The Bourne Sanction (20 page)

They came through the door. The leading one got a face full of fire-smothering foam. Bourne ducked a wild shot from the second agent. There was virtually no noise, but something pinged off the Tennessee white marble wall near his shoulder, then clattered to the floor. He hurled the fire extinguisher at the shooter. It struck him on the temple and he went down. Bourne broke the call box’s glass, pulled hard on the red metal handle. Instantly the fire alarm sounded, piercing every corner of the gallery. Out the door, Bourne ran diagonally down the steps, heading west, directly for 12th Street, SW. He expected to find more agents at the southwest corner of the building, but as he turned off Independence Avenue onto 12th Street he encountered a flood of people drawn to the building by the alarm. Already the sirens of fire trucks could be heard floating through the rising chatter of the crowd.

He hurried along the street toward the entrance down to the Smithsonian Metro stop. As he did so, he accessed the Internet through his cell. It took longer than he would have liked, but at last he pressed the
FAVORITES
icon, was returned to the Metro site. Navigating to the Smithsonian station, he scrolled down to the hyperlink to the next train arrival, which was refreshed every thirty seconds. Three minutes to the Orange line 6

train to Vienna/Fairfax. Quickly he composed a text mail “FB,” sent it to a number he’d prearranged with Professor Specter.

The Metro entrance, clogged with people stopped on the stairs to watch the unfolding scenario, was a mere fifty yards away. Bourne heard police sirens now, saw a number of unmarked cars heading down 12th Street toward Jefferson. They turned east when they got to the junction-all except one, which headed due south.

Bourne tried to run, but he was hampered by the press of people. He broke free, into a small area blessedly empty of the gigantic jostle, when the driver’s window of a cruising car slid down. A burly man with a grim face and a nearly bald head aimed another one of those strange-looking handguns at him.

Bourne twisted, putting one of the Metro entrance posts between himself and the gunman. He heard nothing, no sound at all-just as he hadn’t back inside the Freer-and something bit into his left calf. He looked down, saw the metal of a mini dart lying on the street. It had grazed him, but that was all. With a controlled swing, Bourne went around the post, down the stairs, pushing his way through the gawkers into the Metro. He had just under two minutes to make the Orange 6 to Vienna. The next train didn’t leave for four minutes after that-too much time in the platform, waiting for the
NSA
agents to find him. He had to make the first train.

He bought his ticket, went through. The crowds thinned and thickened like waves rushing to shore. He began to sweat. His left foot slipped. Rebalancing himself, he guessed that whatever was in that mini dart must be having an effect despite only grazing him. Looking up at the electronic signs, he had to work to focus in order to find the correct platform. He kept pushing forward, not trusting himself to rest, though part of him seemed hell-bent on doing just that. Sit down, close your eyes, sink into sleep. Turning to a vending machine, he fished in his pockets for change, bought every chocolate bar he could. Then he entered the line for the escalator.

Partway down he stumbled, missed the riser, crashed into the couple ahead of him. He’d blacked out for an instant. Gaining the platform, he felt both shaky and sluggish. The concrete-paneled ceiling arched overhead, deadening the sounds of the hundreds crowding the platform.

Less than a minute to go. He could feel the vibration of the oncoming train, the wind it pushed ahead of it.

He’d gobbled down one chocolate bar and was starting on the second when the train pulled into the station. He stepped in, allowing the surge of the crowd to take him. Just as the doors were closing, a tall man with broad shoulders and a black trench coat sprinted into the other end of Bourne’s car. The doors closed and the train lurched forward.

