The Bourne Sanction (18 page)

“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.”

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.”