5

Barely in control of himself, he knew that calm was out of the question. His hand gripped the automatic while his mind cracked with surreal bursts of rapid gunfire, one option after another slamming into his head. Above all he could not stay still; he had to keep in motion. He had to get up and move!

The State Department. The men at State he had known during his last months in the remote, classified Virginia medical complex – those insistent, obsessed men who questioned him relentlessly, showing him photographs by the dozens until Mo Panov would order them to stop. He had learned their names and written them down, thinking that one day he might want to know who they were – no reason other than visceral distrust; such men had tried to kill him only months before. Yet he had never asked for their names, nor were they offered except as Harry, Bill, or Sam, presumably on the theory that actual identities would simply add to his confusion. Instead, he had unobtrusively read their identification tags and, after they left, wrote the names down and placed the pieces of paper with his personal belongings in the bureau drawer. When Marie came to see him, which was every day, he gave her those names and told her to hide them in the house hide them well.

Later, Marie admitted that although she had done as he instructed, she thought his suspicions were excessive, a case of overkill. But then one morning, only minutes after a heated session with the men from Washington, David pleaded with her to leave the medical complex immediately, run to the car, drive to the bank where they had a safety deposit box, and do the following: Insert a short strand of her hair in the bottom left border of the deposit box, lock it, get out of the bank, and return two hours later to see if it was still there.

It was not. She had securely fixed the strand of hair in place; it could not have fallen away unless the deposit box had been opened. She found it on the tiled floor of the bank vault.

'How did you know?' she had asked him.

'One of my friendly interrogators got hot and tried to provoke me. Mo was out of the room for a couple of minutes and he damn near accused me of faking, of hiding things. I knew you were coming, and so I played it out. I wanted to see for myself how far they would go – how far they could go?

Nothing had been sacred then, and nothing was sacred now. It was all too symmetrical. The guards had been pulled, his own reactions condescendingly questioned as if he were the one who had asked for the additional protection and not on the insistence of one Edward canister. Then within hours Marie was taken, according to a scenario that had been detailed far too accurately by a nervous man with dead eyes. And now this same McAllister was suddenly fifteen thousand miles away from his own self-determined ground zero. Had the undersecretary turned? Had he been bought in Hong Kong? Had he betrayed Washington as well as the man he had sworn to protect? What was happening! Whatever it was, among the unholy secrets was code name Medusa. It had never been mentioned during the questioning, never referred to. Its absence was startling. It was as if the unacknowledged battalion of psychotics and killers had never existed; its history had been wiped off the books. But that history could be reinstated. This was where he would start.

Webb walked rapidly out of the bedroom and down the steps to his study, once a small library off the hallway in the old Victorian house. He sat at his desk, opened the bottom drawer and removed several notebooks and various papers. He then inserted a brass letter opener and pried up the false bottom; lying on the second layer of wood were other papers. They were a vague, mostly bewildering assortment of fragmented recollections, images that had come to him at odd hours of the day and night. There were torn scraps and pages from small notebooks and scissored pieces of stationery on which he had jotted down the pictures and words that exploded in his head. It was a mass of painful evocations, many so tortured that he could not share them with Marie, fearing the hurt would be too great, the revelations of Jason Bourne too brutal for his wife to confront. And among these secrets were the names of the experts in clandestine operations who had come down to question him so intensely in Virginia.

David's eyes suddenly focused on the ugly heavy-calibre weapon on the edge of the desk. Without realizing it, he had gripped it in his hand and carried it down from the bedroom; he stared at it for a moment, then picked up the phone. It was the beginning of the most agonizing, infuriating hour of his life as each moment Marie drifted farther away.

The first two calls were taken by wives or lovers; the men he was trying to reach were suddenly not there when he identified himself. He was still out of sanction! They would not touch him without authorization and that authorization was being withheld. Christ, he should have known!

'Hello?'

'Is this the Lanier residence?"

'Yes, it is. '

'William Lanier, please. Tell him it's urgent, a Sixteen Hundred alert. My name is Thompson, State Department . '

'Just one minute,' said the woman, concerned.

' Who is this?' asked a man's voice.

'It's David Webb. You remember Jason Bourne, don't you?'

' A pause followed, filled with Lanier's breathing. 'Why did you say your name was Thompson? That it was a White House alert?'

