Текст книги "The Bourne Sanction (Санкция Борна)"

Автор книги: Eric Van Lustbader

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elaborate scheme that had cost a number of lives. Could the professor be guilty of such an

irrational act? If he was the leader of the Black Legion, certainly. The second question

Bourne had been asking himself was why the professor would entrust the stolen plans to

Pyotr’s thoroughly undependable network. But there was another enigma: If the professor

was Sever, why was he so anxious to get those plans? Wouldn’t he already have them?

These two questions went around and around in Bourne’s head without producing a

satisfactory solution. Nothing about the situation he found himself in appeared to make

sense, which meant that a vital part of the picture was missing. And yet he had the

nagging suspicion that, like Egon Kirsch’s drawings, he was being shown two separate

realities-if only he could decipher which was real and which one was false.

At length, he turned his mind to something that had been bothering him ever since the

incident at the Egyptian Museum. He knew that Franz Jens had been the only one to

follow him into the museum, so how on earth did Arkadin know where he was? Arkadin

had to have been the one to kill Jens. He also must have given the order to kill Egon

Kirsch, but, again, how did he know where Kirsch was?

The answers to both questions were firmly rooted in time and place. He hadn’t been

tailed to the museum, then… As a chill spread through him, Bourne went very still. With

no physical tail, there had to be an electronic tail somewhere on his person. But how had

it been put there? Someone could have brushed up against him in the airport. He rose,

slowly undressed. As he did so, he went through every item of clothing, looking for an

electronic tag. Finding nothing, he dressed, sat again in the chair, deep in thought.

With his eidetic memory, he went through every step of his journey from Moscow to

Munich. When he recalled the German Immigration officer, he realized that his passport

had been out of his possession for close to half a minute. Taking it out of his breast

pocket, he began to leaf through it, checking each page both by sight and by touch. On

the inside of the back cover, stuck in the fold of the binding, he found the tiny transmitter.

Thirty-Seven

HOW WONDERFUL it is to breathe the good night air,” Veronica Hart said as she

stood on the pavement just outside the Pentagon.

“Diesel fumes and all,” Stu Gold said.

“I knew LaValle’s charges wouldn’t stick,” she said as they crossed to his car.

“They’re patently trumped up.”

“I wouldn’t begin celebrating just yet,” the attorney said. “LaValle’s put me on notice

that he’s going to take those surveillance photos of you and Bourne to the president

tomorrow for an executive order to have you removed.”

“Come on, Stu, those were private conversations between Martin Lindros and a

civilian, Moira Trevor. There’s nothing in them. LaValle’s banking on hot air.”

“He’s got the secretary of defense,” Gold said. “Under the circumstances that alone is

enough to make trouble for you.”

The wind was whipping up and Hart caught her hair, pushed it off her face. “Coming

into CI and marching me out in cuffs… LaValle made a big mistake grandstanding like

that.” She turned, looked back at the headquarters of the NSA in which she’d been

incarcerated for three hours until the moment Gold showed up with his order from a

federal judge for her temporary release. “He’ll pay for humiliating me.”

“Veronica, don’t do anything rash.” Gold opened the car door, ushered her inside.

“Knowing LaValle as I do it’s more than likely that he wants you to go off half-cocked.

That’s how fatal mistakes are made.”

He went around the front of the car, got behind the wheel, and they drove off.

“We can’t let him get away with this, Stu. Unless we stop him he’s going to hijack CI

right out from under us.” She watched the Virginia night turn into the district night as

they crossed the Arlington Memorial Bridge. The Lincoln Memorial rose up before them.

“I made a pledge when I signed on.”

“Like all DCIs.”

“No, I’m talking about a personal pledge.” She very much wanted to see Lincoln

sitting on his chair, contemplating all the unknowns that lay before every human being.

