— Don‘t remind me. Bamber drained his glass. -That blood money‘s going straight to AIDS research.
— Back to Noah, Moira said gently.
— Right.
— Please explain the phrase, ?a tidy little war.‘
At that moment, Lamontierre called to them and they rose wearily, Bamber leading the way down a hall, past a bathroom, and into the kitchen at the rear of the town house. Moira was eager to hear Bamber‘s reply, but her stomach was growling, and in order to regain her strength she knew she needed to get some food in her.
When she‘d been house hunting, Moira had been inside homes like this one. Lamontierre had had a skylight installed, so instead of the dark and gloomy space it must once have been, the kitchen was now bright and cheery. It was painted a rich egg-yolk yellow, with backsplashes behind the umber granite countertops of glass tiles in a complex Byzantine pattern of golds, greens, and blues.
They sat at an antique parquet wood table. Lamontierre had made scrambled eggs with turkey bacon and whole-grain toast. As they ate, he kept stealing worried glances at Bamber because when he asked what had happened Bamber said: — I don‘t want to talk about it. And then because Lamontierre looked hurt, added: — It‘s for your own good, Chrissie, trust me.
— I don‘t know what to say here, Lamontierre said. -Steve‘s death-
— The less said about that the better, Bamber cut in.
— I‘m sorry. That‘s all I was going to say. I‘m sorry.
Bamber finally looked up from his plate and tried for a bleak smile.
— Thank you, Chrissie. I appreciate it. I apologize for being such a godawful shit.
— He‘s been through a lot today, Moira said.
— We both have. Bamber‘s gaze returned to his plate.
Lamontierre looked from one to the other. -Okay, then, I have to practice. He stood up. -If you need me, I‘ll be in the studio downstairs.
— Thanks, Chrissie. Bamber gave him a tender smile. -I‘ll be down in a while.
— Take your time. Lamontierre turned to Moira. -Ms. Trevor.
Then he left the kitchen. They saw he hadn‘t touched his food.
— That went well, Moira said, trying, and failing, to lighten the mood.
Bamber put his head in his hands. -I acted like a total jerk. What‘s happening to me?
— Stress, Moira offered. -And a whole lot of delayed shock. It‘s what happens when you try to stuff two pounds of shit in a one-pound bag.
Bamber laughed briefly, but when he brought his head up, his eyes were enlarged with tears. -What about you? Are car bombs part of your daily routine?
— Frankly, they used to be. Car bombs and so much more.
He stared wide-eyed at her for a moment. -Jesus, what did Noah get me involved in?
— That‘s what I need you to tell me.
— He said he had a client who-he wanted to run reallife scenarios, as close to real-world simulations as possible. I told him there wasn‘t anything on the market that would fit his criteria, but that I could build him a program that could.
— For a fee.
— Of course, for a fee, Bamber said shortly. -I‘m not running a not-forprofit.
Moira wondered why she was being so harsh on him. Fleetingly, she realized that her ill temper had nothing at all to do with Bamber. She had called Dr. Firth in Bali, anxious to talk to Willard for an update on Jason‘s recovery, only to be told that Willard had returned to DC. Firth didn‘t know where Bourne was-or claimed not to, anyway. She‘d tried Bourne‘s cell several times since then, but the call went straight to his voice mail. This made her terribly uneasy, though she tried to calm herself with the thought that if Jason was with Willard he was safe and in good hands.
— Go on, she said now, abruptly ashamed and vowing to be kinder to Bamber.
Bamber rose, collected their plates, and took them to the double sink, where he scraped what was left of the food into the Disposall, then placed plates and silverware into the dishwasher. When he was finished clearing the table, he stood behind his chair, hands wrapped around the top slat of the back, his knuckles standing out starkly. His renewed fear created a circuit of nervous energy he was barely able to contain.
— To be honest, I thought his client wanted to test out a new hedge fund formula. I mean Noah offered so much money, so I thought, what the hell, I‘ll have my fuck-you money in a month or two and then no matter what happens in my business I‘ll have this substantial stash. It‘s tough working freelance, the minute a downturn hits, the business dries up like you wouldn‘t believe.
Moira sat back for a moment. -Didn‘t you know that Noah worked for Black River?
— He presented himself as Noah Petersen. That‘s all I knew.
— You mean you don‘t run ID checks on your clients?
— Not when they deposit two and a half million dollars in my bank account. He shrugged. -Besides, I‘m not the FBI.
Moira could see his point. In any case, she knew firsthand how persuasive Noah could be, how good he was at being someone else. He loved playing roles as much as a Hollywood actor. That way he never had to be himself.
