Bourne 7 – The Bourne Deception - Страница 67

Bamber watched the numbers scrolling across his screen as the download bar registered the illicit transfer from Noah Perlis‘s laptop.

— All of it, he said as the green bar reached the 100 percent level. -Now to get under the hood and see what‘s going on.

Her adrenaline was running high, and she lost patience with the minutes ticking off, pacing around the perimeter of his work space, which smelled of hot metal and spinning hard drives, the scent of money in the twenty-first century. The room was in the rear of the office, its dusky north light forming wan pools in between the shadows thrown by the stacks of electronic equipment, whose fans and motors whirred and hummed like a menagerie. The only two spaces on the walls not filled with instruments or shelves overloaded with computer peripherals, containers of blank DVDs, and USB and power cords of all lengths and descriptions, were taken up by a window and a framed photograph of Bamber at college in full football gear down in a threepoint stance. He was even more handsome then than he was now.

When Moira‘s circuit of the room took her past the window, she paused, staring out across the street onto which the building backed. In the facing building, fluorescent lights were on, revealing an office filled with filing cabinets, hulking Xerox machines, and identical desks. Middle-aged people rushed back and forth, clutching files or reports the way a drowning man clutches a piece of driftwood. On the floor above that living death, she saw through high loft windows into an artist‘s atelier, where a young woman was throwing paint onto a massive canvas propped against a dead-white wall. Her concentration was so intense, lost within the vision she was trying to reproduce, that she appeared unaware of her surroundings.

— How are you coming? Moira asked as she turned back into the room.

Bamber, concentrating as intensely as the artist across the street, needed a bit of prompting to answer. -A few more minutes and I‘ll know, he mumbled at last.

Moira nodded. She was about to continue her anxious perambulation when a sudden movement brought her attention back to the street. A car had drawn up near the end of the block and a man had emerged. Something about the way he moved set off alarm bells in her head. He had a way of turning his head in minute increments, as if he was looking at everything and nothing, that made the hair stir at the nape of her neck. When he reached Bamber‘s building, he stopped. Keeping close to the rear door, he took out a set of picks and inserted one, then another in the lock, until he found the right one to simulate the hills and valleys of the key.

Reaching down, Moira drew her Lady Hawk out of its thigh holster.

— Almost done! There was a defiant note of triumph in Bamber‘s voice.

The door opened and the man entered the building.

Noah Perlis seems to be the nexus of this crisis, Peter Marks said. -He engineered Jay Weston‘s death, he pulled the rug out from under the Metro police, and he‘s infiltrated Moira‘s new organization and got her on the run.

— Noah is Black River, Willard said. -And as secretive and powerful as that band of mercenaries is, I very much doubt that even they have the muscle to accomplish all that without questions being asked.

— You don‘t think Perlis is behind this?

— I didn‘t say that. Willard rubbed the stubble on his cheek. -But in this case I have to believe that Black River had major help.

The two men were facing each other in a brown tufted Naugahyde booth in a late-night bar, listening to a mournful Tammy Wynette song on the jukebox and the insistent growl of garbage trucks rumbling past. A couple of skinny whores were dancing together, having given up on the night. An old man with a shock of unruly white hair was on a stool, bent over his drink; another, who‘d put the dollar in the juke, was dueting with Tammy in a passable Irish tenor, tears in his eyes. The smell of old booze and older despair clung to every bit of run-down furniture in the place. The bartender, one foot on the inside rail, was peering over his belly to read a newspaper with all the enthusiasm of a stoned student cracking open a textbook.

— From what I‘ve gleaned, Willard continued, — Black River‘s major client now is the NSA, in the person of the secretary of defense, who has been championing them to the president.

Marks fairly goggled. -How d‘you know all this?

Willard smiled as he rolled his shot glass between his fingers. -Let‘s just say that being a mole inside the NSA safe house for all these years gives me a couple of legs up-even on the likes of you, Peter. He slid out of the banquette, went past the two whores, who both blew him a kiss. The juke was now playing Don Henley‘s — The Boys of Summer, which appeared to make the Irish tenor weep all the harder as he sang along.

