Part 29 (1/2)

He heard the scuff of leather soles-two men, his ears told him.

Then General Kendall's voice, saying imperiously, ”Set the food on the table, Willard. Right there, thank you. That will be all.”

One set of shoe soles clacked across the floor, the sound of the door closing. Silence. Then the screech of a chair being hitched across the concrete. Kendall was sitting down, Tyrone surmised.

”What have we here?” Kendall said, clearly to himself. ”Ah, my favorite: eggs over easy, bacon, b.u.t.tered grits, hot biscuits and gravy.” The sound of cutlery being taken up. ”You like grits, Tyrone? You like biscuits and gravy?”

Tyrone wasn't too far gone to be incensed. ”On'y ting I like betta is watermelon, sah.”

”That's a d.a.m.n fine imitation of one of your brethren, Tyrone.” He was obviously talking while eating. ”This is d.a.m.n fine chow. Would you like some?”

Tyrone's stomach growled so loudly he was sure Kendall heard it.

”All you gotta do is tell me everything you and the Moore woman were up to.”

”I don't rat anyone out,” Tyrone said bitterly.

”Um.” The sounds of Kendall swallowing. ”That's what they all say in the beginning.” He chewed some more. ”You do know this is just the beginning, don't you, Tyrone? Sure you do. Just like you know the Moore woman isn't going to save you. She's going to hang you out to dry, sure as I'm sitting here eating the most mouthwatering biscuits I ever had. You know why? Because LaValle gave her a choice: you or Jason Bourne. You know her history with Bourne. She might claim she didn't f.u.c.k him but you and I know better.”

”She never slept with him,” Tyrone said before he could stop himself.

”Sure. She told you that.” Munch, munch, munch went Kendall's jaws, shredding the crisp bacon. ”What'd you expect her to say?”

The sonovab.i.t.c.h was playing mind games with him, Tyrone knew that for a fact. Trouble was, he wasn't lying. Tyrone knew how Soraya felt about Bourne-it was written all over her face every time she saw him or his name came up. Though she'd said otherwise, the question Kendall had just raised had gnawed at him like an addict at a candy bar.

It was difficult not to envy Bourne with his freedom, his encyclopedic knowledge, his friends.h.i.+p as equals with Deron. But all these things Tyrone dealt with in his own way. It was Soraya's love for Bourne that was so hard to live with.

He heard the sc.r.a.pe of chair legs and then felt the presence of Kendall as he squatted down beside him. It was astonis.h.i.+ng, Tyrone thought, how much heat another human being gave off.

”I have to say, Tyrone, you really have taken a beating,” Kendall said. ”I think you deserve a reward for how well you've held up. s.h.i.+t, we've had suspects in here who were crying for their mamas after twenty-four hours. Not you, though.” The quick click-clack click-clack of a metal utensil against a china plate. ”How about some eggs and bacon? Man, this was some big plate of food, I surely can't finish it myself. So come on. Join me.” of a metal utensil against a china plate. ”How about some eggs and bacon? Man, this was some big plate of food, I surely can't finish it myself. So come on. Join me.”

As the hood was raised high enough to expose his mouth Tyrone was conflicted. His mind told him to refuse the offer, but his severely shrunken stomach yearned for real food. He could smell the rich flavors of bacon and eggs, felt the food warm as a kiss against his lips.

”Hey, man, what're you waiting for?”

f.u.c.k it, Tyrone said to himself. The tastes of the food exploded inside his mouth. He wanted to moan in pleasure. He wolfed down the first few forkfuls fed to him, then forced himself to chew slowly and methodically, extracting every bit of flavor from the hickory-smoked meat and the rich yolk.

”Tastes good,” Kendall said. He must have regained his feet because his voice was above Tyrone when he said, ”Tastes real good, doesn't it?”

Tyrone was about to nod his a.s.sent when pain exploded in the pit of his stomach. He grunted when it came again. He'd been kicked before, so he knew what Kendall was doing. The third kick landed. He tried to hold on to his food, but the involuntary reaction had begun. A moment later he vomited up all the delicious food Kendall had fed him.

The Munich courier is the last one in the network,” Devra said. ”His name is Egon Kirsch, but that's all I know. I never met him; no one I know did. Pyotr made sure that link was completely compartmentalized. So far as I know Kirsch dealt directly with Pyotr and no one else.”

”Who does Kirsch deliver his intel to?” Arkadin said. ”Who's at the other end of the network?”

”I have no idea.”

He believed her. ”Did Heinrich and Kirsch have a particular meeting place?”

She shook her head.

