One of the police officers he‘d seen coming toward him in the bowels of the corridahad emerged, looking around for him. He eeled his way through the crowd, thankful that virtually everyone was on the move, making it easier for him to lose himself as he made his way toward the exit where Tracy was waiting for him.
But the police officer must have caught a glimpse of him, because he was hurrying after Bourne, expertly threading his way through the people. Bourne tried to judge the distance to the exit and wondered whether he was going to make it, because the officer was closing fast. A moment later he saw Tracy appear out of the throng. Without a glance at him, she rushed past him, heading in the opposite direction. What was she doing?
Still picking his way forward, he risked a glance over his shoulder and saw her confront the police officer. In snatches he heard her voice, raised and plaintive, complaining of having her cell phone snatched from her handbag. The officer was understandably impatient with her, but when he tried to brush her off Tracy‘s voice rose to such a pitch that everyone around her turned to stare and the officer was forced to deal with her.
Through his growing pain Bourne managed a small smile. Three strides later he came to the exit, but as soon as he turned into it, he felt a deeper stab of pain in his chest and fell against the rough concrete wall, gasping for breath as people pushed past him, coming and going.
―Come on,‖ Tracy urged in his ear as she slid her arm through his and drew him into the flow of the crowd, down the ramp, and into the enormous vestibule, where a mass of people were smoking and chattering away about the merits of the matador. Beyond the crowd, the glass doors to the street were directly ahead.
Somehow she‘d disentangled herself from the officer to find him. It took all his concentration to breathe deeply, to breathe through the pain.
―Christ, what happened to you in there?‖ she said. ―How badly are you hurt?‖
―Not badly.‖
―Really? You look like you‘re already dead.‖
At that moment, three police came crashing through the corrida‘s front doors.
Moira and Veronica Hart decided to take the sedan Moira had rented, since the white Buick was as anonymous a car as possible. They found Humphry Bamber, the late Undersecretary Stevenson‘s closest friend, at his health club. He had just finished his workout, and one of the attendants had fetched him from the sauna. He padded out in sky-blue flip-flops, a towel wrapped around his waist and another, smaller one around his neck, which he used to wipe sweat off his face.
Really, Moira thought, he had no reason to wear anything more. His body was rock-hard, as well formed as a professional athlete‘s. In fact, he looked as if he spent the majority of his time in the gym maintaining his washboard abs and hillock biceps.
He greeted them with a quizzical smile. He had thick blond hair that fell over his forehead, making him seem boyish. His wide-apart, clear eyes took them in with a cool precision that seemed oddly neutral to Moira.
―Ladies,‖ he said, ―what can I do for you? Marty said it was urgent.‖ He meant the attendant.
―It is urgent,‖ Hart said. ―Is there somewhere private we can talk?‖
Bamber‘s expression sobered. ―Are you cops?‖
―What if we are?‖
He shrugged. ―I‘d be more curious than I am now.‖
Hart flashed her credentials, which sent his eyebrows up.
―Do you suspect me of passing secrets to the enemy?‖
―Which enemy?‖ Moira said.
He laughed. ―I like you,‖ he said. ―What‘s your name?‖
―Moira Trevor.‖
―Uh-oh.‖ At once, Bamber‘s expression grew dark. ―I was warned about you.‖
―Warned?‖ Moira said. ―By whom?‖ But she thought she already knew.
―A man named Noah Petersen.‖
Moira recalled Noah taking Jay Weston‘s cell phone from her at the scene of the killing. It was a sure bet that‘s how he found Bamber.
―He said—‖
―His real name‘s Perlis,‖ Moira interrupted. ―Noah Perlis. You shouldn‘t trust anything he told you.‖
―He said you‘d say that.‖
Moira laughed bitterly. Hart said, ―A private place, Mr. Bamber. Please.‖
He nodded and walked them to an unused office. They went in and he closed the door. When they were all seated, Hart said, ―I‘m afraid we have some bad news. Steve Stevenson is dead.‖
Bamber looked stricken. ―What?‖
Hart continued: ―Did Mr. Peter—Perlis tell you that?‖
Bamber shook his head. He put the smaller towel around his shoulders as if he‘d suddenly grown cold. Moira couldn‘t blame him.
―My God.‖ He shook his head in disbelief, then he looked at them in a kind of pleading way. ―It must be a mistake of some kind, one of those idiotic bureaucratic snafus Steve was always complaining about.‖
―I‘m afraid not,‖ Hart said.
―Noah—one of Mr. Perlis‘s people—killed your friend, making it look like an accident,‖ Moira said in a rush of emotion. Ignoring Hart‘s warning glare, she continued: ―Mr. Perlis is a dangerous man working for a dangerous organization.‖
―I—‖ Bamber ran a hand distractedly through his hair. ―Shit, I don‘t know what to believe.‖ He looked from one of them to the other. ―Can I see Steve‘s body?‖
Hart nodded. ―That can be arranged, as soon as we‘re through here.‖
―Ah.‖ Bamber gave her a rueful smile. ―Like a reward, is that it?‖ Hart said nothing.
He nodded in capitulation. ―Okay, how can I help you?‖
―I don‘t know if you can,‖ Hart said with a significant glance at Moira.
―Because if you could, Mr. Perlis wouldn‘t have left you alive.‖
For the first time Bamber looked truly alarmed. ―What the hell is this?‖
he said with understandable indignation. ―Steve and I have been close friends since college, that‘s it.‖
Ever since Bamber had appeared Moira had been wondering about this aging jock‘s decades-long friendship with Steve Stevenson, a man who didn‘t know a softball from a football and, furthermore, didn‘t care. Now something Bamber just said caused a number of small anomalies to click into place.
―I think there‘s another reason Noah felt confident in leaving you with a warning, Mr. Bamber,‖ she said, ―am I right?‖
Bamber frowned. ―I don‘t know what you‘re talking about.‖
―What would frighten you so much that Noah could be assured that you wouldn‘t talk?‖