Текст книги "The Bourne Sanction (Санкция Борна)"

Автор книги: Eric Van Lustbader

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the information and matйriel pipeline you have been refining for the past three years? It’s how you send information you stole from me back to your father, wherever he is.”

For the first time since he’d regained consciousness, Pyotr smiled. “If you knew

anything important about the pipeline, you’d have rolled it up by now.”

At this Icoupov regained the icy control over his emotions.

“I told you talking to him would be useless,” Arkadin said from his position directly

behind Pyotr’s chair.

“Nevertheless,” Icoupov said, “there are certain protocols that must be acknowledged.

I’m not an animal.”

Pyotr snorted.

Icoupov eyed his prisoner. Sitting back, he fastidiously pulled up his trouser leg,

crossed one leg over the other, laced his stubby fingers on his lower belly.

“I give you one last chance to continue this conversation.”

It was not until the silence was drawn out into an almost intolerable length that

Icoupov raised his gaze to Arkadin.

“Pyotr, why are you doing this to me?” he said with a resigned tone. And then to

Arkadin, “Begin.”

Though it cost him in pain and breath, Pyotr twisted as far as he was able, but he

couldn’t see what Arkadin was doing. He heard the sound of implements on a metal cart

being rolled across the carpet.

Pyotr turned back. “You don’t frighten me.”

“I don’t mean to frighten you, Pyotr,” Icoupov said. “I mean to hurt you, very, very

badly.”

With a painful convulsion, Pyotr’s world contracted to the pinpoint of a star in the

night sky. He was locked within the confines of his mind, but despite all his training, all his courage, he could not compartmentalize the pain. There was a hood over his head,

drawn tight around his neck. This confinement magnified the pain a hundredfold because,

despite his fearlessness, Pyotr was subject to claustrophobia. For someone who never

went into caves, small spaces, or even underwater, the hood was the worst of all possible

worlds. His senses could tell him that, in fact, he wasn’t confined at all, but his mind

wouldn’t accept that input-it was in the full flight of panic. The pain Arkadin was

inflicting on him was one thing, its magnification was quite another. Pyotr’s mind was

spinning out of control. He felt a wildness enter him-the wolf caught in a trap that begins to frantically gnaw its leg off. But the mind was not a limb; he couldn’t gnaw it off.

Dimly, he heard someone asking him a question to which he knew the answer. He

didn’t want to give the answer, but he knew he would because the voice told him the

hood would come off if he answered. His crazed mind only knew it needed the hood off;

it could no longer distinguish right from wrong, good from evil, lies from truth. It reacted to only one imperative: the need to survive. He tried to move his fingers, but in bending

over him his interrogator must have been pressing down on them with the heels of his

hands.

Pyotr couldn’t hang on any longer. He answered the question.

The hood didn’t come off. He howled in indignation and terror. Of course it didn’t

come off, he thought in a tiny instant of lucidity. If it did, he’d have no incentive to

answer the next question and the next and the next.

And he would answer them-all of them. He knew this with a bone-chilling certainty.

Even though part of him suspected that the hood might never come off, his trapped mind

would take the chance. It had no other choice.

But now that he could move his fingers, there was another choice. Just before the

whirlwind of panicked madness overtook him again, Pyotr made that choice. There was

one way out and, saying a silent prayer to Allah, he took it.

Icoupov and Arkadin stood over Pyotr’s body. Pyotr’s head lay on one side; his lips

were very blue, and a faint but distinct foam emanated from his half-open mouth.

Icoupov bent down, sniffed the scent of bitter almonds.

“I didn’t want him dead, Leonid, I was very clear on the point.” Icoupov was vexed.

“How did he get hold of cyanide?”

“They used a variation I’ve never encountered.” Arkadin did not look happy himself.

“He was fitted with a false fingernail.”

“He would have talked.”

“Of course he would have talked,” Arkadin said. “He’d already begun.”

“So he took it upon himself to shut his own mouth, forever.” Icoupov shook his head in

distaste. “This will have significant fallout. He’s got dangerous friends.”

“I’ll find them,” Arkadin said. “I’ll kill them.”

Icoupov shook his head. “Even you can’t kill them all in time.”

“I can contact Mischa.”

“And risk losing everything? No. I understand your connection with him-closest

friend, mentor. I understand the urge to talk to him, to see him. But you can’t, not until

this is finished and Mischa comes home. That’s final.”

“I understand.”

