Bourne 7 – The Bourne Deception - Страница 39

— Go get dressed, Hart said. -Then we‘d like to take a look at Bardem. My hope is that we‘ll get a better idea from the program itself what Noah and the NSA have in mind.

— It won‘t take me a minute, he said. He ducked out of the office.

For a time, the two women sat in silence. Then Hart said, — Why do I get the feeling that I‘m being outmaneuvered?

— You mean Halliday?

Hart nodded. -The secretary of defense has decided to reach out to the private sector for whatever he has in mind-and make no mistake, no matter how clever Noah Perlis is, he‘s taking his orders from Bud Halliday.

— Taking his money, too, Moira said. -I wonder what Black River‘s bill for this little escapade is going to be.

— Moira, whatever differences we‘ve had in the past, we agree on one thing-that our former employer is without scruples. Black River will do anything if the price is right.

— Halliday has a virtually unlimited source, the US Mint. You and I both saw the flats of hundred-dollar bills Black River transshipped from here to Iraq during the first four years of the war.

Hart nodded. -One hundred million in each flat, and where did the money go? To fight the insurgents? To pay off the army of indigenous informers Black River claimed to get their intel from? No, you and I know, because we saw it, that ninety percent of it went into blind bank accounts in Liechtenstein and the Caymans of dummy corporations owned by Black River.

— Now they don‘t have to steal it, Moira said with a cynical laugh,

— because Halliday is giving it to them.

A moment later they rose and went out of the office as Humphry Bamber emerged from the men‘s locker room. He was dressed in neatly pressed jeans, polished loafers, a blue-and-black-checked shirt, and a gray suede car coat.

— Is there another exit? Moira asked him.

He pointed. -There‘s an employee and delivery entrance behind the administrative offices.

— I‘ll get my car, Moira said.

— Hold on. Hart opened her phone. -It‘s better for me to do it; my people are outside and I need to instruct them to deploy outside the front entrance to make it look as if we‘re taking Bamber out that way. She held out her hand and Moira gave her the keys. -Then I‘ll go get your car and pick you two up around back. Moira?

Moira drew her custom Lady Hawk from its thigh holster while Bamber goggled with his mouth half open.

— What the hell is going on? he said.

— You‘re getting the protection you wanted, Hart said.

As she disappeared down the corridor, Moira motioned to Bamber, allowing him to lead her back toward the admin offices. She used her DoD-issue ID on the few managers who questioned their presence in the health club‘s back office.

When they approached the rear door, she pulled out her phone and dialed Hart‘s private number. Once the DCI answered, she said, — We‘re in position.

— Count to twenty, Hart‘s reply came in her ear, — then bring him out.

Moira snapped shut her phone and put it away. -Ready?

Bamber nodded even though it wasn‘t really a question.

She counted off the rest of the time, then wrenched the door open with her free hand and, with her gun at the ready, moved out, presenting only her profile. Hart had stopped the white Buick directly in front of the entrance. She‘d opened the near-side rear door.

Moira took a look around. They were in a remote section of the parking lot. The blacktop was surrounded by a twelve-foot Cyclone fence topped with razor wire. To the left was a row of huge lidded bins to hold the health club‘s trash and recyclables between garbage pickups. To the right was the turnaround to exit the lot. Beyond rose blocks of anonymous-looking apartment and mixed-use buildings. No other vehicles were in this section of the lot, and a view of the street was blocked off by screening on the outside of the fence.

Glancing back over her shoulder, Moira made eye contact with Bamber.

— Okay, she said, — keep your head low and get into the backseat as quickly as you can.

Crouching down, he scuttled across the short distance from the doorway to the Buick, Moira covering him the whole way. Within the safety of the car, he scrambled across the seat to the far side.

— Get your head down! Hart ordered as she swiveled her torso around the front bucket seat. -And keep it down no matter what.

Then she called to Moira. -Come on, come on! What are you waiting for?

Let‘s get the hell out of Dodge!

