterranean island he tried to trace his life, his identity, and here, I’m afraid, he failed. He failed but the woman who befriended him did not fail; she’s now his wife. Her instincts were accurate; she knew he wasn’t a killer. She purposely forced him to examine his words, his abilities, ultimately to make the contacts that would lead him back to us. But we, with the most sophisticated Intelligence apparatus in the world, did not listen to the human quotient. We set a trap to kill him—”
“I must interrupt, Mr. Ambassador,” said Reilly.
“Why?” asked Havilland. “It’s what we did and we’re not on tape.”
“An individual made the determination, not the United States government. That should be clear, sir.”
“All right,” agreed the diplomat, nodding. “His name was Conklin, but it’s irrelevant, Jack. Government personnel went along. It happened.”
“Government personnel were also instrumental in saving his life.”
“Somewhat after the fact,” muttered Havilland.
“But why?” asked McAllister; he now leaned forward, mesmerized by the bizarre story. “He was one of us. Why would anyone want to kill him?”
“His loss of memory was taken for something else. It was erroneously believed that he had turned, that he had killed three of his controls and disappeared with a great deal of money—government funds totaling over five million dollars.”
“Five million …?” Astonished, the undersecretary of State slowly sank back into the chair. “Funds of that magnitude were available to him personally?”
“Yes,” said the ambassador. “They, too, were part of the strategy, part of the project.”
“I assume this is where silence is necessary. The project, I mean.”
“It’s imperative,” answered Reilly. “Not because of the project—in spite of what happened we make no apology for that operation—but because of the man we recruited to become Jason Bourne and where he came from.”
“That’s cryptic.”
“It’ll become clear.”
“The project, please.”
Reilly looked at Raymond Havilland; the diplomat nodded and spoke. “We created a killer to draw out and trap the most deadly assassin in Europe.”
“Carlos?”
“You’re quick, Mr. Undersecretary.”
“Who else was there? In Asia, Bourne and the Jackal were constantly being compared.”
“Those comparisons were encouraged,” said Havilland. “Often magnified and spread by the strategists of the project, a group known as Treadstone Seventy-one. The name was derived from a sterile house on New York’s Seventy-first Street where the resurrected Jason Bourne was trained. It was the command post and a name you should be aware of.”
“I see,” said McAllister pensively. “Then those comparisons, growing as they did with Bourne’s reputation, served as a challenge to Carlos. That’s when Bourne moved to Europe—to bring the challenge directly to the Jackal. To force him to come out and confront his challenger.”
“Very quick, Mr. Undersecretary. In a nutshell, that was the strategy.”
“It’s extraordinary. Brilliant, actually, and one doesn’t have to be an expert to see that. God knows I’m not.”
“You may become one—”
“And you say this man who became Bourne, the mythical assassin, spent three years playing the role and then was injured—”
“Shot,” interrupted Havilland. “Membranes of his skull were blown away.”
“And he lost his memory?”
“Totally.”
“My God!”
“Yet despite everything that happened to him, and with the woman’s help—she was an economist for the Canadian government, incidentally—he came within moments of pulling the whole damn thing off. A remarkable story, isn’t it?”
“It’s incredible. But what kind of man would do this, could do it?”
The redheaded John Reilly coughed softly; the ambassador deferred with a glance. “We’re now reaching ground zero,” said the watchguard, again shifting his bulk to look at McAllister. “If you’ve got any doubts I can still let you go.”
“I try not to repeat myself. You have your tape.”
“It’s your appetite.”
“I suppose that’s another way you people have of saying there might not even be a trial.”
“I’d never say that.”
McAllister swallowed, his eyes meeting the calm gaze of the man from the NSC. He turned to Havilland. “Please go on, Mr. Ambassador. Who is this man? Where did he come from?”
“His name is David Webb. He’s currently an associate professor of Oriental Studies at a small university in Maine and married to the Canadian woman who literally guided him out of his labyrinth. Without her he would have been killed—but then without him she would have ended up a corpse in Zurich.”
“Remarkable,” said McAllister, barely audible.
“The point is, she’s his second wife. His first marriage ended in a tragic act of wanton slaughter—that’s when his story began for us. A number of years ago Webb was a young foreign service officer stationed in Phnom Penh, a brilliant Far East scholar, fluent in several Oriental languages, and married to a girl from Thailand he’d met in graduate school. They lived in a house on a riverbank and had two children. It was an ideal life for such a man. It combined the expertise Washington needed in the area with the opportunity to live in his own museum. Then the Vietnam action escalated and one morning a lone jet fighter—no one really knows from which side, but no one ever told Webb that—swooped down at low altitude and strafed his wife and children while they were playing in the water. Their bodies were riddled. They floated into the riverbank as Webb was trying to reach them; he gathered them in his arms, screaming helplessly at the disappearing plane above.”
