Текст книги "The Bourne Sanction (Санкция Борна)"

Автор книги: Eric Van Lustbader

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 29 страниц)

“Bring her here.”

Fifteen

TELL ME about Jason Bourne.”

Harun Iliev, in an American Nike jogging suit identical to the one worn by his

commander, Semion Icoupov, rounded the turn of the natural ice-skating rink in the heart

of Grindelwald village. Harun had spent more than a decade as Icoupov’s second in

command. As a boy he’d been adopted by Icoupov’s father, Farid, after his parents had

drowned when a ferry taking them from Istanbul to Odessa had capsized. Harun, at the

age of four, was visiting his grandmother there. The news of the deaths of her daughter

and son-in-law sent her into cardiac arrest. She died almost instantly-which everyone

involved felt was a blessing, for she lacked both the strength and the stamina to care for a four-year-old. Farid Icoupov stepped in, because Harun’s father had worked for him; the

two were close.

“There’s no easy answer,” Harun said now, “principally because there’s no one

answer. Some swear he’s an agent of the American CI, others claim he’s an international

assassin for hire. Clearly he can’t be both. What is indisputable is that he was responsible for foiling the plot to gas the attendees of the International Anti-Terrorist Conference in Reykjavik three years ago and, last year, the very real nuclear threat to Washington, DC,

posed by Dujja, the terrorist group that was run by the two Wahhib brothers, Fadi and

Karim al-Jamil. Rumor has it Bourne killed them both.”

“Impressive, if true. But just the fact that no one can get a handle on him is of extreme

interest.” Icoupov’s arms chugged up and down in perfect rhythm to his gliding back and

forth. His cheeks were apple red and he smiled warmly at the children skating on either

side of them, laughing when they laughed, giving encouragement when one of them fell.

“And how did such a man get involved with Our Friend?”

“Through the university in Georgetown,” Harun said. He was a slender man with the

look of an accountant, which wasn’t helped by his sallow skin and the way his olive-pit

eyes were sunk deep in his skull. Ice-skating did not come naturally to him as it did to

Icoupov. “Besides killing people, it seems Bourne is something of a genius at

linguistics.”

“Is he now?”

Even though they’d skated for more than forty minutes, Icoupov wasn’t breathing hard.

Harun knew he was just getting warmed up. They were in spectacular country. The resort

of Grindelwald was just under a hundred miles southeast of Bern. Above them towered

three of Switzerland’s most famous mountains-Jungfrau, Mцnch, and Eiger-glittering

white with snow and ice.

“It seems that Bourne’s weak spot is for a mentor. The first was a man named

Alexander Conklin, who-”

“I knew Alex,” Icoupov said curtly. “It was before your time. Another lifetime, it often

seems.” He nodded. “Please continue.”

“It seems Our Friend has made a play to become his new mentor.”

“I must interject here. That seems improbable.”

“Then why did Bourne kill Mikhail Tarkanian?”

“Mischa.” Icoupov’s pace faltered for a moment. “Allah preserve us! Does Leonid

Danilovich know?”

“Arkadin is currently out of contact.”

“What’s his progress?”

“He’s come and gone from Sevastopol.”

“That’s something, anyway.” Icoupov shook his head. “We’re running out of time.”

“Arkadin knows this.”

“I want Tarkanian’s death kept from him, Harun. Mischa was his best friend; they were

closer than brothers. Under no circumstances can he be allowed to be distracted from his

present assignment.”

A lovely young woman held out her hand as she skated abreast of them. Icoupov took

it and for a time was swept away in an ice dance that made him feel as if he were twenty

again. When he returned, he resumed their skate around the rink. Something about the

easy gliding motion of skating, he’d once told Harun, helped him to think.

“Given what you’ve told me,” Icoupov said at length, “this Jason Bourne may very

well cause an unforeseen complication.”

“You can be sure Our Friend has recruited Bourne to his cause by telling him that you

caused the death of-”

Icoupov shot him a warning look. “I agree. But the question we must answer is how

much of the truth he’s risked telling Bourne.”

