“So this is all about an old Treadstone mission.” Marks seemed to consider the implications for a moment. “Do you know why Alex Conklin wanted the laptop?”
“No idea,” Bourne said, though he thought he did know now. Was there anyone besides Soraya and Moira he could trust? Though he knew Soraya and Peter were good friends he still didn’t know whether he could trust Marks.
Marks shifted uncomfortably. “There’s something I need to tell you. I’m afraid I roped Soraya into joining Treadstone.”
Bourne knew that Typhon could not run successfully without her, so he assumed that Danziger was systematically dismantling the old CI and remaking it in the image of Bud Halliday’s beloved NSA. Not that it was any of his concern. He hated and distrusted all espionage agencies. But he knew the good work that Typhon had accomplished under its original director, and later under Soraya. “What is Willard having her do?”
“You won’t like this.”
“Don’t let that stop you.”
“Her mission is to get close to Leonid Arkadin and the laptop.”
“The same laptop that Conklin had me steal from Jalal Essai?”
“That’s right.”
Bourne wanted to laugh, but then Marks would ask questions he wasn’t prepared to answer. Instead he said, “Was it your idea for Soraya to get close to Arkadin?”
“No, it was Willard’s.”
“Took him some time to come up with it?”
“He told me about it the day after I recruited her.”
“So chances are he had the assignment in mind for her when he asked you to recruit her.”
Marks shrugged, as if he couldn’t see how it mattered.
But it mattered very much to Bourne, who saw in Willard’s thinking a pattern. All the air went out of him. What if Soraya wasn’t the first female Treadstone had recruited to keep an eye on its first graduate? What if Tracy had been working for Treadstone? Everything fit. The only reason Tracy would lie, deliberately putting herself in Arkadin’s power, was so that he would hire her and keep her close, allowing her to pass on intel about both his whereabouts and his business ventures. A brilliant plan, which had worked until Tracy had been killed in Khartoum. Then Arkadin had vanished again. Willard needed a way to regain contact, so he had resorted to a tried-and-true Treadstone tactic. Arkadin used women like dish towels. They would be the last people he would suspect of keeping tabs on him.
“Soraya found him, I take it.”
“She’s with him now in Sonora and knows what to do,” Marks said. “Do you think she can get him to Tineghir?”
“No,” Bourne said. “But I can.”
“How?”
Bourne smiled, remembering the entry in Noah Perlis’s notebook. “I’ll need to text her the information. She’ll know what to do with it.”
They were in the outskirts of London now. Bourne got off the motorway at the next exit and pulled over in a side street. Marks handed him his PDA and recited Soraya’s number. Bourne punched it in, then pressed the SMS button, composed the text, and sent it.
After returning Marks’s PDA, he resumed driving. “I don’t know how it’s happened,” he said, “but Severus Domna is running Willard and Treadstone.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Jalal Essai is Amazigh. He comes from the High Atlas Mountains.”
“Ouarzazate.”
“So is Willard taking orders from Essai or Severus Domna?”
“For the moment it doesn’t matter,” Bourne said, “but my money’s on Severus Domna. I doubt Essai has the clout to get Justice to take Liss into custody.”
“Because Essai has broken away from Severus Domna, right?”
Bourne nodded. “Which makes the situation that much more interesting.” He made a left turn, then a right. They were now on a street of neat, white Georgian row houses. A Skye terrier, industriously sniffing at steps, led his master along the pavement. The doctor was three houses down. “It’s not often my enemies are at each other’s throats.”
“I take it you’re going to Tineghir, despite the danger. That couldn’t have been an easy decision.”
“You have your own tough decision to make,” Bourne said. “If you want to stay in this business, Peter, you’ll have to return to DC to take care of Willard. Otherwise, one way or another, he’ll wind up destroying you and Soraya.”
FREDERICK WILLARD KNEW about the White Knights Lounge. He’d known about it for some time, ever since he had started compiling his own private dossier on Secretary of Defense Halliday. Bud Halliday possessed the kind of arrogance that all too often brings men of his lofty status down into the dust with the rest of the peons who painfully labor over their lives. These men-like Halliday-have become so inured to their power, they believe themselves above the law.
Willard had witnessed Bud Halliday’s meetings with the Middle Eastern gentleman whom Willard had subsequently identified as Jalal Essai. This was information he’d had when he met with Benjamin El-Arian. He didn’t know whether El-Arian was aware of the liaison, but in any event he wasn’t about to tell him. Some information was meant to be shared only with the right person.
And that person appeared now, right on time, flanked by his bodyguards like a Roman emperor.
M. Errol Danziger came over to where Willard sat and slid into the ancient banquette. Its stained and ripped Naugahyde skin spoke of decades’ worth of benders.
“This is a real shithole,” Danziger said. He looked like he wished he’d worn a full-body condom. “You’ve slid down in the world since you left us.”
They were sitting in an anonymously named rheumatic bar-and-grill off one of the expressways that linked Washington with Virginia. Only pub-crawlers of a certain age and liver toxicity found it inviting; everyone else ignored it as the eyesore it was. The place stank of sour beer and months-old frying oil. It was impossible to say what colors its walls were painted. An old nondigital juke played Willie Nelson and John Mellencamp, but no one was dancing or, by the looks of them, listening. Someone at the end of the bar groaned.
Willard rubbed his hands together. “What can I get you?”
“Out of here,” Danziger said, trying not to breathe too deeply. “The sooner the better.”
“No one we know or who’d recognize us would come within a country mile of this cesspit,” Willard said. “Can you think of a better place for us to meet?”
Danziger made a disagreeable face. “Get on with it, man.”
“You’ve got a problem,” Willard said without further preamble.
“I’ve got a lot of problems, but they’re none of your business.”
“Don’t be so hasty.”
“Listen, you’re out of CI, which means you’re nobody. I agreed to this meet out of-I don’t know what-acknowledgment of your past services. But now I see it was a waste of time.”
Willard, unruffled, would not be taken off topic. “This particular problem concerns your boss.”
Danziger sat back as if trying to get as far away from Willard as the banquette would allow.
Willard spread his hands. “Care to listen? If not, you’re free to leave.”
“Go ahead.”
“Bud Halliday has, shall we say, an off-the-reservation relationship with a man named Jalal Essai.”
Danziger bristled. “Are you trying to blackmail-?”
“Relax. Their relationship is strictly business.”
“What’s that to me?”
“Everything,” Willard said. “Essai is poison for him, and for you. He’s a member of a group known as Severus Domna.”
“Never heard of it.”
“Very few people have. But it was someone in Severus Domna who got Justice to take another look at Oliver Liss and incarcerate him while it’s investigating.”
A drunk began to wail, trying to duet with Connie Francis. One of Danziger’s gorillas went over to him and shut him up.