parents-“on a ranch in Canada.”
Moira frowned. “Don’t you miss them?”
“I miss them terribly,” Bourne said, “but the truth is they’re far better off where they
are. What kind of life could I offer them? And then there’s the constant danger from my
Bourne identity. Marie was kidnapped and threatened in order to force me to do
something I had no intention of doing. I won’t make that mistake again.”
“But surely you see them from time to time.”
“As often as I can, but it’s difficult. I can’t afford to have anyone following me back to
them.”
“My heart goes out to you,” Moira said, meaning it. She smiled. “I must say it’s odd
seeing you here, on a university campus, behind a desk.” She laughed. “Shall I buy you a
pipe and a jacket with elbow patches?”
Bourne smiled. “I’m content here, Moira. Really I am.”
“I’m happy for you. Martin’s death was difficult for both of us. My anodyne is going
back to work full-bore. Yours is obviously here, in a new life.”
“An old life, really.” Bourne looked around the office. “Marie was happiest when I
was teaching, when she could count on me being home every night in time to have dinner
with her and the kids.”
“What about you?” Moira asked. “Were you happiest here?”
A cloud passed across Bourne’s face. “I was happy being with Marie.” He turned to
her. “I can’t imagine being able to say that to anyone else but you.”
“A rare compliment from you, Jason.”
“Are my compliments so rare?”
“Like Martin, you’re a master at keeping secrets,” she said. “But I have doubts about
how healthy that is.”
“I’m sure it’s not healthy at all,” Bourne said. “But it’s the life we chose.”
“Speaking of which.” She sat down on a chair opposite him. “I came early for our
dinner date to talk to you about a work situation, but now, seeing how content you are
here, I don’t know whether to continue.”
Bourne recalled the first time he had seen her, a slim, shapely figure in the mist, dark
hair swirling about her face. She was standing at the parapet in the Cloisters, overlooking the Hudson River. The two of them had come there to say good-bye to their mutual friend
Martin Lindros, whom Bourne had valiantly tried to save, only to fail.
Today Moira was dressed in a wool suit, a silk blouse open at the throat. Her face was
strong, with a prominent nose, deep brown eyes wide apart, intelligent, curved slightly at
their outer corners. Her hair fell to her shoulders in luxuriant waves. There was an
uncommon serenity about her, a woman who knew what she was about, who wouldn’t be
intimidated or bullied by anyone, woman or man.
Perhaps this last was what Bourne liked best about her. In that, though in no other way,
she was like Marie. He had never pried into her relationship with Martin, but he assumed
it had been romantic, since Martin had given Bourne standing orders to send her a dozen
red roses should he ever die. This Bourne had done, with a sadness whose depth surprised
even him.
Settled in her chair, one long, shapely leg crossed over her knee, she looked the model
of a European businesswoman. She had told him that she was half French, half English,
but her genes still carried the imprint of ancient Venetian and Turkish ancestors. She was
proud of the fire in her mixed blood, the result of wars, invasions, fierce love.
“Go on.” He leaned forward, elbows on his desk. “I want to hear what you have to
say.”
She nodded. “All right. As I’ve told you, NextGen Energy Solutions has completed our
new liquid natural gas terminal in Long Beach. Our first shipment is due in two weeks. I
had this idea, which now seems utterly crazy, but here goes. I’d like you to head up the
security procedures. My bosses are worried the terminal would make an awfully tempting
target for any terrorist group, and I agree. Frankly, I can’t think of anyone who’d make it more secure than you.”
“I’m flattered, Moira. But I have obligations here. As you know, Professor Specter has
installed me as the head of the Comparative Linguistics Department. I don’t want to
disappoint him.”
“I like Dominic Specter, Jason, really I do. You’ve made it clear that he’s your mentor.
Actually, he’s David Webb’s mentor, right? But it’s Jason Bourne I first met, it feels like it’s Jason Bourne I’ve been coming to know these last few months. Who is Jason
Bourne’s mentor?”
Bourne’s face darkened, as it had at the mention of Marie. “Alex Conklin’s dead.”
Moira shifted in her chair. “If you come work with me there’s no baggage attached to
it. Think about it. It’s a chance to leave your past lives behind-both David Webb’s and
Jason Bourne’s. I’m flying to Munich shortly because a key element of the terminal is
being manufactured there. I need an expert opinion on it when I check the specs.”
“Moira, there are any number of experts you can use.”
“But none whose opinion I trust as much as yours. This is crucial stuff, Jason. More
than half the goods shipped into the United States come through the port at Long Beach,
so our security measures have to be something special. The US government has already
shown it has neither the time nor the inclination to secure commercial traffic, so we’re
forced to police it ourselves. The danger to this terminal is real and it’s serious. I know how expert you are at bypassing even the most arcane security systems. You’re the
perfect candidate to put nonconventional measures into place.”
Bourne stood. “Moira, listen to me. Marie was David Webb’s biggest cheerleader.
Since her death, I’ve let go of him completely. But he’s not dead, he’s not an invalid. He
lives on inside me. When I fall asleep I dream of his life as if it was someone else’s, and I wake up in a sweat. I feel as if a part of me has been sliced off. I don’t want to feel that way anymore. It’s time to give David Webb his due.”
Veronica Hart’s step was light and virtually carefree as she was admitted past
checkpoint after checkpoint on her way into the bunker that was the West Wing of the
White House. The job she was about to be handed-director of Central Intelligence-was a
formidable one, especially in the aftermath of last year’s twin debacles of murder and
gross breach of security. Nevertheless, she had never been happier. Having a sense of
purpose was vital to her; being singled out for daunting responsibility was the ultimate
validation of all the arduous work, setbacks, and threats she’d had to endure because of
her gender.
There was also the matter of her age. At forty-six she was the youngest DCI in recent
memory. Being the youngest at something was nothing new to her. Her astonishing
intelligence combined with her fierce determination to ensure that she was the youngest
to graduate from her college, youngest to be appointed to military intelligence, to central army command, to a highly lucrative Black River private intelligence position in
Afghanistan and the Horn of Africa where, to this day, not even the heads of the seven
directorates within CI knew precisely where she had been posted, whom she commanded,
or what her mission had been.
Now, at last, she was steps away from the apex, the top of the intelligence heap. She’d
successfully leapt all the hurdles, sidestepped every trap, negotiated every maze, learned
who to befriend and who to show her back to. She had endured relentless sexual
innuendo, rumors of conduct unbecoming, stories of her reliance on her male inferiors
who supposedly did her thinking for her. In each case she had triumphed, emphatically