Robert Ludlum: Bourne 7 – The Bourne Deception

Hart could see the color rising up Halliday‘s throat into his cheeks, and she leaned forward, further inflaming an intemperate outburst from him. Unluckily for her, the meeting was interrupted by the burr of the blue telephone at the president‘s right elbow. The entire room fell into a tense silence so absolute that the discreet sound had the resonance of a pneumatic jackhammer. The blue telephone brought bad news, they all knew that.

With a grim expression, the president pressed the receiver to his ear, listened to the voice of General Leland over at the Pentagon who briefed him, even while he told his commander in chief that a more detailed document would be on its way to the White House by special courier within the hour.

The president took all this in with his usual equanimity. He was not a man to panic or to take precipitous action. As he cradled the receiver, he said, — There has been an air disaster. American Flight Eight-Nine-One, outward bound from Cairo, was taken out of the sky by an explosion.

— A bomb? Jaime Hernandez, the new intelligence czar, said. He was slim and handsome, with calculating eyes as dark as his thick hair. He looked like the kind of individual who counted the wontons in his soup to make sure he wasn‘t being shortchanged.

— Are there any survivors? Hart asked.

— We don‘t know the answer to either question, the president said. -What we do know is that there were one hundred eighty-one souls on that flight.

— Good God. Hart shook her head.

There was a moment of stunned silence while they all contemplated both the enormity of the calamity and the terrible repercussions that might very well ensue. No matter what the cause, a great many American civilians were dead, and if the worst-case scenario were to come true, if those American civilians proved to be the victims of a terrorist attack…

— Sir, I think we should send a joint NSA-DHS forensics team to the crash site, Halliday said in a bid to take charge.

— Let‘s not get ahead of ourselves, Hart countered. Halliday‘s words had energized them out of their initial shock. -This isn‘t Iraq. We‘ll need the permission of the Egyptian government to send our troops in.

— Those are American citizens-our people blown out of the sky, Halliday said. -Fuck the Egyptians. What‘ve they done for us lately?

Before the argument could escalate, the president held up his hand.

— First things first. Veronica is right. He stood up. -We‘ll reconvene this discussion in an hour after I‘ve spoken to the Egyptian president.

Precisely sixty minutes later, the president reentered the room, nodded to those present, and sat down before addressing them. -All right, it‘s settled. Hernandez, Mueller, assemble a joint task force of your best people and get them on a plane to Cairo ASAP. First: survivors; second: identify casualties; third: for the love of God ascertain the cause of the explosion.

— Sir, if I may, Hart interjected, — I suggest adding Soraya Moore, the director of Typhon, to the team. She‘s half Egyptian. Her intimate knowledge of Arabic and the local customs will prove invaluable particularly in liaising with the Egyptian authorities.

Halliday shook his head, said emphatically, — This matter is already complicated enough without a third agency becoming involved. The NSA and the DHS have all the tools at their disposal to handle the situation.

— I doubt that-

— I needn‘t remind you, Director Hart, that the press will be all over this incident like flies on shit, Halliday overran her. -We‘ve got to get our people over there, make our findings and take appropriate measures as quickly as possible, otherwise we risk turning this into a worldwide media circus. He turned to the president. -Which is something the administration doesn‘t need right now. The last thing you want, sir, is to look weak and ineffectual.

— The real problem, the president said, — is that the Egyptian national secret police-what are they called?

— Al Mokhabarat, Hart said, feeling like she was a contestant on Jeopardy!

— Yes, thank you, Veronica. The president made a note on his scratch pad. He‘d never forget al Mokhabarat‘s name again. -The problem, he began again,

— is that a contingent of this al Mokhabarat will be accompanying the team.

The secretary of defense groaned. -Sir, if I may say so, the Egyptian secret police are corrupt, vicious, and notorious for their sadistic human rights violations. I submit that we cut them out of the equation entirely.

— Nothing would please me more, believe me, the president said with some distaste, — but I‘m afraid that‘s the quid pro quo the Egyptian president insisted on in exchange for letting us help in the investigation.

— Our help? What a joke! Halliday gave a humorless laugh. -The damn Egyptians couldn‘t find a mummy in a tomb.

— That‘s as may be, but they‘re our allies, the president said sternly.

— I expect everyone to keep that in mind in the difficult days and weeks ahead.

When he looked around the room the DCI seized her chance. -Sir, may I remind you that Egyptian is Director Moore‘s native language.

— Precisely why she should be stricken from the list, Halliday said at once. -She‘s a Muslim, for God‘s sake.

— Secretary, that‘s just the kind of ignorant remark we don‘t need right now. Beside, how many men on that team are fluent in Egyptian Arabic?

Halliday bristled. -The Egyptians speak damn fine English, thank you very much.

— Not among themselves. As the defense secretary had before her, Hart turned to address the president directly. -Sir, it‘s important-no, vital-that at this juncture the team has as much information about the Egyptians-

especially the members of al Mokhabarat, because Secretary Halliday is correct about them-as is possible. That knowledge may well prove critical.

The president pondered for no more than a moment. Then he nodded.

— Director, your proposal makes sense, let‘s run with it. Get Director Moore up to speed.

Hart smiled. Time to press her advantage. -She may have some people-

The president nodded at once. -Whatever she needs. This is no time for half measures.

Hart was looking at Halliday, who was directing a poisoned glare in her direction, to which she smiled sweetly as the meeting adjourned.

She exited the West Wing quickly to avoid another vitriolic confrontation with the defense secretary, and took the short ride back to CI headquarters, where she summoned Soraya Moore to her office.

Abdulla Khoury was on his way from the Starnberger See to the headquarters of the Eastern Brotherhood less than ten miles away. Behind him, the snowcapped Alps and the icy blue water of the lake-the fourth largest in Germany-

sparkled in the sun. Brightly colored sails rose above sleek boats, and yachts plied the lake. There was no room for such frivolous recreation as sailing in Khoury‘s life, even before he became head of the Eastern Brotherhood. His life had taken a serious turn when, at the age of seven, he had discovered his calling as Allah‘s earthly messenger. It was a calling he had kept to himself for a long time, intuiting that no one would believe him, least of all his father, who treated his children even worse than he did his wife.

Khoury was born with the patience of a tortoise. Even when he was a child he had no difficulty waiting for the opportune moment to take advantage of a situation. Not surprisingly, his preternatural serenity was misinterpreted as a form of idiocy by his father, and all of his instructors save one, who saw in the boy the holy spark Allah had placed there at the moment of his conception. From that moment on, Khoury‘s life changed. He began to frequent this instructor‘s house after hours for advanced lessons. The man lived alone and welcomed Khoury as his acolyte and protégé.