“How horrible,” whispered McAllister.
“At that moment, Webb turned. He became someone he never was, never dreamed he could be. He became a guerrilla fighter known as Delta.”
“Delta?” said the undersecretary of State. “A guerrilla …? I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“There’s no way you could.” Havilland looked over at Reilly, then back at McAllister. “As Jack made clear a moment ago, we’re now at ground zero. Webb fled to Saigon consumed with rage, and, ironically, through the efforts of the CIA officer named Conklin, who years later tried to kill him, he joined a clandestine operations outfit called Medusa. No names were ever used by the people in Medusa, just the Greek letters of the alphabet—Webb became Delta One.”
“Medusa? I’ve never heard of it.”
“Ground zero,” said Reilly. “The Medusa file is still classified, but we’ve permitted limited declassification in this instance. The Medusa units were a collection of internationals who knew the Vietnam territories, north and south. Frankly, most of them were criminals—smugglers of narcotics, gold, guns, jewels, all kinds of contraband. Also convicted murderers, fugitives who’d been sentenced to death in absentia … and a smattering of colonials whose businesses were confiscated—again by both sides. They banked on us—Big Uncle—to take care of all their problems if they infiltrated hostile areas, killing suspected Viet Cong collaborators and village chiefs thought to be leaning toward Charlie, as well as expediting prisoner-of-war escapes where they could. They were assassination teams—death squads, if you will—and that says it as well as it can be said, but of course we’ll never say it. Mistakes were made, millions stolen, and the majority of those personnel wouldn’t be allowed in any civilized army, Webb among them.”
“With his background, his academic credentials, he willingly became part of such a group?”
“He had an overpowering motive,” said Havilland. “As far as he was concerned, that plane in Phnom Penh was North Vietnamese.”
“Some said he was a madman,” continued Reilly. “Others claimed he was an extraordinary tactician, the supreme guerrilla who understood the Oriental mind and led the most aggressive teams in Medusa, feared as much by Command Saigon as he was by the enemy. He was uncontrollable; the only rules he followed were his own. It was as if he had mounted his own personal hunt, tracking down the man who had flown that plane and destroyed his life. It became his war, his rage; the more violent it became, the more satisfying it was for him—or perhaps closer to his own death wish.”
“Death …?” The undersecretary of State left the word hanging.
“It was the prevalent theory at the time,” interrupted the ambassador.
“The war ended,” said Reilly, “as disastrously for Webb—or Delta—as it did for the rest of us. Perhaps worse; there was nothing left for him. No more purpose, nothing to strike out at, to kill. Until we approached him and gave him a reason to go on living. Or perhaps a reason to go on trying to die.”
“By becoming Bourne and going after Carlos the Jackal,” completed McAllister.
“Yes,” agreed the Intelligence officer. A brief silence ensued.
“We need him back,” said Havilland. The soft-spoken words fell like an ax on hard wood.
“Carlos has surfaced?”
The diplomat shook his head. “Not Europe. We need him back in Asia and we can’t waste a minute.”
“Someone else? Another … target?” McAllister swallowed involuntarily. “Have you spoken to him?”
“We can’t approach him. Not directly.”
“Why not?”
“He wouldn’t let us through the door. He doesn’t trust anything or anyone out of Washington, and it’s difficult to fault him for that. For days, for weeks, he cried out for help and we didn’t listen. Instead, we tried to kill him.”
“Again I must object,” broke in Reilly. “It wasn’t us. It was an individual operating on erroneous information. And the government currently spends in excess of four hundred thousand dollars a year in a protection program for Webb.”
“Which he scoffs at. He believes it’s no more than a backup trap for Carlos in the event the Jackal unearths him. He’s convinced you don’t give a damn about him, and I’m not sure he’s far off the mark. He saw Carlos and the fact that the face has not yet come back into focus for him isn’t something Carlos knows. The Jackal has every reason to go after Webb. And if he does, you’ll have your second chance.”
“The chances of Carlos finding him are so remote as to be practically nil. The Treadstone records are buried, and even if they weren’t, they don’t contain any current information as to where Webb is or what he does.”
“Come, Mr. Reilly,” said Havilland testily. “Only his background and qualifications. How difficult would it be? He’s got academia written all over him.”
