The Bourne Betrayal Page 9

  “Diamonds are forever.”

  She rose. “Let’s see the body.”

  “Body would be the wrong word for what we got left.”

  He took Kim into the bathroom, and together they stared down at the bits of charred bone scattered about the porcelain tub.

  “Not even a skeleton.” Lovett nodded to herself. She did a complete 360. “Here lies either Jakob or Lev Silver, fair enough. But where’s the other brother?”

  “Could be cindered. No?”

  “In this heat, a definite possibility,” Kim said. “It’ll take me days, if not weeks to sift through the debris for any human ash. But then again I might not find anything at all.”

  She knew he’d combed the entire suite, but she went through every nook and cranny herself.

  He glanced nervously at his watch as they returned to the bathroom. “This gonna take much longer? Time’s running out on me.”

  Kim climbed into the bathtub with the bits and pieces of charred bone. “What’s with you and Homeland Security?”

  “Nothing, I just…” He shrugged. “I’ve tried five times to make it as an HS agent. Five times they turned me down. That’s my stake in this case. If I show them what I can do, they’ll have to take me when I reapply.”

  She crawled around with her equipment. “There was accelerant here,” she said, “as well as in the other room. You see, porcelain, which is created in fierce heat, tolerates it better than anything else, even some metals.” She moved down. “Accelerants are heavy, so they tend to seep. That’s why we look for them in the underlayer of a carpet or between the cracks of a wood floor. Here an accelerant would seek the lowest point in the tub. It would seep down into the drain.”

  She swabbed out the drain, moving deeper with each separate swab she produced from her kit. All at once she stopped. She withdrew the swab, bagged it, put it away. Then she shone the xenon beam of a pencil flash into the hole.

  “Ah, what have we here?”

  She lowered a pair of needle-nose pliers into the drain. A moment later, she withdrew it. Clamped between its steel tips was something that looked quite familiar to both of them.

  Detective Overton leaned forward until his head and torso were over the bathtub. “A pair of one of the Silver brothers’ teeth.”

  Kim was scrutinizing them as she turned them in the cool, penetrating light of her pencil flash. “Maybe.” She was frowning. Then again maybe not, she thought.

  The olive-colored house just off 7th Street NE, looked much like its neighbors—dingy, time-worn, in desperate need of a new front porch. The skeleton of the house to its right was still standing, more or less, but the rest of it had been gutted by arson long ago. The worn stoop to its right was inhabited by a clutch of teens, jangly with hard-core hip-hop roaring from a battered ghetto blaster. They were illuminated by a buzzing streetlight in desperate need of refitting.

  As one, the teens came off the stoop as the motorcycle drew up to the curb in front of the olive-colored house, but Bourne waved them off as he and Soraya climbed slowly off.

  Bourne, ignoring the ripped right leg of his trousers and the blood seeping through it, touched knuckled fist with the tallest of the teens. “How’s it going, Tyrone.”

  “It goin’,” Tyrone said. “Yo know.”

  “This is Soraya Moore.”

  Tyrone gave Soraya the once-over with his large black eyes. “Deron, he gonna be pissed. Ain’t no one should be here ’cept yo.”

  “It’s on me,” Bourne said. “I’ll make it right with Deron.”

  At that moment, the front door of the olive-colored house opened. A tall, slim, handsome man with skin the color of light cocoa stepped out onto the front porch.

  “Jason, what the hell?” Deron frowned deeply as he came down off the porch toward them. He was dressed in jeans and a chambray work shirt with the sleeves rolled up to expose his forearms. He seemed impervious to the cold. “You know the rules. You made them yourself with my father. No one but yourself comes here.”

  Bourne stepped between Deron and Soraya. “I’ve got just over two hours to make my flight to London,” he said in a low tone. “I’m in a pile of it. I need her help as much as I do yours.”

  Deron came on in his long, languid strides. He was close enough now for Soraya to see that he had a gun in his hand. And not just any gun: a .357 Magnum.

  As she began to take an involuntary step backward, Deron said, “Ah, who is nigh? come to me, friend or foe, And tell me who is victor, York or Warwick?” in a very fine British accent. “Why ask I that? my mangled body shows, My blood, my want of strength, my sick heart shows. That I must yield my body to the earth And, by my fall, the conquest to my foe.”