She asked Gold to make a stop there. “I never told anyone this, Stu, but the day I

officially became DCI I went to the Old Man’s grave. Have you ever been to the

Arlington National Cemetery? It’s a sobering place, but in its own way a joyous place as

well. So many heroes, so much courage, the bedrock of our freedom, Stu, every one of

us.”

They’d come to the memorial. They both got out, walked up to the majestic floodlit

granite statue, stood gazing up into Lincoln’s stern, wise face. Someone had left a

bouquet of flowers at his feet, withered heads nodding in the wind.

“I stayed at the Old Man’s grave for a long time,” Hart continued in a faraway voice.

“I swear I could feel him, I swear I felt something stir against me, then inside me.” Her

gaze swung around to fix on the attorney. “There’s a long, exemplary legacy at CI, Stu. I

swore then, and I’m swearing now, that I won’t let anything or anyone damage that

legacy.” She took a breath. “So whatever it takes.”

Gold returned her stare without flinching. “Do you know what you’re asking?”

“Yes, I believe I do.”

At last, he said, “All right, Veronica, it’s your call. Whatever it takes.”

Feeling invigorated and invulnerable after his workout, Rodney Feir met General

Kendall in the champagne room, reserved for those VIPs who had consummated the

evening’s pleasures and wanted to linger, with or without their girls. Of course time spent in there was far more expensive with the girls than without.

The champagne room was decorated like a Middle Eastern pasha’s den. The two men

lazed on voluminous pillows while being served the bubbly of their choice. This was

where Feir planned to hand over the intel on Typhon’s field agents. But first he wanted to

luxuriate in the pure pleasure provided in the back rooms of The Glass Slipper. After all,

the moment he set foot outside, the real world would come crashing in on him with all its

annoyances, petty humiliations, drudgery, and the piquancy of fear that preceded every

move he made to advance LaValle’s position vis-а-vis CI.

Kendall, his cell phone at his right hand, sat rather stiffly, as befitted a military man.

Feir thought he must be slightly uncomfortable in such lush surroundings. The men

chatted for a time, sipping their champagne, exchanging theories about steroids and

baseball, about the chances of the Redskins making the play-offs next year, the gyrations

of the stock market, anything but politics.

After a time, when the bottle of champagne was nearly exhausted, Kendall looked at

his watch. “What d’you have for me?”

This was the moment Feir had been keenly anticipating. He couldn’t wait to see the

look on the general’s face when he caught a glimpse of the intel. Reaching into the

pocket in the lining of his coat, he brought out the packet. A low-tech hard copy was the

safest way to smuggle data out of the CI building, since security systems were in place to

monitor the comings and goings of any device with a hard drive large enough to hold

substantial data files.

A smile broke out across Feir’s face. “The whole enchilada. Every last detail on the

Typhon agents across the globe.” He held up the packet. “Now let’s talk about what I get

in return.”

“What do you want?” Kendall said without much enthusiasm. “A higher grade? More

control?”

“I want respect,” Feir said. “I want LaValle to respect me the way you do.”

A curious smile curled the general’s lips. “I can’t speak for Luther, but I’ll see what I

can do.”

As he leaned forward to take the intel, Feir was wondering why he was so solemn-no,

worse than solemn, he was downright glum. Feir was on the point of asking him about it

when a tall, elegant black woman began snapping a series of photos.

“What the hell?” he said, through the blinding string of flashes.

When his vision cleared, he saw Soraya Moore standing beside them. She had the

packet of intel in her hand.

“This isn’t a good night for you, Rodney.” She picked up the general’s cell phone,

thumbed it on, and there was the conversation between the general and Feir recorded and

regurgitated so everyone could hear his treachery for themselves. “No, I would have to

say that all things considered it’s the end of the line.”

I’m not afraid to die,” Devra said, “if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I’m not worried,” Arkadin said. “What makes you think I’m worried?”

She bit into the chocolate ice cream he’d bought her. “You’ve got that deep vertical

indentation between your eyes.”