“I’m not opposing you, Mr. Ambassador,” replied a somewhat subdued Reilly. “I just want everything clear. Let’s be frank, Webb has to be handled very delicately. He’s recovered a large portion of his memory but certainly not all of it. However, he’s recalled enough about Medusa to be a considerable threat to the country’s interests.”
“In what way?” asked McAllister. “Perhaps it wasn’t the best and it probably wasn’t the worst, but basically it was a military strategy in time of war.”
“A strategy that was unsanctioned, unlogged and unacknowledged. There’s no official slate.”
“How is that possible? It was funded, and when funds are expended—”
“Don’t read me the book,” interrupted the obese Intelligence officer. “We’re not on tape, but I’ve got yours.”
“Is that your answer?”
“No, this is: there’s no statute of limitation on war crimes and murder, Mr. Undersecretary, and murder and other violent crimes were committed against our own forces, as well as Allied personnel. In the main they were committed by killers and thieves in the process of stealing, looting, raping, and killing. Most of them were pathological criminals. As effective as the Medusa was in many ways, it was a tragic mistake, born of anger and frustration in a no-win situation. What possible good would it do to open all the old wounds? Quite apart from the claims against us, we would become a pariah in the eyes of much of the civilized world.”
“As I mentioned,” said McAllister softly, reluctantly. “At State we don’t believe in opening wounds.” He turned to the ambassador. “I’m beginning to understand. You want me to reach this David Webb and persuade him to return to Asia. For another project, another target—although I’ve never used the word in that context in my life before this evening. And I assume it’s because there are distinct parallels in our early careers—we’re Asia men. We presumably have insights where the Far East is concerned, and you think he’ll listen to me.”
“Yet you say he won’t touch us. That’s where my understanding fades. How can I do it?”
“We’ll do it together. As he once made the rules for himself, we’ll make them now. It’s imperative.”
“Because of a man you want killed?”
“ ‘Neutralized’ will suffice. It has to be done.”
“And Webb can do it?”
“No. Jason Bourne can. We sent him out alone for three years under extraordinary stress—suddenly his memory was taken from him and he was hunted like an animal. Still he retained the ability to infiltrate and kill. I’m being blunt.”
“I understand that. Since we’re not on tape—and on the chance that we still are—” The undersecretary glanced disapprovingly at Reilly, who shook his head and shrugged. “May I be permitted to know who the target is?”
“You may, and I want you to commit this name to memory, Mr. Undersecretary. He’s a Chinese minister of state, Sheng Ghou Yang.”
McAllister flushed angrily. “I don’t have to commit it, and I think you know that. He was a fixture in the PRC’s economics group and we were both assigned to the trade conferences in Peking in the late seventies. I read up on him, analyzed him. Sheng was my counterpart and I could do no less—a fact I suspect you also know.”
“Oh?” The gray-haired ambassador arched his dark eyebrows, and dismissed the rebuke. “And what did your reading tell you? What did you learn about him?”
“He was considered very bright, very ambitious—but then his rise in Peking’s hierarchy tells us that. He was spotted by scouts sent out from the Central Committee some years ago at the Fudan University in Shanghai. Initially because he took to the English language so well and had a firm, even sophisticated, grasp of Western economics.”
“What else?”
“He was considered promising material, and after in-depth indoctrination was sent to the London School of Economics for graduate study. It took.”
“How do you mean?”
“Sheng’s an avowed Marxist where the centralized state is concerned, but he has a healthy respect for capitalistic profits.”
“I see,” said Havilland. “Then he accepts the failure of the Soviet system?”
“He’s ascribed that failure to the Russian penchant for corruption and mindless conformity in the higher ranks, and alcohol in the lower ones. To his credit he’s stamped out a fair share of those abuses in the industrial centers.”
“Sounds like he was trained at IBM, doesn’t it?”
“He’s been responsible for many of the PRC’s new trade policies. He’s made China a lot of money.” Again the undersecretary of State leaned forward in his chair, his eyes intense, his expression bewildered—stunned was perhaps more accurate. “My God, why would anyone in the West want Sheng dead? It’s absurd! He’s our economic ally, a politically stabilizing factor in the largest nation on earth that’s ideologically opposed to us! Through him and men like him we’ve reached accommodations. Without him, whatever the course, there’s the risk of disaster. I’m a professional China analyst, Mr. Ambassador, and, I repeat, what you suggest is absurd. A man of your accomplishments should recognize that before any of us.”
The aging diplomat looked hard at his accuser, and when he spoke he did so slowly, choosing his words carefully. “A few moments ago we were at ground zero. A former foreign service officer named David Webb became Jason Bourne for a purpose. Conversely, Sheng Chou Yang is not the man you know, not the man you studied as your counterpart. He became that man for a purpose.”