AS HE
SAW
the man in the black trench making his way toward him from the end of the train car, Bourne felt an unpleasant form of claustrophobia. Until they reached the next station, he was trapped in this finite space, Moreover, despite the initial chocolate hit, he was starting to feel a lassitude creeping up from his left leg as the serum entered his bloodstream. He tore off the wrapping on another chocolate bar, wolfed it down. The faster he could get the sugar and the caffeine into his system, the better able his body would be to fight off the effects of the drug. But that effect would only be temporary, and then his blood sugar would plummet, draining the adrenaline out of him. The train reached Federal Triangle and the doors slid open. A mass of people got off, another mass got on. Black Trench used the brief slackening of passengers to make headway toward where Bourne stood, hands clasped around a chromium pole. The doors closed, the train accelerated. Black Trench was blocked by a huge man with tattoos on the backs of his hands. He tried to push by, but the tattooed man glared at him, refusing to budge. Black Trench could have used his federal ID to move people out of the way, but he didn’t, no doubt so as not to cause a panic. But whether he was
NSA
or CI was still a mystery. Bourne, struggling to stop his mind from going in and out of focus, stared into the face of his newest adversary, looking for clues to his affiliation. Black Trench’s face was blocky, bland, but with the particular dry cruelty the military demanded in its clandestine agents. He must be
NSA
, Bourne decided. Through the fog in his brain, he knew he had to deal with Black Trench before the rendezvous point at Foggy Bottom. Two children swung into Bourne as the train lurched around a bend. He held them upright, returning them to their place beside their mother, who smiled her thanks at him, put a protecting arm around their narrow shoulders. The train rolled into Metro Center. Bourne saw a brief glare of temporary spotlights where a work crew was busy fixing an escalator. On the other side of him a young blonde with earbuds leading to an MP3 player pressed her shoulder against his, took out a cheap plastic compact, checked the state of her makeup. Pursing her lips, she slid the compact back in her bag, dug out flavored lip gloss. While she was applying it, Bourne lifted the compact, palming it immediately. He replaced it with a twenty-dollar bill.

The doors opened and Bourne stepped out within a small whirlwind of people. Black Trench, caught between doors, rushed down the car, made it onto the platform just in time. Weaving his way through the hurrying throngs, he followed Bourne toward the elevator. The majority of people headed for the stairs.

Bourne checked the position of the temporary spotlights. He made for them, but not at too fast a pace. He wanted Black Trench to make up some of the distance between them. He had to assume that Black Trench was also armed with a dart gun. If a dart struck Bourne anywhere, even in an extremity, it would mean the end. Caffeine or no caffeine, he’d pass out, and
NSA
would have him.

There was a wall of elderly and disabled people, some of them in wheelchairs, waiting for the elevator. The door opened. Bourne sprinted ahead as if making for the elevator, but the moment he reached the glare of the spotlights, he turned and aimed the mirror inside the compact at an angle that reflected the dazzle into Black Trench’s face. Momentarily blinded, Black Trench halted, put up his hand palm-outward. Bourne was at him in a heartbeat. He drove his hand into the main nerve bundle beneath Black Trench’s right ear, wrested the dart gun out of his hand, fired it into his side. As the man listed to one side, staggering, Bourne caught him, dragged him to a wall. Several people turned their heads to gape, but no one stopped. The pace of the crowd hurrying by barely flickered before returning to full force.

Bourne left Black Trench there, eeled his way through the almost solid curtain of people back to the Orange line. Four minutes later, he’d eaten through two more chocolate bars. Another Orange 6 to Vienna rolled in and, with a last glance thrown over his shoulder, he got on. His head didn’t feel any deeper in the mist, but he knew what he needed most now was water, as much as he could get down his throat, to flush the chemical out of his system as quickly as possible.

Two stops later, he exited at Foggy Bottom. He waited at the rear of the platform until no more passengers got off. Then he followed them up, taking the stairs two at a time in an attempt to further clear his head.

His first breath of cool evening air was a deep and exhilarating one. Except for a slight nausea, perhaps caused by a continuing vertigo, he felt better. As he emerged from the Metro exit a nearby engine coughed to life; the headlights of a dark blue Audi came on. He walked briskly to the car, opened the passenger’s-side door, slid in.

“How did it go?” Professor Specter nosed the Audi out into the heavy traffic.

“I got more than I bargained for,” Bourne said, leaning his head against the seat rest.

“And there’s been a change of plan. People are sure to be looking for me at the airport. I’m going with Moira, at least as far as Munich.”

A look of deep concern crossed the professor’s face. “Do you think that’s wise?”

Bourne turned his head, stared out the window at the passing city. “It doesn’t matter.”

His thoughts were of Martin, and of Moira. “I passed wise some time ago.”