She wanted ice cream even though it was the middle of winter. Maybe it was the

chocolate she wanted, he thought. Not that it mattered; pleasing her in little ways was

strangely satisfying-as if in pleasing her he was also pleasing himself, although that

seemed like an impossibility to him.

“I’m not worried,” he said. “I’m thoroughly pissed off.”

“Because your boss told you to stay away from Bourne.”

“I’m not going to stay away from Bourne.”

“You’ll piss off your boss.”

“There comes a time,” Arkadin said, walking faster.

They were in the center of Munich; he wanted to be in a central location when Icoupov

told him where he was meeting Bourne in order to get there as quickly as possible.

“I’m not afraid to die,” Devra repeated, “the only thing is, though, what do you do

when you no longer have memories?”

Arkadin shot her a look. “What?”

“When you look at a dead person what do you see?” She took another bite of ice cream

between her teeth, leaving little indentations in what was left of the scoop. “Nothing,

right? Not a damn thing. Life has flown the coop, and with it all the memories that have

been built up over the years.” She looked at him. “At that moment, you cease to be

human, so what are you?”

“Who gives a shit?” Arkadin said. “It’ll be a fucking relief to be without memories.”

Soraya presented herself at the NSA safe house just before 10 AM, so that by the time

she cleared the various levels of security, she was being ushered into the Library

precisely on time.

“Breakfast, madam?” Willard asked as he escorted her across the plush carpet.

“I believe I will, today,” she said. “A fines herbes omelet would be nice. Do you have

a baguette?”

“We do, indeed, madam.”

“Fine.” She shifted the evidence damning General Kendall from one hand to the other.

“And a pot of Ceylon tea, Willard. Thank you.”

She walked the rest of the way to where Luther LaValle sat, drinking his morning cup

of coffee. He stared out the window, casting a jaundiced eye on the early spring. It was so warm the fireplace held only cold, white ash.

He did not turn when she sat down. She placed the evidence file on her lap, then said

without preamble, “I’ve come to take Tyrone home.”

LaValle ignored her. “There’s nothing on your Black Legion; there’s no unusual

terrorist activities inside the US. We’ve come up blank.”

“Did you hear what I said? I’ve come for Tyrone.”

“That’s not going to happen,” LaValle said.

Soraya brought out Kendall’s cell phone, played back the conversation he’d had with

Rodney Feir in the champagne room of The Glass Slipper.

“Every last detail on the Typhon agents across the globe,” came Feir’s voice. “Now

let’s talk about what I get in return.”

General Kendall: “What do you want? A higher grade? More control?”

Feir: “I want respect. I want LaValle to respect me the way you do.”

“Who cares?” LaValle’s head swung around. His eyes were dark and glassy. “That’s

Feir’s problem, not mine.”

“Maybe so.” Soraya slid the file across the table toward him. “However, this is very

much your problem.”

LaValle stared at her for a moment. His eyes were now full of venom. Without

lowering his gaze, he reached out, flipped open the file. There he saw photo after photo

of General Kendall, naked as sin, caught in the midst of having intercourse with a young

black woman.

“How is that going to look for the career officer and devout Christian family man when

the story comes out?”

Willard arrived with her breakfast, snapping down a starched white tablecloth, setting

the china and silverware in a precise pattern in front of her. When he was finished, he

turned to LaValle. “Anything for you, sir?”

LaValle shooed him away with a curt flick of his hand. For a time, he did nothing more

than leaf through the photos again. Then he took out a cell phone, placed it on the table,

and pushed it toward her.

“Call Bourne,” he said.

Soraya froze with a forkful of omelet halfway to her mouth. “I beg your pardon?”

“I know he’s in Munich, our substation there picked him up on their CCTV monitoring

of the airport. I have men in place to take him into custody. All that’s needed now is for

you to set the trap.”

She laughed as she set down her fork. “You’re dreaming, LaValle. I have you, not the

other way around. If these photos become public, your right-hand man will be ruined

both professionally and personally. You and I both know you’re not going to allow that to

happen.”