Icoupov walked over the window, stood with his hand behind his back contemplating

the fall of darkness. Lights sparkled along the edges of the lake, up the hillside of

Campione d’Italia. There ensued a long silence while he contemplated the face of the

altered landscape. “We’ll have to move up the timetable, that’s all there is to it. And

you’ll take Sevastopol as a starting point. Use the one name you got out of Pyotr before

he committed suicide.”

He turned around to face Arkadin. “Everything now rides on you, Leonid. This attack

has been in the planning stages for three years. It has been designed to cripple the

American economy. Now there are barely two weeks left before it becomes a reality.” He

walked noiselessly across the carpet. “Philippe will provide you with money, documents,

weaponry that will escape electronic detection, anything you need. Find this man in

Sevastopol. Retrieve the document, and when you do, follow the pipeline back and shut it

down so that it will never again be used to threaten our plans.”

Book One

One

WHO IS DAVID Webb?”

Moira Trevor, standing in front of his desk at Georgetown University, asked the

question so seriously that Jason Bourne felt obliged to answer.

“Strange,” he said, “no one’s ever asked me that before. David Webb is a linguistics

expert, a man with two children who are living happily with their grandparents”-Marie’s

parents-“on a ranch in Canada.”

Moira frowned. “Don’t you miss them?”

“I miss them terribly,” Bourne said, “but the truth is they’re far better off where they

are. What kind of life could I offer them? And then there’s the constant danger from my

Bourne identity. Marie was kidnapped and threatened in order to force me to do

something I had no intention of doing. I won’t make that mistake again.”

“But surely you see them from time to time.”

“As often as I can, but it’s difficult. I can’t afford to have anyone following me back to

them.”

“My heart goes out to you,” Moira said, meaning it. She smiled. “I must say it’s odd

seeing you here, on a university campus, behind a desk.” She laughed. “Shall I buy you a

pipe and a jacket with elbow patches?”

Bourne smiled. “I’m content here, Moira. Really I am.”

“I’m happy for you. Martin’s death was difficult for both of us. My anodyne is going

back to work full-bore. Yours is obviously here, in a new life.”

“An old life, really.” Bourne looked around the office. “Marie was happiest when I

was teaching, when she could count on me being home every night in time to have dinner

with her and the kids.”

“What about you?” Moira asked. “Were you happiest here?”

A cloud passed across Bourne’s face. “I was happy being with Marie.” He turned to

her. “I can’t imagine being able to say that to anyone else but you.”

“A rare compliment from you, Jason.”

“Are my compliments so rare?”

“Like Martin, you’re a master at keeping secrets,” she said. “But I have doubts about

how healthy that is.”

“I’m sure it’s not healthy at all,” Bourne said. “But it’s the life we chose.”

“Speaking of which.” She sat down on a chair opposite him. “I came early for our

dinner date to talk to you about a work situation, but now, seeing how content you are

here, I don’t know whether to continue.”

Bourne recalled the first time he had seen her, a slim, shapely figure in the mist, dark

hair swirling about her face. She was standing at the parapet in the Cloisters, overlooking the Hudson River. The two of them had come there to say good-bye to their mutual friend

Martin Lindros, whom Bourne had valiantly tried to save, only to fail.

Today Moira was dressed in a wool suit, a silk blouse open at the throat. Her face was

strong, with a prominent nose, deep brown eyes wide apart, intelligent, curved slightly at

their outer corners. Her hair fell to her shoulders in luxuriant waves. There was an

uncommon serenity about her, a woman who knew what she was about, who wouldn’t be

intimidated or bullied by anyone, woman or man.

Perhaps this last was what Bourne liked best about her. In that, though in no other way,

she was like Marie. He had never pried into her relationship with Martin, but he assumed

it had been romantic, since Martin had given Bourne standing orders to send her a dozen

red roses should he ever die. This Bourne had done, with a sadness whose depth surprised

even him.

Settled in her chair, one long, shapely leg crossed over her knee, she looked the model

of a European businesswoman. She had told him that she was half French, half English,

but her genes still carried the imprint of ancient Venetian and Turkish ancestors. She was

proud of the fire in her mixed blood, the result of wars, invasions, fierce love.

“Go on.” He leaned forward, elbows on his desk. “I want to hear what you have to

say.”