'I had an idea you might not talk to me. Among the things I remember is that you don't make contact with certain people without authorization. They're out of bounds. You simply report the contact attempt . '

'Then I assume you also remember that it's highly irregular to call someone like me on a domestic phone. '

'Domestic phone? Does the domestic prohibitive now include where you live?"

'You know what I'm talking about . '

'I said it was an emergency. '

'It can't have anything to do with me,' protested Lanier. 'You're a dead file in my office-'

'Colour me deep-dead?' interrupted David.

'I didn't say that,' shot back the man from covert operations. 'All I meant was that you're not on my schedule and it's policy not to interfere with others. '

'What others?' asked Webb sharply.

'How the hell do I know?'

'Are you telling me that you're not interested in what I have to tell you?'

'Whether I'm interested or not hasn't anything to do with it. You're not on any list of mine and that's all I have to know. If you have something to say, call your authorized contact . '

'I tried to. His wife said he was in the Far East.'

'Try his office. Someone there will process you.'

'I know that, and I don't care to be processed. I want to talk to someone I know, and I know you, Bill. Remember? It was "Bill" in Virginia, that's what you told me to call you. You were interested to hell and back in what I had to say then. '

That was then, not now. Look, Webb, I can't help you because I can't advise you. No matter what you tell me, I can't respond. I'm not current on your status – I haven't been for almost a year. Your contact is – he can be reached. Call State back. I'm hanging up.'

'Medusa,' whispered David. 'Did you hear me, Lanier? Medusa!'

'Medusa what? Are you trying to tell me something?'

'I'll blow it all apart, do you read me? I'll expose the whole obscene mess unless I get some answers?

'Why don't you get yourself processed instead?" said the man from covert operations coldly. 'Or check yourself into a hospital. ' There was an abrupt click, and David, perspiring, hung up the phone.

Lanier did not know about Medusa. If he had known, he would have stayed on the phone, learning whatever he could, for Medusa crossed the lines of 'policy' and being 'current'. But Lanier was one of the younger interrogators, no more than 33 or 34; he was very bright, but not a long-term veteran. Someone a few years older would probably have been given clearance, told about the renegade battalion that was still held in deep cover. Webb looked at the names on his list and at the corresponding telephone numbers. He picked up the phone.

'Hello?'A male voice.

'Is this Samuel Teasdale?'

'Yeah, that's right. Who are you?'

'I'm glad you answered the phone and not your wife. '

The wife's standard where possible,' said Teasdale, suddenly cautious. 'Mine's no longer available. She's sailing somewhere in the Caribbean with someone I never knew about. Now that you know my life's story, who the hell are you?'

'Jason Bourne, remember?'

' Webb?'

"I vaguely remember that name,' said David.

'Why are you calling me?'

'You were friendly. Down in Virginia you told me to call you Sam. '

'Okay, okay, David, you're right. I told you to call me Sam that's what I am to my friends, Sam...' Teasdale was bewildered, upset, searching for words. 'But that was almost a year ago, Davey, and you know the rules. You're given a person to talk to, either on the scene or over at State. That's the one you should reach that's the person who's up to date on everything.'

'Aren't you up to date, Sam?'

'Not about you, no. I remember the directive; it was dropped on our desks a couple of weeks after you left Virginia. All inquiries, regarding "said subject, et cetera" were to be bumped up to Section whatever-the-hell-it was, "said subject" having full access and in direct touch with deputies on the scene and in the Department . 'and my direct-access contact has disappeared.'

'Come on,' objected Teasdale quietly, suspiciously. That's crazy. It couldn't happen.'

'It happened!' yelled Webb . 'My wife happened!'

'What about your wife? What are you talking about?'

'She's gone, you bastard – all of you, bastards! You let it happen!' Webb grabbed his wrist, gripping it with all his strength to stop the trembling. 'I want answers, Sam. I want to know who cleared the way, who turned! I've got an idea who it is but I need answers to nail him – nail all of you, if I have to.'

'Hold it right there!' broke in Teasdale angrily. 'If you're trying to compromise me, you're doing a rotten fucking job of it! This boy's not for neutering. Get off. Go sing to your head doctors, not to me! I don't have to talk to you, all I have to do is report the fact that you called me, which I'll do the second I cut you loose. I'll also add that I got hit with a bucket of bullshit! Take care of that head of yours.'

