The Bourne Sanction (11 page)

“The current deputy director seems the logical one,” Batt said. “That would be me.”

LaValle nodded. “Our thought precisely.”

Batt tapped his fingertips against his knee. “If you two are serious.”

“We are, I assure you.”

Batt’s mind worked furiously. “It seems to me unwise at this early juncture to have attacked Hart directly.”

“How about you don’t tell us our business,” Kendall said. LaValle held up a hand. “Let’s hear what the man has to say, Richard.” To Batt, he added, “However, let me make something crystal clear. We want Hart out as soon as possible.”

“We all do, but you don’t want suspicion thrown back at you-or at the defense secretary.”

LaValle and General Kendall exchanged a quick and knowing look. They were like twins, able to communicate with each other without uttering a word. “Indeed not,”

LaValle said.

“She told me how you ambushed her at that meeting with the president-and the threats you made to her outside the White House.”

“Women are more easily intimidated than men,” Kendall pointed out. “It’s a wellknown fact.”

Batt ignored the military man. “You put her on notice. She took your threats very personally. She had a killer’s rep in Black River. I checked through my sources.”

LaValle seemed thoughtful. “How would you have handled her?”

“I would have made nice, welcomed her to the fold, let her know you’re there for her whenever she needs your help.”

“She’d never have bought it,” LaValle said. “She knows my agenda.”

“It doesn’t matter. The idea is not to antagonize her. You don’t want her knives out when you come for her.”

LaValle nodded, as if he saw the wisdom in this approach. “So how do you suggest we proceed from here?”

“Give me some time,” Batt said. “Hart’s just getting started at CI, and because I’m her deputy I know everything she does, every decision she makes. But when she’s out of the office, shadow her, see where she goes, who she meets. Using parabolic mikes you can listen in to her conversations. Between us, we’ll have her covered twenty-four/seven.”

“Sounds pretty vanilla to me,” Kendall said skeptically.

“Keep it simple, especially when there’s so much at stake, that’s my advice,” Batt said.

“What if she cottons on to the surveillance?” Kendall said. Batt smiled. “So much the better. It’ll only bolster the CI mantra that the
NSA
is run by incompetents.”

LaValle laughed. “Batt, I like the way you think.”

Batt nodded, acknowledging the compliment. “Coming from the private sector Hart’s not used to government procedure. She doesn’t have the leeway she enjoyed at Black River. I can already see that, to her, rules and regs are meant to be bent, sidestepped, even, on occasion, broken. Mark my words, sooner rather than later, Director Hart is going to give us the ammunition we need to kick her butt out of CI.”

HOW
IS your foot, Jason?”

Bourne looked up at Professor Specter, whose face was swollen and discolored. His left eye was half closed, dark as a storm cloud.

“Yes,” Specter said, “after what just happened I’m compelled to call you by what seems like your rightful name.”

“My heel is fine,” Bourne said. “It’s me who should be asking about you.”

Specter put fingertips gingerly against his cheek. “In my life I’ve endured worse beatings.”

The two men were seated in a high-ceilinged library filled with a large, magnificent Isfahan carpet, ox-blood leather furniture. Three walls were fitted floor-to-ceiling with books neatly arrayed on mahogany shelves. The fourth wall was pierced by a large leaded-glass window overlooking stands of stately firs on a knoll, which sloped down to a pond guarded by a weeping willow, shivering in the wind.

Specter’s personal physician had been summoned, but the professor had insisted the doctor tend to Bourne’s flayed heel first.

“I’m sure we can find you a pair of shoes somewhere,” Specter said, sending one of the half a dozen men in residence scurrying off with Bourne’s remaining shoe. This rather large stone-and-slate house deep in the Virginia countryside to which Specter had directed Bourne was a far cry from the modest apartment the professor maintained near the university. Bourne had been to the apartment numerous times over the years, but never here. Then there was the matter of the staff, which Bourne noted with interest as well as surprise.

“I imagine you’re wondering about all this,” Specter said, as if reading Bourne’s mind.

“All in good time, my friend.” He smiled. “First, I must thank you for rescuing me.”

“Who were those men?” Bourne said. “Why did they try to kidnap you?”

