The Bourne Supremacy

He sat down at the desk and tried to focus his thoughts. There was the ever-present spiral notebook from the College Shop in front of him. He opened the thick cover to the first lined page and reached for a pencil... He could not pick it up! His hand shook so much that his whole body trembled. He held his breath and made a fist, clenching it until his fingernails cut into his flesh. He closed his eyes, then opened them, forcing his hand to return to the pencil, commanding it to do its job. Slowly, awkwardly, his fingers gripped the thin, yellow shaft and moved the pencil into position. The words were barely legible, but they were there.

The university phone president and dean of studies. Family crisis, not Canada can he traced. Invent a brother in Europe, perhaps. Yes, Europe. Leave of absence brief leave of absence. Right away. Will stay in touch.

House call rental agent, same story. Ask Jack to check periodically. He has key. Turn thermostat to 60°.

Mail – fill out form at Post Office. Hold all mail.

Newspapers – cancel.

The little things, the goddamned little things – the unimportant daily trivia became so terribly important and had to be taken care of so that there would be no sign whatsoever of an abrupt departure without a pla

Stop it! Control yourself. You are capable, you must be capable. You have no choice, so be what you once were. Feel ice. Be ice.

Without warning, the shell he was building around himself was shattered by the ear-splitting sound of the telephone inches from his hand on the desk. He looked at it, swallowing, wondering if he were capable of sounding remotely normal. It rang again, a terrible insistence in its ring. You have no choice.

He picked it up, gripping the receiver with such force that his knuckles turned white. He managed to get out the single word. 'Yes? ,

This is the mobile-air operator, satellite transmission-'

'Who? What did you say?"

'I have a mid-flight radio call for a Mr. Webb. Are you Mr. Webb, sir?'

'Yes. '

And then the world he knew blew up in a thousand jagged mirrors, each an image of screaming torment.

'David!'

'Marie?'

'Don't panic, darling! Do you hear me, don't panic!' Her voice came through the static; she was trying not to shout but could not help herself.

'Are you all right? The note said you were hurt – wounded!'

'I'm all right. A few scratches, that's all. '

'Where are you?

'Over the ocean, I'm sure they'll tell you that much. I don't know; I was sedated.'

'Oh, Jesus! I can't stand it! They took you away!'

'Pull yourself together, David. I know what this is doing to you, but they don't. Do you understand what I'm saying? They don't!'

She was sending him a coded message; it was not hard to decipher. He had to be the man he hated. He had to be Jason Bourne, and the assassin was alive and well and residing in the body of David Webb.

'All right. Yes, all right. I've been going out of my mind!'

'Your voice is being amplified-'

'Naturally. '

They're letting me speak to you so you'll know I'm alive. '

'Have they hurt you?"

'Not intentionally. '

'What the hell are "scratches"?

'I struggled. I fought. And I was brought up on a ranch. '

'Oh, my God-"

'David, please! Don't let them do this to you!'

To me? It's you!'

'I know, darling. I think they're testing you, can you understand that?'

Again the message. Be Jason Bourne for both their sakes, for both their lives. 'All right. Yes, all right. ' He lessened the intensity of his voice, trying to control himself. 'When did it happen?' he asked.

This morning, about an hour after you left . '

This morning"? Christ, all day! How?'

They came to the door. Two men-'

'Who?'

'I'm permitted to say they're from the Far East. Actually, I don't know any more than that. They asked me to accompany them and I refused. I ran into the kitchen and saw a knife. I stabbed one of them in the hand. '

The handprint on the door.. . '

'I don't understand. '

'It doesn't matter. '

"A man wants to talk to you, David. Listen to him, but not in anger not in a rage – can you understand that?

'All right Yes, all right. I understand. '

The man's voice came on the line. It was hesitant but precise, almost British in its delivery, someone who had been taught English by an Englishman, or by someone who had lived in the UK. Nevertheless, it was identifiably Oriental; the accent was southern China, the pitch, the short vowels and sharp consonants sounding of Cantonese.

'We do not care to harm your wife, Mr. Webb but if it is necessary, it will be unavoidable. '

'I wouldn't, if I were you,' said David coldly.

'Jason Bourne speaks?'

'He speaks. '

The acknowledgement is the first step in our understanding. '

'What understanding?

'You took something of great value from a man. '

'You've taken something of great value from me. '

'She is alive. '

'She'd better stay that way. '

'Another is dead. You killed her. '

'Are you sure about that?' Bourne would not agree readily unless it served his purpose to do so.

'We are very sure. '

'What's your proof?'

'You were seen. A tall man who stayed in the shadows and raced through the hotel corridors and across fire escapes with the movements of a mountain cat. '

'Then I wasn't really seen, was I? Nor could I have been. I was thousands of miles away. ' Bourne would always give himself an option.

'In these times of fast aircraft, what is distance?' The Oriental paused, then added sharply. 'You cancelled your duties for a period of five days two and a half weeks ago. '

'And if I told you I attended a symposium on the Sung and Yuan dynasties down in Boston – which was very much in line with my duties-'

'I am startled,' interrupted the man courteously, 'that Jason Bourne would employ such a lamentably feeble excuse. '

He had not wanted to go to Boston. That symposium was light years away from his lectures, but he had been officially asked to attend. The request came from Washington, from the Cultural Exchange Program and filtered through the university's Department of Oriental Studies. Christ! Every pawn was in place! 'Excuse for what?'

'For being where he was not. Large crowds mingling among the exhibits, certain people paid to swear you were there. '

That's ridiculous, not to say patently amateurish. I don't pay. '

' You were paid. '

'I was? How?

Through the same bank you used before. In Zurich. The Gemeinschaft in Zurich – on the Bahnhofstrasse, of course. '

'Odd I haven't received a statement,' said David, listening carefully.

'When you were Jason Bourne in Europe, you never needed one, for yours was a three-zero account – the most secret, which is very secret indeed in Switzerland. However, we found a draft-transfer made out to the Gemeinschaft among the papers of a man – a dead man, of course. '