'Medusa!' cried Webb. 'No one wants to talk about codename Medusa, do they? Even today it's way down deep in the vaults, isn't it?'

There was no click on the line this time. Teasdale did not hang up. Instead, he spoke flatly, no comment in his voice. 'Rumours,' he said. 'Like Hoover's raw files – raw meat -good for stories over a few belts, but not worth a hell of a lot . '

'I'm not a rumour, Sam. I live, I breathe, I go to the toilet and I sweat – like I'm sweating now. That's not a rumour.'

'You've had your problems, Davey.'

'I was there! I fought with Medusa! Some people said I was the best, or the worst. It's why I was chosen, why I became Jason Bourne.'

'I wouldn't know about that. We never discussed it, so I wouldn't know. Did we ever discuss it, Davey?'

'Stop using that goddamned name. I'm not Davey. "

'We were "Sam" and "Davey" in Virginia, don't you remember?' '

That doesn't matter! We all played games. Morris Panov was our referee, until one day you decided to get rough. '

'I apologized,' said Teasdale gently. 'We all have bad days.

I told you about my wife. '

'I'm not interested in your wife! I'm interested in mine! And I'll rip open Medusa unless I get some answers, some help?

'I'm sure you can get whatever help you think you need if you'll just call your contact at State. '

'He's not there! He's gone!'

Then ask for his back-up. You'll be processed. '

"Processed Jesus, what are you, a robot?'

'Just a man trying to do his job, Mr. Webb, and I'm afraid I can't do any more for you. Good night. ' The click came and Teasdale was off the phone.

There was another man, thought David at fever pitch, as he stared at the list, squinting as the sweat filled his eye sockets. An easy going man, less abrasive than the others, a Southerner, whose slow drawl was either a cover for a quick mind or the halting resistance to a job in which he felt himself uncomfortable. There was no time for invention.

'Is this the Babcock residence?'

'Surely is,' replied a woman's voice imbued with magnolia . 'Not our home, of course, as I always point out, but we surely do reside here. '

'May I speak with Harry Babcock, please?'

'May Ah ask who's callin', please? He may be out in the garden with the kids, but on the other hand he may have taken them over to the park. It's so well lit these days – not like before – and you just don't fear for your life as long as you stay.. . '

A cover for quick minds, both Mr. and Mrs. Harry Babcock.

'My name is Reardon, State Department. There's an urgent message for Mr Babcock. My instructions are to reach him as soon as possible. It's an emergency. '

There was the bouncing echo of a phone being covered, muffled sounds beyond. Harry Babcock got on the line, his speech slow and deliberate.

'I don't know a Mr. Reardon, Mr Reardon. All mah relays come from a particular switchboard that identifies itself. Are you a switchboard, sir?'

'Well, I don't know if I've ever heard of someone coming in from a garden, or from across the street in a park so quickly, Mr. Babcock. '

'Remarkable, isn't it? I should be runnin' in the Olympics, perhaps. However, I do know your voice. I just can't place the name. '

'How about Jason Bourne?'

The pause was brief – a very quick mind. 'Now, that name goes back quite a while, doesn't it? Just about a year, I'd say. It is you, isn't it, David. ' There was no question implied.

'Yes, Harry. I've got to talk to you. '

'No, David, you should speak with others, not me. '

'Are you telling me I'm cut off?'

'Good heavens, that's so abrupt, so discourteous. I'd be more than delighted to hear how you and the lovely Mrs.. Webb are doing in your new life. Massachusetts, isn't it?'

'Maine.'

'Of course. Forgive me. Is everything well? As I'm sure you realize, my colleagues and I are involved with so many problems we haven't been able to stay in touch with your file. '

'Someone else said you couldn't get your hands on it . '

'Ah don't think anybody tried to. '

'I want to talk, Babcock,' said David harshly.

'I don't,' replied Harry Babcock flatly, his voice nearly glacial. 'I follow regulations, and to be frank, you are cut off from men like me. I don't question why – things change, they always change. '

'Medusa!' said David. 'We won't talk about me, let's talk about Medusa?

The pause was longer than before. And when Babcock spoke, his words were now frozen. This phone is sterile, Webb, so I'll say what I want to say. You were nearly taken out a year ago, and it would have been a mistake. We would have sincerely mourned you. But if you break the threads, there'll be no mournin' tomorrow. Except, of course, your wife. '

'You son of a bitch! She's gone! She was taken! You bastards let it happen?

