Текст книги "The Bourne Sanction (Санкция Борна)"

Автор книги: Eric Van Lustbader

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and told Soraya everything that had happened from the moment she’d been summoned

into the Oval Office to meet with the president and had found herself confronting Luther

LaValle and General Kendall.

“After I managed to prevail with the president, LaValle accosted me outside for a

chat,” Hart concluded. “He told me that if I didn’t play nice with him he’d come after me

with everything he has. He wants to take over CI, Soraya, wants it as part of his ever-

enlarging intelligence services domain. But it isn’t just LaValle we’re fighting, it’s his

boss, the secretary of defense. The plan is Bud Halliday’s through and through. Black

River had some dealings with him when I was there, none of them pleasant. If he

succeeds in bringing CI into the Pentagon fold, you can be sure the military will come in,

ruin everything with their usual war-like mentality.”

“Then there’s even more reason to let me bring Jason in for this.” Soraya’s voice had

taken on added urgency. “He’ll get the job done where a company of agents can’t.

Believe me, I’ve worked with him in the field twice. Whatever’s said about him within

CI is totally false. Sure, lifers like Rob Batt hate his guts, why wouldn’t they? Bourne’s

got a freedom they wish they had. Plus, he’s got abilities they never dreamed of.”

“Soraya, it’s been implied in several evaluations that you once had an affair with

Bourne. Please tell me the truth-I need to know if you’re being swayed by anything other

than what you think will be best for the country and for CI.”

Soraya knew this was coming and was prepared. “I thought Martin had laid that office

scuttlebutt to rest. There’s absolutely no truth to it. We became friends when I was chief

of station in Odessa. That was a long time ago; he doesn’t remember. When he came

back last year to rescue Martin he had no idea who I was.”

“Last year you were in the field with him again.”

“We work well together. That’s all,” Soraya said firmly.

Hart was still clandestinely watching the NSA agents. “Even if I thought what you

were proposing would work, he’d never consent. From everything I’ve read and heard

since coming to CI, he hates the organization.”

“True enough,” Soraya said. “But once he understands the nature of the threat I think I

can convince him to sign on one more time.”

Hart shook her head. “I don’t know. Even talking to him is a damn huge gamble, one

I’m not sure I’m willing to take.”

“Director, if you don’t seize this opportunity, you’ll never be able to. It’ll be too late.”

Still, Hart was unsure which direction to take: the tried and true or the unorthodox. No,

she thought, not unorthodox, insane.

“I think this place has outlived its usefulness,” she said abruptly. She signaled the

waiter. “Soraya, I believe you have to powder your nose. And while you’re there, please

call the Metro DC Police. Use the pay phone; it’s in working order, I checked. Tell Metro

that there are two armed men at this restaurant. Then come right back to the table and be

ready to move quickly.”

Soraya gave her a small conspiratorial smile, then rose, threading her way back to the

ladies’ room. The waiter approached the table, frowning.

“Is there something wrong with the brook trout, ma’am?”

“It’s fine,” Hart said.

As the waiter gathered up the plates Hart took out five twenty-dollar bills, slipped them

in his pocket. “You see that man over there, the one with the wide face and football

player’s shoulders?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“How about you trip when you get to his table.”

“If I do that,” the waiter said, “I’m liable to dump these brook trouts in his lap.”

“Precisely,” Hart said with a winning smile.

“But it could mean my job.”

“Don’t worry.” Hart took out her ID, showed it to him. “I’ll square things with your

boss.”

The waiter nodded, turned away. Soraya reappeared, made her way to the table. Hart

threw some bills onto their table but didn’t stand up until the waiter bumped into a

busboy. He staggered, the plates tipped. As the NSA shadow leapt up, Hart rose.

Together she and Soraya walked to the door. The NSA shadow was berating the waiter,

who was brushing him down with several napkins; everyone was looking, gesticulating.

A couple of people closest to the accident were shouting their versions of what happened.

