Vienna
The center of any major city in the world, these days, is a forest of steel and glass molded into whatever shapes the designers deemed to be seemly. Sometimes they even tried to accommodate the centuries-old buildings that already occupied the city and incidentally symbolized a nation's cultural heritage.
Well, steel and glass was somewhat more sturdy than crumbling stone and wood, and some of these architecturally progressive constructs also contained safe holding places of reinforced metal and concrete, accessible only to authorized persons. Or non-authorized persons with the smarts and resources to crack the extensive security measures of a small, unobtrusive bank located on the Ringstrasse. Perhaps Jason Bourne had played such a role on previous missions, but today he was genuinely legitimate. (For a given value of legitimate.) He'd given his signature, fingerprint and voice print already, and knew the elevator was busy scanning his irises as sure as he knew the rich wood paneling was meant to project an air of quiet sophistication.
Eventually it slid to a smooth stop and the equally smooth door opened to let him out into a marble reception area and all the obsequious suits he would need for a month. One of the suits glided up to him, speaking in impeccable German, guiding Jason to a curtained booth where the "honored client would be able to peruse your safety deposit box in privacy. Would you like a complimentary glass of Perrier?"
"No, thanks."
"Very well, Mr. Müller. I'll be just a moment," the man said, bowing and withdrawing.
Jason opted not to relax in the comfortable-looking chair that was no doubt designed to conform precisely to honored clients' backsides, and leaned on the dark wood table, mind absently running over the terse instructions he'd received on his pager a scant half-hour ago. He'd been walking along the Ringstrasse, playing the innocent tourist and for once, being an actual tourist and not an agent on assignment, when his pocket had vibrated - "Activation effective now. Rome" and a contact number - and off he went in a taxi to the bank where he'd stashed his more sensitive possessions.
Jason heaved a sigh. Somehow, time always flew by when you were on vacation.
Rome
The contact, Nicky, was a pretty blonde woman with an intent manner. He knew vaguely she was assigned to him to monitor his health after all the mindfuck shit they'd put him through at Treadstone, and that she was the one who handed him all his assignments, but he'd really only seen her in a person a few times. Jason gave her an amiable leer as he'd done all the other times, and she amiably ignored it as she'd done all the other times, and the taxi took them in comfortable silence to the American embassy. As the car pulled up and disgorged its amiable passengers, he mused idly on the possible sniping locations on the surrounding buildings (plenty of them) and took note of the vulnerable windows on the second floor (also plenty). The puppetmasters must've been exceedingly nervous about the assignment to pick a location as obvious as that one to brief him in.
The suit who awaited him in one of the ubiquitous little rooms the embassy seemed to have an endless supply of wasn't anyone he'd seen before. Treadstone did an excellent job of keeping its operatives in the dark as much as possible even as it sent them on their way to kill, cripple, or maim into submission carefully picked targets whose incapacitations probably caused apocalyptic ripples on the international scale. Jason could've been picking off Elizabeth Taylor's husbands for all he knew or cared. Then again - Elizabeth Taylor's husbands were probably not worth the services of thirty million dollar agents with fucked-up heads and even more fucked-up skills. The five Treadstone brethren would have been legendary, if not for the fact that no one knew they existed.
Tax dollars at work in the best possible way. Jason mentally bared his teeth at the unsuspecting world.
"Mr. Bourne. I'm Sam Stone." The suit was a balding black man with a reedy voice. They pointedly did not shake hands. Mr. Bourne had a well-known hostility to his masters - all of them did, to varying degrees. Attack dogs are not bred for their ability to cuddle with the children.
A thin manila folder sliding across the table interrupted the restless operative's inner monologue. Sam Stone had settled back into his chair, carefully watching Jason - no doubt the man had heard plenty of stories about the fearsome products of one of the CIA's dirtiest, most secretive programs - as wiry, capable killer's hands casually flicked open the folder. Photos spilled out; sparse satellite images dated several months back and one fuzzy shot of a man wearing sunglasses snapped sitting in a café somewhere. The profile sheets were slightly more informative, but still pretty slim compared to other assignments. Normally the CIA spooks did their homework much better.
Stone spoke quietly. "His latest alias, near as we can figure, is Howard A. Leland. We tracked him to Rome where our man lost him, five days ago. Those," Stone pointed to the satellite images, "are surveys of Mr. Leland's known properties, owned through dummy companies and accomplices. We don't know if he's still affiliated with the properties. The number-crunchers are working on that."
"Where the hell is Aleph? He's your Rome operative."
"Mr. Aleph is chasing a target across Morocco at the moment."
The excruciatingly polite Misters were grating on Jason's nerves - Aleph and Bourne were just codenames, for Christ's sake. It didn't help that one of the headaches was quietly buzzing in the back of his skull again. He could ignore the pain, but they slowly ate away at any person's concentration, elite-level agent or not. "Where and when?"
Nicky spoke. "You have a room booked in the hotel where Leland was last seen. I'll take you there. After that, you're on your own."
"Backup?"
"You won't need it." Sam Stone this time.
"Like hell."
"Don't be so modest, Mr. Bourne."
The kicker was, Stone was right. Thirty million highly effective dollars at work. Jason knew it as sure as he knew part of his brain would always be continuously cataloguing attack and escape vectors wherever he was. Or automatically memorizing facial features. He glanced down at the fuzzy café photo, already familiar with the shape of the man's head, his hairstyle, and body type.
"Who am I this time?"
"Peter Kale." Nicky slid a false passport and papers across the table. "American businessman on a scouting trip. How's your Italian?"
"Magnifico, darling."