'I don't know what you're talking about . '

'My guards' They were pulled, every goddamned one of them, and she was taken! I want answers, Babcock, or I blow everything apart! Now, you do exactly as I tell you to do, or there'll be mournings you never dreamed of – all of you, your wives, orphaned children – try everything on for size! I'm Jason Bourne, remember!'

'You're a maniac, that's what I remember. With threats like those we'll send a team to find you. Medusa style. Try that on for size, boy!'

Suddenly a furious hum broke into the line; it was deafening, high-pitched, causing David to thrust the phone away from his ear. And then the calm voice of an operator was heard: 'We are breaking in for an emergency. Go ahead, Colorado. '

Webb slowly brought the phone back to his ear.

'Is this Jason Bourne?' asked a man in a mid-Atlantic accent, the voice refined, aristocratic.

'I'm David Webb.'

'Of course you are. But you are also Jason Bourne. '

' Was,' said David, mesmerized by something he could not define.

'The conflicting lines of identity get blurred, Mr. Webb. Especially for one who has been through so much. '

'Who the hell are you?'

'A friend, be assured of that. And a friend cautions one he calls a friend. You've made outrageous accusations against some of our country's most dedicated servants – men who will never be permitted an unaccountable five million dollars – to this day unaccounted for. '

'Do you want to search me?'

'No more than I'd care to trace the labyrinthine ways your most accomplished wife buried the funds in a dozen European.'

'She's gone!' Did your dedicated men tell you that'

'You were described as being overwrought – "raving" was the word that was used and making astonishing accusations relative to your wife, yes. '

'Relative to– Goddamn you, she was taken from our house! Someone's holding her because they want me?'

'Are you sure?'

'Ask that dead fish McAllister. It's his scenario, right down to the note. And suddenly he's on the other side of the world!'

'A note?' asked the cultured voice.

'Very clear. Very specific. It's McAllister's story, and he let it happen!. You let it happen!'

'Perhaps you should examine the note further. '

'Why?'

'No matter. It may all become clearer to you with help, psychiatric help. '

'What?'

'We want to do all we can for you, believe that. You've given so much – more than any man should – and your extraordinary contribution cannot be disregarded even if it comes to a court of law. We placed you in the situation and we will stand by you – even if it means bending the laws, coercing the courts. '

'What are you talking about? screamed David.

'A respected army doctor tragically killed his wife several years ago, it was in all the papers. The stress became too much. The stresses on you were tenfold. '

'I don't believe this!'

'Let's put it another way, Mr Bourne. '

'I'm not Bourne!'

'All right, Mr Webb, I'll be frank with you. '

'That's a step up!'

'You're not a well man. You've gone through eight months of psychiatric therapy there's still a great deal of your own life you can't remember; you didn't even know your name. It's all in the medical records, meticulous records that make clear the advanced state of your mental illness, your compulsion for violence and your obsessive rejection of your own identity. In your torment you fantasize, you pretend to be people you are not; you seem to have a compulsion to be someone other than yourself. '

That's crazy and you know it! Lies!"

'Crazy is a harsh word, Mr Webb, and the lies are not mine. However, it's my job to protect our government from false vilification, unfounded accusations that could severely damage the country. '

'Such as?'

'Your secondary fantasy concerning an unknown organization you call Medusa. Now, I'm sure your wife will come back to you – if she can, Mr Webb. But if you persist with this fantasy, with this figment of your tortured mind that you call Medusa, we'll label you a paranoid schizophrenic, a pathological liar prone to uncontrollable violence and self-deception. If such a man claims his wife is missing, who knows where that pathological trip could lead? Do I make myself clear?

David closed his eyes, the sweat rolling down his face. 'Crystal clear,' he said quietly, hanging up the phone.

Paranoid... pathological. Bastards! He opened his eyes wanting to spend his rage by hurling himself against something, anything! Then he stopped and stood motionless as another thought struck him, the obvious thought. Morris Panov! Mo Panov would label the three monsters for what he knew they were. Incompetents and liars, manipulators and self-serving protectors of corrupt bureaucracies – and conceivably worse, far worse. He reached for the phone and, trembling, dialled the number that so often in the past had brought forth a calming, rational voice that provided a sense of worth when Webb felt there was very little of value left in him.