Amid the escalating chaos, the second NSA shadow had gotten up to come to his

compatriot’s aid, but when he saw his target heading toward him he changed his mind.

Hart and Soraya had reached the door, were stepping out into the street. The second

NSA shadow began to follow them, but a pair of burly Metro cops burst into the

restaurant detaining him. “Hey! What about them!” he shouted at the two women.

Two more patrol cars screeched to a halt, cops raced out. Hart and Soraya already had

their IDs out. The cops checked them.

“We’re late for a meeting,” Hart said briskly and authoritatively. “National security.”

The phrase was like open sesame. The cops waved them on.

“Sweet,” Soraya said, impressed.

Hart nodded her head in acknowledgment, but her expression was grim. Winning such

a small skirmish meant nothing to her, save a bit of immediate gratification. It was the

war she had her gaze set on.

When they were several blocks away and had determined that they were clean of

LaValle’s tags, Soraya said, “At least let me set up a meet with Bourne so we can pick his

brain.”

“I very much doubt this will work.”

“Jason trusts me. He’ll do the right thing,” Soraya said with absolute conviction. “He

always does.”

Hart considered for some time. Scylla and Charybdis still loomed large in her thought

process. Death by water or fire, which was it to be? But even now she didn’t regret taking

the director’s position. If there was anything she was up for at this stage in her life it was a challenge. She couldn’t imagine a bigger one than this.

“As you no doubt know,” she said, “Bourne wants to see the files on the conversations

between Lindros and Moira Trevor.” She paused in order to judge Soraya’s reaction to

the woman Bourne was now linked with. “I agreed.” There wasn’t even a tremor in

Soraya’s face. “I’m meeting him this evening at five,” she said slowly, as if still chewing the idea over. Then, all at once, she nodded decisively. “Join me. We’ll hear his take on

your intel then.”

Eleven

SPLENDIDLY DONE,” Specter said to Bourne. “I can’t tell you how impressed I am

with how you handled the situations at the zoo and at the hospital.”

“Mikhail Tarkanian is dead,” Bourne said. “I never meant that to happen.”

“Nevertheless it did.” Specter’s black eye wasn’t quite as swollen, but it was beginning

to turn lurid colors. “Once again I’m deeply in your debt, my dear Jason. Tarkanian was

quite clearly the traitor. If not for you, he would have been the instigator of my torture

and eventual death. You’ll pardon me if I don’t grieve for him.”

The professor clapped Bourne on the back as the two men walked down to the weeping

willow on Specter’s property. Out of the corner of his eye, Bourne could see several

young men, armed with assault rifles, flanking them. Following the events of today,

Bourne didn’t begrudge the professor his armed guards. In fact, they made him feel better

about leaving Specter’s side.

Under the nebula of delicate yellow branches the two men gazed out at the pond, its

surface as perfectly flat as if it were a sheet of steel. A brace of skittish grackles lifted up from the willow, cawing angrily. Their feathers gleamed in brief rainbow hues as they

banked away from the swiftly lowering sun.

“How well do you know Moscow?” Specter asked. Bourne had told him what

Tarkanian had said, and they’d agreed that Bourne should start there in his search for

Pyotr’s killer.

“Well enough. I’ve been there several times.”

“Still and all, I’ll have a friend, Lev Baronov, meet you at Sheremetyevo. Whatever

you require, he’ll provide. Including weapons.”

“I work alone,” Bourne said. “I don’t want or need a partner.”

Specter nodded understandingly. “Lev will be there for support only, I promise he

won’t be a hindrance.”

The professor paused a moment. “What worries me, Jason, is your relationship with

Ms. Trevor.” Turning so that he faced away from the house, he spoke more softly. “I

have no intention of prying into your personal life, but if you’re going overseas-”

“We both are. She’s off to Munich this evening,” Bourne said. “I appreciate your

concern, but she’s as tough a woman as I’ve come across. She can take care of herself.”

