Текст книги "The Bourne Sanction (Санкция Борна)"

Автор книги: Eric Van Lustbader

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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 29 страниц)

A welter of voices as pedestrians surrounded him, trying to help him out from under

the bicycle. Bourne thanked them as he scrambled to his feet. He ran several hundred

yards down the avenue, but as he feared the GMC was long gone.

Expelling a string of bawdily colorful curses, Arkadin rummaged through the pockets

of Oleg Ivanovich Shumenko, who lay twitching in the bloodstained catwalk deep inside

the Sevastopol Winery. As he did so, he wondered how he could have been such a fool.

He’d done precisely what Shumenko had wanted him to do, which was to kill him. He’d

rather have died than divulge the name of the next man in Pyotr Zilber’s network.

Still, there was a chance that something he had on his person would lead Arkadin

farther along. Arkadin had already made a small pile of coins, bills, toothpicks, and the

like. He unfolded each scrap of paper he came across, but none of them contained either a

name or an address, just lists of chemicals, presumably those the winery required for

fermentation or the periodic cleaning of its vats.

Shumenko’s wallet was a sad affair-sliver-thin, containing a faded photo of an older

couple smiling into the sun and the camera Arkadin took to be Shumenko’s parents, a

condom in a worn foil pouch, a driver’s license, car registration, ID badge for a sailing

club, an IOU chit for ten thousand hryvnia-just under two thousand American dollars-two

receipts, one for a restaurant, the other for a nightclub, an old photo of a young girl

smiling into the camera.

In pocketing the receipts, the only reasonable leads he’d found, he inadvertently

flipped over the IOU. On the reverse was the name DEVRA, written in a sharp, spiky

feminine hand. Arkadin wanted to look for more, but he heard an electronic squawk, then

the bawl of Yetnikova’s voice. He looked around, saw an old-fashioned walkie-talkie

hanging by its strap from the railing. Stuffing the papers into his pocket, he hurried along the catwalk, slid down the ladder, made his way out of the champagne fermentation

room.

Shumenko’s boss, Yetnikova, marched toward him down the labyrinthine corridors as

if she were in the forefront of the Red Army entering Warsaw. Even at this distance, he

could see the scowl on her face. Unlike his Russian credentials, his Ukrainian ones were

paper-thin. They’d pass a cursory test, but after any kind of checking he’d be busted.

“I called the SBU office in Kiev. They did some digging on you, Colonel.”

Yetnikova’s voice had turned from servile to hostile. “Or whoever you are.” She puffed

herself up like a porcupine about to do battle. “They never heard of-”

She gave a little squeak as he jammed one hand over her mouth while he punched her

hard in the solar plexus. She collapsed into his arms like a rag doll, and he dragged her

along the corridor until he came to the utility closet. Opening the door, he shoved her in, went in after her.

Sprawled on the floor, Yetnikova slowly came to her senses. Immediately she began

her bluster-cursing and promising dire consequences for the outrages perpetrated on her

person. Arkadin didn’t hear her; he didn’t even see her. He attempted to block out the

past, but as always the memories flattened him. They took possession of him, taking him

out of himself, producing like a drug a dream-like state that over the years had become as

familiar as a twin brother.

Kneeling over Yetnikova, he dodged her kicks, the snapping of her jaws. He withdrew

a switchblade from a sheath strapped to the side of his right calf. When he snikked open

its long, thin blade, fear finally twisted Yetnikova’s face. Her eyes opened wide and she

gasped, raising her hands instinctively.

“Why are you doing this?” she cried. “Why?”

“Because of what you’ve done.”

“What? What did I do? I don’t even know you!”

“But I know you.” Slapping her hands aside, Arkadin went to work on her.

When, moments later, he was done, his vision came back into focus. He took a long,

shuddering breath as if shaking off the effects of an anesthetic. He stared down at the

headless corpse. Then, remembering, he kicked the head into a corner filled with filthy

rags. For a moment, it rocked like a ship on the ocean. The eyes seemed to him gray with

age, but they were only filmed with dust, and the release he sought eluded him once

again.

