— I wouldn‘t let you; I cursed you instead.
— I couldn‘t blame you. I wasn‘t angry at the hurtful things you said, who was more entitled? And yet it was a lie. I wanted to disobey orders, to tell you the truth. Instead, I quit. It was a cowardly act, really, because then I was certain I‘d never have to face you.
— And now here we are. Moira felt drained, sick at heart. She‘d known Noah was amoral, she knew he was devious; he wouldn‘t have risen to his position at Black River otherwise. But she‘d never have thought him capable of fucking her over so thoroughly, of using her like a piece of meat.
— Here we are, Hart agreed.
Moira felt a shudder run through her. -Noah is the reason I‘m in this situation, the reason I‘m here without a place to go.
The DCI frowned. -What do you mean? You have your own organization.
— It‘s been compromised, either by Noah or by the NSA.
— There‘s a big difference between Black River and the NSA.
Moira looked at Hart and realized she no longer knew how she felt about anyone or anything. How did one recover from a betrayal like this? All at once she was suffused with a terrible fury. If Noah had been in the room she would have grabbed the lamp off Veronica Hart‘s desk and swung it into the side of his face. But no, better he wasn‘t. She recalled a line from
— Not in this case, she said. -Jay Weston, my operative, was killed and I barely escaped being gunned down because Black River and the NSA are feathering the same nest, and whatever they‘ve hatched is so big they‘re willing to kill anyone who comes sniffing around.
Into the ensuing shocked silence, Hart said, — I do hope you have proof of that allegation.
In response, Moira handed over the thumb drive she‘d gotten from Jay Weston‘s corpse. Ten minutes later the DCI looked up from her computer and said, — Moira, so far as I can make out all you have is a motorcycle cop no one can find, and a thumb drive full of nonsense.
— Jay Weston didn‘t die in an automobile accident, Moira said hotly, — he was shot to death. And Steve Stevenson, the undersecretary for acquisition, technology and logistics at the DoD, confirmed that Jay was killed because he was on to something. He told me that ever since the news of the jetliner explosion hit the wires the atmosphere at DoD and the Pentagon has been shrouded in a toxic fog. Those were his words exactly.
Still staring at Moira, Hart picked up the phone and asked her assistant to connect her to Undersecretary Stevenson at the Department of Defense.
— Don‘t, Moira said. -He was scared shitless. I had to beg him to even meet with me, and he‘s a client.
— I‘m sorry, the DCI said, — but it‘s the only way. She waited a moment, drumming her fingers on the desktop. Then her expression shifted. -Yes, Undersecretary Stevenson, this is-Oh, I see. When is he expected back? Her gaze returned to Moira. -Surely you have to know when-Yes, I see. Never mind, I‘ll try again later. Thank you.
She replaced the receiver and her finger drumming began again.
— What happened? Moira asked. -Where‘s Stevenson?
— Apparently, no one knows. He left the office at eleven thirty-five this morning.
— That was to meet me.
— And as yet hasn‘t returned.
Moira dug out her phone, called Stevenson‘s cell, which went right to voice mail. -He‘s not answering. She put her phone away.
Hart stared hard at the screen of her computer terminal and mouthed the word
Wayan, well pleased with his sales for the day, was in the enclosed rear of his stall, preparing the one or two pigs left unsold to take back to his farm, when the man appeared. He didn‘t hear him for all the shouted cacophony as the huge market began to close for the night.
— You‘re the pig man named Wayan.
— Closed, Wayan said without looking up. -Please come back tomorrow.
When he discerned no movement he began to turn, saying, — And in any event, you cannot come back-
The powerful blow caught him square on the jaw, sending him reeling into the piglets, which squealed in alarm. So did Wayan. He barely had time to see the man‘s rough-edged face when he was hauled upright. The second punch buried itself in his stomach, sending him breathless, to his knees.
He peered up through watering eyes, gasping and retching pitifully, at the impossibly tall man. He wore a black suit so shiny and ill fitting it was hideous. There was stubble on his face, blue as the shadows of evening, and coal-black eyes that regarded Wayan without either pity or conscience. One side of his neck was imprinted with a rather delicate scar, like a pink ribbon on a child‘s birthday present, that ran up into his jaw where the muscle had been severed and was now puckered. The other side of his neck was tattooed with a clutch of three skulls: one looking straight out, the other two in profile, looking forward and behind him.
— What did you tell Bourne?
The man spoke English with a guttural accent that Wayan, in his addled state, couldn‘t place. A European, but not British or French. Perhaps a Romanian or a Serb.
— What did you tell Bourne? he repeated.
— W-who?
