“How is that going to look for the career officer and devout Christian family man when the story comes out?”
Willard arrived with her breakfast, snapping down a starched white tablecloth, setting the china and silverware in a precise pattern in front of her. When he was finished, he turned to LaValle. “Anything for you, sir?”
LaValle shooed him away with a curt flick of his hand. For a time, he did nothing more than leaf through the photos again. Then he took out a cell phone, placed it on the table, and pushed it toward her.
“Call Bourne,” he said.
Soraya froze with a forkful of omelet halfway to her mouth. “I beg your pardon?”
“I know he’s in Munich, our substation there picked him up on their CCTV monitoring of the airport. I have men in place to take him into custody. All that’s needed now is for you to set the trap.”
She laughed as she set down her fork. “You’re dreaming, LaValle. I have you, not the other way around. If these photos become public, your right-hand man will be ruined both professionally and personally. You and I both know you’re not going to allow that to happen.”
LaValle gathered up the photos, slid them back into the envelope. Then he took out a pen, wrote a name and address on the front of the envelope. When Willard glided over at his beckoning, LaValle said, “Please have these scanned and sent electronically to The Drudge Report. Then have a courier deliver them to The Washington Post as soon as possible.”
“Very good, sir.” Willard tucked the envelope under his arm, vanished into another part of the Library.
Then LaValle took out his cell phone, dialed a local number. “Gus, this is Luther LaValle. Fine, fine. How’s Ginnie? Good, give her my love. The kids, as well… Listen, Gus, I have a situation here. Evidence has come to light regarding General Kendall, that’s right, he’s been the target of an internal investigation for some months now. Effective immediately, he’s been terminated from my command, from the NSA in toto. Well, you’ll see, I’m having the photos messengered over to you even as we speak. Of course it’s an exclusive, Gus. Frankly, I’m shocked, truly shocked. You will be, too, when you see these photos… I’ll have an official statement over to you within forty minutes. Yes, of course. No need to thank me, Gus, I always think of you first.”
Soraya watched this performance with a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach that grew from an icy ball into an iceberg of disbelief.
“How could you?” she said when LaValle finished his call. “Kendall’s your second in command, your friend. You and he go to church together with your families every Sunday.”
“I have no permanent friends or allies; I only have permanent interests,” LaValle said flatly. “You’ll be a damn sight better director when you learn that.”
She then drew out another set of photos, this one showing Feir handing a packet to General Kendall. “That packet,” she said, “details the number and locations of Typhon field personnel.”
LaValle’s disdainful expression didn’t change. “What’s that to me?”
For the second time, Soraya struggled to hide her astonishment. “That’s your second in command taking possession of classified CI intel.”
“On that score you should see to your own people.”
“Are you denying that you gave General Kendall orders to cultivate Rodney Feir as a mole?”
“Yes, I am.”
Soraya was almost breathless. “I don’t believe you.”
LaValle produced an icy smile. “I doesn’t matter what you believe, Director. Only the facts matter.” He flicked the photo away with his fingernail. “Whatever General Kendall did, he did on his own. I have no knowledge of it.”
Soraya was wondering how everything could have gone so wrong, when, once again, LaValle pushed the phone across the table.
“Now call Bourne.”
She felt as if there were a steel band around her chest; the blood was singing in her ears. Now what? she said to herself. Dear God, what can I do?
She heard someone with her voice say, “What should I tell him?”
LaValle produced a slip of paper with a time and an address on it. “He needs to go here, at this time. Tell him that you’re in Munich, that you have information vital to the Black Legion’s attack, that he has to see it for himself.”
Soraya’s hand was so slick with sweat, she wiped it on her napkin. “He’ll be suspicious if I don’t call him on my own phone. In fact, he might not answer if I don’t, because he won’t know it’s me.”
LaValle nodded, but when she produced her phone, he said, “I’m going to listen to every word you say. If you try to warn him I promise your friend Tyrone will never leave this building alive. Clear?”
She nodded, but did nothing.
Observing her like a frog split open on a dissecting table, LaValle said, “I know you don’t want to do this, Director. I know how badly you don’t want to do this. But you will call Bourne and you will set the trap for me, because I’m stronger than you are. By that I mean my will. I get what I want, Director, at any cost, but not you—you care too much to have a long career in intelligence work. You’re doomed and you know it.”
Soraya had stopped listening to him after the first few words. Acutely aware that she had vowed to take control of the situation, to somehow turn disaster into victory, she was furiously marshaling her forces. One step at a time, she told herself now. I have to clear my mind of Tyrone, of the failed ploy with Kendall, of my own guilt. I have to think of this call now; how am I going to make the call and keep Jason from being captured?
It seemed an impossible task, but that kind of thinking was defeatist, totally unhelpful. Still—what was she to do?
“After your call,” LaValle said, “you’ll stay here, under constant surveillance, until after Bourne is taken into custody.”
Uncomfortably aware of his avid eyes on her, she flipped open her phone, and called Jason.
When she heard his voice, she said, “Hi, it’s me, Soraya.”