Who were they?” Moira asked.

“That’s the difficulty,” Bourne told her. “I wasn’t able to find out. It would help if you

could tell me why they’re following you.”

Moira frowned. “I have to assume it has something to do with the security on the LNG

terminal.”

They were sitting side by side in Moira’s living room, a small, cozy space in a

Georgetown town house of red-brown brick on Cambridge Place, NW, near Dumbarton

Oaks. A fire was crackling and licking in the brick hearth; espresso and brandy sat on the

coffee table in front of them. The chenille-covered sofa was deep enough for Moira to

curl up on. It had big roll arms and a neck-high back.

“One thing I can tell you,” Bourne said, “these people are professionals.”

“Makes sense,” she said. “Any rival of my firm would hire the best people available.

That doesn’t necessarily mean I’m in any danger.”

Nevertheless, Bourne felt another sharp pang at the loss of Marie, then carefully,

almost reverently, put the feeling aside.

“More espresso?” Moira asked.

“Please.”

Bourne handed her his cup. As she bent forward, the light V-neck sweater revealed the

tops of her firm breasts. At that moment, she raised her gaze to his. There was a

mischievous glint in her eyes.

“What are you thinking about?”

“Probably the same thing you are.” He rose, looked around for his coat. “I think I’d

better go.”

“Jason…”

He paused. Lamplight gave her face a golden glow. “Don’t,” she said. “Stay. Please.”

He shook his head. “You and I both know that’s not a good idea.”

“Just for tonight. I don’t want to be alone, not after what you discovered.” She gave a

little shiver. “I was being brave before, but I’m not you. Being followed gives me the

willies.”

She offered the cup of espresso. “If it makes you feel any better, I’d prefer you sleep

out here. This sofa’s quite comfortable.”

Bourne looked around at the warm chestnut walls, the dark wooden blinds, the jewel-

toned accents here and there in the form of vases and bowls of flowers. An agate box

with gold legs sat on a mahogany sideboard. A small brass ship’s clock ticked away

beside it. The photos of the French countryside in summer and autumn made him feel

both mournful and nostalgic. For precisely what, he couldn’t say. Though his mind fished

for memories, none surfaced. His past was a lake of black ice. “Yes, it is.” He took the

cup, sat down beside her.

She pulled a pillow against her breast. “Shall we talk about what we’ve been avoiding

saying all evening?”

“I’m not big on talking.”

Her wide lips curved in a smile. “Which one of you isn’t big on talking, David Webb

or Jason Bourne?”

Bourne laughed, sipped his espresso. “What if I said both of us?”

“I’d have to call you a liar.”

“We can’t have that, can we?”

“It wouldn’t be my choice.” She rested one cheek on her hand, waiting. When he said

nothing further, she continued. “Please, Jason. Just talk to me.”

The old fear of getting close to someone reared its head again, but at the same time he

felt a kind of melting inside him, as if his frozen heart were beginning to thaw. For some

years, he’d made it an ironclad rule to keep his distance from other people. Alex Conklin

had been murdered, Marie had died, Martin Lindros hadn’t made it out of Miran Shah.

All gone, his only friends and first love. With a start, he realized that he hadn’t felt

attracted to anyone except Marie. He hadn’t allowed himself to feel, but now he couldn’t

help himself. Was that a function of the David Webb personality or of Moira herself? She

was strong, self-assured. In her he recognized a kindred spirit, someone who viewed the

world as he did-as an outsider.

He looked into her face, said what was in his mind. “Everyone I get close to dies.”

She sighed, put a hand briefly over his. “I’m not going to die.” Her dark brown eyes

glimmered in the lamplight. “Anyway, it’s not your job to protect me.”

This was another reason he was drawn to her. She was fierce, a warrior, in her own

way.

“Tell me the truth, then. Are you really happy at the university?”

