The Bourne Interlude

Chapter 3: Redemption

Brussels, Belgium

Even as he made his way down the stairs of the Brussels-Central railway station, to one of the underground tunnels that housed the Metro rail-lines, Neal Daniels was still having doubts about the course of action upon which he was about to embark. He was venturing into unknown and dangerous territory. Which ordinarily wouldn't have perturbed him unduly; he was after all no stranger to the unknown and the dangerous. But this time, it was different; this time, he did not have the support and might of the CIA backing him. On the contrary, what he was about to do would be considered as treason by some very powerful elements within that very organisation. The decision to commit treason was not an easy one to make for any operative who had loyally served the Agency for decades, but Daniels, after much contemplation, had decided that he would much rather commit treason against the Agency than against his conscience.

It had all started nearly a week ago, when news of Ward Abbott's sudden suicide, and the circumstances surrounding it leaked out from the higher echelons of the Agency top brass. Daniels would ordinarily have not known the whole truth, but in view of his not-inconsequential position, and especially in view of the program he was a part of, he had access to classified information, by hook or by crook, which barely a dozen or so people apart from him had. And he'd learnt the whole story. And what he'd learnt shocked him. Absolutely and completely shocked him.

The fact that Ward Abbott had stolen twenty million dollars in CIA seed money to finance the beginning of the oil empire of the Russian industrialist Yuri Gretkov was bad enough. Worse still was the fact that Abbott had been involved in murder; had in fact used a Treadstone operative to eliminate a Russian MP who possessed incriminating evidence against him. Daniels was even more shocked to discover that the operative in question was none other than Jason Bourne.

If things had already gone bad, they were about to get worse. For Daniels was soon to discover that the river of violence and death did not end at that. For Abbott and Gretkov had, barely two months ago, arranged for the double murder in Berlin as a further cover-up for their crime and had then sent their assassin to India to kill Jason Bourne. The assassin however killed Bourne's girlfriend, Marie Helena Kreutz instead, setting Bourne down on a path of revenge which culminated in the rogue operative confronting Abbott, taping his confession, and driving him to suicide.

Daniels was deeply shaken by the revelations about Abbott, a man whom he greatly respected and whom he had even considered virtually a mentor. It was Abbott who had brought him into Treadstone, Abbott who had taken a disgruntled and bored semi-retired field man turned desk jockey, and made him part of this blackest of clandestine operations. Abbott had realised the value of Daniel's numerous connections within the international intelligence community, and within the US military forces; the latter which was especially a rare asset in a CIA officer. Daniels had no illusions about what Abbott wanted from him; Treadstone needed recruits, battle-hardened men dedicated to the service of their country, willing to take that extra step to save American lives which their peers would be reluctant to take; and both Abbott, as well as Dr. Albert Hirsch, the chief medical officer in charge of the program, had agreed that the armed forces were the best sources for potential candidates. This was particularly the reason why Daniels had been even more shaken (if it was indeed possible for him to be shaken even more by that point) by the involvement of Jason Bourne in these events.

Ever since he had turned rogue in Paris three years ago, Neal Daniels had always, deep down inside, felt responsible for all the damage that had been done to the Agency, particularly since he was responsible for the creation of Jason Bourne. Daniels had been the one to recruit him, to supervise his training and indoctrination. He had witnessed the precise moment when Bourne had completed the transition from the man he was to the man they wanted him to be. He had never personally met Bourne since then, although he did occasionally receive reports of Bourne's activities. At the time, his interest in those reports was purely academic, if not professional. But now, the information he had gleaned from them would be useful to him in another entirely different manner...

For what seemed like the thirtieth time that day, since he'd set out that morning from his apartment in Madrid, Daniels paused for a moment and studied his surroundings, and the mass of people around him, looking for any signs; other figures in the crowd pausing where he did, looking in the same direction in him, or maybe two or more people fanning out in opposite directions to surround him, anything that would suggest he had picked up a tail. Nothing. Daniels however, wasn't entirely reassured by this. True, he had once been a field man, but that was over fifteen years ago. Besides, all the experience he'd gained back then was nothing compared to the kind of experience and training the men who might be following had...for he had been trained merely to observe and to inform and as a possible last resort, to defend...they on the other hand were trained to infiltrate and to kill!

Killers. That's what they were ultimately, when all the technical jargon was flushed down the drain. No better or no worse than Mafia hit-men, or Al-Qaeda bombers when it came down to brass tacks. It was true that they killed in the name of 'saving American lives', something which Daniels had strongly believed in for years. But now, after the recent revelations of Abbott's treason, Daniels had seriously begun to question, Did the deaths of Vladimir Neski and Marie Helena Kreutz help 'save' American lives? Did any of the murders he'd help orchestrate over the years in any way benefit the man on the street in whose name they had been committed?

The answer, in almost every case he could think of, was the same.

No.

Which was why he'd made his decision. He could no longer carry on dealing with devils. He could no longer play games with his conscience and with the lives of countless innocent men and women across the globes. He could no longer remain part of this 'nexus of evil', at least not without trying to make a difference, if not anything else.