Bourne was standing in Egon Kirsch’s apartment, staring down at the street when his cell phone rang. He saw Soraya’s number come up on the screen, answered the call, and heard her say, “Hi, it’s me, Soraya.”
“Where are you?”
“Actually, I’m in Munich.”
He perched on the arm of an upholstered chair. “Actually? In Munich?”
“That’s what I said.”
He frowned, hearing echoes in his head from far away. “I’m surprised.”
“Not as much as I am. You came up on the CI surveillance grid at the airport.”
“There was no help for it.”
“I’m sure not. Anyway, I’m not over here on official CI business. We’ve been continuing to monitor the Black Legion communications, and at last we got a breakthrough.”
He stood up. “What is it?”
“The phone’s too insecure,” she said. “We should meet.” She told him the place and the time.
Glancing at his watch, he said, “That’s a little over an hour from now.”
“Right as rain. I can make it. Can you?”
“I think I can manage,” he said. “See you.”
He disconnected, went over to the window, leaned on the sash, replaying the conversation word by word in his mind.
He felt the jolt of a dislocation, as if he had moved outside his body, experiencing something that had happened to someone else. His mind, recording a seismic shift in its neurons, was struggling with a memory. Bourne knew he’d had this conversation before, but for the life of him he couldn’t remember where or when, or what significance it might have for him now.
He would have continued on with his fruitless search had not the downstairs bell rung. Turning from the window, he went across the living room, pressed the button that released the outer door’s lock. The time had finally come when he and Arkadin would meet face-to-face—the assassin of legend, who specialized in killing killers, who had slipped in and out of a Russian high-secur
ity prison without anyone being the wiser, who had managed to eliminate Pyotr and his entire network.
There was a knock on the door. He kept away from the spy hole, kept away from the door itself, unlatching it from the side. There was no gunshot, no splintering of the wood and metal. Instead the door opened inward and a dapper man with dark skin and a spade-shaped beard stepped into the apartment.
Bourne said, “Turn around slowly.”
The man, hands where Bourne could see them, turned to face him. It was Semion Icoupov.
“Bourne,” he said.
Bourne produced his passport, opened it to the inside cover.
Icoupov nodded. “I see. Is this where you kill me at the behest of Dominic Specter?”
“You mean Asher Sever.”
“Oh, dear,” Icoupov said, “there goes my surprise.” He smiled. “I confess I’m shocked. Nevertheless, I congratulate you, Mr. Bourne. You’ve come by knowledge no one else has. By what means is a complete mystery.”
“Let’s keep it that way,” Bourne said.
“No matter. What’s important is that I don’t have to waste time trying to convince you that Sever has played you. Since you’ve already uncovered his lies, we can move on to the next stage.”
“What makes you think I’m going to listen to anything you have to say?”
“If you’ve discovered Sever’s lies, then you know the recent history of the Black Legion, you know we were once like brothers, you know how deep the enmity between us runs. We are enemies, Sever and I. There can be only one outcome to our war, you understand me?”
Bourne said nothing.
“I want to help you stop his people from attacking your country, is that clear enough?” He shrugged. “Yes, of course you’re right to be skeptical, I would be if I was in your place.” He moved his left hand very slowly to the edge of his overcoat, pulled it back to reveal the lining. There was something sticking out of the slit pocket. “Perhaps before anything untoward happens, you should take a look at what I have here.”
Bourne leaned in, took the SIG Sauer Icoupov had holstered at his belt. Then he pulled the packet free.
As he was opening it up, Icoupov said, “I went to a great deal of trouble to steal those from my nemesis.”
Bourne found himself looking over the architectural plans for the Empire State Building. When he glanced up, he found Icoupov watching him intently. “This is what the Black Legion means to attack. Do you know when?”
“Indeed, I do.” Icoupov glanced at his watch. “Precisely thirty-three hours, twenty-six minutes from now.”
Thirty-Eight
VERONICA HART was looking at The Drudge Report when Stu Gold escorted General Kendall into her office. She was sitting in front of her desk, the monitor turned toward the door so Kendall could get a clear view of the photos of him and the woman from The Glass Slipper.
“That’s just one site,” she said, waving them to three chairs that had been arranged opposite her. “There are so many others.” When her guests were seated, she addressed Kendall. “Whatever is your family going to say, General? Your minister, and the congregation?” Her expression remained neutral; she was careful to keep the gloat out of her voice. “I understand that a goodly number of them aren’t fond of African Americans, even as maids and nannies. They prefer the Eastern Europeans—young blond Polish and Russian women. Isn’t that right?”
Kendall said nothing, sat with his back ramrod-straight, his hands clasped primly between his knees, as if he were at a court-martial.
Hart wished Soraya were here, but she hadn’t returned from the NSA safe house, which was worrying enough; she wasn’t answering her cell, either.
“I’ve suggested that the best thing he can do now is to help us tie LaValle in to the plot to steal CI secrets,” Gold said.
Now Hart smiled rather sweetly at Kendall. “And what do you think of that suggestion, General?”
“Recruiting Rodney Feir was entirely my idea,” Kendall said woodenly.
Hart sat forward. “You want us to believe you’d embark on such a risky course without informing your superior?”