Bourne thought a moment, the conflict inside him becoming an unholy din. “I think I

am.” After a slight pause, he added: “I thought I was.”

There’d been a golden glow to his life with Marie, but Marie was gone, that life was in

the past. With her gone, he was forced to confront the terrifying question: What was

David Webb without her? He was no longer a family man. He’d been able to raise his

children, he saw now, only with her love and help. And for the first time he realized what

his retreat into the university really meant. He’d been trying to regain that golden life

he’d had with Marie. It wasn’t only Professor Specter he didn’t want to disappoint, it was

Marie.

“What are you thinking?” Moira said softly.

“Nothing,” he said. “Nothing at all.”

She studied him for a moment. Then she nodded. “All right, then.” She rose, leaned

over, kissed him on the cheek. “I’ll make up the sofa.”

“That’s all right, just tell me where the linen closet is.”

She pointed. “Over there.”

He nodded.

“Good night, Jason.”

“See you in the morning. But early. I’ve got-”

“I know. Breakfast with Dominic Specter.”

Bourne lay on his back, one arm behind his head. He was tired; he was sure he’d fall

asleep immediately. But an hour after he’d turned off the lights, sleep seemed a thousand

miles away. Now and again, the red-and-black remnants of the fire snapped and softly

fell in on themselves. He stared at the stripes of light seeping in through the wide wooden blinds, hoping they’d take him to far-off places, which, in his case, meant his past. In

some ways he was like an amputee who still felt his arm even though it had been sawed

off. The sense of memories just beyond his ability to recall was maddening, an itch he

couldn’t scratch. He often wished he would remember nothing at all, which was one

reason Moira’s offer was so compelling. The thought of starting fresh, without the

baggage of sadness and loss, was a powerful draw. This conflict was always with him, a

major part of his life, whether he was David Webb or Jason Bourne. And yet, whether he

liked it or not, his past was there, waiting for him like a wolf at night, if only he could reach through the mysterious barrier his brain had raised. Not for the first time, he

wondered what other terrible traumas had befallen him in the past to cause his mind to

protect itself from it. The fact that the answer lurked within his own mind turned his

blood cold because it represented his own personal demon.

“Jason?”

The door to Moira’s bedroom was open. Despite the dimness, his keen eyes could

make out her form moving slowly toward him on bare feet.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she said in a throaty voice. She stopped several paces from where

he lay. She was wearing a silk paisley bathrobe, belted at the waist. The lush curves of

her body were unmistakable.

For a moment, they remained in silence.

“I lied to you before,” she said quietly. “I don’t want you to sleep out here.”

Bourne rose on one elbow. “I lied, too. I was thinking about what I once had and how

I’ve been desperate to hang on to it. But it’s gone, Moira. All gone forever.” He drew up

one leg. “I don’t want to lose you.”

She moved minutely, and a bar of light picked out the glitter of tears in her eyes. “You

won’t, Jason. I promise.”

Another silence engulfed them, this one so profound they seemed to be the only two

people left in the world.

At last, he held out his hand, and she came toward him. He rose from the sofa, took her

in his arms. She smelled of lime and geranium. He ran his hands through her thick hair,

grabbed it. Her face tilted up to him and their lips came together, and his heart shivered

off another coating of ice. After a long time, he felt her hands at her waist and he stepped back.

She undid the belt and the robe parted, slid off her shoulders. Her naked flesh shone a

dusky gold. She had wide hips and a deep navel; there seemed nothing about her body he

didn’t love. Now it was she who took his hand, leading him to her bed, where they fell

upon each other like half-starved animals.

Bourne dreamed he was standing at the window of Moira’s bedroom, peering through

the wooden blinds. The streetlight fell across the sidewalk and street, casting long,

oblique shadows. As he watched, one of the shadows rose up from the cobbles, walked

directly toward him as if it were alive and could somehow see him through the wide

wooden slats.

Bourne opened his eyes, the demarcation between sleep and consciousness

instantaneous and complete. His mind was filled with the dream; he could feel his heart

working in his chest harder than it should have been at this moment.