LaValle gathered up the photos, slid them back into the envelope. Then he took out a

pen, wrote a name and address on the front of the envelope. When Willard glided over at

his beckoning, LaValle said, “Please have these scanned and sent electronically to The

Drudge Report. Then have a courier deliver them to The Washington Post as soon as

possible.”

“Very good, sir.” Willard tucked the envelope under his arm, vanished into another

part of the Library.

Then LaValle took out his cell phone, dialed a local number. “Gus, this is Luther

LaValle. Fine, fine. How’s Ginnie? Good, give her my love. The kids, as well… Listen,

Gus, I have a situation here. Evidence has come to light regarding General Kendall, that’s

right, he’s been the target of an internal investigation for some months now. Effective

immediately, he’s been terminated from my command, from the NSA in toto. Well,

you’ll see, I’m having the photos messengered over to you even as we speak. Of course

it’s an exclusive, Gus. Frankly, I’m shocked, truly shocked. You will be, too, when you

see these photos… I’ll have an official statement over to you within forty minutes. Yes,

of course. No need to thank me, Gus, I always think of you first.”

Soraya watched this performance with a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach that grew

from an icy ball into an iceberg of disbelief.

“How could you?” she said when LaValle finished his call. “Kendall’s your second in

command, your friend. You and he go to church together with your families every

Sunday.”

“I have no permanent friends or allies; I only have permanent interests,” LaValle said

flatly. “You’ll be a damn sight better director when you learn that.”

She then drew out another set of photos, this one showing Feir handing a packet to

General Kendall. “That packet,” she said, “details the number and locations of Typhon

field personnel.”

LaValle’s disdainful expression didn’t change. “What’s that to me?”

For the second time, Soraya struggled to hide her astonishment. “That’s your second in

command taking possession of classified CI intel.”

“On that score you should see to your own people.”

“Are you denying that you gave General Kendall orders to cultivate Rodney Feir as a

mole?”

“Yes, I am.”

Soraya was almost breathless. “I don’t believe you.”

LaValle produced an icy smile. “I doesn’t matter what you believe, Director. Only the

facts matter.” He flicked the photo away with his fingernail. “Whatever General Kendall

did, he did on his own. I have no knowledge of it.”

Soraya was wondering how everything could have gone so wrong, when, once again,

LaValle pushed the phone across the table.

“Now call Bourne.”

She felt as if there were a steel band around her chest; the blood was singing in her

ears. Now what? she said to herself. Dear God, what can I do?

She heard someone with her voice say, “What should I tell him?”

LaValle produced a slip of paper with a time and an address on it. “He needs to go

here, at this time. Tell him that you’re in Munich, that you have information vital to the

Black Legion’s attack, that he has to see it for himself.”

Soraya’s hand was so slick with sweat, she wiped it on her napkin. “He’ll be

suspicious if I don’t call him on my own phone. In fact, he might not answer if I don’t,

because he won’t know it’s me.”

LaValle nodded, but when she produced her phone, he said, “I’m going to listen to

every word you say. If you try to warn him I promise your friend Tyrone will never leave

this building alive. Clear?”

She nodded, but did nothing.

Observing her like a frog split open on a dissecting table, LaValle said, “I know you

don’t want to do this, Director. I know how badly you don’t want to do this. But you will

call Bourne and you will set the trap for me, because I’m stronger than you are. By that I

mean my will. I get what I want, Director, at any cost, but not you-you care too much to

have a long career in intelligence work. You’re doomed and you know it.”

Soraya had stopped listening to him after the first few words. Acutely aware that she

had vowed to take control of the situation, to somehow turn disaster into victory, she was

furiously marshaling her forces. One step at a time, she told herself now. I have to clear

my mind of Tyrone, of the failed ploy with Kendall, of my own guilt. I have to think of this call now; how am I going to make the call and keep Jason from being captured?

It seemed an impossible task, but that kind of thinking was defeatist, totally unhelpful.