Moira went around the back of the Buick and took one last surveillance look at the garbage bins up against the Cyclone fence. Had there been some movement there or was it just a shadow? She took several steps toward the bins, but Veronica Hart stuck her head out the window.

— Dammit, Moira, would you get into the car!

Moira turned back. Ducking her head, she came around the back of the Buick and stopped dead in her tracks. Kneeling down, she peered into the tailpipe. There was something there, something with a tiny red eye, an LED

that now began to blink rapidly…

Jesus, she thought. Oh, God!

Tearing around to the open door, she yelled, — Out! Get out now!

She bent, pulling Bamber across the leather seat, hauling him out of the car. -Ronnie, she called, — get out! Get out of the fucking car!

She saw Hart turn, momentarily bewildered, then move to un-buckle her seat belt. In a moment it became clear that something was wrong because she couldn‘t get free; something was in the way or the locking mechanism was malfunctioning.

— Ronnie, do you have a knife?

Hart had a penknife out and was sawing through the material that held her fast.

— Ronnie! Moira screamed. -For God‘s sake-!

— Get him away! Hart yelled at her, and then, as Moira took a step toward her, — Get the fuck away!

In the next instant the Buick went up like a Roman candle, the shock wave slamming Moira and Bamber to the blacktop, showering them with smoldering patches of plastic and spirals of hot metal that stung like bees flushed from their hive.

17

AHYMN of deep-throated cathedral bells woke Bourne. Sunlight filtered through the jalousied bedroom window, fingers of pale gold striping the polished floorboards.

— Good morning, Adam. The police are after you.

Tracy had come into the doorway, stood leaning against one side of the frame. The robust scent of fresh-brewed coffee entered with her and swirled enticingly about him like a flamenco dancer.

— I heard it on the TV earlier. She had her arms crossed over her breasts. Her hair was still wet from the shower, slicked off her face, tied with a black velvet ribbon into a ponytail. Her face was bright, freshly scrubbed. She wore umber slacks, a cream man-tailored shirt, and shoes without heels. She looked ready for Don Fernando Hererra or whatever else the day might hold. -Not to worry, though, they don‘t have your name, and the single witness, a guard at the Maestranza, didn‘t-or couldn‘t-give an accurate description of you.

— He saw me in very low light. Bourne sat up and moved across the bed.

— Sometimes in no light at all.

— All the better for you.

Was the smile she gave him sardonic? In his present state he couldn‘t tell.

— I got breakfast, and we have an appointment to see Don Fernando Hererra at three this afternoon.

His head still throbbed and his mouth was as dry as a desert, distinguished only by an acrid taste that was faintly nauseating.

— What time is it? he asked.

— Just after nine.

The arm Scarface had tried to break felt better when he flexed it and the flesh wound down his back scarcely burned at all, but the pain in his chest made him wince as he wrapped the top sheet around his waist and rose out of bed.

— Perfect, Tracy said. -A Roman senator.

— Let‘s hope by this afternoon I look more Castilian than Roman, he said as he padded toward the bathroom, — because it will be Professor Alonzo Pecunia Zuigawho‘ll be accompanying you to Don Hererra‘s this afternoon.

She gave him a curious look, then turned and went back into the living room. He closed the bathroom door behind him and ran the shower. Over the sink was a mirror surrounded by small incandescent lightbulbs: a woman‘s bathroom, he thought, made for putting on makeup.

Returning to the bedroom after his shower, he found a thick Turkish terry-cloth robe, which he wrapped around himself. She had covered his chest wound with a waterproof plastic layer, which he hadn‘t noticed until he stepped into the stream of hot water.

When he came into the living room, Tracy was pouring coffee into an enormous cup. The small kitchen was merely a niche at one end of the single open room, which was spacious but, like the bedroom, as sparsely and anonymously furnished as a hotel room. On the wooden trestle table was the typical Andalusian workingman‘s breakfast: a mug of hot chocolate and a plate of churros, slender twists of fried dough, dipped in sugar crystals.

Bourne pulled up a chair and he and Tracy ate their breakfast, and she let him have all the churros, he was still hungry when he finished. He went to the refrigerator.