Specter nodded, clearly relieved. “All right, then. There’s just the matter of the

information on Icoupov.” He drew out a packet. “In here are your plane tickets to

Moscow, along with the documentation you’ll need. There’s money waiting for you. Lev

has the details as to which bank, the account number attached to the safe-deposit box, and

a false identity. The account has been established in that name, not in yours.”

“This took some planning.”

“I had it done last night, in the hope that you’d agree to go,” Specter said. “All that

remains is for us to take a picture of you for the passport.”

“And if I’d said no?”

“Someone else had already volunteered.” Specter smiled. “But I had faith, Jason. And

my faith was rewarded.”

They turned back and were heading for the house when the professor paused.

“One more thing,” he said. “The situation in Moscow vis-а-vis the grupperovka-the

criminal families-is at one of its periodic boiling points. The Kazanskaya and the Azeri

are vying for sole control of the drug trade. The stakes are extraordinarily high-in the

billions of dollars. So don’t get in their way. If there is any contact with you, I beg you not to engage them. Instead, turn the other cheek. It’s the only way to survive there.”

“I’ll remember that,” Bourne said, just as one of Specter’s men came hurrying out of

the back of the house.

“A woman, Moira Trevor, is here to see Mr. Bourne,” he said in German-inflected

Turkish.

Specter turned to Bourne, his eyebrows raised in either surprise or concern, if not both.

“I had no other choice,” Bourne said. “I need to see her before she leaves, and after

what happened today I wasn’t about to leave you until the last moment.”

Specter’s face cleared. “I appreciate that, Jason. Indeed, I do.” His hand swept up and

away. “Go see your lady friend, and then we’ll make our last preparations.”

I’m on my way to the airport,” Moira said when Bourne met her in the hallway. “The

plane takes off in two hours.” She gave him all the pertinent information.

“I’m on another flight,” he said. “I have some work to do for the professor.”

A flicker of disappointment crossed her face before vanishing in a smile. “You have to

do what you think is best for you.”

Bourne heard the slight distance in her voice, as if a glass partition had come down

between them. “I’m out of the university. You were right about that.”

“Another bit of good news.”

“Moira, I don’t want my decision to cause any problems between us.”

“That could never happen, Jason, I promise you.” She kissed him on the cheek. “I have

some interviews lined up when I get to Munich, security people I’ve been able to contact

through back channels-two Germans, an Israeli, and a German Muslim, who may be the

most promising of the lot.”

As two of Specter’s young men came through the door, Bourne took Moira into one of

the two sitting rooms. A ship’s brass clock on the marble mantel chimed the change in

watch.

“Quite a grand palace for the head of a university.”

“The professor comes from money,” Bourne lied. “But he’s private about it.”

“My lips are sealed,” Moira said. “By the way, where’s he sending you?”

“Moscow. Some friends of his have gotten into a bit of trouble.”

“The Russian mob?”

“Something like that.”

Best that she believe the simplest explanation, Bourne thought. He watched the play of

lamplight reveal her expression. He was certainly no stranger to duplicity, but his heart

constricted at the thought that Moira might be playing him as she was suspected of

playing Martin. Several times today he had considered bypassing the meet with the new

DCI, but he had to admit to himself that seeing the questioned communication between

her and Martin had become important to him. Once he saw the evidence he’d know how

to proceed with Moira. He owed it to Martin to discover the truth about his relationship

with her. Besides, it was no use fooling himself: He now had a personal stake in the

situation. His newly revealed feelings for her complicated matters for everyone, not the

least himself. Why was there was a price to pay for every pleasure? he wondered bitterly.

But now he stood committed; there was no turning back, either from Moscow or from

discovering who Moira really was.

Moira, moving closer to him, put a hand on his arm. “Jason, what is it? You look so

troubled.”

