The Bourne Sanction (49 page)

The answers to both questions were firmly rooted in time and place. He hadn’t been tailed to the museum, then… As a chill spread through him, Bourne went very still. With no physical tail, there had to be an electronic tail somewhere on his person. But how had it been put there? Someone could have brushed up against him in the airport. He rose, slowly undressed. As he did so, he went through every item of clothing, looking for an electronic tag. Finding nothing, he dressed, sat again in the chair, deep in thought. With his eidetic memory, he went through every step of his journey from Moscow to Munich. When he recalled the German Immigration officer, he realized that his passport had been out of his possession for close to half a minute. Taking it out of his breast pocket, he began to leaf through it, checking each page both by sight and by touch. On the inside of the back cover, stuck in the fold of the binding, he found the tiny transmitter.

HOW
WONDERFUL
it is to breathe the good night air,” Veronica Hart said as she stood on the pavement just outside the Pentagon.

“Diesel fumes and all,” Stu Gold said.

“I knew LaValle’s charges wouldn’t stick,” she said as they crossed to his car.

“They’re patently trumped up.”

“I wouldn’t begin celebrating just yet,” the attorney said. “LaValle’s put me on notice that he’s going to take those surveillance photos of you and Bourne to the president tomorrow for an executive order to have you removed.”

“Come on, Stu, those were private conversations between Martin Lindros and a civilian, Moira Trevor. There’s nothing in them. LaValle’s banking on hot air.”

“He’s got the secretary of defense,” Gold said. “Under the circumstances that alone is enough to make trouble for you.”

The wind was whipping up and Hart caught her hair, pushed it off her face. “Coming into CI and marching me out in cuffs… LaValle made a big mistake grandstanding like that.” She turned, looked back at the headquarters of the
NSA
in which she’d been incarcerated for three hours until the moment Gold showed up with his order from a federal judge for her temporary release. “He’ll pay for humiliating me.”

“Veronica, don’t do anything rash.” Gold opened the car door, ushered her inside.

“Knowing LaValle as I do it’s more than likely that he wants you to go off half-cocked. That’s how fatal mistakes are made.”

He went around the front of the car, got behind the wheel, and they drove off.

“We can’t let him get away with this, Stu. Unless we stop him he’s going to hijack CI right out from under us.” She watched the Virginia night turn into the district night as they crossed the Arlington Memorial Bridge. The Lincoln Memorial rose up before them.

“I made a pledge when I signed on.”

“Like all DCIs.”

“No, I’m talking about a personal pledge.” She very much wanted to see Lincoln sitting on his chair, contemplating all the unknowns that lay before every human being. She asked Gold to make a stop there. “I never told anyone this, Stu, but the day I officially became
DCI
I went to the Old Man’s grave. Have you ever been to the Arlington National Cemetery? It’s a sobering place, but in its own way a joyous place as well. So many heroes, so much courage, the bedrock of our freedom, Stu, every one of us.”

They’d come to the memorial. They both got out, walked up to the majestic floodlit granite statue, stood gazing up into Lincoln’s stern, wise face. Someone had left a bouquet of flowers at his feet, withered heads nodding in the wind.

“I stayed at the Old Man’s grave for a long time,” Hart continued in a faraway voice.

“I swear I could feel him, I swear I felt something stir against me, then inside me.” Her gaze swung around to fix on the attorney. “There’s a long, exemplary legacy at CI, Stu. I swore then, and I’m swearing now, that I won’t let anything or anyone damage that legacy.” She took a breath. “So whatever it takes.”

Gold returned her stare without flinching. “Do you know what you’re asking?”

“Yes, I believe I do.”

At last, he said, “All right, Veronica, it’s your call. Whatever it takes.”

Feeling invigorated and invulnerable after his workout, Rodney Feir met General Kendall in the champagne room, reserved for those VIPs who had consummated the evening’s pleasures and wanted to linger, with or without their girls. Of course time spent in there was far more expensive with the girls than without.

