Conflict of Legends
Chapter 2: Graveside Conversation
Jason Bourne stood staring at the tombstone. He was standing in a cemetery on the outskirts of Hanover, in Germany, but his mind was in the past.
"Jason, don't do this! I don't want you to do this!" she had pleaded.
"Marie, I told them what would happen if they didn't leave us alone", he had argued.
"It's never going to be over like this", she had insisted.
"We don't have a choice", he countered.
"Yes you do"
It was the last thing she ever said. To him or to anyone else, before a bullet penetrated her skull and ended her life. That he had a choice.
But she was wrong. He didn't have a choice. Not then, anyway. He had a choice later, and he took it. He made a decision when he spared the life of Albert Hirsch in a room in a building in New York City, just as he had made a decision years before that, in that very room; only this time, he knew, or at least hoped, that is the right decision.
He had chosen to abandon the manipulators and masterminds behind Blackbriar to the American justice system, and hoped that it would be fair. There were reasonable men and women in Washington, honest, ethical people who would not stand for the atrocities Hirsch and his colleagues had committed in the name of America's security. Or at least he hoped there were. The news of the Blackbriar scandal had, in any case, spread far and wide. He kept track of the news, keeping tabs on the latest developments, which constantly staying on the move. He was officially declared missing, presumed dead, but he was certain that the CIA knew better and that even now, there were those still loyal to the cause of Blackbriar who would be looking for him. And hence, he continued to run. From the US to Canada, then back to the US again, and then South America, the Middle East and finally, when he felt sufficient time had passed, Europe. It was easy. He still had plenty of money left over from the stash he'd found years ago in Zurich, and he had also rediscovered additional sources of funds. He remembered other accounts he's set up in various cities, accounts which Conklin and Abbott knew nothing about and hence which would still be accessible. Accounts in Munich, Amsterdam and Rome, filled with money secretly and steadily siphoned off the quarterly Treadstone allocations. He didn't remember why he did it. Had he been planning, even then, to disappear, to quit the dark profession he had chosen? Or were they merely back-ups in case he was ever deemed useless to the Agency? He didn't know and he didn't care. He accessed the accounts and took the money. With the money, other requirements were easily fulfilled, namely refuge, transportation, weapons and false papers.
He had decided to come here to Hanover, to Marie's birthplace and her final resting place. He somehow felt he had to. He was unable to attend her funeral; it would have been too risky, but he thought it was safe enough to make a quick trip now.
He still felt guilty for her death. Guilty for all she'd been through since that fateful day she'd met him. It was not that she'd had no choice…he had given her the option to fade away, to disappear with his money…and then, when he found her, to see if she was alright, she insisted he stay with her. For love? Protection? He didn't know at the time. Presumably both.
For a little over two years they had lived together secretly, traveling around the world. They lived in Mykonos first, and then Vienna, then Amsterdam, Barcelona, St. Petersburg, and moving east to Beirut, Baghdad, a brief stay in Kabul cut short by violence, and finally Goa, India. They stayed there the longest. She was happy there. For the first time, she felt safe and secure. And so did he. Until he spotted the Russian. That was when all hell broke loose. Marie was killed and he was forced back into a world he loathed.
"Bourne?" a voice called out to him suddenly from a short distance, breaking into his thoughts. Suddenly, instinctively, his hand reached for the Sig Sauer concealed in his jacket. He turned around, gun halfway out, and stopped when he saw who it was.
It was Marie's step-brother. Martin Kreutz. The young man, whom Bourne had last met months ago in Paris, was staring at him almost in disbelief.
"Martin", Bourne muttered, acknowledging the younger man's presence.
"What are you doing here?" Martin asked, though he undoubtedly knew the question was rhetorical. Bourne answered it anyway, "I came here to see her".
Bourne knew that Martin held him responsible for Marie's death. He had never particularly approved of his sister's relationship with a former assassin to begin with.
However, Martin no longer seemed to be in an accusatory or confrontational mood. He instead calmly said, "The last time we met, you said something about finding the people who started all of this. Did you find them?"
"Yes", Bourne replied.
"Did you kill them?" Martin asked.
Bourne hesitated for a moment before answering, "No. But they will be brought to justice".
"Justice?" Martin gave a short laugh. "What do you American's know about justice?"
"Adolf Hitler didn't know anything about justice either. And we all know which country he came from", said Bourne.
Martin opened his mouth to argue, but Bourne cut him off, "I don't mean to get into politics or country-bashing in any case. What I'm trying to say is that every country has its rotten seeds? I just got hoodwinked by the ones in mine".
"Hoodwinked?" Martin said. "Is that why you spent years killing?"
"Yes", Bourne said softly. "They had convinced me I was saving American lives. But I know now that they themselves were taking American lives".
For a few moments, the two men stood in silence. Then Martin spoke, "And what now? Where will you go?"
"I don't know", Bourne replied honestly.
"They're still looking for you?" Martin asked.
"They might be. I think they have troubles of their own now, but still, it's always a possibility", Bourne admitted.
Martin darted several nervous glances around, as though he was suddenly expecting assailants hidden in the vicinity to suddenly emerge and attack Bourne, with him caught in the crossfire.
"You better go now", he said, unconsciously conveying some of his nervousness.
"Yes", Bourne agreed, sensing his unease. He turned around and slowly walked away.