Bourne 7 – The Bourne Deception - Страница 59

At precisely 8:05 AM he convened a meeting of the senior staff in the largest of the conference rooms at CI headquarters, an elongated oval without windows because glass was an excellent carrier of sound waves and an expert with field glasses trained on the room could read lips. Danziger was quite clear as to the attendees: the heads of the seven directorates, their immediate subordinates, and the chiefs of all the departments attached to the various directorates.

The spacious room was illuminated by indirect lights hidden by massive soffits built into the circumference of the ceiling. Specially designed and manufactured carpeting was so dense it absorbed nearly all sound, so that all those present were forced to focus their entire attention on whoever was speaking.

On this particular morning that was M. Errol Danziger, also known as the Arab, who, as he looked around the oval table, saw nothing but pale and anxious faces whose owners were still trying to digest the shocking news of his being anointed by the president as the next DCI. To a man-and of this he was quite certain-they had been expecting one of the seven, most likely Dick Symes, chief of intelligence and the most senior of the heads of the seven directorates, to be convening this meeting.

Which was why his gaze fixed on Symes last, why, as he commenced his inaugural address to the troops, he kept his eyes firmly fixed on Symes. After studying the CI organizational chart, he had made up his mind to reach out to Symes, to make of him an ally, because he would need allies, would need to gather to his side a cadre of the CI faithful whom he could bend to his will, whom he could slowly indoctrinate in the new ways, and who, as disciples of the new religion he meant to bring to CI, would spread the gospel as chosen ones should. They would do his work for him, work that would be too difficult, if not impossible, for him to accomplish on his own. Because his mission was not to replace CI personnel, but to convert from within, until a new CI emerged along the lines of the blueprint Bud Halliday had drawn up for him.

To this end, he had already decided to promote Symes to DDCI, after a suitable time. In this way, through flattery and then recruitment, he meant to cement his power at CI.

— Good morning, gentlemen. I suspect you have heard rumors-and here I hope I‘m wrong, but in the event I‘m not, my aim this morning is to set the record straight. There will be no firings, no transfers, no forced reassignments, although in the natural course of events, there will inevitably be, as we move forward, reassignments, as, I understand, there have always been here, and, indeed, in any organically evolving organization. In preparation for this moment, I‘ve studied the hallowed history of CI, and I can confidently state that no one understands the legacy of this great organization better than I do. Let me assure you-and my door is always open for discussion on this and any other topic that may be of concern to you-that nothing will change, that the legacy of the Old Man, who, I might add, I venerated from the time I was a young man fresh out of college, remains paramount in my mind, which leads me to say in all honesty and humility that it is a privilege and an honor to be among you, to become a part of you, to lead this great organization into the future.

The men ranged around the table sat in complete silence, trying to parse this long-winded preamble while, at the same time, trying to register it on their individual bullshit meters. It was a curious fact that Danziger had absorbed the involuted rhythm of Arabic so thoroughly that it had infected his English, especially when he was addressing a group. Where a word would do, a sentence would present itself; where a sentence would do, a paragraph appeared.

As a palpable feeling of relief washed over the conference room, he sat down, opened the file in front of him, and paged through the first half of it. All at once, he looked up. -Soraya Moore, the director of Typhon, isn‘t present because she is currently on assignment. You should know that I‘ve canceled that assignment and ordered her to return at once for a thorough debriefing.

He watched some heads turning in consternation, but there was no murmuring at all. Taking one last glance down at his notes, he said, — Mr. Doll, why isn‘t your boss, Mr. Marks, in attendance this morning?

Rory Doll coughed into his fist. -I believe he‘s in the field, sir.

As the Arab looked at Doll, a fair-haired wisp of a man with electric blue eyes, he smiled winningly. -You believe he‘s in the field or you know he‘s in the field?

— I know it, sir. He told me himself.

— All right, then. Danziger‘s smile hadn‘t budged. — Where in the field?

— He didn‘t specify, sir.

— And I assume you didn‘t ask him.