The doctor applied an antibiotic ointment, placed a gauze pad over the heel, taped it in place. Then he wrapped the heel in cohesive bandage.

“It’s a long story,” Specter said. The doctor, finished with Bourne, now rose to examine the professor. “One I propose to tell you over the breakfast we were unable to enjoy earlier.” He winced as the doctor palpated areas of his body.

“Contusions, bruises,” the doctor intoned colorlessly, “but no broken bones or fractures.”

He was a small swarthy man with a mustache and dark slicked-back hair. Bourne made him as Turkish. In fact, all the staff seemed of Turkish origin. He gave Specter a small packet. “You may need these painkillers, but only for the next forty-eight hours.” He’d already left a tube of the antibiotic cream, along with instructions, for Bourne.

While Specter was being examined, Bourne used his cell phone to call Deron, the art forger whom he used for all his travel documents. Bourne recited the license tag of the black Cadillac he’d commandeered from the professor’s would-be kidnappers.

“I need a registration report
ASAP
.”

“You okay, Jason?” Deron said in his sonorous London-accented voice. Deron had been Bourne’s backup through many hair-raising missions. He always asked the same question.

“I’m fine,” Bourne said, “but that’s more than I can say for the car’s original occupants.”

“Brilliant.”

Bourne pictured him in his lab in the northeast section of DC, a tall, vibrant black man with the mind of a conjuror.

When the doctor departed, Bourne and Specter were left alone.

“I already know who came after me,” Specter said.

“I don’t like loose ends,” Bourne replied. “The Cadillac’s registration will tell us something, perhaps something even you don’t know.”

The professor nodded, clearly impressed.

Bourne sat on the leather sofa with his leg up on the coffee table. Specter eased himself into a facing chair. Clouds chased each other across the windblown sky, setting patterns shifting across the Persian carpet. Bourne saw a different kind of shadow pass across Specter’s face.

“Professor, what is it?”

Specter shook his head. “I owe you a most sincere and abject apology, Jason. I’m afraid I had an ulterior motive in asking you to return to university life.” His eyes were filled with regret. “I thought it would be good for you, yes, that’s true enough, absolutely. But also I wanted you near me because…” He waved a hand as if to clear the air of deceit. “Because I was fearful that what happened this morning would happen. Now, because of my selfishness, I’m very much afraid that I’ve put your life in jeopardy.”

Turkish tea, strong and intensely aromatic, was served along with eggs, smoked fish, coarse bread, butter, deep yellow and fragrant.

Bourne and Specter sat at a long table covered with a white hand-finished linen cloth. The china and silverware were of the highest quality. Again, an oddity in an academic’s household. They remained mute while a young man, slim and sleek, served their perfectly cooked, elegantly presented breakfast.

When Bourne began to ask a question, Specter cut him off. “First we must fill our stomachs, regain our strength, ensure our minds are working at full capacity.”

The two men did not speak again until they were finished, the plates and cutlery were cleared, and a fresh pot of tea had been poured. A small bowl of gigantic Medjool dates and halved fresh pomegranates lay between them.

When they were again alone in the dining room, Specter said without preamble, “The night before last I received word that a former student of mine whose father was a close friend was dead. Murdered in a most despicable fashion. This young man, Pyotr Zilber, was special. Besides being a former student he ran an information network that spanned several countries. After a number of difficult and perilous months of subterfuge and negotiation he had managed to obtain for me a vital document. He was found out, with the inevitable consequences. This is the incident I’ve been dreading. It may sound melodramatic, but I assure you it’s the truth: The war I’ve been engaged in for close to twenty years has reached its final stage.”

“What sort of a war, Professor?” Bourne said. “Against whom?”

“I’ll get to that in a moment.” Specter leaned forward. “I imagine you’re curious, shocked even, that a university professor should be involved in matters that are more the province of Jason Bourne.” He lifted both arms briefly to encompass the house. “But as you’ve no doubt noted there is more to me than meets the eye.” He smiled rather sadly.

“This makes two of us, yes?