When Willard returned to the banquette it was with a bottle of singlemalt. He filled his shot glass and topped off Marks‘s. -Before we go any further, he said, — I‘m wondering why you haven‘t reported our startling information regarding Noah Perlis and Black River to the Arab.

— M. Errol Danziger is the new DCI, Marks said thoughtfully, — but I‘m not sure I want to report anything to him, especially if the NSA is involved. He‘s Secretary Halliday‘s man through and through.

Willard took a sip of his singlemalt. -So what are you going to do?

Quit?

Marks shook his head. -I love CI too much. It‘s my life. He inclined his head. -I‘d ask the same of you: Are you going to quit?

— Indeed not. Willard threw down some more whisky. -But I do plan to go my own way.

Marks shook his head. -I‘m not following you.

Something had surfaced on Willard‘s face, a certain contemplative air, or perhaps his innate secretiveness was battling with an urge to recruit, because he said, — Did you know Alex Conklin?

— No one knew Conklin-not really.

— I did. I don‘t say that as a boast, just hard fact. Alex and I worked together. I knew what he was building with Treadstone. I‘m not certain I approved then, but I was much younger. I hadn‘t experienced the things Alex had. In any case, he confided all of Treadstone‘s secrets to me.

— I thought the Treadstone files were destroyed.

Willard nodded. -The ones the Old Man didn‘t shred, Alex did. Or that was his story, anyway.

Marks considered this for a moment. -Are you saying the Treadstone files still exist?

— Alex, being Alex, had prepared a duplicate set of files. Only two people know where the files are stored, and one of them is dead.

Marks downed his singlemalt then sat back, regarding Willard with care.

— You want to reboot Treadstone?

Willard refilled their glasses from the bottle. -It‘s already rebooted, Peter. I want to know whether you want to become part of Treadstone.

They‘ve been here no more than forty-eight hours, possibly as little as twenty-four. Yusef, Soraya‘s agent in place in Khartoum, was a small man with skin the color of thoroughly cured leather. He had large, liquid eyes and very small ears, but he heard everything. He was one of Typhon‘s top agents because he was clever and resourceful enough to make use of the youth underground that had energized the city through its connection to the Internet. -It‘s the quicklime, you see. Whoever dumped them wanted them completely destroyed in a way that even fire couldn‘t accomplish, because the quicklime will eat away everything, including bone and teeth, that could be used to ID the remains.

Soraya had made contact with Yusef on the way in from the airport and, at Amun Chalthoum‘s urging, had set up a meet with him, despite the men following them-actually because of them. -These men have been sent by my enemies, Amun had said to her in the car. -I want them close enough so we can grab them.

Yusef had heard about the dead men from a young boy who‘d come across the grave while he and some friends were exploring the Ansar forts near Sabaloga Gorge; the forts had once been used to attack the troopships on their way to relieve the British General Gordon and his exhausted men in 1885. The young boy and his friend lived in the adjacent village, but a network of kids in Khartoum soon learned of the discovery of the bodies in their Internet chat room.

After handing them a pair of Glocks and extra ammunition, Yusef had led the way about fifty miles north, through the desert with its harsh winds and brutal sun. They used two four-wheel-drive vehicles, as Yusef had advised, because the rough roads and the unreliability of Sudanese vehicles made traveling in just one foolhardy.

— You see how much of the men is left, Yusef said now, as they stared into the shallow pit that had been hastily dug in the packed-earth floor inside one of the old crumbling forts, — despite the quicklime.

Soraya waved away a cloud of flies as she crouched down. -Enough to see they‘ve all been shot in the back of the head. Her nose wrinkled. At least the quicklime had taken care of the stench of rotting bodies.

— Execution, military-style, Chalthoum said. -But are we certain these four men are the ones we‘re after?

— They‘re the ones, all right, Soraya said. -The decomposition is still minimal. I recognize beef-fed men from the heartland of America when I see them. She looked up at Amun. -There‘s only one reason for Americans being executed military-style in Khartoum and brought here.