“What are you talking about?” shot back McAllister defensively. “Everything I’ve said about him is on record—records, official—most top secret and eyes-only.”
“Eyes-only?” the former ambassador asked wearily. “Ears-only, tongues-only—wagging as busily as tails wag tigers. Because an official stamp is placed on recorded observations observed by men who have no idea where those records came from—they are there, and that’s enough. No, Mr. Undersecretary, it’s not enough, it never is.”
“You obviously have other information I don’t have,” said the State Department man coldly. “If it is information and not disinformation. The man I described—the man I knew—is Sheng Chou Yang.”
“Just as the David Webb we described to you was Jason Bourne?… No, please, don’t be angry, I’m not playing games. It’s important that you understand. Sheng is not the man you knew. He never was.”
“Then whom did I know? Who was the man at those conferences?”
“He’s a traitor, Mr. Undersecretary. Sheng Chou Yang is a traitor to his country, and when his treachery is exposed—as it surely will be—Peking will hold the Free World responsible. The consequences of that inevitable error are unthinkable. However, there’s no doubt as to his purpose.”
“Sheng … a traitor? I don’t believe you! He’s worshipped in Peking! One day he’ll be chairman!”
“Then China will be ruled by a Nationalist zealot whose ideological roots are in Taiwan.”
“You’re crazy—you’re absolutely crazy! Wait a minute, you said he had a purpose—‘no doubt as to his purpose, you said.”
“He and his people intend to take over Hong Kong. He’s mounting a hidden economic blitzkrieg, putting all trade, all of the territory’s financial institutions under the control of a ‘neutral’ commission, a clearinghouse approved by Peking—which means approved by him. The instrument of record will be the British treaty that expires in 1997, his commission a supposedly reasonable prelude to annexation and control. It will happen when the road is clear for Sheng, when there are no more obstacles in his path. When his word is the only word that counts in economic matters. It could be in a month, or two months. Or next week.”
“You think Peking has agreed to this?” protested McAllister. “You’re wrong! It’s—it’s just crazy! The People’s Republic will never substantively touch Hong Kong! It brokers sixty percent of its entire economy through the territory. The China Accords guarantee fifty years of a Free Economic Zone status and Sheng is a signator, the most vital one!”
“But Sheng is not Sheng—not as you know him.”
“Then who the hell is he?”
“Prepare yourself, Mr. Undersecretary. Sheng Chou Yang is the first son of a Shanghai industrialist who made his fortune in the corrupt world of the old China, Chiang Kai-shek’s Kuomintang. When it was obvious that Mao’s revolution would succeed, the family fled, as so many of the landlords and the warlords did, with whatever they could transfer. The old man is now one of the most powerful taipans in Hong Kong—but which one we don’t know. The colony will become his and the family’s mandate, courtesy of a minister in Peking, his most treasured son. It’s the ultimate irony, the patriarch’s final vengeance—Hong Kong will be controlled by the very men who corrupted Nationalist China. For years they bled their country without conscience, profiting from the labors of a starving, disenfranchised people, paving the way for Mao’s revolution. And if that sounds like Communist bilge, I’m afraid for the most part it’s embarrassingly accurate. Now a handful of zealots, boardroom thugs led by a maniac, want back what no international court in history would ever grant them.” Havilland paused, then spat out the single word “Maniacs!”
“But if you don’t know who this taipan is, how do you know it’s true, any of it?”
“The sources are maximum-classified,” interrupted Reilly, “but they’ve been confirmed. The story was first picked up in Taiwan. Our original informer was a member of the Nationalist cabinet who thought it was a disastrous course that could only lead to a bloodbath for the entire Far East. He pleaded with us to stop it. He was found dead the next morning, three bullets in his head and his throat cut—in Chinese that means a dead traitor. Since then five other people have been murdered, their bodies similarly mutilated. It’s true. The conspiracy is alive and well and coming from Hong Kong.”
“It’s insane!”