“As someone who also leads a double life I understand you better than most others. I need one personality when I step onto campus, but here I’m someone else entirely.” He tapped a stubby forefinger against the side of his nose. “I pay attention. I saw something familiar in you the moment I met you-how your eyes took in every detail of the people and things around you.”

Bourne’s cell buzzed. He flipped it open, listened to what Deron had to say, then put the phone away.

“The Cadillac was reported stolen a hour before it appeared in front of the restaurant.”

“That is entirely unsurprising.”

“Who tried to kidnap you, Professor?”

“I know you’re impatient for the facts, Jason. I would be, too, in your place. But I promise they won’t have meaning without some background first. When I said there’s more to me than meets the eye, this is what I meant: I’m a terrorist hunter. For many years, from the camouflage and sanctuary my position at the university affords me, I have built up a network of people who gather intelligence just like your own CI. However, the intelligence that interests me is highly specific. There are people who took my wife from me. In the dead of night, while I was away, they snatched her from our house, tortured her, killed her, then dumped her on my doorstep. As a warning, you see.”

Bourne felt a prickling at the back of his neck. He knew what it felt like to be driven by revenge. When Martin died all Bourne could think about was destroying the men who’d tortured him. He felt a new, more intimate connection with Specter, even as the Bourne identity rose inside him, riding a cresting wave of pure adrenaline. All at once the idea of him working at the university struck him as absurd. Moira was right: He was already chafing at the confinement. How would he feel after months of the academic life, bereft of adventure, stripped of the adrenaline rush for which Bourne lived?

“My father was taken because he was plotting to overthrow the head of an organization. They call themselves the Eastern Brotherhood.”

“Doesn’t the EB espouse a peaceful integration of Muslims into Western society?”

“That’s their public stance, certainly, and their literature would have you believe it’s so.” Specter put down his cup. “In fact, nothing could be farther from the truth. I know them as the Black Legion.”

“Then the Black Legion has finally decided to come after you.”

“If only it were as simple as that.” He halted at a discreet knock on the door. “Enter.”

The young man he’d sent on the errand strode in carrying a shoe box, which he set down in front of Bourne.

Specter gestured. “Please.”

Taking his foot off the table, Bourne opened the box. Inside were a pair of very fine Italian loafers, along with a pair of socks.

“The left one is half a size larger to accommodate the pad that will protect your heel,”

the young man said in German.

Bourne pulled on the socks, slipped on the loafers. They fit perfectly. Seeing this, Specter nodded to the young man, who turned and, without another word, left the room.

“Does he speak English?” Bourne asked.

“Oh, yes. Whenever the need arises.” Specter’s face was wreathed in a mischievous smile. “And now, my dear Jason, you’re asking yourself why he’s speaking German if he’s a Turk?”

“I assume it’s because your network spans many countries including Germany, which is, like England, a hotbed of Muslim terrorist activity.”

Specter’s smile deepened. “You’re like a rock. I can always count on you.” He raised a forefinger. “But there is yet another reason. It has to do with the Black Legion. Come. I’ve something to show you.”

Filya Petrovich, Pyotr’s Sevastopol courier, lived in an anonymous block of crumbling housing left over from the days the Soviets had reshaped the city into a vast barracks housing its largest naval contingent. The apartment, frozen in time since the 1970s, had all the charm of a meat locker.

Arkadin opened the door with the key he’d found on Filya. He pushed Devra over the threshold, stepped in. Turning on the lights, he closed the door behind him. She hadn’t wanted to come, but she had no say in the matter, just as she’d had no say in helping him drag Filya’s corpse out the nightclub’s back door. They set him down at the end of the filthy alley, propped up against a wall damp with unknown fluids. Arkadin poured the contents of a half-empty bottle of cheap vodka over him, then pressed the man’s fingers around the bottle’s neck. Filya became one drunk among many other drunks in the city. His death would be swept away on an inefficient and overworked bureaucratic tide.

“What’re you looking for?” Devra stood in the middle of the living room, watching Arkadin’s methodical search. “What d’you think you’ll find? The document?” Her laugh was a kind of shrill catcall. “It’s gone.”

Arkadin glanced up from the mess his switchblade had made of the sofa cushions.

“Where?”