Bourne tried not to look alarmed. Like Marie, she had the uncanny ability to sense

what he was feeling, though with everyone else he was adept at keeping his expression

neutral. The important thing now was not to lie to her; she’d pick that up in a heartbeat.

“The mission is extremely delicate. Professor Specter has already warned me that I’m

jumping into the middle of a blood feud between two Moscow grupperovka families.”

Her grip on him tightened briefly. “Your loyalty to the professor is admirable. And

after all, your loyalty is what Martin admired most about you.” She checked her watch.

“I’ve got to go.”

She lifted her face to his, her lips soft as melting butter, and they kissed for what

seemed a long time.

She laughed softly. “Dear Jason, don’t worry. I’m not one of those people who ask

about when I’ll see you again.”

Then she turned and, walking into the foyer, saw herself out. A moment later Bourne

heard the cough of a car starting up, the crunch of its tires as it performed a quarter circle back down the gravel drive to the road.

Arkadin awoke grimy and stiff. His shirt was still damp with sweat from his nightmare.

Gray light sifted in through the skewed blinds on the window. Stretching his neck by

rolling his head in a circle, he thought what he needed most was a good long soak, but the

hotel had only a shower in the hallway bathroom.

He rolled over to find that he was alone in the room; Devra had gone. Sitting up, he

slid out of the damp, rumpled bed, scrubbed his rough face with the heels of his hands.

His shoulder throbbed. It was swollen and hot.

He was reaching for the doorknob when the door opened. Devra stood on the

threshold, a paper bag in one hand.

“Did you miss me?” she said with a sardonic smile. “I can see it in your face. You

thought I’d skipped out.”

She came inside, kicked the door shut. Her eyes, unblinking, met his. She put her free

arm up. Her hand squeezed his left shoulder, gently but firmly enough to cause him pain.

“I brought us coffee and fresh rolls,” she said evenly. “Don’t manhandle me.”

Arkadin glared at her for a moment. The pain meant nothing to him, but her defiance

did. He was right. There was much more to her than what she presented on the surface.

He let go and so did she.

“I know who you are,” he said. “Filya wasn’t Pyotr’s courier. You are.”

That sardonic smile returned. “I was wondering how long it would take you to figure it

out.” She crossed to the dresser, lined up the paper cups of coffee, set the rolls on the

flattened bag. She took out a small bag of ice and tossed it to him.

“They’re still warm.” She bit into one, chewed thoughtfully.

Arkadin placed the ice on his left shoulder, sighed inwardly at the relief. He wolfed

down his roll in three bites. Then he poured the scalding coffee down his throat.

“Next I suppose you’re going to hold your palm over an open flame.” Devra shook her

head. “Men.”

“Why are you still here?” Arkadin said. “You could’ve just run off.”

“And go where? I shot one of Pyotr’s own men.”

“You must have friends.”

“None I can trust.”

Which implied she trusted him. He had an instinct she wasn’t lying about this. She’d

washed off the heavy mascara that had run and smudged last night. Oddly, this made her

eyes seem even larger. And her cheeks held a blush now that she’d scrubbed off what had

to be white theatrical makeup.

“I’ll take you to Turkey,” she said. “A small town called Eskisёehir. That’s where I

sent the document.”

Given what he knew, Turkey-the ancient gateway between East and West-made perfect

sense.

The bag of ice slipped off as Arkadin grabbed the front of her shirt, crossed to the

window, threw it wide open. Though the action cost him in pain to his shoulder, he

hardly cared. The early-morning sounds of the street rose up to him like the smell of

baking bread. He bent her backward so her head and torso were out the window. “What

did I tell you about lying to me?”

“You might as well kill me now,” she said in her little-girl voice. “I won’t tolerate your

abuse anymore.”

Arkadin pulled her back inside the room, let go of her. “What are you going to do,” he

said with a smirk, “jump out the window?”

