putting a stake through the heart of the lies and, in some instances, taking down their
instigators.
She was, at this stage of her life, a force to be reckoned with, a fact in which she
justifiably reveled. So it was with a light heart that she approached her meeting with the
president. In her briefcase was a thick file detailing the changes she proposed to make in
CI to clean up the unholy mess left behind by Karim al-Jamil and the subsequent murder
of her predecessor. Not surprisingly, CI was in total disarray, morale had never been
lower, and of course there was resentment across the board from the all-male directorate
heads, each of whom felt he should have been elevated to DCI.
The chaos and low morale were about to change, and she had a raft of initiatives to
ensure it. She was absolutely certain that the president would be delighted not only with
her plans but also with the speed with which she would implement them. An intelligence
organization as important and vital as CI could not long endure the despair into which it
had sunk. Only the anti-terrorist black ops, Typhon, brainchild of Martin Lindros, was
running normally, and for that she had its new director, Soraya Moore, to thank. Soraya’s
assumption of command had been seamless. Her operatives loved her, would follow her
into the fires of Hades should she ask it of them. As for the rest of CI, it was for herself to heal, energize, and give a refocused sense of purpose.
She was surprised-perhaps shocked wasn’t too strong a word-to find the Oval Office
occupied not only by the president but also by Luther LaValle, the Pentagon’s
intelligence czar, and his deputy, General Richard P. Kendall. Ignoring the others, she
walked across the plush American blue carpet to shake the president’s hand. She was tall,
long-necked, and slender. Her ash-blond hair was cut in a stylish fashion that fell short of being masculine but lent her a business-like air. She wore a midnight-blue suit, low-heeled pumps, small gold earrings, and a minimum of makeup. Her nails were cut square
across.
“Please have a seat, Veronica,” the president said. “You know Luther LaValle and
General Kendall.”
“Yes.” Veronica inclined her head fractionally. “Gentlemen, a pleasure to see you.”
Though nothing could be farther from the truth.
She hated LaValle. In many ways he was the most dangerous man in American
intelligence, not the least because he was backed by the immensely powerful E. R. “Bud”
Halliday, the secretary of defense. LaValle was a power-hungry egotist who believed that
he and his people should be running American intelligence, period. He fed on war the
way other people fed on meat and potatoes. And though she had never been able to prove
it, she suspected that he was behind several of the more lurid rumors that had circulated
about her. He enjoyed ruining other people’s reputations, savored standing impudently on
the skulls of his enemies.
Ever since Afghanistan and, subsequently, Iraq, LaValle had seized the initiative-under
the typically wide-ranging and murky Pentagon rubric of “preparing the battlefield” for
the troops to come-to expand the purview of the Pentagon’s intelligence-gathering
initiatives until now they encroached uncomfortably on those of CI. It was an open secret
within American intelligence circles that he coveted CI’s operatives and its long-
established international networks. Now, with the Old Man and his anointed successor
dead, it would fit LaValle’s MO to try to make a land grab in the most aggressive manner
possible. This was why his presence and that of his lapdog set off the most serious
warning bells inside Veronica’s mind.
There were three chairs ranged in a rough semicircle in front of the president’s desk.
Two of them were, of course, filled. Veronica took the third chair, acutely aware that she
was flanked by the two men, doubtless by design. She laughed inwardly. If these two
thought to intimidate her by making her feel surrounded, they were sorely mistaken. But
then as the president began to talk she hoped to God her laugh wouldn’t echo hollowly in
her mind an hour from now.
Dominic Specter hurried around the corner as Bourne was locking the door to his
office. The deep frown that creased his high forehead vanished the moment he saw
Bourne.
“David, I’m so glad I caught you before you left!” he said with great enthusiasm. Then,
turning his charm on Bourne’s companion, he added, “And with the magnificent Moira,
no less.” As always the perfect gentleman, he bowed to her in the Old World European
fashion.
He returned his attention to Bourne. He was a short man full of unbridled energy
despite his seventy-odd years. His head seemed perfectly round, surmounted by a halo of
hair that wound from ear to ear. His eyes were dark and inquisitive, his skin a deep
bronze. His generous mouth made him look vaguely and amusingly like a frog about to
spring from one lily pad to another. “A matter of some concern has come up and I need
your opinion.” He smiled. “I see that this evening is out of the question. Would dinner
tomorrow be inconvenient?”
Bourne discerned something behind Specter’s smile that gave him pause; something
was troubling his old mentor. “Why don’t we meet for breakfast?”
“Are you certain I’m not putting you out, David?” But he couldn’t hide the relief that
flooded his face.
“Actually, breakfast is better for me,” Bourne lied, to make things easier for Specter.
“Eight o’clock?”
“Splendid! I look forward to it.” With a nod in Moira’s direction he was off.
“A firecracker,” Moira said. “If only I’d had professors like him.”
Bourne looked at her. “Your college years must’ve been hell.”
She laughed. “Not quite as bad as all that, but then I only had two years of it before I
fled to Berlin.”
“If you’d had professors like Dominic Specter, your experience would have been far
different, believe me.” They sidestepped several knots of students gathered to gossip or to trade questions about their last classes.
They strode along the corridor, out the doors, descended the steps to the quad. He and
Moira walked briskly across campus in the direction of the restaurant where they would
have dinner. Students streamed past them, hurrying down the paths between trees and
lawns. Somewhere a band was playing in the stolid, almost plodding rhythm endemic to
colleges and universities. The sky was steeped in clouds, scudding overhead like clipper
ships on the high seas. A dank winter wind came streaming in off the Potomac.
“There was a time when I was plunged deep in depression. I knew it but I wouldn’t
accept it-you know what I mean. Professor Specter was the one who connected with me,
who was able to crack the shell I was using to protect myself. To this day I have no idea
how he did it or even why he persevered. He said he saw something of himself in me. In
any event, he wanted to help.”
They passed the ivy-covered building where Specter, who was now the president of the
School of International Studies at Georgetown, had his office. Men in tweed coats and
corduroy jackets passed in and out of the doors, frowns of deep concentration on their
faces.
“Professor Specter gave me a job teaching linguistics. It was like a life preserver to a
drowning man. What I needed most then was a sense of order and stability. I honestly
don’t know what would have happened to me if not for him. He alone understood that
immersing myself in language makes me happy. No matter who I’ve been, the one