"David?" Pam's voice betrayed her concern. When there was no response from the man on the seat next to her, she pressed two fingers against the side of his neck, searching for a pulse. She let out the breath she'd been holding as the heart beat that met her exploring fingers was regular, steady. But his skin was damp and cold, and he continued to shiver. She pulled the blanket tighter about his torso.
"How is he doing?" Tom asked, totally aware that his boss was more than likely getting herself – and quite possibly him – into hot water for harboring this former Agency asset, now a fugitive.
"Unconscious, but breathing," Pam replied, her voice more in control. "He's cold, too cold."
Tom cranked the heat higher.
"Thanks, Tom," Landy acknowledged her co-worker's effort. They traveled in easy silence for a while.
"I'm still not so sure that taking him to your place is the best idea," Landy commented eventually.
"The best idea would be a hospital, Pam, and you know that," Tom chided, none too gently. "He's an assassin, a killer, for god's sake. He probably should be in custody somewhere." Cronin glanced at his boss in the rear view mirror. "How in the world did you know he'd be out there, on the road?"
Pam smiled. "You and I both saw the aftermath of the high speed pursuit in Moscow. That Bourne walked away from all that twisted metal is a testament to some special kind of physical stamina. He looked like shit when he rounded that corner on 71st. Like he'd been through the wringer. And I can't imagine his meeting with Doctor Hirsch was anything near easy, physically or mentally. Yet, when I heard Vosen's goons report that their target had jumped from the roof, I just had this feeling. That he'd survive."
"You've always had good instincts, Pam. So he's not just your run-of-the-mill paid assassin, is he?" Tom's question was more of a statement.
Landy thought for a moment. So far she had kept most of what she'd found out about Treadstone and Blackbriar to herself, not wanting to endanger any one else's career – or life, as it was obvious that those in control of the programs were not above eliminating threats to the programs, real or imagined. She chose her words carefully.
"I've spent much of the last couple days puzzling over those Treadstone files. Particularly Bourne's. Webb's now, I guess," Pam felt Webb stir next to her at the mention of his name. Good, she thought, he's coming to, warming up a bit.
"I'm just not sure how much to divulge," she explained. "Call it 'plausible deniability.' What you don't know can't be held against you. I am probably already in deep shit for accepting those top secret documents from Bourne – Webb. If I go down, I don't want to drag you with me, Tom."
"I'm already there, Pam, just by being here behind the wheel," Tom informed her, and she knew he was right. "Tell me what you know, and even what you suspect," he urged. "It will be better if we're both on the same page."
Landy considered Tom's words. She sighed. "It goes back a number of years, back before Abbott and Conklin – who, I believe, were manipulating the Treadstone program for their own benefits. When Abbott told me about Treadstone being black-on-black, I wasn't sure how serious to take him. He said it was a kill squad. It was. And the men trained to be agents of this squad were subjected to training methods that I can only imagine – more like torture."
"Experimental stuff," Tom guessed. Pam smiled. She couldn't keep much from her second-in-command. Tom was sharp and probably had a pretty good idea of what was in the Treadstone files.
"I believe so," she agreed. "It was a lot of psychological manipulation. Breaking the mind, making it re-trainable, easier to control and command," Pam shivered involuntarily at the thoughts. "Hirsch seems to be the mastermind, the psychologist. Devised and refined techniques used years ago, during the cold war. It looks like Treadstone sought young men with few if any ties to family. With some, they pushed the patriot button, others I'm not sure. But they found willing subjects with the right combination of physical and mental attributes, got them to volunteer, and, once in the program, were able to mold them into these killing machines," she paused, letting Tom absorb her comments. "Webb here seems to have been the first success. There may have been a few others before him who didn't 'work out.' They met with strange fates."
Tom shook his head. He understood Pam's implications.