“Knowing Our Friend,” Harun said, “I would say very little, if at all.”

“Yes.” Icoupov tapped a gloved forefinger against his lips. “And if this is the case we

can use the truth against him, don’t you think?”

“If we can get to Bourne,” Harun said. “And if we can get him to believe us.”

“Oh, he’ll believe us. I’ll make sure of that.” Icoupov executed a perfect spin. “Your

new assignment, Harun, is to ensure we get to him before he can do any more damage.

We could ill afford to lose our eye in Our Friend’s camp. Further deaths are

unacceptable.”

Munich was full of cold rain. It was a gray city on the best of days, but in this

windswept downpour it seemed to hunker down. Like a turtle, it pulled in its head into its

concrete shell, turning its back on all visitors.

Bourne and Moira sat inside the cavernous NextGen 747. Bourne was on his cell,

making a reservation on the next flight to Moscow.

“I wish I could authorize the plane to take you,” Moira said after he’d folded away the

phone.

“No, you don’t,” Bourne said. “You’d like me to stay here by your side.”

“I already told you why I think that would be a bad idea.” She looked out at the wet

tarmac, rainbow-streaked with droplets of fuel and oil. Raindrops trickled down the

Perspex window like racing cars in their lanes. “And I find myself not wanting to be here

at all.”

Bourne opened the file he’d taken from Veronica Hart, turned it around, held it out.

“I’d like you to take a look at this.”

Moira turned back, put the file on her lap, paged through it. All at once she looked up.

“Was it CI that had me under surveillance?” When Bourne nodded, she said, “Well,

that’s a relief.”

“How is it a relief?”

She lifted the file. “This is all disinformation, a setup. Two years ago, when bidding

for the Long Beach LNG terminal was at its height, my bosses suspected that AllEn, our

chief rival, was monitoring our communications in order to get a handle on the

proprietary systems that make our terminal unique. As a favor to me, Martin went to the

Old Man for permission to set up a sting. The Old Man agreed, but it was imperative that

no one else know about it, so he never told anyone else at CI. It worked. By tracking our

cell conversations we discovered that AllEn was, indeed, monitoring the calls.”

“I recall the settlement,” Bourne said.

“Because of the evidence Martin and I provided, AllEn had no incentive to go to trial.”

“NextGen got a mid-eight-figure settlement, right?”

Moira nodded. “And won the rights to build the LNG terminal in Long Beach. That’s

how I got my promotion to executive vice president.”

Bourne took back the file. He, too, was relieved. For him, trust was like an ill-made

boat, springing leaks at every turn, threatening at any moment to sink him. He’d ceded

part of himself to Moira, but the loss of control was like a knife in his heart.

Moira looked at him rather sadly. “Did you suspect me of being a Mata Hari?”

“It was important to make sure,” he said.

Her face closed up. “Sure. I understand.” She began to stuff papers into a slim leather

briefcase more roughly than was needed. “You thought I’d betrayed Martin and was

going to betray you.”

“I’m relieved it’s not true.”

“I’m so very happy to hear that.” She shot him an acid stare.

“Moira…”

“What?” She pulled hair off her face. “What is it you want to say to me, Jason?”

“I… This is hard for me.”

She leaned forward, peering at him. “Just tell me.”

“I trusted Marie,” Bourne said. “I leaned on her, she helped me with my amnesia. She

was always there. And then, suddenly, she wasn’t.”

Moira’s voice softened. “I know.”

He looked at her at last. “There is no good thing about being alone. But for me it’s all a

matter of trust.”

“I know you think I haven’t told you the truth about Martin and me.” She took his

hands in hers. “We were never lovers, Jason. We were more like brother and sister. We

supported each other. Trust didn’t come easily to either of us. I think it’s important for

both of us that I tell you that now.”

Bourne understood that she was also talking about the two of them, not her and Martin.

He’d trusted so few people in his life: Marie, Alex Conklin, Mo Panov, Martin, Soraya.

