The Bourne Identity Page #7

THE MAN -- he's got the pistol -- so f***ing fast -- he's

got it right up against COP #2's forehead -- right on the

edge of pulling the trigger -- he is, he's gonna shoot him --

ZURICH COP #2

(gasping, pleading)

(-- no -- please God no -- please

don't -- please no -- my Go--)

(stopping as--)

THE MAN slams the gun against his temple and --

This fight is over.

THE MAN standing there. In the silence. Two unconscious

cops at his feet. Blood on his pants. What just happened?

How did he do this? And there's THE GUN in his hand. And

God, it just feels so natural -- checking it -- stripping it

down -- holding it -- aiming it -- like this is something

he's done a million times before...

This is something he definitely knows how to do.

And then he stops cold. Throwing down the gun. Running off

into the darkness --

INT. TREADSTONE -- DAY

A deep, inner office. An ops office. Operations. Unlabeled

and anonymous. A backwater project center hidden deep

within the Langley facility. Utilitarian. Several rooms

linked like a suite.

Small staff. SEVERAL TECHNICIANS. One or two for

communications. A couple for research. People are at their

posts. And it's all quiet. But they are busy. Quietly

urgent. This is a place under siege.

ZORN is the number two here. Brilliant bloodless lapdog.

He's coming through the suite. Coming through quickly.

Heading toward the boss's little office at the back --

TED CONKLIN. Ivy League Ollie North. Buttoned down.

Square jaw. Everything tucked away. But there's tension in

the air. Work on the desk. Cot in the corner.

CONKLIN:

(looking up)

What?

ZORN:

Abbott wants to talk.

CONKLIN:

Tell him we're busy.

ZORN:

I tried.

INT. CIA COMMISSARY -- NIGHT

ABBOTT with coffee. CONKLIN not lingering.

ABBOTT:

Storm clouds are gathering, Ted.

It looks like rain and I don't have

a thing to wear.

CONKLIN:

I don't know what we're talking about.

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