"Webb became operational as Jason Bourne in the late 1990s. Alexander Conklin was one of his handlers. Together they eliminated targets suspected of plotting against US interests. Occasionally these 'US interests' were fuzzy, and I am sure that certain personal objectives colored the decision process. There were ops that looked like they were sanctioned, and I get the feeling there were some that weren't. The Neski murders weren't. Abbott was up to his eyeballs in that mess, accepting money from the Russian Gretkov for the oil leases, calling on Treadstone to provide an assassin to take out Neski." Pam had to swallow hard against the anger that rose in her throat as she thought of the innocent lives lost as a result of that op. She took a deep breath and continued, "Bourne was working on the assassination of Nykwana Wombosi several years back. I believe that may also have been unsanctioned. Something happened during that op. Jason Bourne suffered some sort of trauma induced amnesia. Something upset the training and I think Jason Bourne began to remember who he was."
"So you think maybe Webb is overcoming all that training? That he is no longer Jason Bourne, no longer a killer?"
"I'm not sure what he is, Tom. He may have entered the Treadstone program of his own free will, but I think that free will was stripped away. I, in good conscience, cannot condone that kind of 'training.' Call me crazy, but I think he deserves a chance to discover who he is and what was done to him, don't you?"
Tom shrugged. "I don't know what you hope to gain from this."
Next to her, Webb stirred again, shifted his position. Pam rearranged the blanket around the man and he settled back quietly. "I'd like to make sure he has a fighting chance," she continued. "To find out what happened. To allow him to come to terms with some of the things he did – and those things that were done to him." Pam shivered again as she tried to put the thoughts of some of the more vicious Treadstone treatments out of her mind. "I don't think he'd get that if he were forced to return to the Agency. He doesn't strike me as the kind who would cooperate and allow himself to be examined under a microscope. His life was taken from him, regardless of the volunteer status." She put a hand on Tom's shoulder. "I don't think either one of us signed up to deal with people, friend or foe, in this manner. And I think we'll be able to find out what went wrong if we don't force or threaten him. So…" she paused, knowing full well that her actions could easily be used against her, that she could be summarily drummed out of the Agency for good, taking Tom Cronin with her. No one liked a whistle blower. She changed the subject. "Are you going to call Shelly and warn her?"
"I was thinking about it," Tom let the subject drop for the moment, "but I'm leery. I don't know what is being monitored and what isn't. I don't want any surprises waiting for us when we get there."
"It's not too late to turn back and go to my place," Pam pointed out. "I faxed Vosen's documents to the chair of the Senate oversight committee. And once she reads those, I don't think we'll have to worry about anyone on our tails. They'll all be too busy trying to cover their own." She chuckled grimly.
"To be on the safe side, we'll operate as usual – with extreme caution," Tom replied.
"Agreed. I expect nothing less"
"I hope that this doesn't backfire on you Pam," Tom continued, his voice low. "But you know that you can always count on me to be there."
Landy smiled. She'd picked a definite winner for a right hand man. Tom Cronin would always watch her back as long as he was breathing and able.
"Here we are." Tom turned the wheel, maneuvering the vehicle into an ally that ran behind the brownstone he shared with Michelle – Shelly – his wife of nearly 20 years. He shut off the lights and slowed to a stop.
Nothing was working like it should. He existed in darkness, hearing only bits and pieces of the conversation that surrounded him. Words and names caught his attention, words and names that now had meaning. Treadstone. Training. Volunteer. Hirsch. Conklin. He tried to focus on these words, but his mind wandered. Memories crowded his mind, memories that were part of the life of Jason Bourne and memories that were part of the life of one David Webb. There were so many that vied for his attention it almost hurt. Pushing them away, he again tried to focus on the voice speaking beside him. He knew the voice – it belonged to Pamela Landy. She was Agency. She had been in Berlin looking for files that had started the whole mess in which he now found himself. She was talking about Treadstone, and she had a lot of the details right.
The car stopped, the door opened, he tried to move – and was rewarded with screaming pain from his right side. It took his breath away, dragged a groan from his throat. Had he struck something when he dove off the roof? He couldn't remember. He was cold, he was tired. Every fiber of his being hurt. He was no longer Jason Bourne, but, like Jason Bourne in Moscow not so very long ago, he knew he had to keep moving.