Still-what was she to do?

“After your call,” LaValle said, “you’ll stay here, under constant surveillance, until

after Bourne is taken into custody.”

Uncomfortably aware of his avid eyes on her, she flipped open her phone, and called

Jason.

When she heard his voice, she said, “Hi, it’s me, Soraya.”

Bourne was standing in Egon Kirsch’s apartment, staring down at the street when his

cell phone rang. He saw Soraya’s number come up on the screen, answered the call, and

heard her say, “Hi, it’s me, Soraya.”

“Where are you?”

“Actually, I’m in Munich.”

He perched on the arm of an upholstered chair. “Actually? In Munich?”

“That’s what I said.”

He frowned, hearing echoes in his head from far away. “I’m surprised.”

“Not as much as I am. You came up on the CI surveillance grid at the airport.”

“There was no help for it.”

“I’m sure not. Anyway, I’m not over here on official CI business. We’ve been

continuing to monitor the Black Legion communications, and at last we got a

breakthrough.”

He stood up. “What is it?”

“The phone’s too insecure,” she said. “We should meet.” She told him the place and

the time.

Glancing at his watch, he said, “That’s a little over an hour from now.”

“Right as rain. I can make it. Can you?”

“I think I can manage,” he said. “See you.”

He disconnected, went over to the window, leaned on the sash, replaying the

conversation word by word in his mind.

He felt the jolt of a dislocation, as if he had moved outside his body, experiencing

something that had happened to someone else. His mind, recording a seismic shift in its

neurons, was struggling with a memory. Bourne knew he’d had this conversation before,

but for the life of him he couldn’t remember where or when, or what significance it might

have for him now.

He would have continued on with his fruitless search had not the downstairs bell rang.

Turning from the window, he went across the living room, pressed the button that

released the outer door’s lock. The time had finally come when he and Arkadin would

meet face-to-face-the assassin of legend, who specialized in killing killers, who had

slipped in and out of a Russian high-security prison without anyone being the wiser, who

had managed to eliminate Pyotr and his entire network.

There was a knock on the door. He kept away from the spy hole, kept away from the

door itself, unlatching it from the side. There was no gunshot, no splintering of the wood

and metal. Instead the door opened inward and a dapper man with dark skin and a spade-

shaped beard stepped into the apartment.

Bourne said, “Turn around slowly.”

The man, hands where Bourne could see them, turned to face him. It was Semion

Icoupov.

“Bourne,” he said.

Bourne produced his passport, opened it to the inside cover.

Icoupov nodded. “I see. Is this where you kill me at the behest of Dominic Specter?”

“You mean Asher Sever.”

“Oh, dear,” Icoupov said, “there goes my surprise.” He smiled. “I confess I’m shocked.

Nevertheless, I congratulate you, Mr. Bourne. You’ve come by knowledge no one else

has. By what means is a complete mystery.”

“Let’s keep it that way,” Bourne said.

“No matter. What’s important is that I don’t have to waste time trying to convince you

that Sever has played you. Since you’ve already uncovered his lies, we can move on to

the next stage.”

“What makes you think I’m going to listen to anything you have to say?”

“If you’ve discovered Sever’s lies, then you know the recent history of the Black

Legion, you know we were once like brothers, you know how deep the enmity between

us runs. We are enemies, Sever and I. There can be only one outcome to our war, you

understand me?”

Bourne said nothing.

“I want to help you stop his people from attacking your country, is that clear enough?”

He shrugged. “Yes, of course you’re right to be skeptical, I would be if I was in your

place.” He moved his left hand very slowly to the edge of his overcoat, pulled it back to

reveal the lining. There was something sticking out of the slit pocket. “Perhaps before

anything untoward happens, you should take a look at what I have here.”

Bourne leaned in, took the SIG Sauer Icoupov had holstered at his belt. Then he pulled

the packet free.

As he was opening it up, Icoupov said, “I went to a great deal of trouble to steal those

from my nemesis.”