She nodded. “All right. As I’ve told you, NextGen Energy Solutions has completed our

new liquid natural gas terminal in Long Beach. Our first shipment is due in two weeks. I

had this idea, which now seems utterly crazy, but here goes. I’d like you to head up the

security procedures. My bosses are worried the terminal would make an awfully tempting

target for any terrorist group, and I agree. Frankly, I can’t think of anyone who’d make it more secure than you.”

“I’m flattered, Moira. But I have obligations here. As you know, Professor Specter has

installed me as the head of the Comparative Linguistics Department. I don’t want to

disappoint him.”

“I like Dominic Specter, Jason, really I do. You’ve made it clear that he’s your mentor.

Actually, he’s David Webb’s mentor, right? But it’s Jason Bourne I first met, it feels like it’s Jason Bourne I’ve been coming to know these last few months. Who is Jason

Bourne’s mentor?”

Bourne’s face darkened, as it had at the mention of Marie. “Alex Conklin’s dead.”

Moira shifted in her chair. “If you come work with me there’s no baggage attached to

it. Think about it. It’s a chance to leave your past lives behind-both David Webb’s and

Jason Bourne’s. I’m flying to Munich shortly because a key element of the terminal is

being manufactured there. I need an expert opinion on it when I check the specs.”

“Moira, there are any number of experts you can use.”

“But none whose opinion I trust as much as yours. This is crucial stuff, Jason. More

than half the goods shipped into the United States come through the port at Long Beach,

so our security measures have to be something special. The US government has already

shown it has neither the time nor the inclination to secure commercial traffic, so we’re

forced to police it ourselves. The danger to this terminal is real and it’s serious. I know how expert you are at bypassing even the most arcane security systems. You’re the

perfect candidate to put nonconventional measures into place.”

Bourne stood. “Moira, listen to me. Marie was David Webb’s biggest cheerleader.

Since her death, I’ve let go of him completely. But he’s not dead, he’s not an invalid. He

lives on inside me. When I fall asleep I dream of his life as if it was someone else’s, and I wake up in a sweat. I feel as if a part of me has been sliced off. I don’t want to feel that way anymore. It’s time to give David Webb his due.”

Veronica Hart’s step was light and virtually carefree as she was admitted past

checkpoint after checkpoint on her way into the bunker that was the West Wing of the

White House. The job she was about to be handed-director of Central Intelligence-was a

formidable one, especially in the aftermath of last year’s twin debacles of murder and

gross breach of security. Nevertheless, she had never been happier. Having a sense of

purpose was vital to her; being singled out for daunting responsibility was the ultimate

validation of all the arduous work, setbacks, and threats she’d had to endure because of

her gender.

There was also the matter of her age. At forty-six she was the youngest DCI in recent

memory. Being the youngest at something was nothing new to her. Her astonishing

intelligence combined with her fierce determination to ensure that she was the youngest

to graduate from her college, youngest to be appointed to military intelligence, to central army command, to a highly lucrative Black River private intelligence position in

Afghanistan and the Horn of Africa where, to this day, not even the heads of the seven

directorates within CI knew precisely where she had been posted, whom she commanded,

or what her mission had been.

Now, at last, she was steps away from the apex, the top of the intelligence heap. She’d

successfully leapt all the hurdles, sidestepped every trap, negotiated every maze, learned

who to befriend and who to show her back to. She had endured relentless sexual

innuendo, rumors of conduct unbecoming, stories of her reliance on her male inferiors

who supposedly did her thinking for her. In each case she had triumphed, emphatically

putting a stake through the heart of the lies and, in some instances, taking down their

instigators.

She was, at this stage of her life, a force to be reckoned with, a fact in which she

justifiably reveled. So it was with a light heart that she approached her meeting with the

president. In her briefcase was a thick file detailing the changes she proposed to make in

CI to clean up the unholy mess left behind by Karim al-Jamil and the subsequent murder

of her predecessor. Not surprisingly, CI was in total disarray, morale had never been

lower, and of course there was resentment across the board from the all-male directorate

heads, each of whom felt he should have been elevated to DCI.

The chaos and low morale were about to change, and she had a raft of initiatives to

ensure it. She was absolutely certain that the president would be delighted not only with

her plans but also with the speed with which she would implement them. An intelligence

organization as important and vital as CI could not long endure the despair into which it

had sunk. Only the anti-terrorist black ops, Typhon, brainchild of Martin Lindros, was

running normally, and for that she had its new director, Soraya Moore, to thank. Soraya’s

assumption of command had been seamless. Her operatives loved her, would follow her

into the fires of Hades should she ask it of them. As for the rest of CI, it was for herself to heal, energize, and give a refocused sense of purpose.

