Bourne 7 – The Bourne Deception - Страница 28

Mischa and Devra, the two most important people in his life, both dead because of Jason Bourne. Bourne had a lot to pay for, Christ, did he ever.

The men were almost finished with the grave. A pair of vultures, black shadows against the dimly glimmering sky, turned in lazing circles. I’m like those vultures, he thought. Patiently waiting for my moment to strike.

Perched on his rock, knees drawn up, he turned his satellite phone over and over in the palm of his hand. Amazingly, several good things had happened because of Willard‘s call. Willard was a mole, not a field man, and he‘d made a fatal mistake: His ego had gotten the better of him. He should have quietly taken Ian Bowles apart, buried the pieces, and gone on with his business. Of course he‘d wanted to know who‘d sent Bowles, but his mistake was in announcing himself to Arkadin-worse, in warning him-because he‘d as much as told Arkadin that Bourne was still alive. Why else would he be at Dr. Firth‘s compound? Why else would he have killed Bowles? Now Arkadin had proof that Bourne was still alive, though how Bourne managed to survive a shot to the heart was something that nagged at him. Whatever else he might be, Bourne was no superman. Why hadn‘t he been killed?

With a sharp shake of his head, Arkadin set the imponderable aside for the moment. He dialed a number on his phone. Bowles had been nothing more than a temporary stopgap, someone to make a survey and report back. He‘d failed; now it was time to bring in the big guns.

The men unceremoniously threw Farid into the grave. Sweaty and ill tempered, they had long ago lost patience with their normally solemn task. Farid had violated the laws of the group; he was no longer one of their own. Good, Arkadin thought, lesson learned.

The line was ringing.

— Are you set up with the job? Arkadin said as soon as the familiar voice answered. -Good. Because I‘ve decided to play it your way, and now the clock is ticking. I‘ll be sending you the last-minute details within the hour.

Two men began to shovel dirt over the body; the others spat into the grave.

The DCI shook her head. -Moira, I‘m afraid I‘m just not feeling it.

The cords of Moira‘s neck stood out. How long had she waited for this confrontation? — Did you feel it when you gave me up in Safed Koh? Safed Koh was the local name for the White Mountains in eastern Afghanistan, where the notorious Tora Bora caves tunneled their way across the border into terrorist-controlled western Pakistan.

Hart spread her hands. -I never gave you up.

— Really? Moira advanced on her. -Then please tell me how I was taken prisoner in the dead of night and held hostage for six days on Mount Sikaram with nothing to eat and only polluted water to drink.

— I have no idea.

— Whatever bacteria was in that water put me out of commission for three weeks after that — Moira kept coming closer to the front edge of Hart‘s desk-

during which time you led my mission-

— It was a Black River mission.

– that I‘d planned for, trained for. A mission I‘d wanted more than anything.

Hart tried for a smile, missed. -That mission was a success, Moira.

— Meaning it wouldn‘t have been a success if I‘d been in charge?

— You said it, I didn‘t.

— You thought I was a hothead.

— That‘s right, Hart acknowledged, — I do.

The deliberate present tense brought Moira up short. -So you still think-

The DCI spread her hands. -Look at yourself. What would you think if you were me?

— I‘d be wanting to know how Moira Trevor could help me take down my one true nemesis.

— And who would that be?

She said it blandly, but Moira discerned the quickening of interest behind her eyes. -The man who‘s had it in for you from the moment the president floated your name to take over the DCI position. Bud Halliday.

For a moment Moira was certain she felt the brief crackle of heat lightning in the room. Then Veronica Hart pushed her chair back and stood up.

— What precisely do you want from me?

— I want an admission of your guilt.

— A signed confession? You must be joking.

— No, Moira said. -Just between us chickens.

Hart shook her head. -Why would I do that?

— So that we can have something other than the past, so that we can go on, so that there isn‘t this poison between us.

The telephone rang several times, but the DCI ignored it. Finally, it stopped, and only the small sounds remained: the humming of the air vents, the soft intakes of their breathing, the beating of their hearts.

Hart sighed then, a long exhalation of breath. -You don‘t want to hear this.

At last! Moira thought. -Try me.

— What I did, Hart said slowly, — I did for the good of the company.

— Bullshit, you did it for yourself!

— You were never in any real danger, Hart persevered, — I made sure of that.

Instead of feeling better Moira was feeling more and more wronged. -How could you have made sure of it?

— Moira, can‘t we leave it at that?

Moira was back in her attack position, leaning over the desk, resting on her white knuckles. -End it, she said. -End it now.

— All right. The DCI raked her fingers through her hair. -I was sure you‘d be okay because Noah said he‘d take care of you.

— Oh. Moira felt the floor open up beneath her. Dizziness forced her back to the chair, where she sat heavily, staring at nothing. -Noah. Then it hit her and she felt sick. -It was all Noah‘s idea, wasn‘t it?

Hart nodded. -I was his runner. I did his dirty work for him. I was required to be the one you hated when you came back so he could keep using you when he saw fit.

— Jesus God. Moira stared down at her hands. -He didn‘t trust me.

— Not for that mission. Hart said it so softly that Moira had to lean forward to hear her. -But for others, as you know perfectly well, he preferred you.

— No matter. Moira felt numb from the inside out. -What a shitty thing to do.

— Yes, it was. Hart sat back down. -In fact, it was the reason I left Black River.

Moira looked up, her eyes focusing on the woman who had been her archenemy for so long. She felt as if her mind had been stuffed with steel wool. -I don‘t understand.

— I‘d done a lot of awful things while at Black River; you‘re the last person I have to explain that to. But this-what Noah had me do- She shook her head. -Afterward I was so ashamed of myself I couldn‘t bear to face you, so after the mission was completed I went to see you. I wanted to apologize-

— 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 Les Liaisons Dangereuses, her favorite novel because it involved drawing room spies: Revenge is a dish best served cold. And in this case, she thought, in a perfectly clean kitchen. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly and completely.

— 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.