“More to the point,” said Havilland, “it will never work. If it had a prayer, we might look the other way and even say Godspeed, but it can’t. It’ll blow apart, as Lin Biao’s conspiracy against Mao Zedong blew apart in ’72, and when it does, Peking will blame American and Taiwanese money in complicity with the British—as well as the silent acquiescence of the world’s leading financial institutions. Eight years of economic progress will be shot to hell because a group of fanatics want vengeance. In your words, Mr. Undersecretary, the People’s Republic is a suspicious turbulent nation—and if I may add a few of my own from those accomplishments you ascribe to me—a government quick to become paranoid, obsessed with betrayal both from within and without. China will believe that the world is out to isolate her economically, choke her off from world markets, and bring her to her knees while the Russians grin across the northern borders. She will strike fast and furiously, impound everything, absorb everything. Her troops will occupy Kowloon, the island, and all of the burgeoning New Territories. Investments in the trillions will be lost. Without the colony’s expertise trade will be stymied, a labor force in the millions will be in chaos—hunger and disease will be rampant. The Far East will be in flames, and the result could touch off a war none of us wants to think about.”
“Jesus Christ,” McAllister whispered. “It can’t happen.”
“No, it can’t,” agreed the diplomat.
“But why Webb?”
“Not Webb,” corrected Havilland. “Jason Bourne.”
“All right! Why Bourne?”
“Because word out of Kowloon is that he’s already there.”
“What?”
“And we know he’s not.”
“What did you say?”
“He’s struck. He’s killed. He’s back in Asia.”
“Webb?”
“No, Bourne. The myth.”
“You’re not making one goddamned bit of sense!”
“I can assure you Sheng Chou Yang is making a lot of sense.”
“How?”
“He’s brought him back. Jason Bourne’s skills are once more for hire, and, as always, his client is beyond unearthing—in the present case the most unlikely client imaginable. A leading spokesman for the People’s Republic who must eliminate his opposition both in Hong Kong and in Peking. During the past six months a number of powerful voices in Peking’s Central Committee have been strangely silent. According to official government announcements, several died, and considering their ages it’s understandable. Two others were supposedly killed in accidents—one in a plane crash, one by, of all things, a cerebral hemorrhage while hiking in the Shaoguan mountains—if it’s not true, at least it’s imaginative. Then another was ‘removed’—a euphemism for disgrace. Lastly, and most extraordinary, the PRC’s Vice-Premier was murdered in Kowloon when no one in Peking knew he was there. It was a gruesome episode, five men massacred in the Tsim Sha Tsui with the killer leaving his calling card. The name Jason Bourne was etched in blood on the floor. An impostor’s ego demanded that he be given credit for his kills.”
McAllister blinked repeatedly, his eyes darting aimlessly. “This is all so far beyond me,” he said helplessly. Then, becoming the professional once again, he looked steadily at Havilland. “Is there linkage?” he asked.
The diplomat nodded. “Our Intelligence reports are specific. All of these men opposed Sheng’s policies—some openly, some guardedly. The Vice-Premier, an old revolutionary and veteran of Mao’s Long March, was especially vocal. He couldn’t stand the upstart Sheng. Yet what was he doing secretly in Kowloon in the company of bankers? Peking can’t answer, so ‘face’ mercifully required that the killing never happened. With his cremation he became a nonperson.”
“And with the killer’s ‘calling card’—the name written in blood—the second linkage is to Sheng,” said the undersecretary of State, his voice close to trembling, as he nervously massaged his forehead. “Why would he do it? Leave his name, I mean!”
“He’s in business and it was a spectacular kill. Now do you begin to understand?”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“For us this new Bourne is our direct route to Sheng Chou Yang. He’s our trap. An impostor is posing as the myth, but if the original myth tracks down and takes out the impostor, he’s in the position to reach Sheng. It’s really very simple. The Jason Bourne we created will replace this new killer using his name. Once in place, our Jason Bourne sends out an urgent alarm—something drastic has happened that threatens Sheng’s entire strategy—and Sheng has to respond. He can’t afford not to, for his security must be absolute, his hands clean. He’ll be forced to show himself, if only to kill his hired gun, to remove any association. When he does, this time we won’t fail.”
“It’s a circle,” said McAllister, his words barely above a whisper, as he stared at the diplomat. “And from everything you’ve told me, Webb won’t walk near it, much less into it.”
“Then we must provide him with an overpowering reason to do so,” said Havilland softly. “In my profession—frankly, it was always my profession—we look for patterns, patterns that will trigger a man.” Frowning, his eyes hollow and empty, the aging ambassador leaned back in his chair; certainly he was not at peace with himself. “Sometimes they are ugly realizations—repugnant, actually—but one must weigh the greater good, the greater benefits. For everyone.”
“That doesn’t tell me anything.”
“David Webb became Jason Bourne for essentially one reason—the same reason that propelled him into the Medusa. A wife was taken from him; his children and the mother of his children were killed.”
“Oh, my God …”
“This is where I leave,” said Reilly, getting out of his chair.