Bourne 7 – The Bourne Deception - Страница 44

Soraya made eye contact with Chalthoum. -Military men.

— So he says, he rumbled. -Continue.

— They‘d just come up from the second dive of the day and they were kind of giddy. I was helping them off with their tanks, but they acted as if I wasn‘t there. Anyway, they were grumbling about having their leave cut short. There was some kind of emergency-an assignment for them that came out of the air-that was what they said. It appeared out of thin air.

— This is nonsense, Chalthoum said. -It‘s clear he‘s making this up to spare himself life imprisonment.

— Oh, God. At the pronouncement of his mortal sentence, Stephen‘s knees gave way and Chalthoum‘s men were obliged to hold him tightly in order to keep him on his feet.

— Stephen. Soraya reached out, turned the young man‘s face toward her. He was as pale as death, and she could see the whites all around his eyes. -Tell us the rest of what you overheard. Did the divers say what their assignment was?

He shook his head. -I got the impression they didn‘t yet know.

— Enough! Chalthoum cried. -Dispose of this rancid piece of meat!

Stephen was openly weeping now. -But they knew their destination.

Soraya held up her hand for Chalthoum‘s men to stop dragging him away.

— Where was it, Stephen? Where were the men headed?

— They were flying to Khartoum, the young man said through his tears, — ‗wherever that godforsaken place is.‘

19

THE PRESIDENT was met by Secretary of Defense Halliday as he was exiting the United Nations. Having sent the General Assembly into a frenzy by presenting the evidence against Iran in the bombing of the American airliner and the loss of 181 lives, the president had stopped for an impromptu press conference with the media, clustered around him like hens at feeding time. He obligingly gave them half a dozen choice sound bites to air or to carry back to their editors before his press secretary whispered in his ear that Secretary Halliday was waiting with urgent news.

The president was on a high. It had been a long time since an American president could address that august body of the United Nations armed with evidence so damning it had shocked the representatives from Russia and China into silence. The world was changing, tilting against Iran in a way never before seen. The president, whose presence here was in no small part due to Bud Halliday, thought it fitting that the first person he speak with regarding his unqualified success was the defense secretary.

— Break out the champagne! the president called as he signaled to Halliday, and the two men entered the long bullet-and bombproof limousine.

The vehicle took off the moment the pair were seated. Across from them was the press secretary, his cheeks as flushed with victory as the president‘s, a bottle of chilled American sparkling wine in his hand.

— Sir, if you don‘t mind, let‘s hold the celebration, Bud Halliday said.

— Mind? the president said. -Of course I mind! Solly, open the damn champagne!

— Sir, Halliday said, — there‘s been an incident.

The president froze in mid-gesture, then slowly turned to his defense secretary. -What kind of an incident, Bud?

— Veronica Hart, the director of Central Intelligence, is dead.

At once the color drained from the president‘s flushed cheeks. -Good Christ, what happened, Bud?

— A car bomb-we think. There‘s an ongoing investigation, but that‘s the most recent theory.

— But who-?

— Homeland Security, ATF, and the FBI are all coordinating their efforts under the NSA umbrella.

— Good. The president, all business now, nodded curtly. -The sooner we clear up this car bomb mess, the better.

— As usual, we‘re on the same page, sir. Halliday glanced Solly‘s way.

— Speaking of which, we‘re going to need a comprehensive press release, and spin control. After the plane incident, the last thing we need is speculation about terrorists and another bombing.

— Solly, get our talking heads on it right away, the president said,

— then get into overdrive on an official release. Coordinate it with Secretary Halliday‘s office, would you?

— Right away, sir. Solly slipped the sweating bottle back into its bucket of ice and started calling contacts on his cell phone.

Halliday waited until the press secretary was engaged in his first conversation. -Sir, we‘ve got to think about a replacement for DCI Hart. And before the president could jump in, he continued: — It seems fair to say that the experiment with hiring from the private sector has run its course. In any event, we need to move quickly to fill the gap.