She was surprised-perhaps shocked wasn’t too strong a word-to find the Oval Office

occupied not only by the president but also by Luther LaValle, the Pentagon’s

intelligence czar, and his deputy, General Richard P. Kendall. Ignoring the others, she

walked across the plush American blue carpet to shake the president’s hand. She was tall,

long-necked, and slender. Her ash-blond hair was cut in a stylish fashion that fell short of being masculine but lent her a business-like air. She wore a midnight-blue suit, low-heeled pumps, small gold earrings, and a minimum of makeup. Her nails were cut square

across.

“Please have a seat, Veronica,” the president said. “You know Luther LaValle and

General Kendall.”

“Yes.” Veronica inclined her head fractionally. “Gentlemen, a pleasure to see you.”

Though nothing could be farther from the truth.

She hated LaValle. In many ways he was the most dangerous man in American

intelligence, not the least because he was backed by the immensely powerful E. R. “Bud”

Halliday, the secretary of defense. LaValle was a power-hungry egotist who believed that

he and his people should be running American intelligence, period. He fed on war the

way other people fed on meat and potatoes. And though she had never been able to prove

it, she suspected that he was behind several of the more lurid rumors that had circulated

about her. He enjoyed ruining other people’s reputations, savored standing impudently on

the skulls of his enemies.

Ever since Afghanistan and, subsequently, Iraq, LaValle had seized the initiative-under

the typically wide-ranging and murky Pentagon rubric of “preparing the battlefield” for

the troops to come-to expand the purview of the Pentagon’s intelligence-gathering

initiatives until now they encroached uncomfortably on those of CI. It was an open secret

within American intelligence circles that he coveted CI’s operatives and its long-

established international networks. Now, with the Old Man and his anointed successor

dead, it would fit LaValle’s MO to try to make a land grab in the most aggressive manner

possible. This was why his presence and that of his lapdog set off the most serious

warning bells inside Veronica’s mind.

There were three chairs ranged in a rough semicircle in front of the president’s desk.

Two of them were, of course, filled. Veronica took the third chair, acutely aware that she

was flanked by the two men, doubtless by design. She laughed inwardly. If these two

thought to intimidate her by making her feel surrounded, they were sorely mistaken. But

then as the president began to talk she hoped to God her laugh wouldn’t echo hollowly in

her mind an hour from now.

Dominic Specter hurried around the corner as Bourne was locking the door to his

office. The deep frown that creased his high forehead vanished the moment he saw

Bourne.

“David, I’m so glad I caught you before you left!” he said with great enthusiasm. Then,

turning his charm on Bourne’s companion, he added, “And with the magnificent Moira,

no less.” As always the perfect gentleman, he bowed to her in the Old World European

fashion.

He returned his attention to Bourne. He was a short man full of unbridled energy

despite his seventy-odd years. His head seemed perfectly round, surmounted by a halo of

hair that wound from ear to ear. His eyes were dark and inquisitive, his skin a deep

bronze. His generous mouth made him look vaguely and amusingly like a frog about to

spring from one lily pad to another. “A matter of some concern has come up and I need

your opinion.” He smiled. “I see that this evening is out of the question. Would dinner

tomorrow be inconvenient?”

Bourne discerned something behind Specter’s smile that gave him pause; something

was troubling his old mentor. “Why don’t we meet for breakfast?”

“Are you certain I’m not putting you out, David?” But he couldn’t hide the relief that

flooded his face.

“Actually, breakfast is better for me,” Bourne lied, to make things easier for Specter.

“Eight o’clock?”

“Splendid! I look forward to it.” With a nod in Moira’s direction he was off.

“A firecracker,” Moira said. “If only I’d had professors like him.”

Bourne looked at her. “Your college years must’ve been hell.”

She laughed. “Not quite as bad as all that, but then I only had two years of it before I

fled to Berlin.”

“If you’d had professors like Dominic Specter, your experience would have been far

different, believe me.” They sidestepped several knots of students gathered to gossip or to trade questions about their last classes.

They strode along the corridor, out the doors, descended the steps to the quad. He and

Moira walked briskly across campus in the direction of the restaurant where they would

have dinner. Students streamed past them, hurrying down the paths between trees and

lawns. Somewhere a band was playing in the stolid, almost plodding rhythm endemic to

colleges and universities. The sky was steeped in clouds, scudding overhead like clipper

ships on the high seas. A dank winter wind came streaming in off the Potomac.