Moira’s arm was draped over his hip. He moved it to her side, rolled silently out of

bed. Naked, he padded into the living room. Ashes lay in a cold, gray heap in the hearth.

The ship’s clock ticked toward the fourth hour of the night. He went straight toward the

bars of streetlight, peered out just as he had in his dream. As in his dream the light cast oblique shadows across the sidewalk and street. No traffic passed. All was quiet and still.

It took a minute or two, but he found the movement, minute, fleeting, as if someone

standing had begun to shift from one foot to the other, then changed his mind. He waited

to see if the movement would continue. Instead a small puff of exhaled breath flared into

the light, then almost immediately vanished.

He dressed quickly. Bypassing both the front and rear doors, he slipped out of the

house via a side window. It was very cold. He held his breath so it wouldn’t steam up and

betray his presence, as it had the watcher.

He stopped just before he reached the corner of the building, peered cautiously around

the brick wall. He could see the curve of a shoulder, but it was at the wrong height, so

low Bourne might have taken the watcher for a child. In any event, he hadn’t moved.

Melting back into the shadows, he went down 30th Street, NW, turned left onto Dent

Place, which paralleled Cambridge Place. When he reached the end of the block, he

turned left onto Cambridge, on Moira’s block. Now he could see just where the watcher

was situated, crouched between two parked cars almost directly across the street from

Moira’s house.

A gust of humid wind caused the watcher to huddle down, sink his head between his

shoulders, like a turtle. Bourne seized the moment to cross the street to the watcher’s

side. Without pausing, he advanced down the block swiftly and silently. The watcher

became aware of him far too late. He was still turning his head when Bourne grabbed him

by the back of his jacket, slammed him back across the hood of the parked car.

This threw him into the light. Bourne saw his black face, recognized the features all in

a split second. At once he hauled the young man up, hustled him back into the shadows,

where he was certain they wouldn’t be seen by other prying eyes.

“Jesus Christ, Tyrone,” he said, “what the hell are you doing here?”

“Can’t say.” Tyrone was sullen, possibly from having been discovered.

“What d’you mean, you can’t say?”

“I signed a confidentiality agreement is why.”

Bourne frowned. “Deron wouldn’t make you sign something like that.” Deron was the

art forger Bourne used for all his documents and, sometimes, unique new technologies or

weapons Deron was experimenting with.

“Doan work fo Deron no more.”

“Who made you sign the agreement, Tyrone?” Bourne grabbed him by his jacket front.

“Who are you working for? I don’t have time to play games with you. Answer me!”

“Can’t.” Tyrone could be damn stubborn when he wanted to be, a by-product of

growing up on the streets of the northeast Washington slums. “But, okay, I guess I can

take yo where yo can see fo yoself.”

He led Bourne around to the unnamed alley behind Moira’s house, stopped at an

anonymous-looking black Chevy. Leaving Bourne, he used his knuckle to knock on the

driver’s window. The window lowered. As he bent down to speak to whoever was inside,

Bourne came up, pulled him aside so he could look in. What he saw astonished even him.

The person sitting behind the wheel was Soraya Moore.

Five

WE’VE BEEN SURVEILLING her for close to ten days now,” Soraya said.

“CI?” Bourne said. “Why?”

They were sitting in the Chevy. Soraya had turned on the engine to get some heat up.

She’d sent Tyrone home, even though it was clear he wanted to be her protector.

According to Soraya, he was now working for her in a strictly off-the-record capacity-a

kind of personal black-ops unit of one.

“You know I can’t tell you that.”

“No, Tyrone can’t tell me. You can.”

Bourne had worked with Soraya when he’d put together his mission to rescue Martin

Lindros, the founder and director of Typhon. She was one of the few people with whom

he’d worked in the field, both times in Odessa.

“I suppose I could,” Soraya admitted, “but I won’t, because it appears that you and

Moira Trevor are intimate.”

