“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 institutional green, the buzzing fluorescent tubes that hurled purple shadows on the linoleum floor as they passed. 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, buttery 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 spaced, 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, passing 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 fuck 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 glasses 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 glass, Kendall said. “Time for Plan B.”
LaValle stared into the chestnut liquid. “I always thank God for Plan B, Richard. Always.”
Their glasses 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, “principally because there’s no one answer. Some swear he’s an agent of the American CI, others claim he’s an international assassin 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 Washington, 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.”
“Impressive, if true. But just the fact that no one can get a handle on him is of extreme interest.” Icoupov’s arms chugged up and down in perfect rhythm to his gliding back and forth. His cheeks were apple red and he smiled warmly at the children skating on either side of them, laughing when they laughed, giving encouragement when one of them fell. “And how did such a man get involved with Our Friend?”
“Through the university in Georgetown,” Harun said. He was a slender man with the look of an accountant, which wasn’t helped by his sallow skin and the way his olive-pit eyes were sunk deep in his skull. Ice-skating did not come naturally to him as it did to Icoupov. “Besides killing people, it seems Bourne is something of a genius at linguistics.”
“Is he now?”
Even though they’d skated for more than forty minutes, Icoupov wasn’t breathing hard. Harun knew he was just getting warmed up. They were in spectacular country. The resort of Grindelwald was just under a hundred miles southeast of Bern. Above them towered three of Switzerland’s most famous mountains-Jungfrau, Mцnch, and Eiger-glittering white with snow and ice.
“It seems that Bourne’s weak spot is for a mentor. The first was a man named Alexander Conklin, who-”
“I knew Alex,” Icoupov said curtly. “It was before your time. Another lifetime, it often seems.” He nodded. “Please continue.”
“It seems Our Friend has made a play to become his new mentor.”
“I must interject here. That seems improbable.”
