Author's Note: This is a continuation of my story Mykonos to Goa.
I didn't invent and don't own these characters or storylines. All was written for hobby purposes.
I didn't write these to fill in blanks credibly or because I thought I could improve upon the exceptional story creation skills of the filmmakers or of Robert Ludlum, who is also an influence. This is an effort out of my own particular passion for, and interest in, Jason Bourne/David Webb, and his struggle to become whole. In addition, I want to solve problems, and resolve plotlines that I opened up in my prequel. And I even add new characters and conflicts along the way; I think I may be into Alternate Universe here… Anyway, I hope you find something to enjoy about it. I welcome your respectful reviews.
He was no longer Jason Bourne. He was David Webb, and he was one messed up unit. Holed up in a basement apartment in Brooklyn, tending his own wounds, he pondered how to become himself. He had read his file; he had the basic information. Knowing what to do with it all, that was a different story.
He was glad he had a good supply of pharma; the bullet crease along his ribs was superficial, but bathing in the East River with an open wound is never a good idea. It was giving him more trouble than the two in his back ever had. Saltwater was much better therapy than the effluent running alongside Manhattan. The shoulder wound was a constant irritation. Surgery was probably indicated at the time of trauma. The rest was mostly soft-tissue damage. He had felt like hell first thing in the morning ever since Moscow; his escape from SRD just iced the cake. The river felt as hard as rock upon impact two days before, and it beat him up just as effectively. He needed a double dose of Vicodan just to jumpstart his day. The pills soothed his achy left shoulder, the knee, his bruises. They had never worked on the headache—he had tried everything over the years—but that hadn't visited him since his off-season swim in the East River.
The pills would kick in, smoothing the way to his shower and oral hygiene routine. Next was coffee; sometimes at home, sometimes out. If out, newspapers, always. It had been wall-to-wall Landy, Vosen, Kramer, but beyond the initial report, David Webb, AKA Jason Bourne, was not mentioned. Interesting. Vosen and Kramer were going down. Landy seemed to be faring well, her whistle-blower status ensuring her continued safety and job security. The Company had released a statement that David Webb was not considered a security threat. Nice try, he thought. There was no way he was going in, even if he didn't have pressing business in India. At least the photo they had released was a good ten years old.
Three weeks before his dive off the roof of SRD, still ensconced in his Vienna flop, his knee almost healed and his shoulder reasonably so, he had made up his mind: his next mission would be to go back for Drächen. She was the one person to whom he could still make a difference. He wanted to know who he was first, though, wanted to give her a father who was a whole person. To start out with, he just had to lie low a little longer, give his body time to recuperate. The shoulder wound and leg injuries made him too vulnerable to keep her safe.
He used the time to research. The Patriot Act, rendition, ECHELON signals intelligence; things had changed a lot since he dropped out with Marie. He had read articles in the foreign press alluding to it all, but now that he had time to really dig, what he found out changed the game considerably. He had always had access to similar tools—or his handlers had—but it could take weeks, sometimes months, to put them in place. Now, state-of-the-art surveillance on individuals would swing into action without a court order. He had to assume that these tools were in place against him at all times.
Christmas disrupted his asynchronous routine; everything was closed. He looked forward to the 26th, when he could eat out again and get his papers without exact change. He was up extra early that day, decided on coffee out. On a lark, he put on his running shoes and tried a slow three miles through the snowy Viennese streets, to see how it felt. Conclusion: not good. At the coffee shop, he ordered a cup, telling the cashier to add the papers to his total. Heading for a table, he glanced at the headlines: TSUNAMI KATASTROPHE. He dropped down into the first chair in front of him, consuming the papers whole, coffee cooling and forgotten on the table.
For the first time since Basic Training, he proceeded without a fully developed plan; no contingencies in place. His objective was simply to tie up what loose ends he could and then reach his daughter as soon as possible. It would take him about two weeks to amass everything he needed, he figured. Twelve days later, he was in Paris, breaking into Marie's brother's apartment.
He wished that Martin hadn't asked, "How did she die"? Regretted Martin knowing the horror of Marie's final moments, all implied in his answer, "She was shot". At least Martin didn't have to live with the image of Marie's bewildered face as the bullet tore into her neck, its force driving her body forward out of the driver's seat until the belt tensioner caught and reeled her back in. Her dark eyes, spark already fading, acknowledging in a split second how right he had been, her beautiful mouth open, tremulous, in an attitude of terror.
He didn't talk about his efforts to save her, didn't share his own grief with Martin, sensing it would only activate the other man's contempt. He left as quickly as he could. Hoped he would be back sometime to introduce the devastated young man to his niece.
London, Madrid, Tangier, New York. A return to the madness of his former life. A return to having the weight of another's safety on his shoulders, and to killing in order to guarantee that safety. With Simon Ross, he failed. With Nicky, he did not. He delivered Nicky with her life and that was all that he could do. The past was the past, and he still couldn't remember her prior to his final night in Paris. All he saw in his future was Drächen.
So it was that, two days after he crawled out of the East River, David Webb boarded a flight, JFK to Hyderabad. The picture from Jason Bourne's passport had been plastered, however briefly, on every media outlet in New York, probably on the planet. Aside from his regular precautions, though, he didn't do anything special. Traveling on a newly minted Canadian passport, freelance journalist credentials tucked inside, on a standing-room-only flight jammed with aid workers and reporters, no one gave him a second glance.
The twenty-six hour flight to India was a piece of cake compared to the two and a half days it took him to get to Kalipatnam. Ignoring the screaming protest of every muscle in his body, consuming a dose of Vicoprofen every six hours, he rode a motorbike as far as he could go on the muddy road, then went by foot the rest of the way. As he approached the coast, the countryside was unrecognizable. David was grateful. His memories of India were suffused with Marie; familiar landscapes would have made it impossible to avoid thinking about how much she wanted to be back on this road with him, anticipating a reunion with their child.
When he arrived at Kalipatnam, he went straight to the highest ground to look around. There were no sightlines, however, as a tent village had sprung up there to house people displaced by the tsunami. Making some inquiries, he learned that the orphanage had been hard hit; whole walls swept away. The children all ran away, no, some had been lost... No two sources told the same story.