She sat staring out the window at the blank sheen of the street. Her large, deep blue

eyes and her aggressive nose were the centerpieces of a bold Arabian face the color of

cinnamon.

When she turned back, Bourne could see that she wasn’t happy at being forced to

reveal CI intel.

“There’s a new sheriff in town,” Soraya said. “Her name is Veronica Hart.”

“You ever hear of her?”

“No, and neither have any of the others.” She shrugged. “I’m quite sure that was the

point. She comes from the private sector: Black River. The president decided on a new

broom to sweep out the hash we’d all made of the events leading up to the Old Man’s

murder.”

“What’s she like?”

“Too soon to tell, but one thing I’m willing to bet on: She’s going to be a whole

helluva lot better than the alternative.”

“Which is?”

“Secretary of Defense Halliday has been trying to expand his domain for years now.

He’s moving through Luther LaValle, the Pentagon’s intel czar. Rumor has it that

LaValle tried to pry away the DCI job from Veronica Hart.”

“And she won.” Bourne nodded. “That says something about her.”

Soraya produced a packet of Lambert & Butler cigarettes, knocked one out, lit up.

“When did that begin?” Bourne said.

Soraya rolled down her window partway, blew the smoke into the waning night. “The

day I was promoted to director of Typhon.”

“Congratulations.” He sat back, impressed. “But now we have even more of a mystery.

Why is the director of Typhon on a surveillance team at four in the morning? I would’ve

thought that would be a job for someone farther down the CI food chain.”

“It would be, in other circumstances.” Soraya inhaled, blew smoke out the window

again. What was left of the cigarette followed. Then she turned her body toward Bourne.

“My new boss told me to handle this myself. That’s what I’m doing.”

“What does all this clandestine work have to do with Moira? She’s a civilian.”

“Maybe she is,” Soraya said, “and maybe she isn’t.” Her large eyes studied Bourne’s

for a reaction. “I’ve been digging through the masses of interoffice e-mails and cell

phone records going back over the last two years. I came upon some irregularities and

handed them over to the new DCI.” She paused for a moment, as if unsure whether to

continue. “The thing is, the irregularities concern Martin’s private communications with

Moira.”

“You mean he told her CI classified secrets?”

“Frankly, we’re not sure. The communications weren’t intact; they had to be pieced

together and enhanced electronically. Some words were garbled, others were out of order.

It was clear, however, that they were collaborating on something that bypassed the

normal CI channels.” She sighed. “It’s possible he was merely helping her with security

issues for NextGen Energy Solutions. But especially after the multiple security breaches

CI recently suffered, Hart has make it clear that we can’t afford to overlook the

possibility that she’s working clandestinely for some other entity Martin knew nothing

about.”

“You mean she was milking him for intel. I find that hard to believe.”

“Right. Now you know why I didn’t want to tell you about it.”

“I’d like to see these communications for myself.”

“For that you’ll have to see the DCI, which, quite honestly, I wouldn’t recommend.

There are still high-level operatives in CI who blame you for the Old Man’s death.”

“That’s absurd,” Bourne said. “I had nothing to do with his death.”

Soraya ran a hand through her thick hair. “It was you who brought Karim al-Jamil back

to CI thinking he was Martin Lindros.”

“He looked exactly like Martin, spoke exactly like him.”

“You vouched for him.”

“So did a phalanx of CI shrinks.”

“You’re an easy target around CI. Rob Batt, who’s just been promoted to deputy

director, is the ringleader of a group who are convinced you’re a schizophrenic,

unreliable rogue agent. I’m just saying.”

Bourne closed his eyes for a moment. He’d heard these allegations leveled against him

time and again. “You’ve left off another reason why I’m an easy target. I’m a legacy left

over from the Alex Conklin era. He had the Old Man’s confidence but hardly anyone

else’s, mainly because no one knew what he was doing, especially with the program that

created me.”

“All the more reason for you to stay in the shadows.”

Bourne glanced out the window. “I’ve got an early breakfast meeting.”