He finally noticed the entrance to the small cafe on the station platform. He first made two circuits, up and down the platform, for the benefit of any possible tails that might yet be on to him. When he was reasonably satisfied of his security, he made his way slowly and cautiously towards the entrance. As he entered, he mentally re-read the dossier he'd compiled on Simon Ross.

Simon Ross, aged thirty-five, was a well-known reporter for The Guardian based in London. In his capacity as the Security Correspondent of the paper, he had garnered considerable fame (and a fair share of notoriety as well) over what many regarded as his excessively sensationalist stories regarding international terrorism, crime and military and intelligence controversies. Daniels however, by virtue of his position in the intelligence sector, happened to know what the public could only guess or speculate about; that there was more often than not an element of truth in Ross's stories and that in many cases, governments or intelligence services had been compelled to act upon the 'evidence' he presented in his editorials. Daniels knew that Ross would jump at the idea of doing a series of articles on the less than ethical activities of a clandestine American intelligence program.

He found Ross seated at a small table for two at the back of the cafe, just as he'd been instructed to in the e-mail he'd been sent. Daniels sat down opposite him, but then titled his chair slightly, such that he had a clear view out of the corner of his eye of the entrance. His right hand sneaked to his left shoulder momentarily, where he felt the reassuring presence of the Sig Sauer holstered beneath his jacket. Finally, he took a deep breath and looked at Ross.

The two men sat in silence for a few minutes. Neither of them exchanged greetings nor names, though each knew who and what the other was. What an irony this was, Daniels thought. All those years in the Agency, he'd considered the press to be one of his greatest opponents. After all, spies lived in a world of lies and political intrigue while the press sought to reveal the truth and destroy that dark, secret world of intrigue. And now, a reporter was possibly the last means he had at his disposal for salvaging his soul!

It was Ross who spoke first. "Well, what have you got for me, Mr. Daniels?" the reporter asked in what Daniels assumed was his usual brisk manner.

Daniels nervously glanced around the cafe once more, looking for any suspicious signs. When he didn't find any, he focused his attention back on Ross and replied, "Have you heard of a man called Jason Bourne?"

"Yes, I have, actually", Ross replied. "Just a little over a week ago in fact...Berlin, wasn't it? He was wanted for a double murder by the Berlin police who were working in cooperation with a CIA task force, I seem to remember".

"That's true", Daniels agreed. "But do you know who he is? Where he came from? Or more to the point, what he was?"

At this point, they were interrupted by a waiter. Daniels hand instinctively reached for his gun, but he stopped himself just in time. The waiter took their orders for refreshments and then left. Daniels relaxed.

Ross seemed to have noticed the older man's sudden movement, for he remarked casually, "You've got a gun, haven't you?"

"Yes", Daniels admitted, albeit reluctantly. "However, it need not be any concern of yours. It's for my protection, and frankly, even for yours".

"Mine?!" Ross exclaimed, with both interest and mild concern mixed in his face.

"It's because of who Jason Bourne is and the people he worked for. The people who created him. Now, do you want to know more?" Daniels said.

Ross's interest was clearly piqued now. "All right. Please continue. Who is Jason Bourne?"

Daniels took a deep breath, as though he were a witness about to testify in court, and began, "Jason Bourne is, or rather was, a highly-accomplished assassin employed by the US Government".

"The US-?!" Ross exclaimed again, absolutely flabbergasted.

"Yes", Daniels said. "Tell me", he added, "Have you heard about a CIA black ops program codenamed Treadstone?"

"Never", Ross said.

"Well, you're about to hear about it now. The whole story. Classified information most governments would die for. And it's all yours, provided you agree to reveal it to the world through that estimable newspaper of yours. So tell me, are you game?" Daniels asked again.

"Absolutely", Ross said eagerly.

And so Daniel began to speak. He spoke about Treadstone and Jason Bourne, about unsanctioned assassinations and a legion of highly-trained killers, of brainwashing and indoctrination and much, much more. He spoke for nearly an hour, while Ross hurriedly took down notes. The mere sight of Ross's pencil incessantly scratching on the paper itself provided Daniels with a reassuring feeling that he had finally taken the first steps down the path to redemption.

Only one minor incident interrupted the proceedings. As Daniels has been talking, he had noticed, out of the corner of his eye, a tall dark haired man dressed in a blue suit enter the cafe. Instantly Daniels had tensed, and his hands started trembling nervously. However, when he seemed to have assured himself a few minutes later that the man wasn't showing even the slightest interest in either of them, he relaxed again, slightly. Ross, who noticed all this with slight curiosity, asked, "You seem to be afraid of something. What is it?"

And Daniels had looked at him and replied in an almost melancholic tone, "You may think I'm being paranoid, but believe me, the people we're up against could arrange for both of us to be shot dead right here and right now, and make it look like a common burglary attempt gone wrong".

And with this pronouncement, he fancied that Ross had become a tad more sombre in his questioning...