No sooner had the words come out of his mouth than she walked calmly to the window

and sat on the sash, staring at him all the time. Then she tipped herself backward, through the open window. Arkadin grabbed her around the legs and hauled her up from the brink.

They stood glaring at each other, breathing fast, hearts pumping with excess

adrenaline.

“Yesterday, while we were on the ladder, told me that you had nothing much to live

for,” Devra said. “That pretty much goes for me, too. So here we both are, brothers under

the skin, with nothing but each other.”

“How do I know the next link in the network is Turkey?”

She drew her hair back from her face. “I’m tired of lying to you,” she said. “It’s like

lying to myself. What’s the point?”

“Talk is cheap,” he said.

“Then I’ll prove it to you. When we get to Turkey I’ll take you to the document.”

Arkadin, trying not to think too much about what she said, nodded his

acknowledgment of their uneasy truce. “I won’t lay a hand on you again.”

Except to kill you, he thought.

Twelve

THE FREER GALLERY of Art stood on the south side of the Mall, bounded on the

west by the Washington Monument and on the east by the Reflecting Pool, gateway to

the immense Capitol building. It was situated on the corner of Jefferson Drive and 12th

Street, SW, near the western edge of the Mall.

The building, a Florentine Renaissance palazzo faced with Stony Creek granite

imported from Connecticut, had been commissioned by Charles Freer to house his

enormous collection of Near East and East Asian art. The main entrance on the north side

of the building where the meet was to take place consisted of three arches accented by

Doric pilasters surrounding a central loggia. Because its architecture looked inward,

many critics felt it was a rather forbidding facade, especially when compared with the

nearby exuberance of the National Gallery of Art.

Nevertheless, the Freer was the preeminent museum of its kind in the country, and

Soraya loved it not only for the depth of art it housed but also for the elegant lines of the palazzo itself. She especially loved the contained open space at its entrance, and the fact that even, as now, when the Mall was agitated with hordes of tourists heading to and from

the Smithsonian Metro rail stop on 12th Street, the Freer itself was an oasis of calm and

tranquility. When things boiled over in the office during the day, it was to the Freer she

came to decompress. Ten minutes with Sung dynasty jades and lacquers acted like a

soothing balm to her soul.

Approaching the north side of the Mall, she searched past the crowds outside the

entrance to the Freer and thought she saw-among the sturdy men with their hard, clipped

Midwestern accents, the scampering children and their laughing mothers, the vacant-eyed

teenagers plugged into their iPods-Veronica Hart’s long, elegant figure walking past the

entrance, then doubling back.

She stepped off the curb, but the blare of a horn from an oncoming car startled her

back onto the sidewalk. It was at that moment that her cell phone buzzed.

“What exactly do you think you’re doing?” Bourne said in her ear.

“Jason?”

“Why are you coming to this meet?”

Foolishly, she looked around; she’d never be able to spot him, and she knew it.

“Hart invited me. I need to talk to you. The DCI and I both do.”

“About what?”

Soraya took a deep breath. “Typhon’s listening posts have picked up a series of

disturbing communications pointing to an imminent terrorist attack on an East Coast city.

The trouble is, that’s all we have. Worse, the communications are between two cadres of

a group about which we have no intel whatsoever. It was my idea to recruit you to find

them and stop the attack.”

“Not much to go on,” Bourne said. “Doesn’t matter. The group’s name is the Black

Legion.”

“In grad school I studied the link between a branch of Muslim extremism and the Third

Reich. But this can’t be the same Black Legion. They were either killed or disbanded

when Nazi Germany fell.”

“It can and it is,” Bourne said. “I don’t know how it managed to survive, but it did.

Three of their members tried to kidnap Professor Specter this morning. I saw their device

tattooed on the gunman’s arm.”

“The three horses’ heads joined by the death’s head?”

“Yes.” Bourne described the incident in detail. “Check the body at the morgue.”

“I’ll do that,” Soraya said. “But how could the Black Legion remain so far

underground all this time without being detected?”

