Bourne 7 – The Bourne Deception - Страница 48

She frowned as the phone continued to ring and no voice mail intervened. At length, a male voice answered.

— Who is this?

— Soraya Moore. Who the hell are you?

— It‘s Peter, Soraya. Peter Marks. Marks was the chief of CI operations, smart and reliable.

— What are you doing answering the DCI‘s private cell?

— Soraya, DCI Hart is dead.

— What? The blood drained from Soraya‘s face and all at once she felt the breath rush out of her. -Dead? How could-? Her voice sounded thin, attenuated, faraway. Dimly, she realized she was in shock. -What happened?

— There was an explosion-a car bomb, we think.

— Oh, my God!

— There were two individuals with her: Moira Trevor and someone by the name of Humphry Bamber, a software designer with his own boutique firm.

— Are they alive or dead?

— Alive, presumably, Marks said, — though that‘s pure speculation. We have no idea where they are. For all we know, they were responsible for the DCI‘s death.

— Or they fled for their lives.

— Another possibility, Marks conceded. -At the very least, they need to be brought in and questioned as the only witnesses to the incident. He paused for a moment. -The thing is, the Trevor woman was involved with Jason Bourne.

Events were moving faster than Soraya could follow in her current state.

— How is that relevant? she said curtly.

— I don‘t know if it is, but she was also involved with Martin Lindros. Some months ago, DCI Hart was investigating the connection.

— I was part of that investigation, Soraya said. -There was nothing to it. Moira Trevor and Martin were friends, period.

— And yet, both Lindros and Bourne are now dead. Marks cleared his throat. -Did you know Ms. Trevor was with Bourne when he was killed?

A tremor of premonition chilled her. -I didn‘t, no.

— I‘ve done some digging. It turns out that Ms. Trevor used to work at Black River.

Soraya‘s mind was reeling. -So did DCI Hart.

— Interesting, no? There‘s more: Ms. Trevor and Bamber were admitted to the ER at George Washington University Hospital less than twenty minutes after the blast. No one saw them leave, but-and here‘s the really good part-a man who flashed a government ID asked for them by name less than five minutes after they began treatment.

— Someone followed them.

— I would say so, Marks said.

— What was the man‘s name and what department of the government is he with?

— The billion-dollar question. No one could remember, the place was a madhouse. So I checked myself. Either no one is owning up to this agent or he wasn‘t government. On the other hand, it wouldn‘t surprise me to learn that the DoD has secretly authorized some Black River ops to carry government IDs.

Soraya took several deep breaths both to calm herself and to allow her mind to start making connections. -Peter, the DCI sent me to Egypt to try to find out about the indigenous Iranian freedom fighters Black River made contact with, but in my most recent conversation with her she agreed to let me explore a theory that the Iranian terrorists who shot down our jet had help transshipping the missile, possibly from the Saudis.

— Jesus, and…?

— The reason I was calling her now is that there‘s a possibility that the Iranians weren‘t involved at all.

— What? Marks exploded. -You‘ve got to be kidding.

— I wish I were. Two weeks ago, four American military men on leave were suddenly sent on a mission that began in Khartoum.

— So?

— Amun Chalthoum and I have been operating under the supposition that the Saudis helped the Iranian terrorists transport the Kowsar 3 missile through Iraq and across the Red Sea, to someplace along the east coast of Egypt. His people have been swarming the coast all day with nothing to show for it, so we‘ve been searching for alternatives. The only other access into Egypt is from the south.

She heard Marks‘s sharp intake of breath. -That would be Sudan.

— And Khartoum would be the logical staging area, the place where the Kowsar 3 could be flown in under everyone‘s radar.

— I don‘t understand. What‘s the connection between our military and Iranian terrorists?

— That‘s just the point, there isn‘t any, Soraya said. -We‘re looking at a scenario that doesn‘t involve either Iranians or Saudis.

Marks laughed uneasily. -What are you implying, that we shot down our own jet?

