Moira frowned. “I have to assume it has something to do with the security on the LNG terminal.”
They were sitting side by side in Moira’s living room, a small, cozy space in a Georgetown town house of red-brown brick on Cambridge Place, NW, near Dumbarton Oaks. A fire was crackling and licking in the brick hearth; espresso and brandy sat on the coffee table in front of them. The chenille-covered sofa was deep enough for Moira to curl up on. It had big roll arms and a neck-high back.
“One thing I can tell you,” Bourne said, “these people are professionals.”
“Makes sense,” she said. “Any rival of my firm would hire the best people available. That doesn’t necessarily mean I’m in any danger.”
Nevertheless, Bourne felt another sharp pang at the loss of Marie, then carefully, almost reverently, put the feeling aside.
“More espresso?” Moira asked.
“Please.”
Bourne handed her his cup. As she bent forward, the light V-neck sweater revealed the tops of her firm breasts. At that moment, she raised her gaze to his. There was a mischievous glint in her eyes.
“What are you thinking about?”
“Probably the same thing you are.” He rose, looked around for his coat. “I think I’d better go.”
“Jason…”
He paused. Lamplight gave her face a golden glow. “Don’t,” she said. “Stay. Please.”
He shook his head. “You and I both know that’s not a good idea.”
“Just for tonight. I don’t want to be alone, not after what you discovered.” She gave a little shiver. “I was being brave before, but I’m not you. Being followed gives me the willies.”
She offered the cup of espresso. “If it makes you feel any better, I’d prefer you sleep out here. This sofa’s quite comfortable.”
Bourne looked around at the warm chestnut walls, the dark wooden blinds, the jewel-toned accents here and there in the form of vases and bowls of flowers. An agate box with gold legs sat on a mahogany sideboard. A small brass ship’s clock ticked away beside it. The photos of the French countryside in summer and autumn made him feel both mournful and nostalgic. For precisely what, he couldn’t say. Though his mind fished for memories, none surfaced. His past was a lake of black ice. “Yes, it is.” He took the cup, sat down beside her.
She pulled a pillow against her breast. “Shall we talk about what we’ve been avoiding saying all evening?”
“I’m not big on talking.”
Her wide lips curved in a smile. “Which one of you isn’t big on talking, David Webb or Jason Bourne?”
Bourne laughed, sipped his espresso. “What if I said both of us?”
“I’d have to call you a liar.”
“We can’t have that, can we?”
“It wouldn’t be my choice.” She rested one cheek on her hand, waiting. When he said nothing further, she continued. “Please, Jason. Just talk to me.”
The old fear of getting close to someone reared its head again, but at the same time he felt a kind of melting inside him, as if his frozen heart were beginning to thaw. For some years, he’d made it an ironclad rule to keep his distance from other people. Alex Conklin had been murdered, Marie had died, Martin Lindros hadn’t made it out of Miran Shah. All gone, his only friends and first love. With a start, he realized that he hadn’t felt attracted to anyone except Marie. He hadn’t allowed himself to feel, but now he couldn’t help himself. Was that a function of the David Webb personality or of Moira herself? She was strong, self-assured. In her he recognized a kindred spirit, someone who viewed the world as he did-as an outsider.
He looked into her face, said what was in his mind. “Everyone I get close to dies.”
She sighed, put a hand briefly over his. “I’m not going to die.” Her dark brown eyes glimmered in the lamplight. “Anyway, it’s not your job to protect me.”
This was another reason he was drawn to her. She was fierce, a warrior, in her own way.
“Tell me the truth, then. Are you really happy at the university?”
Bourne thought a moment, the conflict inside him becoming an unholy din. “I think I am.” After a slight pause, he added: “I thought I was.”
There’d been a golden glow to his life with Marie, but Marie was gone, that life was in the past. With her gone, he was forced to confront the terrifying question: What was David Webb without her? He was no longer a family man. He’d been able to raise his children, he saw now, only with her love and help. And for the first time he realized what his retreat into the university really meant. He’d been trying to regain that golden life he’d had with Marie. It wasn’t only Professor Specter he didn’t want to disappoint, it was Marie.
“What are you thinking?” Moira said softly.
“Nothing,” he said. “Nothing at all.”
She studied him for a moment. Then she nodded. “All right, then.” She rose, leaned over, kissed him on the cheek. “I’ll make up the sofa.”
“That’s all right, just tell me where the linen closet is.”
She pointed. “Over there.”
He nodded.
“Good night, Jason.”
“See you in the morning. But early. I’ve got-”
“I know. Breakfast with Dominic Specter.”
Bourne lay on his back, one arm behind his head. He was tired; he was sure he’d fall asleep immediately. But an hour after he’d turned off the lights, sleep seemed a thousand miles away. Now and again, the red-and-black remnants of the fire snapped and softly fell in on themselves. He stared at the stripes of light seeping in through the wide wooden blinds, hoping they’d take him to far-off places, which, in his case, meant his past. In some ways he was like an amputee who still felt his arm even though it had been sawed off. The sense of memories just beyond his ability to recall was maddening, an itch he couldn’t scratch. He often wished he would remember nothing at all, which was one reason Moira’s offer was so compelling. The thought of starting fresh, without the baggage of sadness and loss, was a powerful draw. This conflict was always with him, a major part of his life, whether he was David Webb or Jason Bourne. And yet, whether he liked it or not, his past was there, waiting for him like a wolf at night, if only he could reach through the mysterious barrier his brain had raised. Not for the first time, he wondered what other terrible traumas had befallen him in the past to cause his mind to protect itself from it. The fact that the answer lurked within his own mind turned his blood cold because it represented his own personal demon.
“Jason?”
The door to Moira’s bedroom was open. Despite the dimness, his keen eyes could make out her form moving slowly toward him on bare feet.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she said in a throaty voice. She stopped several paces from where he lay. She was wearing a silk paisley bathrobe, belted at the waist. The lush curves of her body were unmistakable.
For a moment, they remained in silence.
“I lied to you before,” she said quietly. “I don’t want you to sleep out here.”
Bourne rose on one elbow. “I lied, too. I was thinking about what I once had and how I’ve been desperate to hang on to it. But it’s gone, Moira. All gone forever.” He drew up one leg. “I don’t want to lose you.”
She moved minutely, and a bar of light picked out the glitter of tears in her eyes. “You won’t, Jason. I promise.”
Another silence engulfed them, this one so profound they seemed to be the only two people left in the world.
At last, he held out his hand, and she came toward him. He rose from the sofa, took her in his arms. She smelled of lime and geranium. He ran his hands through her thick hair, grabbed it. Her face tilted up to him and their lips came together, and his heart shivered off another coating of ice. After a long time, he felt her hands at her waist and he stepped back.
She undid the belt and the robe parted, slid off her shoulders. Her naked flesh shone a dusky gold. She had wide hips and a deep navel; there seemed nothing about her body he didn’t love. Now it was she who took his hand, leading him to her bed, where they fell upon each other like half-starved animals.