— Get me a list of the qualified senior people at CI.

— I will certainly do that. Halliday texted a message to his office as they spoke. He looked up. -The list will be on your desk inside an hour. But his face was still deeply troubled.

— What is it, Bud?

— It‘s nothing, sir.

— Oh, come on, Bud. We‘ve known each other a long time, haven‘t we?

There‘s something on your mind, now‘s not the time to hold back.

— Okay. Halliday exhaled deeply. -This is the perfect time to merge all the intelligence organizations into one organic whole that shares raw intel, makes coordinated decisions, and cuts through the bloated red tape that frustrates all of us.

— I‘ve heard all this before, Bud.

With some effort Halliday stitched a grin on his face. -No one knows that better than I do, sir, and I understand. In the past you agreed with the DCI, whoever it was.

The president worried his lower lip. -There‘s history to be observed, Bud. CI is the oldest, most venerable institution in the constellation of the intelligence communities. In many ways it‘s the crown jewel. I can understand why you‘d want to get your hands on it.

Rather than waste time in denial of the truth, Halliday decided to take another tack altogether. -The current crisis is another case in point. We‘re having difficulty coordinating with CI-especially Typhon, which might very well have the intel we need to ensure that our retaliation against Iran doesn‘t hit a snag.

The president stared out the smoked window at the monumental public buildings at the district‘s heart. -You‘ve received the money for-you know-

for the-what have you named the operation?

The secretary of defense gave up trying to follow the train of the president‘s thoughts. -Pinprick, sir.

— Who thinks of these names?

Halliday sensed his boss didn‘t want an answer.

The president turned back to him. -Who d‘you have in mind?

With his choice in the forefront of his mind, Halliday was ready for that one. -Danziger, sir.

— Really? I thought you were going to propose your intelligence czar.

— Jaime Hernandez is a career office man. We need someone with a more-

robust-background.

— Quite right, the president agreed. -Who the hell is this Danziger?

— M. Errol Danziger. The NSA‘s current deputy director of signals intelligence for analysis and production.

The president returned to his contemplation of the passing streetscape.

— Have I met him?

— Yes, sir. Twice, the last time when you were at the Pentagon just last-

— Remind me, please.

— He brought in the printouts Hernandez distributed.

— I don‘t recall the man.

— Hardly surprising, sir. There‘s nothing remarkable about him. Halliday chuckled. -That‘s what made him so valuable during his stint in the field. He worked Southeast Asia before moving into the Operations Directorate.

— Wet work?

Halliday was startled by the question. Nevertheless, he saw no point in lying. -Indeed, sir.

— And returned home to tell the tale.

— Yes, sir.

The president made an unintelligible sound deep in his throat. -Bring him to the Oval Office at- He snapped his fingers for the press secretary‘s attention. -Solly? Opening, today.

Solly put his call on hold, scrolled through a second PDA. -Five twentyfive, sir. But you only have ten minutes before the formal press conference. We need to make the six o‘clock news.

— Of course we do. The president lifted a hand, smiling. -Five twentyfive, Bud. Ten minutes is more than enough time for a yea or nay.

Then, abruptly, he turned to other matters, a crisis agenda packed with daunting security issues, at the end of which was not a hot bath and a good meal, but a phone conference with his director of protocol, deciding on who to invite to the state funeral for DCI Hart.

Seconds after Bourne took the phone, Hererra‘s young man had stolen into the room. Now he pressed the muzzle of a Beretta Px4 9mm pistol to Tracy‘s left temple. She was wide-eyed, sitting painfully erect at the edge of the sofa.

— My dear fellow, Don Fernando Hererra said as he took the cell from Bourne, — I may not know who you are, but I know this much: My threatening you will avail me nothing. His smile was sweet, almost soft. -Whereas if I tell you that I will have Fausto blow her brains out-pardon the crudeness of my words, Seńorita Atherton-unless you tell me who you are, I feel certain that you will be more inclined to tell me the truth.