Bourne found himself looking over the architectural plans for the Empire State

Building. When he glanced up, he found Icoupov watching him intently. “This is what

the Black Legion means to attack. Do you know when?”

“Indeed, I do.” Icoupov glanced at his watch. “Precisely thirty-three hours, twenty-six

minutes from now.”

Thirty-Eight

VERONICA HART was looking at The Drudge Report when Stu Gold escorted

General Kendall into her office. She was sitting in front of her desk, the monitor turned

toward the door so Kendall could get a clear view of the photos of him and the woman

from The Glass Slipper.

“That’s just one site,” she said, waving them to three chairs that had been arranged

opposite her. “There are so many others.” When her guests were seated, she addressed

Kendall. “Whatever is your family going to say, General? Your minister, and the

congregation?” Her expression remained neutral; she was careful to keep the gloat out of

her voice. “I understand that a goodly number of them aren’t fond of African Americans,

even as maids and nannies. They prefer the Eastern Europeans-young blond Polish and

Russian women. Isn’t that right?”

Kendall said nothing, sat with his back ramrod-straight, his hands clasped primly

between his knees, as if he were at a court-martial.

Hart wished Soraya were here, but she hadn’t returned from the NSA safe house,

which was worrying enough; she wasn’t answering her cell, either.

“I’ve suggested that the best thing he can do now is to help us tie LaValle in to the plot

to steal CI secrets,” Gold said.

Now Hart smiled rather sweetly at Kendall. “And what do you think of that suggestion,

General?”

“Recruiting Rodney Feir was entirely my idea,” Kendall said woodenly.

Hart sat forward. “You want us to believe you’d embark on such a risky course without

informing your superior?”

“After the fiasco with Batt, I had to do something to prove my worth. I felt I had the

best chance romancing Feir.”

“This is getting us nowhere,” Hart said.

Gold stood up. “I agree. The general has made up his mind to fall on his sword for the

man who sold him down the river.” He moved to the door. “I’m not sure how that

computes, but it takes all kinds.”

“Is that it?” Kendall looked straight ahead. “Are you done with me?”

“We are,” Hart said, “but Rob Batt isn’t.”

Batt’s name got a reaction out of the general. “Batt? What does he have to do with

anything? He’s out of the picture.”

“I don’t think so.” Hart got up, stood behind his chair. “Batt’s had you under

surveillance from the moment you ruined his life. Those photos of you and Feir going in

and out of the health club, the barbecue joint, and The Glass Slipper were taken by him.”

“But that’s not all he has.” Gold lifted his briefcase meaningfully.

“So,” Hart said, “I’m afraid your stay at CI will continue awhile longer.”

“How much longer?”

“What do you care?” Hart said. “You no longer have a life to go back to.”

While Kendall remained with two armed agents, Hart and Gold went next door, where

Rodney Feir was sitting, guarded by another pair of agents.

“Is the general having fun yet?” Feir said as they took seats facing him. “This is a

black day for him.” He chuckled at his own joke, but no one else did.

“Do you have any idea how serious your situation is?” Gold said.

Feir smiled. “I do believe I have a handle on the situation.”

Gold and Hart exchanged a glance; neither could understand Feir’s lighthearted

attitude.

Gold said, “You’re going to jail for a very long time, Mr. Feir.”

Feir crossed one leg over the other. “I think not.”

“You think wrong,” Gold said.

“Rodney, we have you stealing Typhon secrets and handing them over to a ranking

member of a rival intelligence organization.”

“Please!” Feir said. “I’m fully aware of what I did and that you caught me at it. What

I’m saying is none of that matters.” He continued to look like the Cheshire Cat, as if he

held a royal flush to their four aces.

“Explain yourself,” Gold said curtly.

“I fucked up,” Feir said. “But I’m not sorry for what I did, only that I got caught.”

“That attitude will certainly help your case,” Hart said caustically. She was done being

manhandled by Luther LaValle and his cohorts.

