The Birth of Bourne
Chapter 2: The Silent Monk of Covert Operations
The next afternoon, well over thirty six hours after their conversation in the park, David Webb and Alexander Conklin walked into the US Embassy in Saigon. David arms and legs were covered in bandages concealed under his clothes and the smell of iodine emanated from his face where it had been used to sterilise the more superficial wounds. After a bath, a shave and a change of clothes provided by Alex, David looked like a completely different man from the one who was nearly beaten to death in a bar two nights ago, though in truth, he was no different deep down inside.
The two men took the elevator to the fourth floor of the embassy after which Conklin led David down a long hallway on either side of which were doors labelled with the names of their occupants. At the end of the hallway was a door which was simply labelled 'Storeroom. Access Restricted'. Conklin reached into his pocket for a key, and inserted it into the lock on the door. The door swung upon and the two men entered a darkened room, just as it automatically swung shut ten seconds later. "Special mechanism", Alex said.
They were in what appeared to be a small storeroom with a small hole high above in the wall being the only source of light, and a feeble one at that. Conklin however twisted the second hook on the wall at the back of the storeroom, among three, in a counter-clockwise direction and then twisted it back into its original position. There was the sound of a click and a large section of the wall swung inwards. A bewildered Webb followed the intelligence officer inside before the hidden door swung back in place again.
"What is this place?" Webb asked as he looked around at the fairly well-lit large room, which was in fact an office. The walls were covered with filing cabinets and in the centre were two desks, both covered with two red telephones each and several files and papers. One of the two desks was occupied by a late middle-aged man, in his mid to late fifties, with prematurely grey hair, pale skin and brilliant blue eyes, dressed in an expensive business suit.
David recognised the man, though he couldn't quite place a name to the face. He was sure he had met the man before somewhere, presumably during an embassy dinner. The man didn't in the least look surprised at their presence. He instead walked towards Conklin and shook hands with him.
"Good for you to see us on such short notice, David", Conklin said to the older man.
He then turned towards Webb. "This is David Abbott. I'm sure you've heard of him".
"Oh. Of course. Pleased to meet you, sir", David said as he shook hands with the man whom he remembered was one of the finest officers the State Department had ever produced in the last twenty years, a multilingual and highly perceptive graduate of Oxford, Cambridge and some of the finest finishing schools on both sides of the Atlantic.
"I seem to recall meeting you. An embassy dinner in Phnom Penh I think. Your name is...Webb isn't it. David Webb", Abbott said.
"Yes sir", replied Webb.
"Ah yes, of course. I remember, you were at that dinner with that charming Thai wife of yours", said Abbott.
At the mention of his wife, David's face darkened. A tense silence followed which was interrupted with Conklin clearing his throat and stating in a neutral tone, "Regretfully, Mrs. Webb passed away almost a fortnight ago in Phnom Penh".
"Oh. I am so sorry", Abbott said. The expression on his prematurely lined face conveyed genuine sympathy. "I seem to recall now...what was it? A North Vietnamese bomber...a vicious attack by the Mekong River. Our men are still investigating that. We're sure it was one of theirs?"
"Hanoi disclaimed it. But we know what those lying bastards are like", Conklin said vehemently.
"Ah well, the costs of war", Abbott sighed. He then turned to Webb. "Oh forgive me Mr. Webb if I seem insensitive but when you've lived with war for most of your life in some form or the other, you do develop a sense of clinical detachment towards death".
"Mr. Abbott here", Conklin explained to Webb, "has been involved with Intelligence since the days of the OSS. He's a veteran of the Agency and currently a full-time consultant to the State Department's clandestine division".
"Naturally none of this is common knowledge", Abbott said.
"Mr. Abbott is also known within the intelligence community as the 'Silent Monk of Covert Operations'", Conklin continued.
"Oh come now, Alex", Abbott chuckled. "I always thought that a ridiculous nickname".
"Nevertheless, its true", said Conklin.
"Well, what can I do for you?" Abbott asked, although his manner conveyed that he already had at least some prior idea of which way this meeting was heading. David assumed it had something to do with the long telephone calls Alex had gone out to a phone booth across the street to make the previous night.
Conklin cleared his throat for the second time. "David here wanted me to give him a couple of guns and drop him into North Vietnamese territory so that he could take out a couple of Reds. Personally I feel the best place for him is therapy, but since he's pretty adamant..." The sentence was completed unspoken by a private look between the two men. Webb sensed that the two men were silently agreeing on something, some secret that was between them. Finally, Abbott turned towards him and spoke.
"You are serious about this, David, aren't you? I can call you David can I?"
"Yes sir" Webb replied. "On both counts".
Abbott sighed. He then walked over to his desk and sat down and waved David to another chair in front of his. Conklin remained standing.
