coat, hurry across the lot to his car. He kept the general in his sights as he put one hand on the keys he’d already inserted in the ignition. At the precise moment Kendall leaned
his right shoulder forward to start his engine, Batt flipped his own ignition, so Kendall
didn’t hear another car start when his did.
As the general pulled out of the lot, Batt set aside the night glasses and put his car in
gear. The night seemed quiet and still, but maybe that was simply a reflection of Batt’s
mood. He was a sentinel of the night, after all. He’d been trained by the Old Man himself;
he’d always been proud of that fact. After his downfall, though, he realized that it was
this pride that had distorted his thinking and his decision making. It was his pride that
made him rebel against Veronica Hart, not because of anything she said or did-he hadn’t
even given her the chance-but because he’d been passed over. Pride was his weakness,
one that LaValle had recognized and exploited. Twenty-twenty hindsight was a bitch, he
thought as he followed Kendall toward the Fairfax area, but at least it provided the
humility he needed to see how far he’d strayed from his sworn duties at CI.
He kept well back of the general’s car, varying his distance and his lane the better to
avoid detection. He doubted that Kendall would consider that he might be followed, but it
paid to be cautious. Batt was determined to atone for the sin he’d committed against his
own organization, against the memory of the Old Man.
Kendall turned in at an anonymous modern-looking building whose entire ground floor
was taken up by the In-Tune health club. Batt observed the general park, take out a small
gym bag, and enter the club. Nothing useful so far, but Batt had long ago learned to be
patient. On stakeouts it seemed nothing came quickly or easily.
And then, because he had nothing better to do until Kendall reappeared, Batt stared at
the IN-TUNE sign while he bit hunks off a Snickers bar. Why did that sign seem
familiar? He knew he had never been inside, had never, in fact, been in this part of
Fairfax. Maybe it was the name: In-Tune. Yes, he thought, it sounded maddeningly
familiar, but for the life of him he couldn’t think of why.
Fifty minutes had passed since Kendall had gone in; time to train his night glasses on
the entrance. He watched people of all description and build come in and out. Most were
solitary figures; occasionally two women came out talking, once a couple emerged,
headed in tandem for their car.
Another fifteen minutes passed and still no Kendall. Batt had taken the glasses away
from his eyes to give them a rest when he saw the gym door swung open. Fitting the
binoculars back to his eyes he saw Rodney Feir step out into the night. Are you kidding
me? Batt thought.
Feir ran his hand through his damp hair. And that’s when Batt remembered why the
name In-Tune was so familiar. All CI directors were required to post their whereabouts
after hours so if they were needed the duty officer could calculate how long it would take
them to get back to headquarters.
Watching Feir walk over and get into his car, Batt bit his lip. Of course it might be
sheer coincidence that General Kendall used the same health club as Feir, but Batt knew
that in his trade there was no such thing as coincidence.
His suspicion was borne out when Feir did not fire up his car, but sat silent and still
behind the wheel. He was waiting for something, but what? Maybe, Batt thought, it was
someone.
Ten minutes later, General Kendall emerged from the club. He looked neither to the
right nor the left, but went immediately to his car, started it up, and began to back out of his space. Before he’d exited the lot, Feir started his car. Kendall turned right out of the lot and Feir followed.
Excitement flared in Batt’s chest. Game on! he thought.
After the first two shots struck Jens, Bourne turned back toward him, but the third shot
fired into Jens’s head made him change his mind. He ran down the street, knowing the
other man was dead, there was nothing he could do for him. He had to assume that
Arkadin had followed Jens to the museum and had been lying in wait.
Turning the same corner as the museum guard, Bourne saw that she had hesitated, half
turned to the sound of the shots. Then, seeing Bourne coming after her, she took off. She
darted into an alley. Bourne, following, saw her vault up a corrugated steel fence, beyond
which was a cleared building site bristling with heavy machinery. She grabbed hold of
the top of the fence, levered herself up and over.
Bourne scaled the fence after her, jumping down onto the packed earth and concrete
rubble on the other side. He saw her duck behind the mud-spattered flank of a bulldozer,
and ran toward her. She swung up into the cab, slid behind the wheel, and fumbled with
the ignition.
Bourne was quite close when the engine rumbled to life. Throwing the bulldozer into
reverse, she backed up directly at him. She’d chosen a clumsy vehicle, and he leapt to
one side, reached for a handhold, and swung up. The bulldozer lurched, the gears
grinding as she struggled to shove it into first, but Bourne was already inside the cab.
She tried to draw her gun, but she was also trying to guide the bulldozer, and Bourne
easily slapped the weapon away. It fell to the foot well, where he kicked it away from
her. Then he reached over, turned off the engine. The moment he did that, the woman
covered her face with her hands and burst into tears.
This is your mess,” Deron said.
Soraya nodded. “I know it is.”
“You came to us-Kiki and me.”
“I take full responsibility.”
“I think in this case,” Deron said, “we have to share the responsibility. We could’ve
said no, but we didn’t. Now all of us-not just Tyrone and Jason-are in serious jeopardy.”
They were sitting in the den of Deron’s house, a cozy room with a wraparound sofa
that faced a stone fireplace and, above it, a large plasma TV. Drinks were set out on a low wooden table, but nobody had touched them. Deron and Soraya sat facing each other.
Kiki was curled up in the corner like a cat.
“Tyrone’s already totally fucked,” Soraya said. “I saw what they’re doing to him.”
“Hold on.” Deron sat forward. “There’s a difference between perception and reality.
Don’t let them skullfuck you. They’re not going to risk damaging Tyrone; he’s their only
leverage to coerce you to bring Jason to them.”
Soraya, once again finding fear scattering her thoughts, reached over and poured
herself a scotch. Rolling it around in the glass, she inhaled its complex aroma, which
called to mind heather and butterscotch. She recalled Jason telling her how sights, scents, idioms, or tones of voice could trigger his hidden memories.
She took a sip of the scotch, felt it ignite a stream of fire down to her stomach. She
wanted to be anywhere but here now; she wanted another life; but this was the life she’d
chosen, these were the decisions she’d made. There was no help for it-she could not
abandon her friends; she had to keep them safe. How to do that was the vexing question.
Deron was right about LaValle and Kendall. Taking her back down to the interrogation
room was a psychological ploy. What they’d showed her was minimal, now that she
thought about it. They were counting on her to imagine the worst, to let those thoughts
prey on her until she gave in, called Jason so they could take him into custody and, like a show dog, present him to the president as proof that, having accomplished what
numerous CI initiatives could not, LaValle deserved to take over and run CI.