“I’m not, by nature, prone to being contrite, Director. But like your evidence, my

attitude is of no import. I mean to say, if I were contrite like Rob Batt, would it make any difference to you?” He shook his head. “So let’s not bullshit each other. What I did, how

I feel about it is in the past. Let’s talk about the future.”

“You have no future,” Hart said tartly.

“That remains to be seen.” Feir kept his maddening smile trained on her. “What I’m

proposing is a barter.”

Gold was incredulous. “You want to make a deal?”

“Let’s call it a fair exchange,” Feir said. “You drop all charges against me, give me a

generous severance package and a letter of recommendation I can take into the private

sector.”

“Anything else?” Hart said. “How about a summer house on the Chesapeake and a

yacht to go with it?”

“A generous offer,” Feir said with a perfectly straight face, “but I’m not a pig,

Director.”

Gold rose. “This is intolerable behavior.”

Feir eyed him. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist, counselor. You haven’t heard my

side of the exchange.”

“Not interested.” Gold signaled the two agents. “Take him back down to the holding

cell.”

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” Feir didn’t struggle as the agents grabbed hold of

either arm and hauled him to his feet. He turned to Hart. “Director, did you ever wonder

why Luther LaValle didn’t try a run at CI while the Old Man was alive?”

“I didn’t have to; I know. The Old Man was too powerful, too well connected.”

“True enough, but there’s another, more specific reason.” Feir looked from one agent

to the other.

Hart wanted to wring his neck. “Let him go,” she said.

Gold stepped forward. “Director, I strongly recommend-”

“No harm in hearing the man out, Stu.” Hart nodded. “Go ahead, Rodney. You have

one minute.”

“The fact is LaValle tried several times to make a run at CI while the Old Man was in

charge. He failed every time, and do you know why?” Feir looked from one to the other,

the Cheshire Cat grin back on his face. “Because for years the Old Man has had a deep-

cover mole inside the NSA.”

Hart goggled at him. “What?”

“This is bullshit,” Gold said. “He’s blowing smoke up our ass.”

“Good guess, counselor, but wrong. I know the identity of the mole.”

“How on earth would you know that, Rodney?”

Feir laughed. “Sometimes-not very often, I admit-it pays to be CI’s chief file clerk.”

“That’s hardly what you-”

“That’s precisely what I am, Director.” A storm cloud of deep-seated anger

momentarily shook him. “No fancy title can obscure the fact.” He waved a hand, his flash

of rage quickly banked to embers. “But no matter, the point is I see things in CI no one

else does. The Old Man had contingencies in place should he be killed, but you know this

better than I do, counselor, don’t you?”

Gold turned to Hart. “The Old Man left a number of sealed envelopes addressed to

different directors in the event of his sudden demise.”

“One of those envelopes,” Feir said, “the one with the identity of the mole inside NSA,

was sent to Rob Batt, which made sense at the time, since Batt was chief of operations.

But it never got to Batt, I saw to that.”

“You-” Hart was so enraged that she could barely speak.

“I could say that I’d already begun to suspect that Batt was working for the NSA,” Feir

said, “but that would be a lie.”

“So you held on to it, even after I was appointed.”

“Leverage, Director. I figured that sooner or later I’d need my Get Out of Jail Free

card.”

There was the smile that made Hart want to bury her fist in his face. With an effort, she

restrained herself. “And meanwhile, you let LaValle trample all over us. Because of you I

was led out of my office in handcuffs, because of you the Old Man’s legacy is a hair’s

breadth from being buried.”

“Yeah, well, these things happen. What can you do?”

“I’ll tell you what I can do,” Hart said, signaling the agents, who grabbed Feir again. “I

can tell you to go to hell. I can tell you that you’ll spend the rest of your life in jail.”

Even then, Feir appeared unfazed. “I said I knew who the mole is, Director.

Furthermore-and I believe this will be of especial interest you-I know where he’s