He saw all the things that had been keeping him from moving on with his life. With so

little past, it was difficult letting go of the people he’d known and cared about.

A pang of sorrow shot through him. “Marie is dead. She’s in the past now. And my

children are far better off with their grandparents. Their life is stable and happy. That’s best for them.”

He rose, needing to get moving.

Moira, aware he was ill at ease, changed the subject. “Do you know how long you’ll be

in Moscow?”

“The same amount of time you’ll be in Munich, I imagine.”

That got a smile out of her. She stood, leaned toward him. “Be well, Jason. Stay safe.”

She gave him a lingering, loving kiss. “Remember me.”

Sixteen

SORAYA MOORE was ushered cordially into the hushed sanctuary of the Library

where less than twenty-four hours before, Luther LaValle and General Kendall had had

their post-rendition fireside chat. It was Kendall himself who had picked her up,

chauffeured her to the NSA safe house deep in the Virginia countryside. Soraya had, of

course, never been here.

LaValle, in a midnight-blue chalk-striped suit, blue shirt with white collar and cuffs, a

striped tie in the Yale colors, looked like a merchant banker. He rose as Kendall brought

her over to the area by the window. There were three chairs grouped around the antique

card table.

“Director Moore, having heard so much about you, it’s a genuine pleasure to meet

you.” Smiling broadly, LaValle indicated a chair. “Please.”

Soraya saw no point in refusing the invitation. She didn’t know whether she was more

curious or alarmed by the abrupt summons. She did, however, glance around the room.

“Where is Secretary Halliday? General Kendall informed me that the invitation came

from him.”

“Oh, it did,” LaValle said. “Unfortunately, the secretary of defense was called into a

meeting in the Oval Office. He phoned me to convey to you his apologies and to insist

that we carry on without him.”

All of which meant, Soraya knew, that Halliday had never had any intention of

attending this little tкte-а-tкte. She doubted he even knew about it.

“Anyway,” LaValle said as Kendall sat in the third chair, “now that you’re here you

might as well enjoy yourself.” He raised his hand, and Willard appeared as if by

prestidigitation. “Something to drink, Director? I know as Muslim you’re forbidden

alcohol, but we have a full range of potions for you to choose from.”

“Tea, please,” she said directly to Willard. “Ceylon, if you have it.”

“Of course, ma’am. Milk? Sugar?”

“Neither, thank you.” She’d never formed the British habit.

Willard seemed to bow before he vanished without a sound.

Soraya redirected her attention to the two men. “Now, gentlemen, in what way can I

help you?”

“I rather think it’s the other way around,” General Kendall said.

Soraya cocked her head. “How d’you figure that?”

“Frankly, because of the turmoil at CI,” LaValle said, “we think Typhon is working

with one hand tied behind its back.”

Willard arrived with Soraya’s tea, the men’s whiskeys. He set the japanned tray down

with the cup, glasses, and tea service, then left.

LaValle waited until Soraya had poured her tea before he continued. “It seems to me

that Typhon would benefit immensely from taking advantage of all the resources at

NSA’s disposal. We could even help you expand beyond the scope of CI’s reach.”

Soraya lifted her cup to her lips, found the fragrant Ceylon tea exquisitely delicious. “It seems that you know more about Typhon than any of us at CI were aware.”

LaValle let go with a soft laugh. “Okay, let’s stop beating around the bush. We had a

mole inside CI. You know who it is now. He made a fatal mistake in going after Jason

Bourne and failing.”

Veronica Hart had relieved Rob Batt of his position that morning, a fact that must have

come to LaValle’s attention, especially since his replacement, Peter Marks, had been one

of Hart’s most vocal supporters from day one. Soraya knew Peter well, had suggested to

Hart that he deserved the promotion.

“Is Batt now working for NSA?”

“Mr. Batt has outlived his usefulness,” Kendall said rather stiffly.

Soraya turned her attention to the military man. “A glimpse of your own fate, don’t

you think, General?”

Kendall’s face closed up like a fist, but following an almost imperceptible shake of

LaValle’s head he bit back a rejoinder.

