Robert Ludlum - The Bourne Sanction

Moira looked at him rather sadly. “Did you suspect me of being a Mata Hari?”

“It was important to make sure,” he said.

Her face closed up. “Sure. I understand.” She began to stuff papers into a slim leather briefcase more roughly than was needed. “You thought I’d betrayed Martin and was going to betray you.”

“I’m relieved it’s not true.”

“I’m so very happy to hear that.” She shot him an acid stare.

“Moira…”

“What?” She pulled hair off her face. “What is it you want to say to me, Jason?”

“I… This is hard for me.”

She leaned forward, peering at him. “Just tell me.”

“I trusted Marie,” Bourne said. “I leaned on her, she helped me with my amnesia. She was always there. And then, suddenly, she wasn’t.”

Moira’s voice softened. “I know.”

He looked at her at last. “There is no good thing about being alone. But for me it’s all a matter of trust.”

“I know you think I haven’t told you the truth about Martin and me.” She took his hands in hers. “We were never lovers, Jason. We were more like brother and sister. We supported each other. Trust didn’t come easily to either of us. I think it’s important for both of us that I tell you that now.”

Bourne understood that she was also talking about the two of them, not her and Martin. He’d trusted so few people in his life: Marie, Alex Conklin, Mo Panov, Martin, Soraya. He saw all the things that had been keeping him from moving on with his life. With so little past, it was difficult letting go of the people he’d known and cared about.

A pang of sorrow shot through him. “Marie is dead. She’s in the past now. And my children are far better off with their grandparents. Their life is stable and happy. That’s best for them.”

He rose, needing to get moving.

Moira, aware he was ill at ease, changed the subject. “Do you know how long you’ll be in Moscow?”

“The same amount of time you’ll be in Munich, I imagine.”

That got a smile out of her. She stood, leaned toward him. “Be well, Jason. Stay safe.” She gave him a lingering, loving kiss. “Remember me.”

SORAYA MOORE was ushered cordially into the hushed sanctuary of the Library where less than twenty-four hours before, Luther LaValle and General Kendall had had their post-rendition fireside chat. It was Kendall himself who had picked her up, chauffeured her to the NSA safe house deep in the Virginia countryside. Soraya had, of course, never been here.

LaValle, in a midnight-blue chalk-striped suit, blue shirt with white collar and cuffs, a striped tie in the Yale colors, looked like a merchant banker. He rose as Kendall brought her over to the area by the window. There were three chairs grouped around the antique card table.

“Director Moore, having heard so much about you, it’s a genuine pleasure to meet you.” Smiling broadly, LaValle indicated a chair. “Please.”

Soraya saw no point in refusing the invitation. She didn’t know whether she was more curious or alarmed by the abrupt summons. She did, however, glance around the room. “Where is Secretary Halliday? General Kendall informed me that the invitation came from him.”

“Oh, it did,” LaValle said. “Unfortunately, the secretary of defense was called into a meeting in the Oval Office. He phoned me to convey to you his apologies and to insist that we carry on without him.”

All of which meant, Soraya knew, that Halliday had never had any intention of attending this little tкte-а-tкte. She doubted he even knew about it.

“Anyway,” LaValle said as Kendall sat in the third chair, “now that you’re here you might as well enjoy yourself.” He raised his hand, and Willard appeared as if by prestidigitation. “Something to drink, Director? I know as Muslim you’re forbidden alcohol, but we have a full range of potions for you to choose from.”

“Tea, please,” she said directly to Willard. “Ceylon, if you have it.”

“Of course, ma’am. Milk? Sugar?”

“Neither, thank you.” She’d never formed the British habit.

Willard seemed to bow before he vanished without a sound.

Soraya redirected her attention to the two men. “Now, gentlemen, in what way can I help you?”

“I rather think it’s the other way around,” General Kendall said.

Soraya cocked her head. “How d’you figure that?”

“Frankly, because of the turmoil at CI,” LaValle said, “we think Typhon is working with one hand tied behind its back.”

Willard arrived with Soraya’s tea, the men’s whiskeys. He set the japanned tray down with the cup, glasses, and tea service, then left.

LaValle waited until Soraya had poured her tea before he continued. “It seems to me that Typhon would benefit immensely from taking advantage of all the resources at NSA’s disposal. We could even help you expand beyond the scope of CI’s reach.”

Soraya lifted her cup to her lips, found the fragrant Ceylon tea exquisitely delicious. “It seems that you know more about Typhon than any of us at CI were aware.”

LaValle let go with a soft laugh. “Okay, let’s stop beating around the bush. We had a mole inside CI. You know who it is now. He made a fatal mistake in going after Jason Bourne and failing.”

Veronica Hart had relieved Rob Batt of his position that morning, a fact that must have come to LaValle’s attention, especially since his replacement, Peter Marks, had been one of Hart’s most vocal supporters from day one. Soraya knew Peter well, had suggested to Hart that he deserved the promotion.

“Is Batt now working for NSA?”

“Mr. Batt has outlived his usefulness,” Kendall said rather stiffly.

Soraya turned her attention to the military man. “A glimpse of your own fate, don’t you think, General?”

Kendall’s face closed up like a fist, but following an almost imperceptible shake of LaValle’s head he bit back a rejoinder.

“While it’s certainly true that life in the intelligence services can be harsh, even brutal,” LaValle interjected, “certain individuals within it are-shall we say-inoculated against such unfortunate eventualities.”

Soraya kept her gaze on Kendall. “I suppose I could be one of those certain individuals.”

“Yes, absolutely.” LaValle put one hand over the other on his knee. “Your knowledge of Muslim thought and custom, your expertise as Martin Lindros’s right hand as he put Typhon together are invaluable.”

“You see how it is, General,” Soraya said. “One day an invaluable asset like me is bound to take over your position.”

LaValle cleared his throat. “Does that mean you’re on board?”

Smiling sweetly, Soraya put her teacup down. “I’ll say this for you, Mr. LaValle, you certainly know how to make lemonade from lemons.”

LaValle returned her smile as if it were a tennis serve. “My dear Director, I do believe you’ve hit upon one of my specialities.”

“What makes you think I’d abandon CI?”

LaValle put a forefinger beside his nose. “My reading of you is that you’re a pragmatic woman. You know better than we do what kind of a mess CI is in. How long do you think it’s going to take the new DCI to right the ship? What makes you think she even can?” He raised his finger. “I’m exceedingly interested in your opinion, but before you answer think about how little time we might have before this unknown terrorist group is going to strike.”

Soraya felt as if she’d been rabbit-punched. How in the hell had NSA gotten wind of the Typhon terrorist intercepts? At the moment, however, that was a moot point. The important thing was how to respond to this breach of security.