'David, how good to hear from you,' said Panov with genuine warmth.

'I'm afraid it's not, Mo. It's the worst call I've ever made to you. '

'Come on, David, that's pretty dramatic. We've been through a lot-'

'Listen to me!' yelled Webb . 'She's gone! They've taken her!' The words poured forth, sequences lacking order, the times confused.

'Stop it, David!' commanded Panov. 'Go back. I want to hear it from the beginning. When this man came to see you after your... the memories of your brother.'

' What man?'

'From the State Department . '

'Yes! All right, yes. McAllister, that was his name. '

'Go from there. Names, titles, positions. And spell out the name of that banker in Hong Kong. And for Christ's sake, slow down?

Webb again grabbed his wrist as it gripped the phone. He started again, imposing a false control on his speech; but still it became strident, tight, involuntarily gathering speed. Finally he managed to get everything out, everything he could recall, knowing in horror that he had not remembered everything. Unknown blank spaces filled him with pain. They were coming back, the terrible blank spaces. He had said all he could say for the moment; there was nothing left.

'David,' began Mo Panov firmly. 'I want you to do something for me. Now. '

'What?

'It may sound foolish to you, even a little bit crazy, but I suggest you go down the street to the beach and take a walk along the shore. A half hour, forty-five minutes, that's all. Listen to the surf and the waves crashing against the rocks. '

'You can't be serious? protested Webb.

'I'm very serious,' insisted Mo. 'Remember we agreed once that there were times when people should put their heads on hold – God knows, I do it more than a reasonably respected psychiatrist should. Things can overwhelm us, and before we can get our act together we have to get rid of part of the confusion. Do as I ask, David. I'll get back to you as soon as I can, no more than an hour, I'd guess. And I want you calmer than you are now. '

It was crazy, but as with so much of what Panov quietly, often casually, suggested, there was truth in his words. Webb walked along the cold, rocky beach, never for an instant forgetting what had happened, but whether it was the change of scene, or the wind, or the incessant, repetitive sounds of the pounding ocean, he found himself breathing more steadily every bit as deeply, as tremulously, as before but without the higher registers of hysteria. He looked at his watch, at the luminous dial aided by the moonlight. He had walked back and forth for thirty-two minutes; it was all the indulgence he could bear. He climbed the path through the dunes of wild grass to the street and headed for the house, his pace quickening with every step.

He sat in his chair at the desk, his eyes rigid on the phone. It rang; he picked it up before the bell had stopped. 'Mo?'

'Yes. '

'It was damned cold out there. Thank you. '

Thank you. "

'What have you learned?'

And then the extension of the nightmare began.

'How long has Marie been gone, David?"

'I don't know. An hour, two hours, maybe more. What's that got to do with anything?'

'Could she be shopping? Or did you two have a fight and perhaps she wanted to be by herself for a while? We agreed that things are sometimes very difficult for her – you made the point yourself. '

'What the hell are you talking about? There's a note spelling it out! Blood, a hand print!'

'Yes, you mentioned them before, but they're so incriminating. Why would anyone do that?"

'How do I know! It was done -they were done. It's all here!'

'Did you call the police?

'Christ, no! It's not for the police! It's for us, for me! Can't you understand that...? What did you find out? Why are you talking like this?'

'Because I have to. In all the sessions, in all the months we talked we never said anything but the truth to each other because the truth is what you have to know. '

'Mo! For God's sake, it's Marie!'

'Please, David, let me finish. If they're lying – and they've lied before – I'll know it and I'll expose them. I couldn't do anything less. But I'm going to tell you exactly what they told me, what the number two man in the Far East Section made specifically clear, and what the chief of security for the State Department read to me as the events were officially logged. '

'Officially logged... ?'

'Yes. He said row called security-control a little over a week ago, and according to the log you were in a highly agitated state -•-'

'I called them?'

That's right, that's what he said. According to the logs, you claimed you had received threats; your speech was "incoherent" – that was the word they used – and you demanded additional security immediately. Because of the classified flag on your file, the request was bounced upstairs and the upper levels said, "Give him what he wants. Cool him. "'

'I can't believe this!'