As he was about to get out of the car, Soraya put a hand on his arm. “Stay out of this,

Jason. That’s my advice.”

“And I appreciate the concern.” He leaned toward her, kissed her lightly on the cheek.

Then he was crossing the street. A moment later he’d vanished into shadow.

As soon as he was out of her sight, Bourne flipped open the cell phone he’d lifted from

her when he’d leaned in to kiss her. Quickly he scrolled through to Veronica Hart’s

number, connected with it. He wondered if he’d be pulling her out of sleep, but when she

answered she sounded wide awake.

“How’s the surveillance going?” She had a rich, mellow voice.

“That’s what I want to talk with you about.”

There was the briefest of silences before she answered. “Who is this?”

“Jason Bourne.”

“Where is Soraya Moore?”

“Soraya is fine, Director. I simply needed a way to contact you once I’d broken the

surveillance, and I was quite certain Soraya wouldn’t give it to me willingly.”

“So you stole her phone.”

“I want to meet with you,” Bourne said. He didn’t have much time. At any moment,

Soraya might reach for her phone, would know he’d hijacked it and come after him. “I

want to see the evidence that led you to order the surveillance on Moira Trevor.”

“I don’t take kindly to being told what to do, especially by a rogue agent.”

“But you will meet with me, Director, because I’m the only one with access to Moira.

I’m your fast track to finding out if she’s really rotten or whether you’re on a wild goose chase.”

I think I’ll stick to the proven way.” Veronica Hart, sitting in her new office with Rob

Batt, mouthed the words Jason Bourne to her DDCI.

“But you can’t,” Bourne said in her ear. “Now that I’ve broken the surveillance I can

ensure that Moira vanishes off your grid.”

Hart stood up. “I also don’t respond well to threats.”

“I have no need to threaten you, Director. I’m simply telling you the facts.”

Batt studied her expression as well as her responses, trying to get a reading of the

conversation. They had been working nonstop since she’d returned from her meeting

with the president. He was exhausted, on the point of leaving, but this call interested him intensely.

“Look,” Bourne said, “Martin was my friend. He was a hero. I don’t want his

reputation tarnished.”

“All right,” Hart said, “come to my office later this morning, say around eleven.”

“I’m not setting foot inside CI headquarters,” Bourne said. “We’ll meet this evening at

five at the entrance to the Freer Gallery.”

“What if I-?”

But Bourne had already severed the connection.

Moira was up, clad in her paisley robe, when Bourne returned. She was in the kitchen,

making fresh coffee. She glanced at him without comment. She had more sense than to

ask about his comings and goings.

Bourne took off his coat. “Just checking the area for tails.”

She paused. “And did you find any?”

“Quiet as the grave.” He didn’t believe that Moira had been pumping Martin for CI

intel, but the inordinate sense of security-of secretiveness-instilled in him by Conklin

warned him not to tell her the truth.

She relaxed visibly. “That’s a relief.” Setting the pot on the flame, she said, “Do we

have time for a cup together?”

Gray light filtered through the blinds, brightening by the minute. An engine coughed,

traffic started up on the street. Voices rose briefly, and a dog barked. The morning had

begun.

They stood side by side in the kitchen. Between them on the wall was a Kit-Cat Klock,

its raffish kitty eyes and tail moving back and forth as time passed.

“Jason, tell me it wasn’t just mutual loneliness and sorrow that motivated us.”

When he took her in his arms he felt a tiny shiver work its way through her. “One-

night stands are not in my vocabulary, Moira.”

She put her head against his chest.

He pulled her hair back from her cheek. “I don’t feel like coffee right now.”

She moved against him. “Neither do I.”

Professor Dominic Specter was stirring sugar into the strong Turkish tea he always

carried with him when David Webb walked into the Wonderlake diner on 36th Street,

NW. The place was lined with wooden boards, the tables reclaimed wooden slabs, the

mismatched chairs found objects. Photographs of loggers and Pacific Northwest vistas

were ranged around the walls, interspersed with real logging tools: peaveys, cant hooks,

pulp hooks, and timberjacks. The place was a perennial student favorite because of its

hours, the inexpensive food, and the inescapable associations with Monty Python’s “The

Lumberjack Song.”

