waste a step. But one thing worried him. He hadn’t seen any agents on his way in. That
meant, more than likely, he’d have to deal with them on the way out.
Near the rear entrance, a guard was checking galleries just before closing time. Bourne
was obliged to detour around a corner with an outcropping of a fire call box and
extinguisher. He could hear the guard’s soft voice as he herded a family toward the exit
in front. Bourne was about to slip out when he heard other voices sharper, clipped.
Moving into shadow, he saw a pair of slim, white-haired Chinese scholars in pin-striped
suits and shiny brogues arguing the merits of a Tang porcelain vase. Their voices faded
along with their footsteps as they headed toward Jefferson Drive.
Without losing another instant Bourne checked the bypass he’d made on the alarm
system. So far it showed everything as normal. He pushed out the door. Night wind
struck his face as he saw two agents, sidearms drawn, hurrying up the granite stairs. He
had just enough time to register the oddness of the guns before he ducked back inside,
went directly to the fire call box.
They came through the door. The leading one got a face full of fire-smothering foam.
Bourne ducked a wild shot from the second agent. There was virtually no noise, but
something pinged off the Tennessee white marble wall near his shoulder, then clattered to
the floor. He hurled the fire extinguisher at the shooter. It struck him on the temple and
he went down. Bourne broke the call box’s glass, pulled hard on the red metal handle.
Instantly the fire alarm sounded, piercing every corner of the gallery.
Out the door, Bourne ran diagonally down the steps, heading west, directly for 12th
Street, SW. He expected to find more agents at the southwest corner of the building, but
as he turned off Independence Avenue onto 12th Street he encountered a flood of people
drawn to the building by the alarm. Already the sirens of fire trucks could be heard
floating through the rising chatter of the crowd.
He hurried along the street toward the entrance down to the Smithsonian Metro stop.
As he did so, he accessed the Internet through his cell. It took longer than he would have
liked, but at last he pressed the FAVORITES icon, was returned to the Metro site.
Navigating to the Smithsonian station, he scrolled down to the hyperlink to the next train
arrival, which was refreshed every thirty seconds. Three minutes to the Orange line 6
train to Vienna/Fairfax. Quickly he composed a text mail “FB,” sent it to a number he’d
prearranged with Professor Specter.
The Metro entrance, clogged with people stopped on the stairs to watch the unfolding
scenario, was a mere fifty yards away. Bourne heard police sirens now, saw a number of
unmarked cars heading down 12th Street toward Jefferson. They turned east when they
got to the junction-all except one, which headed due south.
Bourne tried to run, but he was hampered by the press of people. He broke free, into a
small area blessedly empty of the gigantic jostle, when the driver’s window of a cruising
car slid down. A burly man with a grim face and a nearly bald head aimed another one of
those strange-looking handguns at him.
Bourne twisted, putting one of the Metro entrance posts between himself and the
gunman. He heard nothing, no sound at all-just as he hadn’t back inside the Freer-and
something bit into his left calf. He looked down, saw the metal of a mini dart lying on the street. It had grazed him, but that was all. With a controlled swing, Bourne went around
the post, down the stairs, pushing his way through the gawkers into the Metro. He had
just under two minutes to make the Orange 6 to Vienna. The next train didn’t leave for
four minutes after that-too much time in the platform, waiting for the NSA agents to find
him. He had to make the first train.
He bought his ticket, went through. The crowds thinned and thickened like waves
rushing to shore. He began to sweat. His left foot slipped. Rebalancing himself, he
guessed that whatever was in that mini dart must be having an effect despite only grazing
him. Looking up at the electronic signs, he had to work to focus in order to find the
correct platform. He kept pushing forward, not trusting himself to rest, though part of him seemed hell-bent on doing just that. Sit down, close your eyes, sink into sleep. Turning to a vending machine, he fished in his pockets for change, bought every chocolate bar he
could. Then he entered the line for the escalator.
Partway down he stumbled, missed the riser, crashed into the couple ahead of him.
He’d blacked out for an instant. Gaining the platform, he felt both shaky and sluggish.
The concrete-paneled ceiling arched overhead, deadening the sounds of the hundreds
crowding the platform.
Less than a minute to go. He could feel the vibration of the oncoming train, the wind it
pushed ahead of it.
He’d gobbled down one chocolate bar and was starting on the second when the train
pulled into the station. He stepped in, allowing the surge of the crowd to take him. Just as the doors were closing, a tall man with broad shoulders and a black trench coat sprinted
into the other end of Bourne’s car. The doors closed and the train lurched forward.
Thirteen
AS HE SAW the man in the black trench making his way toward him from the end of
the train car, Bourne felt an unpleasant form of claustrophobia. Until they reached the
next station, he was trapped in this finite space, Moreover, despite the initial chocolate
hit, he was starting to feel a lassitude creeping up from his left leg as the serum entered his bloodstream. He tore off the wrapping on another chocolate bar, wolfed it down. The
faster he could get the sugar and the caffeine into his system, the better able his body
would be to fight off the effects of the drug. But that effect would only be temporary, and then his blood sugar would plummet, draining the adrenaline out of him.
The train reached Federal Triangle and the doors slid open. A mass of people got off,
another mass got on. Black Trench used the brief slackening of passengers to make
headway toward where Bourne stood, hands clasped around a chromium pole. The doors
closed, the train accelerated. Black Trench was blocked by a huge man with tattoos on
the backs of his hands. He tried to push by, but the tattooed man glared at him, refusing
to budge. Black Trench could have used his federal ID to move people out of the way,
but he didn’t, no doubt so as not to cause a panic. But whether he was NSA or CI was
still a mystery. Bourne, struggling to stop his mind from going in and out of focus, stared into the face of his newest adversary, looking for clues to his affiliation. Black Trench’s face was blocky, bland, but with the particular dry cruelty the military demanded in its
clandestine agents. He must be NSA, Bourne decided. Through the fog in his brain, he
knew he had to deal with Black Trench before the rendezvous point at Foggy Bottom.
Two children swung into Bourne as the train lurched around a bend. He held them
upright, returning them to their place beside their mother, who smiled her thanks at him,
put a protecting arm around their narrow shoulders. The train rolled into Metro Center.
Bourne saw a brief glare of temporary spotlights where a work crew was busy fixing an
escalator. On the other side of him a young blonde with earbuds leading to an MP3 player
pressed her shoulder against his, took out a cheap plastic compact, checked the state of
her makeup. Pursing her lips, she slid the compact back in her bag, dug out flavored lip
gloss. While she was applying it, Bourne lifted the compact, palming it immediately. He