“While it’s certainly true that life in the intelligence services can be harsh, even

brutal,” LaValle interjected, “certain individuals within it are-shall we say-inoculated

against such unfortunate eventualities.”

Soraya kept her gaze on Kendall. “I suppose I could be one of those certain

individuals.”

“Yes, absolutely.” LaValle put one hand over the other on his knee. “Your knowledge

of Muslim thought and custom, your expertise as Martin Lindros’s right hand as he put

Typhon together are invaluable.”

“You see how it is, General,” Soraya said. “One day an invaluable asset like me is

bound to take over your position.”

LaValle cleared his throat. “Does that mean you’re on board?”

Smiling sweetly, Soraya put her teacup down. “I’ll say this for you, Mr. LaValle, you

certainly know how to make lemonade from lemons.”

LaValle returned her smile as if it were a tennis serve. “My dear Director, I do believe

you’ve hit upon one of my specialities.”

“What makes you think I’d abandon CI?”

LaValle put a forefinger beside his nose. “My reading of you is that you’re a pragmatic

woman. You know better than we do what kind of a mess CI is in. How long do you

think it’s going to take the new DCI to right the ship? What makes you think she even

can?” He raised his finger. “I’m exceedingly interested in your opinion, but before you

answer think about how little time we might have before this unknown terrorist group is

going to strike.”

Soraya felt as if she’d been rabbit-punched. How in the hell had NSA gotten wind of

the Typhon terrorist intercepts? At the moment, however, that was a moot point. The

important thing was how to respond to this breach of security.

Before she could formulate a counter, LaValle said, “I’m curious about one thing,

though. Why is it that Director Hart saw fit to keep this intel to herself, rather than

bringing in Homeland Security, FBI, and NSA?”

“That was my doing.” I’m in it now, Soraya thought. I might as well go all the way.

“Until the incident at the Freer, the intel was sketchy enough that I felt the involvement

of other intelligence agencies would only muddy the waters.”

“Meaning,” Kendall said, glad of the opportunity to get in a dig, “you didn’t want us

rooting around in your carrot patch.”

“This is a serious situation, Director,” LaValle said. “In matters of national security-”

“If this Muslim terrorist group-which we now know calls itself the Black Legion-gets

wind that we’ve intercepted their communications we’ll be sunk before we even start

trying to counter their attack.”

“I could have you shit-canned.”

“And lose my invaluable expertise?” Soraya shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

“So what do we have?” Kendall snapped.

“Stalemate.” LaValle passed a hand across his brow. “Do you think it would be

possible for me to see the Typhon intercepts?” His tone had changed completely. He was

now in conciliatory mode. “Believe it or not, we’re not the Evil Empire. We actually

might be able to be of some assistance.”

Soraya considered. “I think that be can arranged.”

“Excellent.”

“It would have to be Eyes Only.”

LaValle agreed at once.

“And in a controlled, highly restricted environment,” Soraya added, following up her

advantage. “The Typhon offices at CI would be perfect.”

LaValle spread his hands. “Why not here?”

Soraya smiled. “I think not.”

“Under the current climate I think you can understand why I’d be reluctant to meet you

there.”

“I take your point.” Soraya thought for a moment. “If I did bring the intercepts here I’d

have to have someone with me.”

LaValle nodded vigorously. “Of course. Whatever makes you feel comfortable.” He

seemed far more pleased than Kendall, who looked at her as if he had caught sight of her

from a battlefield trench.

“Frankly,” Soraya said, “none of this makes me feel comfortable.” She glanced around

the room again.

“The building is swept three times a day for electronic bugs,” LaValle pointed out.

“Plus, we have all the most sophisticated surveillance systems, basically a computerized

monitoring system that keeps track of the two thousand closed-circuit video cameras

installed throughout the facility and grounds, compares them from second to second for

any anomalies whatsoever. The DARPA software compares any anomalies against a

database of more than a million images, makes real-time decisions in nanoseconds. For

instance, a bird in flight would be ignored, a running figure wouldn’t. Believe me, you

have nothing to worry about.”