Bourne ordered coffee as soon as he sat down.

“Good morning, David.” Specter cocked his head like a bird on a wire. “You look like

you haven’t slept.”

The coffee was just the way Bourne liked it: strong, black, sugarless. “I had a lot to

think about.”

Specter cocked his head. “David, what is it? Anything I can help with? My door is

always open.”

“I appreciate that. I always have.”

“I can see something’s troubling you. Whatever it is, together we can work it out.”

The waiter, dressed in red-checked flannel shirt, jeans, and Timberland boots, set the

menus down on the table and left.

“It’s about my job.”

“Is it wrong for you?” The professor spread his hands. “You miss teaching, I imagine.

All right, we’ll put you back in the classroom.”

“I’m afraid it’s more serious than that.”

When he didn’t continue, Professor Specter cleared his throat. “I’ve noticed a certain

restlessness in you over the past few weeks. Could it have anything to do with that?”

Bourne nodded. “I’ve think I’ve been trying to recapture something that can’t be

caught.”

“Are you worried about disappointing me, my boy?” Specter rubbed his chin. “You

know, years ago when you told me about the Bourne identity, I counseled you to seek

professional help. Such a serious mental schism inevitably builds up pressure in the

individual.”

“I’ve had help before. So I know how to handle the pressure.”

“I’m not questioning that, David.” Specter paused. “Or should I be calling you Jason?”

Bourne continued to sip his coffee, said nothing.

“I’d love you to stay, Jason, but only if it’s the right thing for you.”

Specter’s cell phone buzzed but he ignored it. “Understand, I only want what’s best for

you. But your life’s been in upheaval. First, Marie’s death, then the demise of your best

friends.” His phone buzzed again. “I thought you needed sanctuary, which you always

have here. But if you’ve made up your mind to leave…” He looked at the number lit up

on his phone. “Excuse me a moment.”

He took the call, listening.

“The deal can’t be closed without it?”

He nodded, held the phone, away from his ear, said to Bourne. “I need to get

something from my car. Please order for me. Scrambled eggs and dark toast.”

He rose, went out of the restaurant. His Honda was parked directly across 36th Street.

He was in the middle of the street when two men came out of nowhere. One grabbed him

while the other struck him several times about the head. As a black Cadillac screeched to

a halt beside the three men, Bourne was up and running. The man struck Specter again,

yanked open the rear door of the car.

Bourne grabbed a pulp hook off the wall, sprinted out of the restaurant. The man

bundled Specter into the backseat of the Cadillac and jumped in beside him, while the

first man ducked into the front passenger’s seat. The Cadillac took off just as Bourne

reached it. He barely had time to swing the pulp hook into the car before he was jerked

off his feet. He’d been aiming for the roof, but the Cadillac’s sudden acceleration had

caused it to pierce the rear window instead. The pointed end managed to embed itself in

the top of the backseat. Bourne swung his trailing legs onto the trunk.

The rear pane of safety glass was completely crazed, but the thin film of plastic

sandwiched between the glass layers kept it basically intact. As the car began to swerve

insanely back and forth, the driver trying to dislodge him, chips of the safety glass came

away, giving Bourne an increasingly tenuous hold on the Cadillac.

The car accelerated ever more dangerously through building traffic. Then, so abruptly

it took his breath away, it whipped around a corner and he slid off the trunk, his body

now banging against the driver’s-side fender. His shoes struck the tarmac with such

force, one of them was ripped off. Sock and skin were flayed off his heel before he could

regain a semblance of balance. Using the fulcrum of the pulp hook’s turned wooden

handle, he levered his legs back up onto the trunk, only to have the driver slew the

Cadillac so that he was almost thrown completely clear of the car. His feet struck a trash