The champagne room was decorated like a Middle Eastern pasha’s den. The two men lazed on voluminous pillows while being served the bubbly of their choice. This was where Feir planned to hand over the intel on Typhon’s field agents. But first he wanted to luxuriate in the pure pleasure provided in the back rooms of The Glass Slipper. After all, the moment he set foot outside, the real world would come crashing in on him with all its annoyances, petty humiliations, drudgery, and the piquancy of fear that preceded every move he made to advance LaValle’s position vis-а-vis CI.

Kendall, his cell phone at his right hand, sat rather stiffly, as befitted a military man. Feir thought he must be slightly uncomfortable in such lush surroundings. The men chatted for a time, sipping their champagne, exchanging theories about steroids and baseball, about the chances of the Redskins making the play-offs next year, the gyrations of the stock market, anything but politics.

After a time, when the bottle of champagne was nearly exhausted, Kendall looked at his watch. “What d’you have for me?”

This was the moment Feir had been keenly anticipating. He couldn’t wait to see the look on the general’s face when he caught a glimpse of the intel. Reaching into the pocket in the lining of his coat, he brought out the packet. A low-tech hard copy was the safest way to smuggle data out of the CI building, since security systems were in place to monitor the comings and goings of any device with a hard drive large enough to hold substantial data files.

A smile broke out across Feir’s face. “The whole enchilada. Every last detail on the Typhon agents across the globe.” He held up the packet. “Now let’s talk about what I get in return.”

“What do you want?” Kendall said without much enthusiasm. “A higher grade? More control?”

“I want respect,” Feir said. “I want LaValle to respect me the way you do.”

A curious smile curled the general’s lips. “I can’t speak for Luther, but I’ll see what I can do.”

As he leaned forward to take the intel, Feir was wondering why he was so solemn-no, worse than solemn, he was downright glum. Feir was on the point of asking him about it when a tall, elegant black woman began snapping a series of photos.

“What the hell?” he said, through the blinding string of flashes. When his vision cleared, he saw Soraya Moore standing beside them. She had the packet of intel in her hand.

“This isn’t a good night for you, Rodney.” She picked up the general’s cell phone, thumbed it on, and there was the conversation between the general and Feir recorded and regurgitated so everyone could hear his treachery for themselves. “No, I would have to say that all things considered it’s the end of the line.”

I’m not afraid to die,” Devra said, “if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I’m not worried,” Arkadin said. “What makes you think I’m worried?”

She bit into the chocolate ice cream he’d bought her. “You’ve got that deep vertical indentation between your eyes.”

She wanted ice cream even though it was the middle of winter. Maybe it was the chocolate she wanted, he thought. Not that it mattered; pleasing her in little ways was strangely satisfying-as if in pleasing her he was also pleasing himself, although that seemed like an impossibility to him.

“I’m not worried,” he said. “I’m thoroughly pissed off.”

“Because your boss told you to stay away from Bourne.”

“I’m not going to stay away from Bourne.”

“You’ll piss off your boss.”

“There comes a time,” Arkadin said, walking faster.

They were in the center of Munich; he wanted to be in a central location when Icoupov told him where he was meeting Bourne in order to get there as quickly as possible.

“I’m not afraid to die,” Devra repeated, “the only thing is, though, what do you do when you no longer have memories?”

Arkadin shot her a look. “What?”

“When you look at a dead person what do you see?” She took another bite of ice cream between her teeth, leaving little indentations in what was left of the scoop. “Nothing, right? Not a damn thing. Life has flown the coop, and with it all the memories that have been built up over the years.” She looked at him. “At that moment, you cease to be human, so what are you?”

“Who gives a shit?” Arkadin said. “It’ll be a fucking relief to be without memories.”

Soraya presented herself at the
NSA
safe house just before 10 AM, so that by the time she cleared the various levels of security, she was being ushered into the Library precisely on time.

“Breakfast, madam?” Willard asked as he escorted her across the plush carpet.

“I believe I will, today,” she said. “A fines herbes omelet would be nice. Do you have a baguette?”

“We do, indeed, madam.”

“Fine.” She shifted the evidence damning General Kendall from one hand to the other.

“And a pot of Ceylon tea, Willard. Thank you.”