“There was a time when I was plunged deep in depression. I knew it but I wouldn’t

accept it-you know what I mean. Professor Specter was the one who connected with me,

who was able to crack the shell I was using to protect myself. To this day I have no idea

how he did it or even why he persevered. He said he saw something of himself in me. In

any event, he wanted to help.”

They passed the ivy-covered building where Specter, who was now the president of the

School of International Studies at Georgetown, had his office. Men in tweed coats and

corduroy jackets passed in and out of the doors, frowns of deep concentration on their

faces.

“Professor Specter gave me a job teaching linguistics. It was like a life preserver to a

drowning man. What I needed most then was a sense of order and stability. I honestly

don’t know what would have happened to me if not for him. He alone understood that

immersing myself in language makes me happy. No matter who I’ve been, the one

constant is my proficiency with languages. Learning languages is like learning history

from the inside out. It encompasses the battles of ethnicity, religion, compromise,

politics. So much can be learned from language because it’s been shaped by history.”

By this time they had left campus and were walking down 36th Street, NW, toward

1789, a favorite restaurant of Moira’s, which was housed in a Federal town house. When

they arrived, they were shown to a window table on the second floor in a dim, paneled,

old-fashioned room with candles burning brightly on tables set with fine china and

sparkling stemware. They sat down facing each other and ordered drinks.

Bourne leaned across the table, said in a low voice,”Listen to me, Moira, because I’m

going to tell you something very few people know. The Bourne identity continues to

haunt me. Marie used to worry that the decisions I was forced to make, the actions I had

to take as Jason Bourne would eventually drain me of all feeling, that one day I’d come

back to her and David Webb would be gone for good. I can’t let that happen.”

“Jason, you and I have spent quite a bit of time with each other since we met to scatter

Martin’s ashes. I’ve never seen a hint that you’ve lost any part of your humanity.”

Both sat back, silent as the waiter set the drinks in front of them, handed them menus.

As soon as he left, Bourne said, “That’s reassuring, believe me. In the short time I’ve

known you I’ve come to value your opinions. You’re not like anyone else I’ve ever met.”

Moira took a sip of her drink, set it down, all without taking her eyes from his. “Thank

you. Coming from you that’s quite a compliment, particularly because I know how

special Marie was to you.”

Bourne stared down at his drink.

Moira reached across the starched white linen for his hand. “I’m sorry, now you’re

drifting away.”

He glanced at her hand over his but didn’t pull away. When he looked up, he said, “I

relied on her for many things. But I find now that those things are slipping away from

me.”

“Is that a bad thing, or a good thing?”

“That’s just it,” he said. “I don’t know.”

Moira saw the anguish in his face, and her heart went out to him. It was only months

ago that she’d seen him standing by the parapet in the Cloisters. He was clutching the

bronze urn holding Martin’s ashes as if he never wanted to let it go. She’d known then,

even if Martin hadn’t told her, what they’d meant to each other.

“Martin was your friend,” she said now. “You put yourself in terrible jeopardy to save

him. Don’t tell me you didn’t feel anything for him. Besides, by your own admission,

you’re not Jason Bourne now. You’re David Webb.”

He smiled. “You have me there.”

Her face clouded over. “I want to ask you a question, but I don’t know whether I have

the right.”

At once, he responded to the seriousness of her expression. “Of course you can ask,

Moira. Go on.”

She took a deep breath, let it go. “Jason, I know you’ve said that you’re content at the

university, and if that’s so, fine. But I also know you blame yourself for not being able to save Martin. You must understand, though, if you couldn’t save him, no one could. You

did your best; he knew that, I’m sure. And now I find myself wondering if you believe

you failed him-that you’re not up to being Jason Bourne anymore. I wonder if you’ve

ever considered the idea that you accepted Professor Specter’s offer at the university in

order to turn away from Jason Bourne’s life.”

“Of course I’ve considered it.” After Martin’s death he’d once again decided to turn

his back on Jason Bourne’s life, on the running, the deaths, a river that seemed to have as many bodies as the Ganges. Always, for him, memories lurked. The sad ones he

remembered. The others, the shadowed ones that filled the halls of his mind, seemed to

have shape until he neared them, when they flowed away like a tide at ebb. And what was

left behind were the bleached bones of all those he’d killed or had been killed because of

who he was. But he knew just as surely that as long as he drew breath, the Bourne

identity wouldn’t die.