  Soraya replied, “See who it is: and, now the battle’s ended, If friend or foe, let him be gently used.”

  “I see you know your Shakespeare,” Deron said.

  “Henry the Sixth, Part Three, one of my favorites at school.”

  “But is the battle truly ended?”

  “Show him the NET,” Bourne said.

  She handed over the small oval case.

  Stashing the Magnum in the waistband of his jeans, Deron extended the delicate long-fingered hand of a surgeon, or a pickpocket, to open the case.

  “Ah.” His eyes lit up as he plucked out the beacon to study.

  “The newest CI leash,” Bourne said. “She dug that little devil off me.”

  “DARPA-engineered,” Deron said. You could almost see him smack his lips in delight. There was nothing he liked better than new technology.

  Deron was neither a surgeon nor a pickpocket, Bourne informed Soraya as they followed him into the olive-colored house. He was one of the world’s foremost forgers. Vermeers were a specialty—Deron had a knack with light—but in truth he could reproduce virtually anything, and often did, for an astronomically high price. Every one of his clients said his work was worth the money. He prided himself on satisfied customers.

  Deron led them into the entryway, shut the front door behind them. The unexpected heavy clangor startled Soraya. This was no ordinary door, though that was how it appeared from the outside. From this side, the metal sheathing reflected the warm lamplight.

  She looked around, astonished. Directly ahead was a curving tiger-oak staircase; to the left, a corridor. To her right was a large living room. The polished wood floors were covered in costly Persian carpets, the walls hung with masterpieces out of the storied history of fine art: Rembrandt, Vermeer, van Gogh, Monet, Degas, many others. Of course, they were all forgeries, weren’t they? She peered at them closely, and while she was no expert she thought them all brilliant. She was certain that if she had viewed them at a museum or auction she would have had no doubt as to their authenticity. She squinted harder. Unless some of them were the originals.

  Turning back, she saw that Deron had clasped Bourne in a warm embrace.

  “I never had a chance to thank you for coming to the funeral,” Bourne said. “That meant a lot to me. I know how busy you are.”

  “My dear friend, there are things in life that outweigh commerce,” Deron said with a sad smile, “no matter how pressing or lucrative.” Then he pushed Bourne away. “First thing, we take care of the leg. Upstairs, first door on the right. You know the drill. Get cleaned up. New duds for you up there as well.” He grinned. “Always the finest selection at Deron’s.”

  Soraya followed Deron down a yellow enameled hallway, through a large kitchen, into what must once have been the house’s washroom and pantry. Here were waist-high cabinets topped by zinc-wrapped counters, banks of computers, and stacks of incomprehensible electronic instruments.

  “I know what he’s looking for,” Deron said as if Soraya had ceased to exist. Methodically he began to open cabinet doors and drawers, taking out an item here, a handful there.

  Soraya, looking over his shoulder, was startled to see noses, ears, and teeth. Reaching out, she picked up a nose, turning it over in her hand.

  “Don’t worry,
” Deron said. “They’re made of latex and porcelain.” He picked up what looked like a piece of dental bridgework. “Lifelike, though, don’t you think?” He showed her one edge. “Reason being, there’s little difference between this prosthetic and the real thing, except here on the inside. The real thing would have a small recess in order to fit over the ground-down tooth. This, as you can see, is just a porcelain shell, meant to fit over normal teeth.”

  Soraya couldn’t help herself—she put on the latex nose, making Deron laugh. He rummaged around another drawer, handing her a much smaller model. This did feel better. Just for demonstration, he used some theatrical gum to mold it on.

  “Of course, in real life you’d use another kind of glue, and makeup, to hide the edges of the prosthetic.”

  “Isn’t that a problem when you sweat or—I don’t know, swim, maybe?”

  “This isn’t makeup from Chanel,” Deron said with a laugh. “Once you apply it, you need a special solvent to get it off.”

  Bourne returned just as Soraya was peeling off the fake nose. His leg wound was cleaned and bandaged, and he was dressed in new trousers and shirt.

