Eric van Lustbader: The Bourne Objective

“Jason! Jason!” She ran up to him. “Are you all right?”

He nodded but, examining him, she was already shrugging off her coat. Ripping off a sleeve of her shirt, she bound his bleeding hands.

“Badis?”

“I let him go when the house blew.” She looked up at him. “The father?”

Bourne shook his head.

“And Arkadin? I made a circuit of the building and didn’t see him.”

Bourne looked back at the fierce blaze. “He refused to leave the notebook and the ring.”

Soraya finished bandaging his hands, then they both watched what was left of the house being consumed by the fire. The street was deserted. There must have been hundreds of eyes watching the scene, but none of them was visible. No Severus Domna soldier appeared. Bourne saw why. Tanirt was standing at the other end of the street, a Mona Lisa smile on her lips.

Soraya nodded. “I guess Arkadin finally got what he wanted.”

Bourne thought that must, after all, be true.

DIDN’T I TELL YOU,” Peter Marks said crossly, “that I didn’t want to see anyone.”

It was a rebuke, not a question. Nevertheless, Elisa, the nurse who had been looking after him ever since he’d admitted himself to Walter Reed Army Medical Center, appeared unfazed. Marks lay in bed, his wounded leg bandaged and hurting like poison. He had refused all painkillers, which was his prerogative, but much to his annoyance his stoicism hadn’t endeared him to Elisa. This was a pity, Marks thought, because she was a looker as well as being whip-smart.

“I think you might want to make an exception for this one.”

“Unless it’s Shakira or Keira Knightley I’m not interested.”

“Just because you’re privileged enough to wind up here doesn’t give you the right to act like a petulant child.”

Marks cocked his head. “Yeah, why don’t you come over here and see what it’s like from my point of view?”

“Only if you promise not to molest me,” she said with a sly smile.

Marks laughed. “Okay, so who is it?” She had a gift of excavating him out of even his darkest mood.

She came over and plumped up his pillow before elevating the top half of the bed. “I want you to sit up for me.”

“Shall I beg, too?”

“Now, that would be nice.” Her smile deepened. “Just make sure you don’t drool on me.”

“I have so few pleasures here, don’t take that away from me.” He grimaced as he pushed himself farther up the bed. “Christ, my ass is sore.”

She made a show of biting her lip. “You make it so easy for me I can’t bring myself to humiliate you even more.” She came over and, taking a brush from a side table, neatened his hair.

“Who is it, for Christ’s sake?” Marks said. “The fucking president?”

“Close.” Elisa went to the door. “It’s the defense secretary.”

Good God, Marks thought. What can Bud Halliday want with me?

But it was Chris Hendricks who walked through the door. Marks fairly goggled. “Where’s Halliday?”

“Good morning to you, too, Mr. Marks.” Hendricks shook his hand, pulled over a chair, and without taking off his overcoat sat down beside the bed.

“Sorry, sir, good morning,” Marks stammered. “I don’t… Congratulations are in order.”

“That’s the spirit.” Hendricks smiled. “So, how are you feeling?”

“I’ll be up and about in no time,” Marks said. “I’m getting the best of care.”

“I have no doubt.” Hendricks placed one hand over the other in his lap. “Mr. Marks, time is short so I’ll cut right to the point. While you were overseas Bud Halliday tendered his resignation. Oliver Liss is incarcerated and, frankly, I don’t see him getting out anytime soon. Your immediate boss, Frederick Willard, is dead.”

“Dead? My God, how?”

“A topic for another day. Suffice it to say that with all this sudden upheaval, a power vacuum has formed at the top of the pyramid, or one of them, anyway.” Hendricks cleared his throat. “Like nature, the clandestine services abhor a vacuum. I have been following the systematic dismantling of CI, your old bailiwick, with something of a jaundiced eye. I like what your colleague did with Typhon. In this day and age, a black-ops organization manned by Muslims focused on the extremist Muslim world seems a rather elegant solution to our most pressing ongoing problem.

“Unfortunately, Typhon belongs to CI. God alone knows how long it will take to right that ship and I don’t want to waste time.” He hunched forward. “Therefore, I’d like you to head up a revitalized Treadstone, which will take up Typhon’s mission. You will report directly to me and to the president.”

Marks frowned deeply.

“Is something the matter, Mr. Marks?”

“Everything’s the matter. First off, how on earth did you hear about Treadstone? And second, if you’re as enamored of Typhon as you claim, why haven’t you contacted Soraya Moore, Typhon’s former director?”

“Who said I haven’t?”

“Did she turn you down?”

“The relevant question,” Hendricks said, “is whether you’re interested.”

“Of course I’m interested, but I want to know about Soraya.”

“Mr. Marks, I trust you’re as impatient to get out of here as you are with your questions.” Hendricks rose, crossed to the door, and opened it. He nodded, and in walked Soraya.

“Mr. Marks,” Secretary Hendricks said, “it’s my pleasure to introduce you to your co-director.” As Soraya approached the bed, he added, “I’m quite certain the two of you have many matters, organizational and otherwise, to discuss, so if you’ll excuse me.”

Neither Marks nor Soraya paid him the least bit of attention as he stepped out of the room, closing the door softly behind him.

Well, look who the wind blew in!” Deron stepped out of his doorway as Bourne came in. As soon as Bourne was inside, Deron gave him a huge hug. “Dammit, man, you’re worse than a will-o’-the-wisp, first I see you, then I don’t.”

“That’s the idea, isn’t it?”

Then he glanced down at Bourne’s bandaged hands. “What the fuck?”

“I had a run-in with something that tried to eat me.”

Deron laughed. “Well, you must be okay then. Come on in.” He led Bourne into his house in Northeast Washington. He was a tall, slim, handsome man with skin the color of light cocoa. He had a clipped British accent. “How about a drink or, better yet, something to eat?”

“Sorry, old friend, no time. I’m flying out to London tonight.”

“Well, then, I’ve got just the passport for you.”

Bourne laughed. “Not this time. I’m here to pick up the package.”

Deron turned and looked at him. “Ah, after all this time.”

Bourne smiled. “I’ve finally found the proper home for it.”

“Excellent. The homeless make me sad.” Deron took Bourne through the rambling house and into his enormous studio, fumey with oil paint and turpentine. There was a canvas on a wooden easel. “Take a look at my newest child,” he said before disappearing into another room.

Bourne came around and took a look at the painting. It was almost finished-enough, anyway, to take his breath away. A woman in white, carrying a parasol against a burning sun, walked in high grass, while a young boy, possibly her son, looked on longingly. The depiction of the light was simply extraordinary. Bourne stepped in, peering closely at the brushstrokes, which matched perfectly those of Claude Monet, who had painted the original La Promenade in 1875.

“What do you think?”

Bourne turned. Deron had returned with a hard-sided attaché case. “Magnificent. Even better than the original.”