“Right now, the only thing I worry about,” Soraya said, “is you, Mr. LaValle.”

“I understand completely.” LaValle finished off his whiskey. “That’s what this

exercise is all about, Director. To engender trust between us. How else could we be

expected to work together?”

General Kendall sent Soraya back to the district with one of his drivers. She had him

drop her where she’d arranged to meet Kendall, outside what had once been the National

Historical Wax Museum on E Street, SW. She waited until the black Ford had been

swallowed up in traffic, then she turned away, walked all the way around the block at a

normal pace. By the end of her circuit she was certain she was free of tags, NSA or

otherwise. At that point, she sent a three-letter text message via her cell. Two minutes

later, a young man on a motorcycle appeared. He wore jeans, a black leather jacket, a

gleaming black helmet with the smoked faceplate lowered. He slowed, stopped just long

enough for her to climb on behind him. Handing her a helmet, he waited for her to don it,

then he zoomed off down the street.

I have several contacts within DARPA,” Deron said. DARPA was an acronym for the

Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency, an arm of the Department of Defense. “I

have a working knowledge of the software architecture at the heart of the NSA’s

surveillance system.” He shrugged. “This is one way I keep my edge.”

“We gotta find a way around it or through it,” Tyrone said.

He was still wearing his black leather jacket. His black helmet was on a table alongside

the one he’d given Soraya for the high-speed trip here to Deron’s house-lab. Soraya had

met both Deron and Tyrone when Bourne had brought her to this nondescript olive-

colored house just off 7th Street, NE.

“You must be joking, right?” Deron, a tall, slim, handsome man with skin the color of

light cocoa, looked from one to the other. “Tell me you’re joking.”

“If we were joking we wouldn’t be here.” Soraya rubbed the heel of her hand against

her temple as she sought to ignore the fierce headache that had began after her terrifying

interview with LaValle and Kendall.

“It’s just not possible.” Deron put his hands on his hips. “That software is state-of-the-

art. And two thousand CCTV cameras! Fuck me.”

They sat on canvas chairs in his lab, a double-height room filled with all manner of

monitors, keyboards, electronic systems whose functions were known only to Deron.

Ranged around the wall were a number of paintings-all masterpieces by Titian, Seurat,

Rembrandt, van Gogh. Water Lilies, Green Reflection, Left Part was Soraya’s favorite.

That all of them were painted by Deron in the atelier in the next room had stunned her the

first time she was here. Now they simply filled her with wonder. How he had reproduced

Monet’s exact shade of cobalt blue was beyond her. It was hardly surprising that Bourne

used Deron to forge all his ID documents, when in this day and age it was becoming

increasingly difficult to do. Many forgers had quit, claiming governments had made their

job impossible, but not Deron. It was his stock in trade. Little wonder that he and Bourne

were so close. Birds of a feather, Soraya thought.

“What about mirrors?” Tyrone said.

“That would be simplest,” Deron said. “But one of the reasons they’ve installed so

many cameras is to give the system multiple views of the same area. That negates mirrors

right there.”

“Too bad Bourne killed dat fucker Karim al-Jamil. He could probably write a worm

t’screw with the DARPA software like he did with the CI database.”

Soraya turned to Deron. “Can it be done?” she said. “Could you do it?”

“Hacking’s not my thing. I leave that to my old lady.”

Soraya didn’t know Deron had a girlfriend. “How good is she?”

“Please,” Deron snorted.

“Can we talk to her?”

Deron looked dubious. “This is the NSA we’re talking about. Those fuckers don’t fool

around. To be frank, I don’t think you ought to be messing with them in the first place.”

“Unfortunately, I have no choice,” Soraya said.

“They fuckin’ wid us,” Tyrone said, “and unless we get all medieval on they ass, they

gonna walk all over us an’ own us forever.”