IT’S
AMAZING
,” Moira said.

Bourne looked up from the files he’d snatched from Veronica Hart. “What’s amazing?”

“You sitting here opposite me in this opulent corporate jet.” Moira was wearing a sleek black suit of nubbly wool, shoes with sensible heels. A thin gold chain was around her neck. “Weren’t you supposed to be on your way to Moscow tonight?”

Bourne drank water from the bottle on his side tray table, closed the file. He needed more time to ascertain whether Karim al-Jamil had doctored these conversations, but he had his suspicions. He knew Martin was far too canny to tell her anything that was classified-which covered just about everything that happened at CI.

“I couldn’t stay away from you.” He watched a small smile curl Moira’s wide lips. Then he dropped the bomb. “Also, the
NSA
is after me.”

It was as if a light went out in her face. “Say again?”

“The
NSA
. Luther LaValle has decided to make me a target.” He waved a hand to forestall her questions. “It’s political. If he can bag me when the CI hierarchy can’t, he’ll prove to the powers that be that his thesis that CI should come under his jurisdiction makes sense, especially after the turmoil CI has been in since Martin’s death.”

Moira pursed her lips. “So Martin was right. He was the only one left who believed in you.”

Bourne almost added Soraya’s name, then thought better of it. “It doesn’t matter now.”

“It matters to me,” she said fiercely.

“Because you loved him.”

“We both loved him.” Her head tilted to one side. “Wait a minute, are you saying there’s something wrong in that?”

“We live on the outskirts of society, in a world of secrets.” He deliberately included her. “For people like us there’s always a price to pay for loving someone.”

“Like what?”

“We’ve spoken about it,” Bourne said. “Love is a weakness your enemies can exploit.”

“And I’ve said that’s a horrid way to live one’s life.”

Bourne turned to stare out the Perspex window at the darkness rushing by. “It’s the only one I know.”

“I don’t believe that.” Moira leaned forward until their knees touched. “Surely you see you’re more than that, Jason. You loved your wife; you love your children.”

“What kind of a father can I be to them? I’m a memory. And I’m a danger to them. Soon enough I’ll be a ghost.”

“You can do something about that. And what kind of friend were you to Martin? The best kind. The only kind that matters.” She tried to get him to turn back to her.

“Sometimes I’m convinced you’re looking for answers to questions that have none.”

“What does that mean?”

“That no matter what you’ve done in the past, no matter what you’ll do in the future, you’ll never lose your humanity.” She watched his eyes engage hers slowly, enigmatically. “That’s the one thing that frightens you, isn’t it?”

What’s the matter with you?” Devra asked.

Arkadin, behind the wheel of a rental car they had picked up in Istanbul, grunted irritably. “What’re you talking about?”

“How long is it going to take you to fuck me?”

There being no flights from Sevastopol to Turkey, they’d spent a long night in a cramped cabin of the Heroes of Sevastopol, being transported southwest across the Black Sea from Ukraine to Turkey.

“Why would I want to do that?” Arkadin said as he headed off a lumbering truck on the highway.

“Every man I meet wants to fuck me. Why should you be any different?” Devra ran her hands through her hair. Her raised arms lifted her small breasts invitingly. “Like I said. What’s the matter with you?” A smirk played at the corners of her mouth. “Maybe you’re not a real man. Is that it?”

Arkadin laughed. “You’re so transparent.” He glanced at her briefly. “What’s your game? Why are you trying to provoke me?”

“I like to extract reactions in my men. How else will I get to know them?”

“I’m not your man,” he growled.

Now Devra laughed. She wrapped slender fingers around his arm, rubbing back and forth. “If your shoulder’s bothering you I’ll drive.”

He saw the familiar symbol on the inside of her wrist, all the more fearsome for being tattooed on the porcelain skin. “When did you get that?”

“Does it matter?”

“Not really. What matters is why you got it.” Faced with open highway, he put on speed. “How else will I get to know you?”

She scratched the tattoo as if it had moved beneath her skin. “Pyotr made me get it. He said it was part of the initiation. He said he wouldn’t go to bed with me until I got it.”

“And you wanted to go to bed with him.”