She walked the rest of the way to where Luther LaValle sat, drinking his morning cup of coffee. He stared out the window, casting a jaundiced eye on the early spring. It was so warm the fireplace held only cold, white ash.

He did not turn when she sat down. She placed the evidence file on her lap, then said without preamble, “I’ve come to take Tyrone home.”

LaValle ignored her. “There’s nothing on your Black Legion; there’s no unusual terrorist activities inside the US. We’ve come up blank.”

“Did you hear what I said? I’ve come for Tyrone.”

“That’s not going to happen,” LaValle said.

Soraya brought out Kendall’s cell phone, played back the conversation he’d had with Rodney Feir in the champagne room of The Glass Slipper.

“Every last detail on the Typhon agents across the globe,” came Feir’s voice. “Now let’s talk about what I get in return.”

General Kendall: “What do you want? A higher grade? More control?”

Feir: “I want respect. I want LaValle to respect me the way you do.”

“Who cares?” LaValle’s head swung around. His eyes were dark and glassy. “That’s Feir’s problem, not mine.”

“Maybe so.” Soraya slid the file across the table toward him. “However, this is very much your problem.”

LaValle stared at her for a moment. His eyes were now full of venom. Without lowering his gaze, he reached out, flipped open the file. There he saw photo after photo of General Kendall, naked as sin, caught in the midst of having intercourse with a young black woman.

“How is that going to look for the career officer and devout Christian family man when the story comes out?”

Willard arrived with her breakfast, snapping down a starched white tablecloth, setting the china and silverware in a precise pattern in front of her. When he was finished, he turned to LaValle. “Anything for you, sir?”

LaValle shooed him away with a curt flick of his hand. For a time, he did nothing more than leaf through the photos again. Then he took out a cell phone, placed it on the table, and pushed it toward her.

“Call Bourne,” he said.

Soraya froze with a forkful of omelet halfway to her mouth. “I beg your pardon?”

“I know he’s in Munich, our substation there picked him up on their
CCTV
monitoring of the airport. I have men in place to take him into custody. All that’s needed now is for you to set the trap.”

She laughed as she set down her fork. “You’re dreaming, LaValle. I have you, not the other way around. If these photos become public, your right-hand man will be ruined both professionally and personally. You and I both know you’re not going to allow that to happen.”

LaValle gathered up the photos, slid them back into the envelope. Then he took out a pen, wrote a name and address on the front of the envelope. When Willard glided over at his beckoning, LaValle said, “Please have these scanned and sent electronically to The Drudge Report. Then have a courier deliver them to The Washington Post as soon as possible.”

“Very good, sir.” Willard tucked the envelope under his arm, vanished into another part of the Library.

Then LaValle took out his cell phone, dialed a local number. “Gus, this is Luther LaValle. Fine, fine. How’s Ginnie? Good, give her my love. The kids, as well… Listen, Gus, I have a situation here. Evidence has come to light regarding General Kendall, that’s right, he’s been the target of an internal investigation for some months now. Effective immediately, he’s been terminated from my command, from the
NSA
in toto. Well, you’ll see, I’m having the photos messengered over to you even as we speak. Of course it’s an exclusive, Gus. Frankly, I’m shocked, truly shocked. You will be, too, when you see these photos… I’ll have an official statement over to you within forty minutes. Yes, of course. No need to thank me, Gus, I always think of you first.”

Soraya watched this performance with a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach that grew from an icy ball into an iceberg of disbelief.

“How could you?” she said when LaValle finished his call. “Kendall’s your second in command, your friend. You and he go to church together with your families every Sunday.”

“I have no permanent friends or allies; I only have permanent interests,” LaValle said flatly. “You’ll be a damn sight better director when you learn that.”

She then drew out another set of photos, this one showing Feir handing a packet to General Kendall. “That packet,” she said, “details the number and locations of Typhon field personnel.”

LaValle’s disdainful expression didn’t change. “What’s that to me?”

For the second time, Soraya struggled to hide her astonishment. “That’s your second in command taking possession of classified CI intel.”

“On that score you should see to your own people.”

“Are you denying that you gave General Kendall orders to cultivate Rodney Feir as a mole?”