— The government wouldn‘t, she said perfectly serious. -But Black River might.

— That theory is almost as crazy, he said.

— What if the terrible incidents back home are connected to what‘s happened over here?

— That‘s something of a stretch, even for you.

— Listen to me carefully, Peter. DCI Hart was concerned about the current relationship between the NSA-specifically Secretary Halliday-and Black River. Now she‘s the victim of a car bomb. She allowed that pronouncement to hang in the air for a moment before continuing. -The only way to get to the bottom of the mystery is eyes on the ground. I need to go to Khartoum.

— Soraya, Sudan is far too dangerous for a director to-

— Typhon has an agent in place in Khartoum.

— Good, let him investigate.

— This is too big, Peter, the ramifications too grave. Besides, after all that‘s happened, I don‘t trust anyone.

— What about this Chalthoum character? He‘s the head of al Mokhabarat, for chrissakes.

— Believe me, he has as much to lose from this situation as we do.

— It‘s incumbent on me to point out that your agent in Khartoum can‘t guarantee your safety.

By his tone, she knew he‘d acquiesced. -No one can, Peter. Keep DCI Hart‘s phone with you. I‘ll keep you apprised.

— Okay, but-

As Soraya severed the connection, she looked at Amun. -The director of Central Intelligence was just killed in Washington by a car bomb. This situation stinks, Amun. We‘re not up against Iranian terrorists, I know it. Will you come with me to Khartoum?

Amun rolled his eyes, then threw his hands into the air. — Azizti, what choice have you left me?

After Moira and Humphry Bamber exited the taxi in Foggy Bottom, he led her west across the bridge and into Georgetown. He was nervous, walking so quickly that several times she had to take him by the arm to slow him down because he was too terrified to listen to her. Along the way she checked plate-glass windows and cars‘ side-mirrors for any signs of a tail, both vehicular and pedestrian. At least twice she had them walk around the block or enter a shop as a double blind, to make certain they were absolutely clean. Only then would she allow Bamber to take her to their destination.

This turned out to be on R Street: a redbrick Federal-style town house with a copper mansard roof and four dormer windows where fat-breasted pigeons sat, cooing drowsily. They climbed the slate steps, and Bamber used the brass knocker on the polished wooden door. In a moment it swung inward to reveal a slender man with longish brown hair, green eyes, and angular cheekbones.

— H, you look-What happened to you?

— Chrissie, this is Moira Trevor. Moira, meet Christian Lamontierre.

— The dancer?

Bamber was already on the threshold. -Moira saved my life. Can we come in?

— Saved your…? Of course. Lamontierre stepped back into the small, jewellike entryway. He did so with a grace and power no untrained human being could muster. -Where are my manners? His face was clouded by worry. -Are you two all right? I can call my doctor.

— No doctor, Moira said.

As their host closed the heavy door, Bamber double-locked it.

Seeing this, Lamontierre said, — I think we could use a drink. He gestured, leading the way into a beautifully appointed living room in dove gray and cream. It was a world of calm and elegance. Books on ballet and modern dance were scattered about the coffee table; on shelves were photos of Lamontierre on stage and in informal poses with Martha Graham, Mark Morris, Bill T. Jones, and Twyla Tharp, among others.

They sat on gray-and-silver-striped sofas while Lamontierre crossed to a sideboard, then abruptly turned.

— You two look like you need a rest and some food. Why don‘t I toddle on off to the kitchen and make us all something to eat?

Without waiting for a reply, he left them alone, for which Moira was grateful, since she had a number of questions she wanted to ask Bamber without causing him embarrassment.

Bamber was one step ahead of her. Sighing as he leaned back against the sofa, he said, — When I hit my thirties, it began to dawn on me that men weren‘t designed to be monogamous, either physically or emotionally. We were designed to propagate, to continue the species at all costs. Being gay doesn‘t change that biological imperative.

Moira recalled him telling her that he was taking her somewhere even Stevenson hadn‘t known about. -So you‘ve been having an affair with Lamontierre.