  Bourne said, “Soraya, you and I need to talk.”

  She followed him into the kitchen, where they stood by a huge stainless-steel refrigerator against the wall farthest from Deron’s lab.

  Bourne turned to her. “You and Deron have a pleasant visit while I was gone?”

  “You mean did he try to pump me for information?”

  “You mean did I ask him to pump you.”

  “Right.”

  “As a matter of fact, I didn’t.”

  She nodded. “He didn’t.” Then she waited.

  “There’s no good way to get into this.” Bourne searched her face. “Were you and Tim close?”

  She turned her head away for a moment, bit her lip. “What d’you care? To you he’s a traitor.”

  “Soraya, listen to me, it’s either Tim Hytner or me. I know it’s not me.”

  Her expression was deliberately confrontational. “Then tell me why you took Cevik outside?”

  “I wanted him to get a taste of the freedom he no longer had.”

  “That’s it? I don’t believe you.”

  Bourne frowned. It wouldn’t be the first time since Marie’s death that he’d wondered if his latest trauma had somehow impaired his judgment. “I’m afraid it’s true.”

  “Forget about my believing you,” she snapped. “How d’you think that’s going to play with the Old Man?”

  “What does it matter? The Old Man hates loose cannons.”

  She looked at her boots, shook her head. She took a breath, let it all out. “I nominated Tim for Typhon, now he’s dead.”

  Bourne was silent. He was a warrior, what did she expect? Tears and regret? No, but would showing a smidgen of emotion kill him? Then she remembered his wife’s recent death, and she felt immediately ashamed.

  She cleared her throat, but not her emotions. “We were in school together. He was one of those boys girls made fun of.”

  “Why not you?”

  “I wasn’t like the other girls. I could see he was sweet and vulnerable. I sensed something.” She shrugged. “He liked to talk about his younger childhood; he was born in rural Nebraska. To me, it was like hearing about another country.”

  “He was wrong for Typhon,” Bourne said bluntly.

  “He was wrong for the field, that’s no lie,” she said just as bluntly.

  Bourne put his hands in his pockets. “So where does all this leave us?”

  She started as if he’d pricked her with the business end of her switchblade. “All what?”

  “We’ve saved each other’s lives, you’ve tried to kill me twice. Bottom line: We don’t trust each other.”

  Her eyes, large and liquid with incipient tears, bored into his. “I gave up the NET; you brought me here to Deron’s. What’s your definition of trust?”

  Bourne said, “You took photos of Cevik when he was detained.”

  She nodded, waiting for the ax to fall. What would he require of her now? What, exactly, did she require of him? She knew, of course, but it was too painful to admit to herself, let alone tell him.

  “Okay, call Typhon. Get them to upload the photos to your phone.” He began to walk down the corridor, and she paced him step for step. “Then have them upload the cipher Hytner took off Cevik.”

  “You forget that all of CI is still locked down. That includes data transfers.”

  “You can get me what I want, Soraya. I have faith in you.”

  The curious look came back into her eyes for a moment, then vanished as if it had never existed. She was on the phone to Typhon by the time they entered Deron’s workroom, an L-shaped space carved out of the old kitchen and pantry. His artist’s studio was upstairs, in the room that gathered the most daylight. As for Deron himself, he was bent over a worktable, poring over the NET.

  No one in Typhon save its director had the clearance to upload sensitive data during lockdown. She knew she’d have to search elsewhere to get what Bourne needed.

  She heard Anne Held’s voice and identified herself.

  “Listen, Anne, I need your help.”

  “Really? You won’t even tell me where you are.”

  “It’s not important. I’m not in any danger.”

  “Well, that’s a relief. Why did the beacon stop transmitting?”

  “I don’t know.” Soraya was careful to keep her voice level. “Maybe it’s defective.”

  “Since you’re still with Bourne, it shouldn’t be too difficult to find out.”

  “Are you crazy? I can’t get that close to him.”

  “And yet you need a favor. Tell me.”

  Soraya did.

  Silence. “Why is it you never ask for anything easy.”

  “I can ask other people for those things.”

  “Too true.” Then, “If I get caught…”

  “Anne, I think we have a lead to Cevik, but we need the intel.”

