Robert Ludlum - The Bourne Sanction

“I’m not worried,” Arkadin said. “What makes you think I’m worried?”

She bit into the chocolate ice cream he’d bought her. “You’ve got that deep vertical indentation between your eyes.”

She wanted ice cream even though it was the middle of winter. Maybe it was the chocolate she wanted, he thought. Not that it mattered; pleasing her in little ways was strangely satisfying-as if in pleasing her he was also pleasing himself, although that seemed like an impossibility to him.

“I’m not worried,” he said. “I’m thoroughly pissed off.”

“Because your boss told you to stay away from Bourne.”

“I’m not going to stay away from Bourne.”

“You’ll piss off your boss.”

“There comes a time,” Arkadin said, walking faster.

They were in the center of Munich; he wanted to be in a central location when Icoupov told him where he was meeting Bourne in order to get there as quickly as possible.

“I’m not afraid to die,” Devra repeated, “the only thing is, though, what do you do when you no longer have memories?”

Arkadin shot her a look. “What?”

“When you look at a dead person what do you see?” She took another bite of ice cream between her teeth, leaving little indentations in what was left of the scoop. “Nothing, right? Not a damn thing. Life has flown the coop, and with it all the memories that have been built up over the years.” She looked at him. “At that moment, you cease to be human, so what are you?”

“Who gives a shit?” Arkadin said. “It’ll be a fucking relief to be without memories.”

Soraya presented herself at the NSA safe house just before 10 AM, so that by the time she cleared the various levels of security, she was being ushered into the Library precisely on time.

“Breakfast, madam?” Willard asked as he escorted her across the plush carpet.

“I believe I will, today,” she said. “A fines herbes omelet would be nice. Do you have a baguette?”

“We do, indeed, madam.”

“Fine.” She shifted the evidence damning General Kendall from one hand to the other. “And a pot of Ceylon tea, Willard. Thank you.”

She walked the rest of the way to where Luther LaValle sat, drinking his morning cup of coffee. He stared out the window, casting a jaundiced eye on the early spring. It was so warm the fireplace held only cold, white ash.

He did not turn when she sat down. She placed the evidence file on her lap, then said without preamble, “I’ve come to take Tyrone home.”

LaValle ignored her. “There’s nothing on your Black Legion; there’s no unusual terrorist activities inside the US. We’ve come up blank.”

“Did you hear what I said? I’ve come for Tyrone.”

“That’s not going to happen,” LaValle said.

Soraya brought out Kendall’s cell phone, played back the conversation he’d had with Rodney Feir in the champagne room of The Glass Slipper.

“Every last detail on the Typhon agents across the globe,” came Feir’s voice. “Now let’s talk about what I get in return.”

General Kendall: “What do you want? A higher grade? More control?”

Feir: “I want respect. I want LaValle to respect me the way you do.”

“Who cares?” LaValle’s head swung around. His eyes were dark and glassy. “That’s Feir’s problem, not mine.”

“Maybe so.” Soraya slid the file across the table toward him. “However, this is very much your problem.”

LaValle stared at her for a moment. His eyes were now full of venom. Without lowering his gaze, he reached out, flipped open the file. There he saw photo after photo of General Kendall, naked as sin, caught in the midst of having intercourse with a young black woman.

“How is that going to look for the career officer and devout Christian family man when the story comes out?”

Willard arrived with her breakfast, snapping down a starched white tablecloth, setting the china and silverware in a precise pattern in front of her. When he was finished, he turned to LaValle. “Anything for you, sir?”

LaValle shooed him away with a curt flick of his hand. For a time, he did nothing more than leaf through the photos again. Then he took out a cell phone, placed it on the table, and pushed it toward her.

“Call Bourne,” he said.

Soraya froze with a forkful of omelet halfway to her mouth. “I beg your pardon?”

“I know he’s in Munich, our substation there picked him up on their CCTV monitoring of the airport. I have men in place to take him into custody. All that’s needed now is for you to set the trap.”

She laughed as she set down her fork. “You’re dreaming, LaValle. I have you, not the other way around. If these photos become public, your right-hand man will be ruined both professionally and personally. You and I both know you’re not going to allow that to happen.”

LaValle gathered up the photos, slid them back into the envelope. Then he took out a pen, wrote a name and address on the front of the envelope. When Willard glided over at his beckoning, LaValle said, “Please have these scanned and sent electronically to The Drudge Report . Then have a courier deliver them to The Washington Post as soon as possible.”

“Very good, sir.” Willard tucked the envelope under his arm, vanished into another part of the Library.

Then LaValle took out his cell phone, dialed a local number. “Gus, this is Luther LaValle. Fine, fine. How’s Ginnie? Good, give her my love. The kids, as well… Listen, Gus, I have a situation here. Evidence has come to light regarding General Kendall, that’s right, he’s been the target of an internal investigation for some months now. Effective immediately, he’s been terminated from my command, from the NSA in toto. Well, you’ll see, I’m having the photos messengered over to you even as we speak. Of course it’s an exclusive, Gus. Frankly, I’m shocked, truly shocked. You will be, too, when you see these photos… I’ll have an official statement over to you within forty minutes. Yes, of course. No need to thank me, Gus, I always think of you first.”

Soraya watched this performance with a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach that grew from an icy ball into an iceberg of disbelief.

“How could you?” she said when LaValle finished his call. “Kendall’s your second in command, your friend. You and he go to church together with your families every Sunday.”

“I have no permanent friends or allies; I only have permanent interests,” LaValle said flatly. “You’ll be a damn sight better director when you learn that.”

She then drew out another set of photos, this one showing Feir handing a packet to General Kendall. “That packet,” she said, “details the number and locations of Typhon field personnel.”

LaValle’s disdainful expression didn’t change. “What’s that to me?”

For the second time, Soraya struggled to hide her astonishment. “That’s your second in command taking possession of classified CI intel.”

“On that score you should see to your own people.”

“Are you denying that you gave General Kendall orders to cultivate Rodney Feir as a mole?”

“Yes, I am.”

Soraya was almost breathless. “I don’t believe you.”

LaValle produced an icy smile. “I doesn’t matter what you believe, Director. Only the facts matter.” He flicked the photo away with his fingernail. “Whatever General Kendall did, he did on his own. I have no knowledge of it.”

Soraya was wondering how everything could have gone so wrong, when, once again, LaValle pushed the phone across the table.

“Now call Bourne.”

She felt as if there were a steel band around her chest; the blood was singing in her ears. Now what? she said to herself. Dear God, what can I do?