The Bourne Sanction Page 7
“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 made 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?”
“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 can, sending it barreling down the sidewalk as shocked pedestrians scattered helter-skelter. Pain shot through him and he might have been finished, but the driver could not keep the Cadillac in its spin any longer. Traffic forced him to straighten out the car’s trajectory. Bourne took advantage to swing himself back up onto the trunk. His right fist plunged through the shattered rear window, seeking a second, more secure hold. The car was accelerating again as it bypassed the last of the bunched-up local traffic, gained the ramp onto Whitehurst Freeway. Bourne tucked his legs up under him, braced on his knees.
As they passed into shadow beneath the Francis Scott Key Bridge the man who had shoved Specter into the backseat thrust a Taurus PT140 through the gap in the broken glass. The handgun’s muzzle turned toward Bourne as the man prepared to fire. Bourne let go with his right hand, gripped the man’s wrist, and jerked hard, bringing the entire forearm into the open air. The motion pushed back the sleeve of the man’s coat and shirt. He saw a peculiar tattoo on the inside of the forearm: three horses’ heads joined by a central skull. He slammed his right knee into the inside of the man’s elbow, at the same time pushed it back against the frame of the car. With a satisfying crack, it broke, the hand opened, the Taurus fell away. Bourne made a grab for it, but missed.
The Cadillac swerved into the left lane and the pulp hook, ripping through the fabric of the backseat, was forced out of Bourne’s hand. He gripped the gunman’s broken arm with both hands, used it to lever himself through the ruined rear window feetfirst.
He landed between the man with the broken arm and Specter, who was huddled against the left-hand door. The man in the front passenger’s seat was kneeling on the seat, turned toward him. He also had a Taurus, which he aimed at Bourne. Bourne grabbed the body of the man beside him, shifted him so that the shot plowed into the man’s chest, killing him instantly. At once Bourne heaved the corpse against the gunman in the front bench seat. The gunman swiped the corpse in the shoulder in an attempt to move him away, but this only brought the corpse in contact with the driver, who had put on a burst of speed and who seemed to be focused solely on weaving in and out of the traffic.
Bourne punched the gunman in the nose. Blood spattered as the gunman was thrown off his knees, jolted back against the dashboard. As Bourne moved to follow up his advantage, the gunman aimed the Taurus at Specter.
“Get back,” he shouted, “or I’ll kill him.”
Bourne judged the moment. If the men had wanted to kill Specter they’d have gunned him down in the street. Since they grabbed him, they must need him alive.
“All right.” Unseen by the gunman, his right hand scraped along the cushion of the backseat. As he raised his hands, he flicked a palmful of glass chips into the gunman’s face. As the man’s hands instinctively went up, Bourne chopped him twice with the edge of his hand. The gunman drew out a push dagger, the wicked-looking blade protruding from between his second and third knuckles. He jabbed it directly at Bourne’s face. Bourne ducked; the blade followed him, moving closer until Bourne slammed his fist into the side of the gunman’s head, which snapped back against the rear doorpost. Bourne heard the crack as his neck broke. The gunman’s eyes rolled up and he slumped against the door.
Bourne locked his crooked arm around the driver’s neck, pulled back hard. The driver began to choke. He whipped his head back and forth, trying to free himself. As he did so, the car swerved from one lane to another. The car began to swerve dangerously as he lost consciousness. Bourne climbed over the seat, pushing the driver off, down into the passenger’s-side foot well, so that he could slide behind the wheel. The trouble was though Bourne could steer, the driver’s body was blocking the pedals.
The Cadillac was now out of control. It hit a car in the left lane, bounced off to the right. Instead of fighting against the resulting spin, Bourne turned into it. At the same time, he shifted the car into neutral. Instantly the transmission disengaged; the engine was no longer being fed gas. Now its immediate momentum was the issue. Bourne, struggling to gain control, found his foot blocked from the brake by part of a leg. He steered right, jouncing over the divider and into an enormous parking lot that lay between the freeway and the Potomac.
The Cadillac sideswiped a parked SUV, careened farther to the right toward the water. Bourne kicked the unconscious driver’s inert body with his bare left foot, at last finding the brake pedal. The car finally slowed, but not enough—they were still heading toward the Potomac. Whipping the wheel hard to the right caused the Cadillac’s tires to shriek as Bourne tried to turn the car away from the low barrier that separated the lot from the water. As the front end of the Cadillac went up over the barrier, Bourne jammed the brake pedal to the floor, and the car came to a halt partway over the side. It teetered precariously back and forth. Specter, still huddled in the backseat behind Bourne, moaned a little, the right sleeve of his Harris Tweed jacket spattered with blood from his
captor’s broken nose.
Bourne, trying to keep the Cadillac out of the Potomac, sensed that the front wheels were still on the top of the barrier. He threw the car into reverse. The Cadillac shot backward, slamming into another parked car before Bourne had a chance to shift back into neutral.
From far away he could hear the seesaw wail of sirens.
“Professor, are you all right?”
Specter groaned, but at least his voice was more distinct. “We have to get out of here.”
Bourne was freeing the pedals from the strangled man’s legs. “That tattoo I saw on the gunman’s arm—”
“No police,” Specter managed to croak. “There’s a place we can go. I’ll tell you.”
Bourne got out of the Caddy, then helped Specter out. Limping over to another car, Bourne smashed the window with his elbow. The police sirens were coming closer. Bourne got in, hot-wired the ignition, and the car’s engine coughed to life. He unlocked the doors. The instant the professor slid into the passenger’s seat Bourne took off, heading east on the freeway. As quickly as he could he moved into the left-hand lane. Then he turned abruptly to his left. The car jumped the central divider and he accelerated, heading west now, in the opposite direction the sirens were coming from.
Six
ARKADIN TOOK his evening meal at Tractir on Bolshaya Morsekay, halfway up the steep hill, a typically unlovely place with roughly varnished wooden tables and chairs. Almost one entire wall was taken up by a painting of three-masted ships in Sevastopol harbor circa 1900. The food was unremarkable, but that wasn’t why Arkadin was here. Tractir was the restaurant whose name he’d found in Oleg Ivanovich Shumenko’s wallet. No one here knew anyone named Devra, so after the borscht and the blini, he moved on.
Along the coast was a section called Omega, filled with cafés and restaurants. As the hub of the city’s nightlife culture, it featured every variety of club one could want. Calla was a club a short stroll from the open-air car park. The night was clear and brisk. Pinpoints dotted the Black Sea as well as the sky, making for a dizzying vista. Sea and sky seemed to be virtually interchangeable.