"What I am about to tell you is Above Top Secret. Only five men in this entire building right now, including Alex and me, and less than a hundred men alive know even a fragment of what I'm about to share with you. I know your credentials. You're a galaxy apart from the sort of people we usually recruit. But seeing that desperate look on your face, and knowing what Alex just reminded me off, I feel that you deserve to know this. Deserve to know at least that you have a choice. Not one which most civilised men would want to make. But a choice nonetheless. An outlet, if you prefer", Abbott said.
A greatly intrigued Webb stared straight into Abbott's blue eyes and said in a low monotone, "Tell me".
Abbott sighed. "Alright. But what I tell you doesn't leave this room under any circumstances. Understand?"
"Perfectly", replied David.
"Very well", Abbott began. "Three years ago, the State Department, in cooperation with Pentagon, Naval Intelligence and the CIA, began a unique and highly unconventional initiative codenamed 'Medusa'. Unconventional not only in terms of its activities, but also its personnel, most of who are drawn from the 'dregs of society' as it were".
"Sounds intriguing", Webb said. "Tell me more".
"Medusa is essentially a program to train agents in the planning and execution of a wide variety of grey to black military and intelligence operations, from counter-espionage, to search and destroy, guerrilla warfare, infiltration and even assassination", Abbott said. "It is a program which would be almost universally condemned among the civilized world, including many of the most powerful men in Washington, if its existence were widely known, which fortunately it isn't. Our recruits are drawn from a wide pool, both in terms of nationality and experience. We recruit highly experienced officers from all branches of our own military, as well as those of Allied nations, French, British and even Australian citizens and South Vietnamese volunteers. We recruit soldiers, smugglers, mercenaries, civilians...anyone who either has a personal stake in the war or who can be bought and who is willing to risk his life in order to take other lives", Abbott paused and then continued.
"In the last twenty eight months since we've been in operation, we have done reasonably well. Medusa operatives has caused more damage to North Vietnamese tribal groups and military forces than all the search and destroy missions put together by every other branch of any military force present in the region. But the search for fresh talent, for greater expertise for intellectual input, continues..."
"How many languages can you speak, Mr. Webb?" Abbott asked suddenly.
"I can speak French, Spanish, Chinese and Vietnamese quite well enough, the latter two in various dialects". David replied.
"Ah yes, that can be quite valuable", Abbott said. "One of the primary difficulties we encounter with our Occidental recruits are their relative inability to speak the language, with the exception of a select few. This can prove to be quite a hindrance in intelligence gathering".
"The language issue is always a problem", Conklin added. "It's how I got into the game. Too few people could speak Russian fluently back when I joined the Agency".
"It isn't a game" Webb said softly.
"Of course it isn't" Abbott agreed, "But Alex and I have regretfully spent so many years in this shadow world that we are often in risk of forgetting that. Until a tragedy such as yours reminds us of why we do this." He paused and added, "It's a war, David and the only fair war is one in which both sides play by the same rules. Till today, the other side has routinely flouted those unwritten, unspoken 'rules of engagement' without any retaliation. That has to end, and it will end."
"And I will get to kill the bastards?" David asked.
"Yes, you will. We will teach you to kill and we will send you to kill and expect you to as well. You will be well compensated for these 'assignments' naturally, and will be entitled to all due benefits and privileges of ranking military and intelligence officers. Your identity will be protected as well, if you wish".
In his mind's eye, David could see and hear, as he had seen and heard so many times before, the rattling of guns and the bodies in the river. And blood. Blood everywhere. But where there was darkness and the silence of death before, there was light. The light of his own fires, the sound of his own gun and the blood of his enemies. His enemies, the killers of his wife and children. The pain would go away for it would become their pain. He would make them hut. By Christ, he would make them hurt!
"Sign me up", he said softly.
Conklin began to speak, "David, wait...maybe you need some time to think this through..."
"No Alex, this is precisely what I need", David said as he turned towards Abbott. "When can I begin?"
"In about three weeks", Abbott said. "But I must warn you about the decision you have decided to make. Not the physical risks of course, I can see that you're quite prepared to accept those. But there are other risks. Psychological ones. No man we have ever trained, have ever sent into the field, has returned unchanged. We will transform you into a lethal killing machine, we will guarantee you your vengeance and even your safety, if your skill permits it, but we cannot guarantee that you will ever be able to return to being who you were before. What you will see, what you will do, will completely turn you into a different person. A year from now, you may not even remember who you were today. Are you ready to accept that?"
"Yes", David said without the slightest hesitation. "Being who I am today is something I want to get rid off as soon as possible".
"It's settled then", Abbott said softly. "I'll tell Crawford you're on your way".