On the Lufthansa flight from Istanbul to Munich he sat shoulder-to-shoulder with her and wondered what the h.e.l.l he was doing. She'd given him all the information he was going to get from her. He had the plans; he was on the last lap of his mission. All that remained was to deliver the plans to Icoupov, find Kirsch, and persuade him to lead Arkadin back to the end of the network. Child's play.

Which begged the question of what to do with Devra. He'd already made up his mind to kill her, as he'd killed Marlene and so many others. It was a fait accompli, a fixed point detailed in his mind, a diamond that only needed polis.h.i.+ng to sparkle into life. Sitting in the jetliner he heard the quick report from the gun, leaves falling over her dead body, covering her like a blanket.

Devra, who was seated on the aisle, got up, made her way back to the lavatories. Arkadin closed his eyes and was back in the sooty stench of Nizhny Tagil, men with filed teeth and blurry tattoos, women old before their time, bent, swigging homemade vodka from plastic soda bottles, girls with sunken eyes, bereft of a future. And then the ma.s.s grave . . .

His eyes popped open. He was having difficulty breathing. Heaving himself to his feet, he followed Devra. She was the last of the pa.s.sengers waiting. The accordion door on the right opened, an older women bustled out, squeezed by Devra then Arkadin. Devra went into the lavatory, closed the door, and locked it. The OCCUPIED OCCUPIED sign came on. sign came on.

Arkadin walked to the door, stood in front of it for a moment. Then he knocked on it gently.

”Just a minute,” her voice came to him.

Leaning his head against the door, he said, ”Devra, it's me.” And after a short silence, ”Open the door.”

A moment later, the door folded back. She stood in front of him.

”I want to come in,” he said.

Their eyes locked for the s.p.a.ce of several heartbeats as each tried to gauge the intent of the other.

Then she backed up against the tiny sink, Arkadin stepped inside, with some difficulty shut the door behind him, and turned the lock.

Thirty.

IT'S STATE-OF-THE-ART,” Gunter Muller said. ”Guaranteed.”

Both he and Moira were wearing hard hats as they walked through the series of semi-automated workshops of Kaller Steelworks Gesellschaft, where the coupling link that would receive the LNG tankers as they nosed into the NextGen Long Beach terminal had been manufactured.

Muller, the team leader on the NextGen coupling link project, was a senior vice president of Kaller, a smallish man dressed impeccably in a conservatively cut three-piece chalk-striped suit, expensive shoes, and a tie in black and gold, Munich's colors since the time of the Holy Roman Empire. His skin was bright pink, as if he'd just had his face steam-cleaned, and thick brown hair, graying at the sides. He talked slowly and distinctly in good English, though he was rather endearingly weak with modern American idioms.

At each step he explained the manufacturing process with excruciating detail, great pride. Spread out before them were the design drawings, along with the specs, to which Muller referred time and again.

Moira was listening with only one ear. How her situation had changed now that the Firm was out of the picture, now that NextGen was on its own with the security of its terminal operations in Long Beach, now that she had been rea.s.signed.

But the more things change, she thought, the more they stay the same the more they stay the same. The moment Noah had handed her the packet for Damascus she knew she wouldn't disengage herself from the Long Beach terminal project. No matter what Noah or his bosses had determined she couldn't leave NextGen or this project in jeopardy. Muller, like everyone else at Kaller and, for that matter, nearly everyone at NextGen, had no idea she worked for the Firm. Only she knew she should be on a flight to Damascus, not here with him. She had a grace period of mere hours before her contact at NextGen would begin to ask questions as to why she was still on the LNG terminal project. By then, she hoped to convince NextGen's president of the wisdom of her disobeying the Firm's orders.

Finally, they reached the loading bay where the sixteen parts of the coupling link were being packed for s.h.i.+pment by air to Long Beach on the NextGen 747 jet that had brought her and Bourne to Munich.

”As specified in the contract, our team of engineers will be accompanying you on the homeward journey.” Muller rolled up the drawings, snapped a rubber band around them, and handed them to Moira. ”They'll be in charge of putting the coupling link together on site. I have every confidence that all will go smoothly.”

”It had better,” Moira said. ”The LNG tanker is scheduled to dock at the terminal in thirty hours.” She shot Muller an unpleasant look. ”Not much leeway for your engineers.”

”Not to worry, Fraulein Trevor,” he said cheerfully. ”They're more than up to the task.”

”For your company's sake, I sincerely hope so.” She stowed the roll under her left arm, preparatory to leaving. ”Shall we speak frankly, Herr Muller?”