two were close.
“There’s no easy answer,” Harun said now, “principally because there’s no one
answer. Some swear he’s an agent of the American CI, others claim he’s an international
assassin for hire. Clearly he can’t be both. What is indisputable is that he was responsible for foiling the plot to gas the attendees of the International Anti-Terrorist Conference in Reykjavik three years ago and, last year, the very real nuclear threat to Washington, DC,
posed by Dujja, the terrorist group that was run by the two Wahhib brothers, Fadi and
Karim al-Jamil. Rumor has it Bourne killed them both.”
“Impressive, if true. But just the fact that no one can get a handle on him is of extreme
interest.” Icoupov’s arms chugged up and down in perfect rhythm to his gliding back and
forth. His cheeks were apple red and he smiled warmly at the children skating on either
side of them, laughing when they laughed, giving encouragement when one of them fell.
“And how did such a man get involved with Our Friend?”
“Through the university in Georgetown,” Harun said. He was a slender man with the
look of an accountant, which wasn’t helped by his sallow skin and the way his olive-pit
eyes were sunk deep in his skull. Ice-skating did not come naturally to him as it did to
Icoupov. “Besides killing people, it seems Bourne is something of a genius at
linguistics.”
“Is he now?”
Even though they’d skated for more than forty minutes, Icoupov wasn’t breathing hard.
Harun knew he was just getting warmed up. They were in spectacular country. The resort
of Grindelwald was just under a hundred miles southeast of Bern. Above them towered
three of Switzerland’s most famous mountains-Jungfrau, Mцnch, and Eiger-glittering
white with snow and ice.
“It seems that Bourne’s weak spot is for a mentor. The first was a man named
Alexander Conklin, who-”
“I knew Alex,” Icoupov said curtly. “It was before your time. Another lifetime, it often
seems.” He nodded. “Please continue.”
“It seems Our Friend has made a play to become his new mentor.”
“I must interject here. That seems improbable.”
“Then why did Bourne kill Mikhail Tarkanian?”
“Mischa.” Icoupov’s pace faltered for a moment. “Allah preserve us! Does Leonid
Danilovich know?”
“Arkadin is currently out of contact.”
“What’s his progress?”
“He’s come and gone from Sevastopol.”
“That’s something, anyway.” Icoupov shook his head. “We’re running out of time.”
“Arkadin knows this.”
“I want Tarkanian’s death kept from him, Harun. Mischa was his best friend; they were
closer than brothers. Under no circumstances can he be allowed to be distracted from his
present assignment.”
A lovely young woman held out her hand as she skated abreast of them. Icoupov took
it and for a time was swept away in an ice dance that made him feel as if he were twenty
again. When he returned, he resumed their skate around the rink. Something about the
easy gliding motion of skating, he’d once told Harun, helped him to think.
“Given what you’ve told me,” Icoupov said at length, “this Jason Bourne may very
well cause an unforeseen complication.”
“You can be sure Our Friend has recruited Bourne to his cause by telling him that you
caused the death of-”
Icoupov shot him a warning look. “I agree. But the question we must answer is how
much of the truth he’s risked telling Bourne.”
“Knowing Our Friend,” Harun said, “I would say very little, if at all.”
“Yes.” Icoupov tapped a gloved forefinger against his lips. “And if this is the case we
can use the truth against him, don’t you think?”
“If we can get to Bourne,” Harun said. “And if we can get him to believe us.”
“Oh, he’ll believe us. I’ll make sure of that.” Icoupov executed a perfect spin. “Your
new assignment, Harun, is to ensure we get to him before he can do any more damage.
We could ill afford to lose our eye in Our Friend’s camp. Further deaths are
unacceptable.”
Munich was full of cold rain. It was a gray city on the best of days, but in this
windswept downpour it seemed to hunker down. Like a turtle, it pulled in its head into its
concrete shell, turning its back on all visitors.
Bourne and Moira sat inside the cavernous NextGen 747. Bourne was on his cell,
making a reservation on the next flight to Moscow.
“I wish I could authorize the plane to take you,” Moira said after he’d folded away the
phone.
“No, you don’t,” Bourne said. “You’d like me to stay here by your side.”
“I already told you why I think that would be a bad idea.” She looked out at the wet
tarmac, rainbow-streaked with droplets of fuel and oil. Raindrops trickled down the
Perspex window like racing cars in their lanes. “And I find myself not wanting to be here
at all.”
Bourne opened the file he’d taken from Veronica Hart, turned it around, held it out.
“I’d like you to take a look at this.”
Moira turned back, put the file on her lap, paged through it. All at once she looked up.
“Was it CI that had me under surveillance?” When Bourne nodded, she said, “Well,
that’s a relief.”
“How is it a relief?”
She lifted the file. “This is all disinformation, a setup. Two years ago, when bidding
for the Long Beach LNG terminal was at its height, my bosses suspected that AllEn, our
chief rival, was monitoring our communications in order to get a handle on the
proprietary systems that make our terminal unique. As a favor to me, Martin went to the
Old Man for permission to set up a sting. The Old Man agreed, but it was imperative that
no one else know about it, so he never told anyone else at CI. It worked. By tracking our
cell conversations we discovered that AllEn was, indeed, monitoring the calls.”
“I recall the settlement,” Bourne said.
“Because of the evidence Martin and I provided, AllEn had no incentive to go to trial.”
“NextGen got a mid-eight-figure settlement, right?”
Moira nodded. “And won the rights to build the LNG terminal in Long Beach. That’s
how I got my promotion to executive vice president.”
Bourne took back the file. He, too, was relieved. For him, trust was like an ill-made
boat, springing leaks at every turn, threatening at any moment to sink him. He’d ceded
part of himself to Moira, but the loss of control was like a knife in his heart.
Moira looked at him rather sadly. “Did you suspect me of being a Mata Hari?”
“It was important to make sure,” he said.
Her face closed up. “Sure. I understand.” She began to stuff papers into a slim leather
briefcase more roughly than was needed. “You thought I’d betrayed Martin and was
going to betray you.”
“I’m relieved it’s not true.”
“I’m so very happy to hear that.” She shot him an acid stare.
“Moira…”
“What?” She pulled hair off her face. “What is it you want to say to me, Jason?”
“I… This is hard for me.”
She leaned forward, peering at him. “Just tell me.”
“I trusted Marie,” Bourne said. “I leaned on her, she helped me with my amnesia. She
was always there. And then, suddenly, she wasn’t.”
Moira’s voice softened. “I know.”
He looked at her at last. “There is no good thing about being alone. But for me it’s all a
matter of trust.”
“I know you think I haven’t told you the truth about Martin and me.” She took his