The hood didn’t come off. He howled in indignation and terror.
And he would answer them-all of them. He knew this with a bone-chilling certainty. Even though part of him suspected that the hood might never come off, his trapped mind would take the chance. It had no other choice.
But now that he could move his fingers, there was another choice. Just before the whirlwind of panicked madness overtook him again, Pyotr made that choice. There was one way out and, saying a silent prayer to Allah, he took it.
Icoupov and Arkadin stood over Pyotr’s body. Pyotr’s head lay on one side; his lips were very blue, and a faint but distinct foam emanated from his half-open mouth. Icoupov bent down, sniffed the scent of bitter almonds.
“I didn’t want him dead, Leonid, I was very clear on the point.” Icoupov was vexed. “How did he get hold of cyanide?”
“They used a variation I’ve never encountered.” Arkadin did not look happy himself. “He was fitted with a false fingernail.”
“He would have talked.”
“Of course he would have talked,” Arkadin said. “He’d already begun.”
“So he took it upon himself to shut his own mouth, forever.” Icoupov shook his head in distaste. “This will have significant fallout. He’s got dangerous friends.”
“I’ll find them,” Arkadin said. “I’ll kill them.”
Icoupov shook his head. “Even you can’t kill them all in time.”
“I can contact Mischa.”
“And risk losing everything? No. I understand your connection with him-closest friend, mentor. I understand the urge to talk to him, to see him. But you can’t, not until this is finished and Mischa comes home. That’s final.”
“I understand.”
Icoupov walked over the window, stood with his hand behind his back contemplating the fall of darkness. Lights sparkled along the edges of the lake, up the hillside of Campione d’Italia. There ensued a long silence while he contemplated the face of the altered landscape. “We’ll have to move up the timetable, that’s all there is to it. And you’ll take Sevastopol as a starting point. Use the one name you got out of Pyotr before he committed suicide.”
He turned around to face Arkadin. “Everything now rides on you, Leonid. This attack has been in the planning stages for three years. It has been designed to cripple the American economy. Now there are barely two weeks left before it becomes a reality.” He walked noiselessly across the carpet. “Philippe will provide you with money, documents, weaponry that will escape electronic detection, anything you need. Find this man in Sevastopol. Retrieve the document, and when you do, follow the pipeline back and shut it down so that it will never again be used to threaten our plans.”
Book One
One
WHO IS DAVID Webb?”
Moira Trevor, standing in front of his desk at Georgetown University, asked the question so seriously that Jason Bourne felt obliged to answer.
“Strange,” he said, “no one’s ever asked me that before. David Webb is a linguistics expert, a man with two children who are living happily with their grandparents”-Marie’s parents-“on a ranch in Canada.”
Moira frowned. “Don’t you miss them?”
“I miss them terribly,” Bourne said, “but the truth is they’re far better off where they are. What kind of life could I offer them? And then there’s the constant danger from my Bourne identity. Marie was kidnapped and threatened in order to force me to do something I had no intention of doing. I won’t make that mistake again.”
“But surely you see them from time to time.”
“As often as I can, but it’s difficult. I can’t afford to have anyone following me back to them.”
“My heart goes out to you,” Moira said, meaning it. She smiled. “I must say it’s odd seeing you here, on a university campus, behind a desk.” She laughed. “Shall I buy you a pipe and a jacket with elbow patches?”
Bourne smiled. “I’m content here, Moira. Really I am.”
“I’m happy for you. Martin’s death was difficult for both of us. My anodyne is going back to work full-bore. Yours is obviously here, in a new life.”
“An old life, really.” Bourne looked around the office. “Marie was happiest when I was teaching, when she could count on me being home every night in time to have dinner with her and the kids.”
“What about you?” Moira asked. “Were you happiest here?”
A cloud passed across Bourne’s face. “I was happy being with Marie.” He turned to her. “I can’t imagine being able to say that to anyone else but you.”
“A rare compliment from you, Jason.”
“Are my compliments so rare?”
“Like Martin, you’re a master at keeping secrets,” she said. “But I have doubts about how healthy that is.”
“I’m sure it’s not healthy at all,” Bourne said. “But it’s the life we chose.”
“Speaking of which.” She sat down on a chair opposite him. “I came early for our dinner date to talk to you about a work situation, but now, seeing how content you are here, I don’t know whether to continue.”
Bourne recalled the first time he had seen her, a slim, shapely figure in the mist, dark hair swirling about her face. She was standing at the parapet in the Cloisters, overlooking the Hudson River. The two of them had come there to say good-bye to their mutual friend Martin Lindros, whom Bourne had valiantly tried to save, only to fail.
Today Moira was dressed in a wool suit, a silk blouse open at the throat. Her face was strong, with a prominent nose, deep brown eyes wide apart, intelligent, curved slightly at their outer corners. Her hair fell to her shoulders in luxuriant waves. There was an uncommon serenity about her, a woman who knew what she was about, who wouldn’t be intimidated or bullied by anyone, woman or man.
Perhaps this last was what Bourne liked best about her. In that, though in no other way, she was like Marie. He had never pried into her relationship with Martin, but he assumed it had been romantic, since Martin had given Bourne standing orders to send her a dozen red roses should he ever die. This Bourne had done, with a sadness whose depth surprised even him.
Settled in her chair, one long, shapely leg crossed over her knee, she looked the model of a European businesswoman. She had told him that she was half French, half English, but her genes still carried the imprint of ancient Venetian and Turkish ancestors. She was proud of the fire in her mixed blood, the result of wars, invasions, fierce love.
“Go on.” He leaned forward, elbows on his desk. “I want to hear what you have to say.”
She nodded. “All right. As I’ve told you, NextGen Energy Solutions has completed our new liquid natural gas terminal in Long Beach. Our first shipment is due in two weeks. I had this idea, which now seems utterly crazy, but here goes. I’d like you to head up the security procedures. My bosses are worried the terminal would make an awfully tempting target for any terrorist group, and I agree. Frankly, I can’t think of anyone who’d make it more secure than you.”
“I’m flattered, Moira. But I have obligations here. As you know, Professor Specter has installed me as the head of the Comparative Linguistics Department. I don’t want to disappoint him.”
“I like Dominic Specter, Jason, really I do. You’ve made it clear that he’s your mentor. Actually, he’s David
