Part 15 (1/2)
She sensed that he was speaking about something else, something only he knew, and she glimpsed just how alone he was. She suspected that even in a crowd, even with friends-if he had any-he'd feel alone. It seemed to her that he'd walled himself off from s.e.xual melding because it would underscore the depth of his apartness. He seemed to her to be a moonless planet with no sun to revolve around. Just emptiness everywhere as far as he could see. In that moment she realized that she loved him.
How long has he been in there?” Luther LaValle asked.
”Six days,” General Kendall replied. He was in his s.h.i.+rtsleeves, which were turned up. That precaution hadn't been enough to protect them from spatters of blood. ”But I guarantee that to him it feels like six months. He's as disoriented as it's possible for a human being to be.”
LaValle grunted, peering at the bearded Arab through the one-way mirror. The man looked like a raw piece of meat. LaValle didn't know or care whether he was Sunni or s.h.i.+'a. They were the same to him-terrorists bent on destroying his way of life. He took these matters very personally.
”What's he given up?”
”Enough that we know the copies of the Typhon intercepts Batt has given us are disinformation.”
”Still,” LaValle said, ”it comes straight from Typhon.”
”This man's very highly placed, there's no question whatsoever of his ident.i.ty, and he knows of no plans moving into their final stages to hit a major New York building.”
”That in itself could be disinformation,” LaValle said. ”These b.a.s.t.a.r.ds are masters of that kind of s.h.i.+t.”
”Right.” Kendall wiped his hands on a towel he'd thrown over his shoulder like a chef at the stove. ”They love nothing better than to see us running around in circles, chasing our tails, which is what we'll be doing if we put out an alert.”
LaValle nodded, as if to himself. ”I want our best people to follow up on it. Confirm the Typhon intercepts.”
”We'll do our best, but I feel it my duty to report that the prisoner laughed in my face when I asked him about this terrorist group.”
LaValle snapped his fingers several times. ”What are they called again?”
”The Black Lesion, the Black Legion, something like that.”
”Nothing in our database about this group?”
”No, or at any of our sister agencies, either.” Kendall threw the soiled towel into a basket whose contents were incinerated every twelve hours. ”It doesn't exist.”
”I tend to agree,” LaValle said, ”but I'd like to be certain.”
He turned from the window, and the two men went out of the viewing room. They walked down a rough concrete corridor painted an inst.i.tutional green, the buzzing fluorescent tubes that hurled purple shadows on the linoleum floor as they pa.s.sed. He waited patiently outside the locker room for Kendall to change his clothes; then they proceeded down the corridor. At the end of it they climbed a flight of stairs to a reinforced metal door.
LaValle pressed his forefinger onto a fingerprint reader. He was rewarded by the clicking of bolts being shot, not unlike a bank vault opening.
They found themselves in another corridor, the polar opposite of the one they were leaving. This one was paneled in polished mahogany; wall sconces produced a soft, b.u.t.tery glow between paintings of historical naval engagements, phalanxes of Roman legions, Prussian Hussars, and English light cavalry.
The first door on the left brought them into a room straight out of a high-toned men's club, replete with hunter-green walls, cream moldings, leather furniture, antique breakfronts, and a wooden bar from an old English pub. The sofas and chairs were well s.p.a.ced, the better to allow occupants to speak of private matters. Flames cracked and sparked comfortingly in a large fireplace.
A liveried butler met them before they'd taken three steps on the thick, sound-deadening carpet. He guided them to their accustomed spot, in a discreet corner where two high-backed leather chairs were arranged on either side of a mahogany pedestal card table. They were near a tall, mullioned window flanked by thick drapes, which overlooked the Virginia countryside. This club-like room, known as the Library, was in an enormous stone house that the NSA had taken over decades ago. It was used as a retreat as well as for formal dinners for the generals and directors of the organization. Its lower depths, however, were used for other purposes.
When they had ordered drinks and light refreshments, and were alone again, LaValle said, ”Do we have a line on Bourne yet?”