There was a tormented look in his eyes. “You have to understand how difficult it is

having two personalities, always at war with each other. I wish with every fiber of my

being that I could cut one of them out of me.”

Moira said, “Which one would it be?”

“That’s the damnable part,” Bourne said. “Every time I think I know, I realize that I

don’t.”

Two

LUTHER LAVALLE WAS as telegenic as the president and two-thirds his age. He

had straw-colored hair slicked back like a movie idol of the 1930s or 1940s and restless

hands. By contrast, General Kendall was square-jawed and beady-eyed, the very essence

of a ramrod officer. He was big and beefy; perhaps he’d been a fullback at Wisconsin or

Ohio State. He looked to LaValle the way a running back looks to his quarterback for

instructions.

“Luther,” the president said, “seeing as how you requested this meeting I think it

appropriate that you begin.”

LaValle nodded, as if the president deferring to him was a fait accompli. “After the

recent debacle of CI being infiltrated at its highest level, culminating with the murder of the former DCI, firmer security and controls need to be set in place. Only the Pentagon

can do that.”

Veronica felt compelled to jump in before LaValle got too much of a head start. “I beg

to differ, sir,” she said, aiming her remarks at the president. “Human intelligence

gathering has always been the province of CI. Our on-the-ground networks are

unparalleled, as are our armies of contacts, who have been cultivated for decades. The

Pentagon’s expertise has always been in electronic surveillance. The two are separate,

requiring altogether different methodologies and mind-sets.”

LaValle smiled as winningly as he did when appearing on Fox TV or Larry King Live.

“I’d be remiss if I didn’t point out that the landscape of intelligence has changed radically since 2001. We’re at war. In my opinion this state of affairs is likely to last indefinitely, which is why the Pentagon has recently expanded its field of expertise, creating teams of

clandestine DIA personnel and special-ops forces who are conducting successful

counterintelligence ops in Iraq and Afghanistan.”

“With all due respect, Mr. LaValle and his military machine are eager to fill any

perceived vacuum or create one, if necessary. Mr. LaValle and General Kendall need us

to believe that we’re in a perpetual state of war whether or not it’s the truth.” From her

briefcase Veronica produced a file, which she opened and read from. “As this evidence

makes clear, they have systematically directed the expansion of their human intelligence-

gathering squads, outside of Afghanistan and Iraq, into other territories-CI’s territories-

often with disastrous results. They’ve corrupted informers and, in at least one instance,

they’ve jeopardized an ongoing CI deep-cover operation.”

After the president glanced at the pages Veronica handed him, he said, “While this is

compelling, Veronica, Congress seems to be on Luther’s side. It has provided him with

twenty-five million dollars a year to pay informants on the ground and to recruit

mercenaries.”

“That’s part of the problem, not the solution,” Veronica said emphatically. “Theirs is a

failed methodology, the same one they’ve used all the way back to the OSS in Berlin

after World War Two. Our paid informants have had a history of turning on us-working

for the other side, feeding us disinformation. As for the mercenaries we recruited-like the Taliban or various other Muslim insurgent groups-they, to a man, eventually turned

against us to become our implacable enemies.”

“She’s got a point,” the president said.

“The past is the past,” General Kendall said angrily. His face had been darkening with

every word Veronica had said. “There’s no evidence whatsoever that either our new

informants or our mercenaries, both of which are vital to our victory in the Middle East,

would ever turn on us. On the contrary, the intel they’ve provided has been of great help

to our men on the field of battle.”

“Mercenaries, by definition, owe their allegiance to whoever pays them the most,”

Veronica said. “Centuries of history from Roman times forward have proved this point

over and over.”

“All this back-and-forth is of little moment.” LaValle shifted in his seat uncomfortably.

Clearly he hadn’t counted on such a spirited defense. Kendall handed him a dossier,

which he presented to the president. “General Kendall and I have spent the better part of

two weeks putting together this proposal for how to restructure CI going forward. The

Pentagon is prepared to implement this plan the moment we get your approval, Mr.

President.”

To Veronica’s horror, the president looked over the proposal, then turned it over to her.

“What do you say to this?”

Veronica felt suffused with rage. She was already being undermined. On the other

hand, she observed, this was a good object lesson for her. Trust no one, not even seeming

allies. Up until this moment she’d thought she had the full support of the president. The