  “Okay,” Anne said. “But in return you’ve got to find out what happened to that beacon. I’ve got to tell the Old Man something that’ll satisfy him. He’s out for blood and I want to make certain it’s not mine.”

  Soraya thought for a moment, but couldn’t come up with another alternative. She’d just have to come back to Anne with something more detailed, something plausible. “All right. I think I can work something out.”

  “Good. By the way, Soraya, when it comes to the new DDCI, I’d watch my back if I were you. He’s no friend of Lindros, or of Typhon.”

  “Thanks, Anne. Thanks very much.”

  It’s done,” Soraya said. “The data’s been uploaded successfully.”

  Bourne took her cell and handed it to Deron, who dragged himself away from his new toy to plug the phone into his computer network and download the files.

  Cevik’s face popped up on one of the many monitors.

  “Knock yourself out.” Deron went back to studying the NET.

  Bourne sat down in a task chair and studied the photos for a long time. He could feel Soraya leaning over his right shoulder. He felt—what?—the ghost of a memory. He rubbed his temples, willing himself to remember, but the sliver of light eeled away into darkness. With some disquiet, he returned to his scrutiny of Cevik’s face.

  There was something about it—not any single feature, but an overall impression—that swam in his memory like the shadow of a fish out of sight beneath the surface of a lake. He zoomed in on one area of Cevik’s face after another—mouth, nose, brow, temple, ears. But this only served to push the impressionistic memory farther into the unknown recesses of his mind. Then he came to the eyes—the golden eyes. There was something about the left one. Zooming in closer, he saw a minute crescent of light at the outer edge of the iris. He zoomed in again, but here the resolution failed him and the image began to blur. He zoomed out until the crescent of light sharpened. It was tiny. It could be nothing—a reflection of the illuminat
ion in the cell. But why was it at the edge of the iris? If it was a reflection off the iris, the light would be a mote nearer the center, where the eyeball was most prominent, and therefore most likely to pick up the light. This was at the edge where…

  Bourne laughed silently.

  At that moment Soraya’s cell phone buzzed. He heard her on it briefly. Then she said: “The prelim from forensics indicates that the Hummer was packed with a shitload of C-Four.”

  He turned to her. “Which is why they wouldn’t respond.”

  “Cevik and his crew were suicide bombers.”

  “Maybe not.” Bourne turned back to the photo, pointing at the tiny crescent of light. “See that? It’s a reflection off the edge of a contact lens, because it’s slightly raised above the surface of the iris and has caught the light. Now look here. Notice this tiny fleck of the gold intruding on the curving left edge of the pupil? The only way that’s possible is if Cevik was wearing colored contacts.”

  He peered up into her face. “Why would Cevik disguise himself unless he wasn’t Cevik at all.” He waited for her response. “Soraya?”

  “I’m thinking.”

  “The disguise, the meticulous planning, the deliberate bomb attack.”

  “In the jungle,” she said, “only a chameleon can spot another chameleon.”

  “Yes,” Bourne said, staring at the photo. “I think we had Fadi under our thumb.”

  Another pause, this one shorter. Her brain was working so fiercely he could hear it.

  “Chances are, then, Cevik didn’t die in the blast,” she said at length.

  “That would be a good bet.” Bourne thought a moment. “He wouldn’t have had much time to get out of the Hummer. The only time I didn’t have it in sight was when I was starting up the motorcycle. That means before the Twenty-third and Constitution intersection.”

  “He might have had another car waiting.”

  “Check it out, but, frankly, I doubt it,” Bourne said. Now he understood why Fadi had used the high-profile Hummer. He wanted it followed and, finally, surrounded by CI personnel. He wanted to inflict maximum damage. “There was no way for him to predict where he needed to bail.”

  Soraya nodded. “I’ll grid it out from the point the Hummer picked Fadi up.” She was already dialing Typhon. “I’ll start a couple of teams canvassing right away.” She gave her instructions, listened gravely for a moment, then disconnected. “Jason, I have to tell you there’s a growing internal rift. The DCI’s gone ballistic over the Cevik fiasco. He’s blaming you.”