“They have a powerful international front,” Bourne said. “The Eastern Brotherhood.”

“That sounds far-fetched,” Soraya said. “The Eastern Brotherhood is in the forefront of

Islamic-Western relations.”

“Nevertheless, my source is unimpeachable.”

“God in heaven, what’ve you been doing while you’ve been away from CI?”

“I was never in CI,” Bourne said brusquely, “and here’s just one reason why. You say

you want to talk with me but I doubt you need half a dozen agents to do that.”

Soraya froze. “Agents?” She was on the Mall itself now, and she had to restrain herself

from looking around again. “There are no CI agents here.”

“How d’you know that?”

“Hart would’ve told me-”

“Why should she tell you anything? We go way back, you and I.”

“That’s true enough.” She kept walking. “But something happened earlier today that

makes me believe the agents you’ve spotted are NSA.” She described the way she and

Hart had been shadowed from CI HQ to the restaurant. She told him about Secretary

Halliday and Luther LaValle, both of whom were gunning to make CI a part of the

Pentagon clandestine service.

“That might make sense,” Bourne said, “if there were only two of them. But six? No,

there’s another agenda, one neither of us knows about.”

“Such as?”

“The agents are vectored perfectly, triangulated on the entrance to the Freer,” Bourne

said. “This means that they must have had foreknowledge of the meet. It also means the

six weren’t sent to shadow Veronica Hart. If they aren’t here for her, they must have been

sent for me. This is Hart’s doing.”

Soraya felt a chill crawl down her spine. What if the DCI was lying to her? What if she

meant all along to lead Bourne into a trap? It would make sense for one of her first

official acts as DCI to be the capture of Jason Bourne. It certainly would put her in

solidly with Rob Batt and the others who despised and feared Bourne, and who resented

her. Plus, capturing Jason would score her big points with the president and prevent

Secretary Halliday from building on his already considerable influence. Still, why would

Hart have allowed Soraya to possibly muck up her first field op by coming along? No,

she had to believe this was an NSA initiative.

“I don’t believe that,” she said emphatically.

“Let’s say you’re right. The other possibility is just as dire. If Hart didn’t set the trap, then there’s someone highly placed in CI who did. I went to Hart directly with the

request.”

“Yes,” she said, “using my cell, thank you very much.”

“Did you find it? You’re on a new one now.”

“It was in the gutter where you tossed it.”

“Then stop complaining,” Bourne said, not unkindly. “I can’t imagine Hart told too

many people about this meet, but one of them is working against her, and if that’s the

case chances are he’s been recruited by LaValle.”

If Bourne was right… But of course he was. “You’re the grand prize, Jason. If LaValle

can take you down when no one in CI could, he’ll be a hero. Taking over CI will be a

cakewalk for him after that.” Soraya felt perspiration break out at her hairline. “Under the circumstances,” she continued, “I think you ought to withdraw.”

“I need to see the correspondence between Martin and Moira. And if Hart is instigating

this trap, then she’ll never give me access to the files at another time. I’ll have to take my chances, but not until you’re certain Hart has the material.”

Soraya, who was almost at the entrance, expelled a long breath. “Jason, I found the

conversations. I can tell you what’s in them.”

“Do you think you could quote them to me verbatim?” he said. “Anyway, it’s not that

simple. Karim al-Jamil doctored hundreds of files before he left. I know the method he

used to alter them. I have to see them myself.”

“I see there’s no way I can talk you out of this.”

“Right,” Bourne said. “When you’ve made sure the material is genuine, beep my cell

once. Then I need you to move Hart into the loggia, away from the entrance proper.”

“Why?” she said. “That’ll only make it more difficult for you to-Jason?”

But Bourne had already disconnected.

