The Bourne Supremacy Read Online Free PDF

'
    'It's imperative,' answered Reilly. 'Not because of the project - in spite of what happened we make no apology for that operation - but because of the man we recruited to become Jason Bourne and where he came from. '
    That's cryptic. '
    'It'll become clear. '
    'The project, please. '
    Reilly looked at Raymond Havilland; the diplomat nodded and spoke. 'We created a killer to draw out and trap the most deadly assassin in Europe. '
    1Carlos?'
    'You're quick, Mr Undersecretary. '
    'Who else was there? In Asia, Bourne and the Jackal were constantly being compared. '
    Those comparisons were encouraged,' said Havilland. 'Often magnified and spread by the strategists of the project, a group known as Treadstone Seventy-one. The name was derived from a sterile house on New York's Seventy-first Street where the resurrected Jason Bourne was trained. It was the command post and a name you should be aware of. '
    'I see,' said McAllister pensively. Then those comparisons, growing as they did with Bourne's reputation, served as a challenge to Carlos. That's when Bourne moved to Europe -to bring the challenge directly to the Jackal. To force him to come out and confront his challenger. '
    ' Very quick, Mr Undersecretary. In a nutshell, that was the strategy. '
    'It's extraordinary. Brilliant actually, and one doesn't have to be an expert to see that. God knows I'm not. '
    'You may become one-'
    'And you say this man who became Bourne, the mythical assassin, spent three years playing the role and then was injured-'
    'Shot,' interrupted Havilland. 'Membranes in his skull were blown away. '
    'And he lost his memory?'
    Totally. '
    'My God!'
    'Yet despite everything that happened to him, and with the woman's help - she was an economist for the Canadian Government, incidentally - he came within moments of pulling the whole damn thing off. A remarkable story, isn't
    it?'
    'It's incredible. But what kind of man would do this, could do it?'
    The redheaded John Reilly coughed softly; the ambassador deferred with a glance. 'We're now reaching ground zero,' the big man said, again shifting his bulk to look at McAllister. 'If you've any doubts I can still let you go. '
    'I try not to repeat myself. You have your tape. '
    'It's your appetite. '
    'I suppose that's another way you people have of saying there might not even be a trial. '
    'I'd never say that. '
    McAllister swallowed, his eyes meeting the calm gaze of the man from the NSC. He turned to Havilland. 'Please go on, Mr Ambassador. Who is this man? Where did he come from?'
    'His name is David Webb. He's currently an associate professor of Oriental Studies at a small university in Maine and married to the Canadian woman who literally guided him out of his labyrinth. Without her he would have been killed - but then without him she would have ended up a corpse in Zurich. '
    'Remarkable,' said McAllister, barely audible.
    'The point is, she's his second wife. His first marriage ended in a tragic act of wanton slaughter - that's when his story began for us. A number of years ago Webb was a young foreign service officer stationed in Phnom Penh, a brilliant Far East scholar, fluent in several Oriental languages and married to a girl from Thailand he'd met in graduate school. They lived in a house on a riverbank and had two children. It was an ideal life for such a man. It combined the expertise Washington needed in the area with the opportunity to live in his own museum. Then the Vietnam action escalated and one morning a lone jet fighter - no one really knows from which side, but no one ever told Webb that - swooped down at low altitude and strafed his wife and children while they were playing in the water. Their bodies were riddled. They floated into the riverbank as Webb was trying to reach them; he gathered them in his arms, screaming helplessly at the disappearing plane above. '
    'How horrible, '' whispered McAllister.
    'At that moment, Webb turned. He became someone he never was, never dreamed he