'It's only the middle, David. Hear me out, because I'm listening to you. '

'Okay. Go on. '

That's it. Easy. Stay cool – no, strike that word "cool" . '

'Please do. '

'Once the patrols were in place – again according to the logs you called twice more complaining that your guards weren't doing their job. You said they were drinking in their cars in front of your house, that they laughed at you when they accompanied you on the campus, that they – and here I quote – "They're making a mockery of what they're supposed to be doing. " I underlined that phrase. '

'A "mockery"...?

'Easy, David. Here's the end of it, the end of the logs. You made a last call stating emphatically that you wanted everyone taken away – that your guards were your enemy, they were the men who wanted to kill you. In essence, you had transformed those who were trying to protect you into enemies who would attack you. '

'And I'm sure that fits snugly into one of those bullshit psychiatric conclusions that had me converting – or perverting – my anxieties into paranoia . '

'Very snugly,' said Panov. Too snugly. '

'What did the number two in Far East tell you?

Panov was silent for a moment . 'It's not what you want to hear, David, but he was adamant. They never heard of a banker or any influential taipan named Yao Ming. He said the way things were in Hong Kong these days, if there was such a person he'd have the dossier memorized. '

'Does he think I made it all up! The name, the wife, the drug connection, the places, the circumstances the British reaction! For Christ's sake, I couldn't invent those things!

'It'd be a stretch for you,' agreed the psychiatrist softly. 'Then everything I've just told you you're hearing for the first time and none of it makes sense? It's not the way you recall things?'

'Mo, it's all a lie! I never called State. McAllister came to the house and told us both everything I've told you, including the Yao Ming story! And now she's gone, and I've been given a lead to follow. Why? For Christ's sake, what are they doing to us?'

'I asked about McAllister,' said Panov, his tone suddenly angry. The Fast East deputy checked with State posting and called me back. They say McAllister flew into Hong Kong two weeks ago, that according to his very precise calendar he couldn't have been at your house in Maine. '

'He was here!'

'I think I believe you. '

'What does that mean?'

'Among other things, I can hear the truth in your voice, sometimes when you can't. Also that phrase "making a mockery" of something isn't generally in the vocabulary of a psychotic in a highly agitated state – certainly not in yours at your wildest . '

'I'm not with you. '

'Someone saw where you worked and what you did for a living and thought he'd add a little upgraded verbiage. Local colour, in your case. ' Then Panov exploded. 'My God, what are they doing?'

'Locking me into a starting gate,' said Webb softly. They're forcing me to go after whatever it is they want . '

'Sons of bitches!'

'It's called recruitment. ' David stared at the wall. 'Stay away. Mo, there's nothing you can do. They've got all their pieces in place. I'm recruited. ' He hung up.

Dazed, Webb walked out of his small office and stood in the Victorian hallway surveying the upturned furniture and the broken lamps, china and glass strewn across the floor of the living room beyond. Then words spoken by Panov earlier in the terrible conversation came to him: They're so incriminating. '

approached the front door and opened it. He forced himself to look at the hand print in the centre of the upper panel, the dried blood dull and dark in the light of the carriage lamps. Then he drew closer and examined it.

It was the imprint of a hand but not a handprint. There was the outline of a hand – the impression, the palm and the extended fingers – but no breaks in the bloody form, no creases or indentations that a bleeding hand pressed against hard wood would reveal, no identifying marks, no isolated parts of the flesh held in place so as to stamp its own particular characteristics. It was like a flat, coloured shadow from a piece of stained glass, no planes other than the single impression. A glove? A rubber glove?

David drew his eyes away and slowly turned to the staircase in the middle of the hallway, his thoughts haltingly centring on other words spoken by another man. A strange man with a mesmerizing voice.

Perhaps you should examine the note further.... It may all become clearer to you with help – psychiatric help.

Webb suddenly screamed, the terror within him growing as he ran to the staircase and raced up the steps to the bedroom, where he stared at the typewritten note on the bed. He picked it up with sickening fear and carried it to his wife's dressing table. He turned on the lamp and studied the print under the light.

If the heart within him could have burst, it would have blown apart. Instead, Jason Bourne coldly examined the note before him.

The slightly bent, irregular rs were there, as well as the ds, the upper staves incomplete, breaking off at the halfway mark.

Bastards!

The note had been written on his own typewriter. Recruitment.