“Then why did Bourne kill Mikhail Tarkanian?”
“Mischa.” Icoupov’s pace faltered for a moment. “Allah preserve us! Does Leonid Danilovich know?”
“Arkadin is currently out of contact.”
“What’s his progress?”
“He’s come and gone from Sevastopol.”
“That’s something, anyway.” Icoupov shook his head. “We’re running out of time.”
“Arkadin knows this.”
“I want Tarkanian’s death kept from him, Harun. Mischa was his best friend; they were closer than brothers. Under no circumstances can he be allowed to be distracted from his present assignment.”
A lovely young woman held out her hand as she skated abreast of them. Icoupov took it and for a time was swept away in an ice dance that made him feel as if he were twenty again. When he returned, he resumed their skate around the rink. Something about the easy gliding motion of skating, he’d once told Harun, helped him to think.
“Given what you’ve told me,” Icoupov said at length, “this Jason Bourne may very well cause an unforeseen complication.”
“You can be sure Our Friend has recruited Bourne to his cause by telling him that you caused the death of-”
Icoupov shot him a warning look. “I agree. But the question we must answer is how much of the truth he’s risked telling Bourne.”
“Knowing Our Friend,” Harun said, “I would say very little, if at all.”
“Yes.” Icoupov tapped a gloved forefinger against his lips. “And if this is the case we can use the truth against him, don’t you think?”
“If we can get to Bourne,” Harun said. “And if we can get him to believe us.”
“Oh, he’ll believe us. I’ll make sure of that.” Icoupov executed a perfect spin. “Your new assignment, Harun, is to ensure we get to him before he can do any more damage. We could ill afford to lose our eye in Our Friend’s camp. Further deaths are unacceptable.”
Munich was full of cold rain. It was a gray city on the best of days, but in this windswept downpour it seemed to hunker down. Like a turtle, it pulled in its head into its concrete shell, turning its back on all visitors.
Bourne and Moira sat inside the cavernous NextGen 747. Bourne was on his cell, making a reservation on the next flight to Moscow.
“I wish I could authorize the plane to take you,” Moira said after he’d folded away the phone.
“No, you don’t,” Bourne said. “You’d like me to stay here by your side.”
“I already told you why I think that would be a bad idea.” She looked out at the wet tarmac, rainbow-streaked with droplets of fuel and oil. Raindrops trickled down the Perspex window like racing cars in their lanes. “And I find myself not wanting to be here at all.”
Bourne opened the file he’d taken from Veronica Hart, turned it around, held it out. “I’d like you to take a look at this.”
Moira turned back, put the file on her lap, paged through it. All at once she looked up. “Was it CI that had me under surveillance?” When Bourne nodded, she said, “Well, that’s a relief.”
“How is it a relief?”
She lifted the file. “This is all disinformation, a setup. Two years ago, when bidding for the Long Beach LNG terminal was at its height, my bosses suspected that AllEn, our chief rival, was monitoring our communications in order to get a handle on the proprietary systems that make our terminal unique. As a favor to me, Martin went to the Old Man for permission to set up a sting. The Old Man agreed, but it was imperative that no one else know about it, so he never told anyone else at CI. It worked. By tracking our cell conversations we discovered that AllEn was, indeed, monitoring the calls.”
“I recall the settlement,” Bourne said.
“Because of the evidence Martin and I provided, AllEn had no incentive to go to trial.”
“NextGen got a mid-eight-figure settlement, right?”
Moira nodded. “And won the rights to build the LNG terminal in Long Beach. That’s how I got my promotion to executive vice president.”
Bourne took back the file. He, too, was relieved. For him, trust was like an ill-made boat, springing leaks at every turn, threatening at any moment to sink him. He’d ceded part of himself to Moira, but the loss of control was like a knife in his heart.
Moira looked at him rather sadly. “Did you suspect me of being a Mata Hari?”
“It was important to make sure,” he said.
Her face closed up. “Sure. I understand.” She began to stuff papers into a slim leather briefcase more roughly than was needed. “You thought I’d betrayed Martin and was going to betray you.”
“I’m relieved it’s not true.”
“I’m so very happy to hear that.” She shot him an acid stare.
“Moira…”
“What?” She pulled hair off her face. “What is it you want to say to me, Jason?”
“I… This is hard for me.”
She leaned forward, peering at him. “Just tell me.”
“I trusted Marie,” Bourne said. “I leaned on her, she helped me with my amnesia. She was always there. And then, suddenly, she wasn’t.”
Moira’s voice softened. “I know.”
He looked at her at last. “There is no good thing about being alone. But for me it’s all a matter of trust.”
“I know you think I haven’t told you the truth about Martin and me.” She took his hands in hers. “We were never lovers, Jason. We were more like brother and sister. We supported each other. Trust didn’t come easily to either of us. I think it’s important for both of us that I tell you that now.”
Bourne understood that she was also talking about the two of them, not her and Martin. He’d trusted so few people in his life: Marie, Alex Conklin, Mo Panov, Martin, Soraya. He saw all the things that had been keeping him from moving on with his life. With so little past, it was difficult letting go of the people he’d known and cared about.
A pang of sorrow shot through him. “Marie is dead. She’s in the past now. And my children are far better off with their grandparents. Their life is stable and happy. That’s best for them.”
He rose, needing to get moving.
Moira, aware he was ill at ease, changed the subject. “Do you know how long you’ll be in Moscow?”
“The same amount of time you’ll be in Munich, I imagine.”
That got a smile out of her. She stood, leaned toward him. “Be well, Jason. Stay safe.” She gave him a lingering, loving kiss. “Remember me.”
Sixteen
SORAYA MOORE was ushered cordially into the hushed sanctuary of the Library where less than twenty-four hours before, Luther LaValle and General Kendall had had their post-rendition fireside chat. It was Kendall himself who had picked her up, chauffeured her to the NSA safe house deep in the Virginia countryside. Soraya had, of course, never been here.
LaValle, in a midnight-blue chalk-striped suit, blue shirt with white collar and cuffs, a striped tie in the Yale colors, looked like a merchant banker. He rose as Kendall brought her over to the area by the window. There were three chairs grouped around the antique card table.
“Director Moore, having heard so much about you, it’s a genuine pleasure to meet you.” Smiling broadly, LaValle indicated a chair. “Please.”
Soraya saw no point in refusing the invitation. She didn’t know whether she was more curious or alarmed by the abrupt summons. She did, however, glance around the room. “Where is Secretary Halliday? General Kendall informed me that the invitation came from him.”
