The Bourne Supremacy

'It simply means a disruption in the scenario, a break in the pattern. '

'I know what it means, but how about using it here literally. Not breakaway, but "broke away". They're calling me pathological, a schizophrenic – that means I fantasize: I sometimes tell the truth and sometimes not, and I'm not supposed to be able to tell the difference. '

'It's what they're saying,' agreed Conklin. 'Some of them may even believe it. So?'

'Why don't we take this way up, really out of sight? We'll say that Marie broke away. She reached me and I'm on my way to meet her. '

Alex frowned, then gradually widened his eyes, the creases disappearing. 'It's perfect,' he said quietly. 'My God, it's perfect. ' The confusion will spread like a brushfire. In any operation this deep only two or three men know all the details. The others are kept in the dark. Jesus, can you imagine? An officially sanctioned kidnapping! A few at the core might actually panic and collide with each other trying to save their asses. Very good, 'Mr. Bourne. '

Oddly enough, Webb did not resent the name, he merely accepted it without thinking. 'Listen,' he said, getting to his feet . 'We're both exhausted. We know where we're heading so let's get a couple of hours' sleep and go over everything in the morning. You and I learned years ago the difference between a scratch of sleep and none at all. '

'Are you going back to the hotel?' asked Conklin.

'No way,' replied David, looking down at the pale, drawn face of the CIA man. 'Just get me a blanket. I'm staying right here in front of the bar. '

'You also should have learned when not to worry about some things,' said Alex, rising from the couch and limping towards a closet near the small foyer. 'If this is going to be my last hurrah – one way or the other – I'll give it my best. It might even sort things out for me. ' Conklin turned, having taken a blanket and a pillow from the closet shelf. 'I guess you could call it some kind of weird precognition, but do you know what I did last night after work?'

'Sure, I do. Among other clues there's a broken glass on the floor. '

'No, I mean before that . '

'What?

'I stopped off at the supermarket and bought a ton of food. Steak, eggs, milk – even that glue they call oatmeal. I mean, I never do that . '

'You were ready for a ton of food. It happens. '

'When it does I go to a restaurant . '

'What's your point?

'You sleep; the couch is big enough. I'm going to eat. I want to think some more. I'm going to cook a steak, maybe some eggs, too. '

'You need sleep. '

'Two, two and a half hours'll be fine. Then I'll probably have some of that goddamned oatmeal. '

Alexander Conklin walked down the corridor of the State Department's 4th floor, his limp lessened through sheer determination, the pain more so because of it. He knew what was happening to him: There was a job facing him that he wanted very much to do well – even brilliantly, if that term had any relevance for him any longer. Alex realized that months of abusing the blood and the body could not be overcome in a matter of hours, but something within him could be summoned. It was a sense of authority, laced with righteous anger. Jesus, the irony! A year ago he had wanted to destroy the man they called Jason Bourne; now it was a sudden, growing obsession to help David Webb – because he had wrongfully tried to kill Jason Bourne. It could place him beyond salvage, he understood that, but it was right that the risk was his. Perhaps conscience did not always produce cowards. Sometimes it made a man feel better about himself.

And look better, he considered. He had forced himself to walk many more blocks than he should have, letting the cold autumn wind in the streets bring a colour to his face that had not been there in years. Combined with a clean shave and a pressed pinstripe suit he had not worn in months, he bore little resemblance to the man Webb found last night. The rest was performance, he knew that, too, as he approached the sacrosanct double doors of the State Department's Chief of Internal Security.

Little time was spent on formalities, even less on informal conversation. At Conklin's request – read Agency demand -an aide left the room, and he faced the rugged former brigadier general from the Army's G-2 who now headed State's Internal Security. Alex intended to take command with his first words.

'I'm not here on an inter-agency diplomatic mission,

General – it is General, isn't it?

'I'm still called that, yes. '

'So I don't give a damn about being diplomatic, do you understand me?

'I'm begi

'That,' said Conklin, 'is the least of my concerns. What does concern me, however, is a man named David Webb . '

'What about him?

'Him? The fact that you recognize the name so readily isn't very reassuring. What's going on, General?'

'Do you want a megaphone, spook? said the ex-soldier curtly.

'I want answers, Corporal – that's what you and this office are to us. '

'Back off, Conklin! When you called me with your so-called emergency and switchboard verification, I did a little verifying myself. That big reputation of yours is a little wobbly these days, and I use the term on good advice. You're a lush, spook, and no secret's been made about it. So you've got less than a minute to say what you want to say before I throw you out. Take your choice – the elevator or the window. '

Alex had calculated the probability that his drinking would be telegraphed. He stared at the Chief of Internal Security and spoke evenly, even sympathetically. 'General, I'll answer that accusation with one sentence, and if it ever reaches anyone else, I'll know where it came from and so will the Agency. ' Conklin paused, his eyes clear and penetrating. 'Our profiles are often what we want them to be for reasons we can't talk about. I'm sure you understand what I mean. '

The State Department man received Alex's gaze with a reluctantly sympathetic one of his own. 'Oh, Christ, ' I he said softly. 'We used to give dishonourables to men we were sending out in Berlin. '

'Often at our suggestion,' agreed Conklin, nodding. 'And it's all we'll say on the subject . '

'Okay, okay. I was out of line, but I can tell you the profile's working. I was told by one of your deputy directors that I'd pass out at your breath with you halfway across the room. '

'I don't even want to know who he is, General, because I might laugh in his face. As it happens, I don't drink. ' Alex had a childhood compulsion to cross his fingers somewhere out of sight, or his legs, or his toes, but no method came to him. 'Let's get back to David Webb,' he added sharply, no quarter in his voice.

'What's your beef?'

'My beef! My goddamned life, soldier. Something's going on and I want to know what it is! That son of a bitch broke into my apartment last night and threatened to kill me. He made some pretty wild accusations naming men on your payroll like Harry Babcock, Samuel Teasdale and William Lanier. We checked; they're in your covert division and still practising. What the hell did they do? One made it plain you'd send out an execution team after him! What kind of language is that? Another told him to go back to a hospital – he's been in two hospitals and our combined, very private clinic in Virginia – we all put him there, and he's got a clean bill! He's also got some secrets in his head none of us wants out. But that man is ready to explode because of something you idiots did, or let happen, or closed your fucking eyes to! He claims to have proof that you walked back into his life and turned it around, that you set him up and took a hell of a lot more than a pound of flesh!'

'What proof?' asked the stu

'He spoke to his wife,' said Conklin in a sudden monotone.