From his vantage point on the roof of the Forrestal Building on Independence Avenue,

Bourne tracked his high-powered night-vision glasses from Soraya as she moved toward

the DCI, past clots of tourists hurrying about, to the agents in place around the west end

of the Mall. Two lounged, chatting, at the northeast corner of the Department of

Agriculture North Building. Another, hands in the pockets of his trench coat, was

crossing diagonally southwest from Madison Drive toward the Smithsonian. A fourth was

behind the wheel of an illegally parked car on Constitution Avenue. In fact, he was the

one who’d given the game away. Bourne had spotted the car illegally parked just before a

Metro police cruiser stopped parallel to it. Windows were rolled down, a conversation

ensued. ID was briefly flashed by the driver of the illegally parked car. The cruiser rolled on.

The fifth and sixth agents were east of the Freer, one approximately midway between

Madison and Jefferson drives, the other in front of the Arts Industries Building. He knew

there had to be at least one more.

It was almost five o’clock. A short winter twilight had descended, aided by the

twinkling lights wound festively around lampposts. With the location of each agent

memorized Bourne returned to the ground, using the window ledges for hands and feet.

The moment he showed himself the agents would start moving. Estimating the distance

they were from where the DCI and Soraya stood, he calculated he’d have no more than

two minutes with Hart to get the files.

Hidden in shadows, waiting for Soraya’s signal, he strained to pick out the remaining

agents. They couldn’t afford to leave Independence Avenue unguarded. If Hart didn’t in

fact have the files, then he’d do as Soraya first suggested and get out of the area without being spotted.

He imagined her at the entrance to the Freer, talking with the DCI. There would be the

first nervous moment of acknowledgment, then Soraya would have to direct the

conversation around to the files. She’d have to find a way for Hart to show them to her, to make sure they were authentic.

His phone beeped once and was still. The files were authentic.

He accessed the Internet, navigating to the DC Metro site, checked the up-to-the-

minute transit schedules, checking his options. This procedure took longer than he would

have liked. The very real and immediate danger was that one of the six agents was in

contact with home base-either CI or the Pentagon-whose sophisticated electronic

telemetry could pinpoint his phone and, worse, spy on what he was pulling up from the

Net. Couldn’t be helped, however. Access had to be made on site and at the immediate

moment in case of unforeseen transit delays. He put the worry out of his head,

concentrated on what he’d have to do. The next five minutes were crucial.

Time to go.

Moments after Soraya secretly contacted Bourne she said to Veronica Hart, “I’m afraid

we may have a problem.”

The DCI’s head whipped around. She’d been scanning the area for any sign of

Bourne’s presence. The crowds around the Freer had thickened as many made their way

to the Smithsonian Metro station around the corner, returning to their hotels to prepare

for dinner.

“What kind of problem?”

“I think I saw one of the NSA shadows we picked up at lunch.”

“Hell, I don’t want LaValle knowing I’m meeting with Bourne. He’ll have a fit, go

running to the president.” She turned. “I think we ought to leave before Bourne gets

here.”

“What about my intel?” Soraya said. “What chance are we going to have without him?

I say let’s stay and talk to him. Showing him the material will go a long way toward

winning his trust.”

The DCI was clearly on edge. “I don’t like any of this.”

“Time is of the essence.” Soraya took her by the elbow. “Let’s move back here,” she

said, indicating the loggia. “We’ll be out of the shadow’s line of sight.”

Hart reluctantly walked into the open space. The loggia was especially crowded with

people milling about, discussing the art they’d just seen, their plans for dinner and the

next day. The gallery closed at five thirty, so the building was starting to clear out.

“Where the hell is he, anyway?” Hart said testily.

“He’ll be here,” Soraya assured her. “He wants the material.”

“Of course he wants it. The material concerns his friend.”

“Clearing Martin’s name is extremely important to him.”

“I was speaking of Moira Trevor,” the DCI said.

Before Soraya could form a reply, a group of people spewed out of the front doors.

Bourne was in the middle of them. Soraya could see him, but he was shielded from

anyone across the street.