Robert Ludlum - The Bourne Sanction

When it came to German cities, she much preferred Berlin to Munich. For one thing, Berlin had for many years been on the cutting edge of popular music. Berlin was where such notable pop icons as David Bowie, Brian Eno, and Lou Reed, among many others, had come to recharge their creative batteries by listening to what musicians far younger than they were creating. For another, it hadn’t lost its legacy of the war and its aftermath. Berlin was like a living museum that was reinventing itself with every breath it took.

There was, however, a strictly personal reason why she preferred Berlin. She came for much the same reason Bowie did, to get away from stale habits, to breathe the fresh air of a city unlike those she knew. At an early age Moira became bored with the familiar. Every time she felt compelled to join a group because that was what her friends were doing she sensed she was losing a piece of herself. Gradually, she realized that her friends had ceased to become individuals, devolving into a cliquey “they” she found repellent. The only way to escape was to flee beyond the borders of the United States.

She could have chosen London or Barcelona, as some other college sophomores did, but she was a freak for Bowie and the Velvet Underground, so Berlin it was.

The botanical garden was built in the mid-1800s as an exhibition hall, but eighty years later, after its garden was destroyed by a fire, it gained new life as a public park. Outside, the awful bulk of the prewar Fountain of Neptune cast a shadow across the space through which she strolled.

The array of gorgeous specimens on display inside this glassed-in space only underscored the fact that Munich itself was without verve or spark. It was a plodding city of untermenchen , businessmen as gray as the city, and factories belching smoke into the low, angry sky. It was also a focal point of European Muslim activity, which, in one of those classic action-reaction scenarios, made it a hotbed of skinhead neo-Nazis.

Moira glanced at her watch. It was precisely 9:30 AM, and here came Noah, striding toward her. He was cool and efficient, personally opaque, even withholding, but he wasn’t a bad sort. She’d have refused him as a handler if he was; she was senior enough to command that respect. And Noah did respect her, she was certain of that.

In many ways Noah reminded her of Johann, the man who’d recruited her while she was at the university. Actually, Johann hadn’t contacted her at college; he was far too canny for that. He asked his girlfriend to make the approach, rightly figuring Moira would be more responsive to a fellow female student. Ultimately, Moira had met with Johann, was intrigued by what he had to offer her, and the rest was history. Well, not exactly. She’d never told anyone, including Martin or Bourne, who she really worked for. To do so would have violated her contract with the firm.

She stopped in front of the pinkly intimate blooms of an orchid, speckled like the bridge of a virgin’s nose. Berlin had also been the site of her first passionate love affair, the kind that curled your toes, obliterated your focus on responsibility and the future. The affair almost ruined her, principally because it possessed her like a whirlwind and, in the process, she’d lost any sense of herself. She became a sexual instrument on which her lover played. What he wanted, she wanted, and so dissolution.

In the end, it was Johann who had saved her, but the process of separating pleasure from self was immensely painful. Especially because two months afterward her lover died. For a time, her rage at Johann was boundless; curdling their friendship, jeopardizing the trust they’d placed in each other. It was a lesson she never forgot. It was one reason she hadn’t allowed herself to fall for Martin, though part of her yearned for his touch. Jason Bourne was another story entirely, for she had once again been overtaken by the whirlwind. But this time, she wasn’t diminished. Partly, that was because she was mature now and knew better. Mainly, though, it was because Bourne asked nothing of her. He sought neither to lead nor to dominate her. Everything with him was clean and open. She moved on to another orchid, this one dark as night, with a tiny lantern of yellow hidden in its center. It was ironic, she thought, that despite his own issues, she had never before met a man so in control of himself. She found his self-assurance a compelling aphrodisiac, as well as a powerful antidote to her own innate melancholy.

That was another irony, she thought. If asked, Bourne would surely say that he was a pessimist, but being one herself, she knew an optimist when she met one. Bourne would take on the most impossible situations and somehow find a solution. Only the greatest of optimists could accomplish that.

Hearing soft footfalls, she turned to see Noah, shoulders hunched within a tweed overcoat. Though born in Israel, he could pass for a German now, perhaps because he’d lived in Berlin for so long. He’d been Johann’s protйgй; the two had been very close. When Johann was killed, it was Noah who took his place.

“Hello, Moira.” He had a narrow face below dark hair flecked with premature gray. His long nose and serious mouth belied a keen sense of the absurd. “No Bourne, I see.”

“I did my best to get him on board at NextGen.”

Noah smiled. “I’m sure you did.”

He gestured and they began to walk together. Few people were around this gloomy morning so there was no chance of being overheard.

“But to be honest, from what you told me, it was a long shot.”

“I’m not disappointed,” Moira said. “I detested the entire experience.”

“That’s because you have feelings for him.”

“What if I do?” Moira said rather more defensively than she expected.

“You tell me.” Noah watched her carefully. “There is a consensus among the partners that your emotions are interfering with your work.”

“Where the hell is that coming from?” she said.

“I want you to know that I’m on your side.” His voice was that of a psychoanalyst calming an increasingly agitated patient. “The problem is you should have come here days ago.” They passed a worker tending a swath of African violets. When they were out of her earshot, he continued. “Then you go and bring Bourne with you.”

“I told you. I was still trying to recruit him.”

“Don’t lie to a liar, Moira.” He crossed his arms over his chest. When he spoke again, every word had weight. “There is a grave concern that your priorities aren’t straight. You have a job to do, and a vitally important one. The firm can’t afford to have your attention wandering.”

“Are you saying you want to replace me?”

“It’s an option that was discussed,” he acknowledged.

“Bullshit. At this late stage there’s no one who knows the project as well as I do.”

“But then another option was requested: withdrawal from the project.”

Moira was truly shocked. “You wouldn’t.”

Noah kept his gaze on her. “The partners have determined that in this instance it would be preferable to withdraw than to fail.”

Moira felt her blood rising. “You can’t withdraw, Noah. I’m not going to fail.”

“I’m afraid that’s no longer an option,” he said, “because the decision’s been made. As of oh seven hundred this morning we’ve officially notified NextGen that we’ve withdrawn from the project.”

He handed her a packet. “Here is your new assignment. You’re required to leave for Damascus this afternoon.”

Arkadin and Devra reached the Bosporus Bridge and crossed over into Istanbul just as the sun was rising. Since coming down from the cruel, snow-swept mountains along Turkey’s spine they had shed layers of clothes, and now the morning was exceptionally clear and mild. Pleasure yachts and huge tankers alike plowed the Bosporus on their way to various destinations. It felt good to roll down the windows. The air, fresh, moist, tangy with salt and minerals, was a distinct relief after the dry hard winter of the hinterlands.