Deron shook his head. “You sure put some interesting notions in this man’s head,

Soraya. Before you came along he was the best street protection I ever had. Now look at

him. Messing with the big boys in the bad world outside the ghetto.” He didn’t hide the

pride he felt for Tyrone, but his voice held a warning, too. “I hope to hell you know what

you’re getting yourself into, Tyrone. If this thing comes apart in any way you’re in the

federal slammer till Gabriel comes calling.”

Tyrone crossed his arms over his chest, stood his ground.

Deron sighed. “All right, then. We’re all adults here.” He reached for his cell. “Kiki’s

upstairs in her lair. She doesn’t like to be interrupted, but in this case I think she’ll be intrigued.” He spoke briefly into the cell, then put it down. Moments later a slim woman

with a beautiful African face and deep chocolate skin appeared. She was as tall as Deron,

with the upright carriage of proud and ancient royalty.

Her face split into a ferocious grin when she saw Tyrone. “Hey,” they said to each

other. That one word seemed all that was needed.

“Kiki, this is Soraya,” Deron said.

Kiki’s smile was wide and dazzling. “My name’s actually Esiankiki. I’m Masai. But in

America I’m not so formal; everyone calls me Kiki.”

The two women touched hands. Kiki’s grip was cool and dry. She regarded Soraya out

of large coffee-colored eyes. She had the smoothest skin Soraya had ever seen, which she

instantly envied. Her hair was very short, marvelously cut like a cap to fit her elongated

skull. She wore a brown ankle-length dress that clung provocatively to her slim hips and

small breasts.

Deron briefly outlined the problem while he brought up the DARPA software

architecture on one of his computer terminals. While Kiki checked it out, he filled her in

on the basics. “We need something that can bypass the firewall, and is undetectable.”

“The first isn’t all that difficult.” Kiki’s long, delicate fingers were flying over the

keyboard as she experimented with the computer code. “The second, I don’t know.”

“Unfortunately, that’s not the end of it.” Deron positioned himself so he could peer

over her shoulder at the terminal. “This particular software controls two thousand CCTV

cameras. Our friends here need to get in and out of the facility without being detected.”

Kiki stood up, turned around to face them. “In other words all two thousand cameras

have to be covered.”

“That’s right,” Soraya said.

“You don’t need a hacker, dear. You need the invisible man.”

“But you can make them invisible, Kiki.” Deron slid his arm around her slender waist

“Can’t you?”

“Hmm.” Kiki peered again at the code on the terminal. “You know, there looks like

there may be a recurring variance I might be able to exploit.” She hunkered down on a

stool. “I’m going to transfer this upstairs.”

Deron winked at Soraya, as if to say, I told you so.

Kiki routed a number of files to her computer, which was separate from Deron’s. She

spun around, slapped her hands on her thighs, and got up. “Okay, then, I’ll see you all

later.”

“How much later?” Soraya said, but Kiki was already taking the stairs three at a time.

Moscow was wreathed in snow when Bourne stepped off the Aeroflot plane at

Sheremetyevo. His flight had been delayed forty minutes, the jet circling while the

runways were de-iced. He cleared Customs and Immigration and was met by a small, cat-

like individual wrapped in a white down coat. Lev Baronov, Professor Specter’s contact.

“No luggage, I see,” Baronov said in heavily accented English. He was as wiry and

hyperactive as a Jack Russell terrier as he elbowed and barked at the small army of gypsy

cab drivers vying for a fare. They were a sad-faced lot, plucked from the minorities in the Caucasus, Asians and the like whose ethnicity prevented them from getting a decent job

with decent pay in Moscow. “We’ll take care of that on the way in to town. You’ll need

proper clothes for Moscow’s winter. It’s a balmy minus two Celsius today.”

“That would be most helpful,” Bourne replied in perfect Russian.

Baronov’s bushy eyebrows rose in surprise. “You speak like a native, gospadin

Bourne.”

“I had excellent instructors,” Bourne said laconically.