”Yes and no.” Kendall crossed one leg over the other, arranging the crease in his trousers. ”As per our previous briefing, he came onto the grid at six thirty-seven last night, pa.s.sing through Immigration at Dulles. He was booked on a Lufthansa flight to Moscow. Had he showed we could've put McNally onto the flight.”
”Bourne's far too clever for that,” LaValle grumbled. ”He knows we're after him now. The element of surprise has been neutralized, dammit.”
”We managed to discover that he boarded a NextGen Energy Solutions corporate jet.”
Like a hunting dog on alert, Lavalle's head came up. ”Really? Explain.”
”An executive by the name of Moira Trevor was on it.”
”What is she to Bourne?”
”A question we're trying to answer,” Kendall said unhappily. He hated disappointing his boss. ”In the meantime, we obtained a copy of the flight plan. The destination was Munich. Shall I activate a point man there?”
”Don't waste your time.” LaValle waved a hand. ”My money's on Moscow. That's where he meant to go, that's where he's going.”
”I'll get right on it.” Kendall opened his cell phone.
”I want Anthony Prowess.”
”He's in Afghanistan.”
”Then pull him the f.u.c.k out,” LaValle said shortly. ”Get him on a military chopper. I want him on the ground in Moscow by the time Bourne gets there.”
Kendall nodded, punched in a special encrypted number, and typed the coded text message to Prowess.
LaValle smiled at the approaching waiter. ”Thank you, Willard,” he said as the man snapped out a starched white tablecloth, arranged the gla.s.ses of whiskey, small plates of nibbles, and cutlery on the table, then departed as silently as he'd come.
LaValle stared at the food. ”It seems we've backed the wrong horse.”
General Kendall knew he meant Rob Batt. ”Soraya Moore witnessed the debacle. She's put two and two together in short order. Batt told us he knew about Hart's meet with Bourne because he was in her office when Bourne's call came in. Other than the Moore woman, who else is she likely to have told? No one. That'll lead Hart right back to the deputy director.”
”Hang him out to dry.”
Picking up his gla.s.s, Kendall said. ”Time for Plan B.”
LaValle stared into the chestnut liquid. ”I always thank G.o.d for Plan B, Richard. Always.”
Their gla.s.ses clinked together. They drank in studied silence while LaValle ruminated. When, half an hour later, they'd drained their whiskeys and new ones were in their hands, LaValle said, ”On the subject of Soraya Moore, I do believe it's time to bring her in for a chat.”
”Private?”
”Oh, yes.” LaValle added a dollop of water his whiskey, releasing its complex scent. ”Bring her here.”
Fifteen.
TELL ME about Jason Bourne.”
Harun Iliev, in an American Nike jogging suit identical to the one worn by his commander, Semion Icoupov, rounded the turn of the natural ice-skating rink in the heart of Grindelwald village. Harun had spent more than a decade as Icoupov's second in command. As a boy he'd been adopted by Icoupov's father, Farid, after his parents had drowned when a ferry taking them from Istanbul to Odessa had capsized. Harun, at the age of four, was visiting his grandmother there. The news of the deaths of her daughter and son-in-law sent her into cardiac arrest. She died almost instantly-which everyone involved felt was a blessing, for she lacked both the strength and the stamina to care for a four-year-old. Farid Icoupov stepped in, because Harun's father had worked for him; the two were close.
”There's no easy answer,” Harun said now, ”princ.i.p.ally because there's no one answer. Some swear he's an agent of the American CI, others claim he's an international a.s.sa.s.sin for hire. Clearly he can't be both. What is indisputable is that he was responsible for foiling the plot to gas the attendees of the International Anti-Terrorist Conference in Reykjavik three years ago and, last year, the very real nuclear threat to Was.h.i.+ngton, DC, posed by Dujja, the terrorist group that was run by the two Wahhib brothers, Fadi and Karim al-Jamil. Rumor has it Bourne killed them both.”