“After the fiasco with Batt, I had to do something to prove my worth. I felt I had the best chance romancing Feir.”
“This is getting us nowhere,” Hart said.
Gold stood up. “I agree. The general has made up his mind to fall on his sword for the man who sold him down the river.” He moved to the door. “I’m not sure how that computes, but it takes all kinds.”
“Is that it?” Kendall looked straight ahead. “Are you done with me?”
“We are,” Hart said, “but Rob Batt isn’t.”
Batt’s name got a reaction out of the general. “Batt? What does he have to do with anything? He’s out of the picture.”
“I don’t think so.” Hart got up, stood behind his chair. “Batt’s had you under surveillance from the moment you ruined his life. Those photos of you and Feir going in and out of the health club, the barbecue joint, and The Glass Slipper were taken by him.”
“But that’s not all he has.” Gold lifted his briefcase meaningfully.
“So,” Hart said, “I’m afraid your stay at CI will continue awhile longer.”
“How much longer?”
“What do you care?” Hart said. “You no longer have a life to go back to.”
While Kendall remained with two armed agents, Hart and Gold went next door, where Rodney Feir was sitting, guarded by another pair of agents.
“Is the general having fun yet?” Feir said as they took seats facing him. “This is a black day for him.” He chuckled at his own joke, but no one else did.
“Do you have any idea how serious your situation is?” Gold said.
Feir smiled. “I do believe I have a handle on the situation.”
Gold and Hart exchanged a glance; neither could understand Feir’s lighthearted attitude.
Gold said, “You’re going to jail for a very long time, Mr. Feir.”
Feir crossed one leg over the other. “I think not.”
“You think wrong,” Gold said.
“Rodney, we have you stealing Typhon secrets and handing them over to a ranking member of a rival intelligence organization.”
“Please!” Feir said. “I’m fully aware of what I did and that you caught me at it. What I’m saying is none of that matters.” He continued to look like the Cheshire Cat, as if he held a royal flush to their four aces.
“Explain yourself,” Gold said curtly.
“I fucked up,” Feir said. “But I’m not sorry for what I did, only that I got caught.”
“That attitude will certainly help your case,” Hart said caustically. She was done being manhandled by Luther LaValle and his cohorts.
“I’m not, by nature, prone to being contrite, Director. But like your evidence, my attitude is of no import. I mean to say, if I were contrite like Rob Batt, would it make any difference to you?” He shook his head. “So let’s not bullshit each other. What I did, how I feel about it is in the past. Let’s talk about the future.”
“You have no future,” Hart said tartly.
“That remains to be seen.” Feir kept his maddening smile trained on her. “What I’m proposing is a barter.”
Gold was incredulous. “You want to make a deal?”
“Let’s call it a fair exchange,” Feir said. “You drop all charges against me, give me a generous severance package and a letter of recommendation I can take into the private sector.”
“Anything else?” Hart said. “How about a summer house on the Chesapeake and a yacht to go with it?”
“A generous offer,” Feir said with a perfectly straight face, “but I’m not a pig, Director.”
Gold rose. “This is intolerable behavior.”
Feir eyed him. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist, counselor. You haven’t heard my side of the exchange.”
“Not interested.” Gold signaled the two agents. “Take him back down to the holding cell.”
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” Feir didn’t struggle as the agents grabbed hold of either arm and hauled him to his feet. He turned to Hart. “Director, did you ever wonder why Luther LaValle didn’t try a run at CI while the Old Man was alive?”
“I didn’t have to; I know. The Old Man was too powerful, too well connected.”
“True enough, but there’s another, more specific reason.” Feir looked from one agent to the other.
Hart wanted to wring his neck. “Let him go,” she said.
Gold stepped forward. “Director, I strongly recommend—”
“No harm in hearing the man out, Stu.” Hart nodded. “Go ahead, Rodney. You have one minute.”
“The fact is LaValle tried several times to make a run at CI while the Old Man was in charge. He failed every time, and do you know why?” Feir looked from one to the other, the Cheshire Cat grin back on his face. “Because for years the Old Man has had a deep-cover mole inside the NSA.”
Hart goggled at him. “What?”
“This is bullshit,” Gold said. “He’s blowing smoke up our ass.”
“Good guess, counselor, but wrong. I know the identity of the mole.”
“How on earth would you know that, Rodney?”
Feir laughed. “Sometimes—not very often, I admit—it pays to be CI’s chief file clerk.”
“That’s hardly what you—”
“That’s precisely what I am, Director.” A storm cloud of deep-seated anger momentarily shook him. “No fancy title can obscure the fact.” He waved a hand, his flash of rage quickly banked to embers. “But no matter, the point is I see things in CI no one else does. The Old Man had contingencies in place should he be killed, but you know this better than I do, counselor, don’t you?”
Gold turned to Hart. “The Old Man left a number of sealed envelopes addressed to different directors in the event of his sudden demise.”
“One of those envelopes,” Feir said, “the one with the identity of the mole inside NSA, was sent to Rob Batt, which made sense at the time, since Batt was chief of operations. But it never got to Batt, I saw to that.”