Amid the bustle of the flight terminal, he was studying the flow of passengers, noting

those who lingered at a newsagent or outside the duty-free shop, those who didn’t move

at all. Ever since he emerged into the terminal he’d had the unshakable feeling that he

was being watched. Of course there were CCTV cameras all over, but the particular

prickling of his scalp that had developed over the years of fieldwork was unerring.

Someone had him under surveillance. This fact was both alarming and reassuring-that

he’d already picked up a tag meant someone knew he was scheduled to arrive in

Moscow. NSA could have scanned the departing flight manifests back at New York and

picked up his name from Lufthansa; there’d been no time to take himself off the list. He

looked only in short touristic glances because he had no desire to alert his shadow that he was on to him.

“I’m being followed,” Bourne said as he sat in Baronov’s wheezing Zil. They were on

the M10 motorway.

“No problem,” Baronov said, as if he was used to being tailed all the time. He didn’t

even ask who was following Bourne. Bourne thought of the professor’s pledge that

Baronov wouldn’t get in his way.

Bourne paged through the packet Baronov had given him, which included new ID, a

key, and the box number to get money out of the safe-deposit vault in the Moskva Bank.

“I need a plan of the bank building,” Bourne said.

“No problem.” Baronov exited the M10. Bourne was now Fyodor Ilianovich Popov, a

midlevel functionary of GazProm, the gargantuan state-run energy conglomerate.

“How well will this ID hold up?” Bourne asked.

“Not to worry.” Baronov grinned. “The professor has friends in GazProm who know

how to protect you, Fyodor Ilianovich Popov.”

Anthony Prowess had come a long way to keep the ancient Zil in sight and he wasn’t

about to lose it, no matter what evasive maneuvers the driver took. He’d been waiting at

Sheremetyevo for Bourne to come through Immigration. General Kendall had sent a

recent surveillance photo of Bourne to his cell. The photo was grainy and two-

dimensional because of the long telephoto lens used, but it was a close-up; there was no

mistaking Bourne when he arrived.

For Prowess, the next few minutes were crucial. He had no illusions that he could

remain unnoticed by Bourne for any length of time; therefore, in the short moments while

his subject was still unself-conscious, he needed to drink in every tic and habit, no matter how minuscule or seemingly irrelevant. He knew from bitter experience that these small

insights would prove invaluable as the surveillance ground on, especially when it came

time to engage the subject and terminate him.

Prowess was no stranger to Moscow. He’d been born here to a British diplomat and his

cultural attachй wife. Not until Prowess was fifteen did he understand that his mother’s

job was a cover. She was, in fact, a spy for MI6, Her Majesty’s Secret Service. Four years

later Prowess’s mother was compromised, and MI6 spirited them out of the country.

Because his mother was now a wanted woman, the Prowesses were sent to America, to

begin a new life with a new family name. The danger had been ground so deeply into

Prowess that he’d actually forgotten what they were once called. He was now simply

Anthony Prowess.

As soon as he’d built up qualified academic credits, he applied to the NSA. From the

moment he’d discovered that his mother was a spy, that was all he’d wanted to do. No

amount of pleading from his parents could dissuade him. Because of his ease with foreign

languages and his knowledge of other cultures, the NSA sent him abroad, first to the

Horn of Africa to train, then to Afghanistan, where he liaised with the local tribes

fighting the Taliban in rough mountain terrain. He was a hard man, no stranger to

hardship, or to death. He knew more ways to kill a human being than there were days in

the year. Compared with what he’d been through in the past nineteen months, this

assignment was going to be a piece of cake.

Seventeen

BOURNE AND BARONOV sped down Volokolamskoye Highway. Crocus City was

an enormous high-end mall. Built in 2002, it was a seemingly endless array of glittering

boutiques, restaurants, car showrooms, and marble fountains. It was also an excellent

place to lose a tail.

While Bourne shopped for suitable clothes, Baronov was busy on his cell phone. There

was no point in going to the trouble of losing the tail inside the maze of the mall only to have him pick them up again when they returned to the Zil. Baronov was calling a

colleague to come to Crocus City. They’d take his car, and he’d drive the Zil into