— Sir, with all due respect, if Chief Marks wanted me to know, he would‘ve told me.

Without taking his eyes off Marks‘s second, the Arab closed the file in front of him. It seemed as if the entire room were holding its collective breath. -Quite right. I approve of sound security procedure, the new DCI said. -Please ensure Marks comes to see me the moment he returns.

His gaze broke away from Doll at last and roved around the table, engaging in turn each of the senior officers. -All right, shall we proceed?

From this moment on all the resources of CI will be bent toward the undermining and destruction of the current regime in Iran.

A frisson of excitement raced like wildfire from officer to officer.

— In a few moments I‘ll outline to you the overarching operation to exploit a new pro-American indigenous Iranian underground, ready and able, with our support, to topple the regime from inside Iran.

When it comes to the police commissioner in this town, Willard said,

— throwing your weight around is worse than useless. I say that because the PC

is used to getting his own way, even with the mayor. He isn‘t intimidated by feds, and he‘s not shy about saying so.

Willard and Peter Marks were mounting the stone steps of a brownstone far enough off Dupont Circle not to be snooty, but close enough to be a recipient of the area‘s innate urbanity. This was wholly Willard‘s doing. Having ascertained that Lester Burrows, the police commissioner, was gone for the day, Willard had directed them to this block, to this specific brownstone.

— That being the case, the only smart way to play him is with psychology. Honey is a powerful incentive inside the Beltway, never more so than with the Metro police.

— You know Commissioner Burrows?

— Know him? Willard said. -He and I trod the boards in college; we played Othello together. He was a helluva Moor, let me tell you, scary-good-I knew his rage was genuine because I knew where he came from. He nodded, as if to himself. -Lester Burrows is one African American who has transcended the utter poverty of his childhood in every sense of the word. That‘s not to say he‘s forgotten it, not by a long shot, but, unlike his predecessor, who never met a bribe he didn‘t take, Lester Burrows is a good man underneath the mean streak he‘s cultivated to protect himself, his office, and his men.

— So he‘ll listen to you, Marks said.

— I don‘t know about that — Willard‘s eyes twinkled- but he sure as hell won‘t turn me away.

There was a brass knocker in the shape of an elephant that Willard used to announce their presence.

— What is this place? Marks asked.

— You‘ll see soon enough. Just follow my lead and you‘ll be okay.

The door opened, revealing a young African American woman dressed in a fashionable business suit. She blinked once and said, — Freddy, is that really you?

Willard chuckled. -It‘s been a while, Reese, hasn‘t it?

— Years and years, the young woman said, a smile creasing her face.

— Well, don‘t just stand there, come on in. He‘s going to be tickled beige to see you.

— To fleece me, you mean.

Now it was the young woman‘s turn to chuckle, a warm, rich sound that seemed to caress the listener‘s ear.

— Reese, this is a friend of mine, Peter Marks.

The young woman stuck out her hand in a no-nonsense fashion. She had a rather square face with an aggressive chin and worldly eyes the color of bourbon. -Any friend of Freddy‘s… Her smile deepened. -Reese Williams.

— The commissioner‘s strong right hand, Willard supplied.

— Oh, yes. She laughed. -What would he do without me?

She led them down a softly lit, wood-paneled hallway, decorated with photos and watercolors of African wildlife, most predominantly elephants, with a smattering of rhinos, zebras, and giraffes thrown in.

They arrived soon after at double pocket doors, which Reese threw open to a blue cloud of aromatic cigar smoke, the discreet clink of glassware, and the fast-paced dealing of cards on a green baize table in the center of the library. Six men-including Commissioner Burrows-and one woman sat around the table, playing poker. All of them were high up in various departments of the district‘s political infrastructure. The ones Marks didn‘t know on sight, Willard identified for him.

As they stood on the threshold, Reese went ahead of them, crossing to the table, where Burrows sat, patiently playing his hand. She waited just behind his right shoulder until he‘d raked in the considerable pot, then leaned over and whispered in his ear.