Robert Ludlum - The Bourne Sanction

She heard someone with her voice say, “What should I tell him?”

LaValle produced a slip of paper with a time and an address on it. “He needs to go here, at this time. Tell him that you’re in Munich, that you have information vital to the Black Legion’s attack, that he has to see it for himself.”

Soraya’s hand was so slick with sweat, she wiped it on her napkin. “He’ll be suspicious if I don’t call him on my own phone. In fact, he might not answer if I don’t, because he won’t know it’s me.”

LaValle nodded, but when she produced her phone, he said, “I’m going to listen to every word you say. If you try to warn him I promise your friend Tyrone will never leave this building alive. Clear?”

She nodded, but did nothing.

Observing her like a frog split open on a dissecting table, LaValle said, “I know you don’t want to do this, Director. I know how badly you don’t want to do this. But you will call Bourne and you will set the trap for me, because I’m stronger than you are. By that I mean my will. I get what I want, Director, at any cost, but not you-you care too much to have a long career in intelligence work. You’re doomed and you know it.”

Soraya had stopped listening to him after the first few words. Acutely aware that she had vowed to take control of the situation, to somehow turn disaster into victory, she was furiously marshaling her forces. One step at a time, she told herself now. I have to clear my mind of Tyrone, of the failed ploy with Kendall, of my own guilt. I have to think of this call now; how am I going to make the call and keep Jason from being captured?

It seemed an impossible task, but that kind of thinking was defeatist, totally unhelpful. Still-what was she to do?

“After your call,” LaValle said, “you’ll stay here, under constant surveillance, until after Bourne is taken into custody.”

Uncomfortably aware of his avid eyes on her, she flipped open her phone, and called Jason.

When she heard his voice, she said, “Hi, it’s me, Soraya.”

Bourne was standing in Egon Kirsch’s apartment, staring down at the street when his cell phone rang. He saw Soraya’s number come up on the screen, answered the call, and heard her say, “Hi, it’s me, Soraya.”

“Where are you?”

“Actually, I’m in Munich.”

He perched on the arm of an upholstered chair. “Actually? In Munich?”

“That’s what I said.”

He frowned, hearing echoes in his head from far away. “I’m surprised.”

“Not as much as I am. You came up on the CI surveillance grid at the airport.”

“There was no help for it.”

“I’m sure not. Anyway, I’m not over here on official CI business. We’ve been continuing to monitor the Black Legion communications, and at last we got a breakthrough.”

He stood up. “What is it?”

“The phone’s too insecure,” she said. “We should meet.” She told him the place and the time.

Glancing at his watch, he said, “That’s a little over an hour from now.”

“Right as rain. I can make it. Can you?”

“I think I can manage,” he said. “See you.”

He disconnected, went over to the window, leaned on the sash, replaying the conversation word by word in his mind.

He felt the jolt of a dislocation, as if he had moved outside his body, experiencing something that had happened to someone else. His mind, recording a seismic shift in its neurons, was struggling with a memory. Bourne knew he’d had this conversation before, but for the life of him he couldn’t remember where or when, or what significance it might have for him now.

He would have continued on with his fruitless search had not the downstairs bell rang. Turning from the window, he went across the living room, pressed the button that released the outer door’s lock. The time had finally come when he and Arkadin would meet face-to-face-the assassin of legend, who specialized in killing killers, who had slipped in and out of a Russian high-security prison without anyone being the wiser, who had managed to eliminate Pyotr and his entire network.

There was a knock on the door. He kept away from the spy hole, kept away from the door itself, unlatching it from the side. There was no gunshot, no splintering of the wood and metal. Instead the door opened inward and a dapper man with dark skin and a spade-shaped beard stepped into the apartment.

Bourne said, “Turn around slowly.”

The man, hands where Bourne could see them, turned to face him. It was Semion Icoupov.

“Bourne,” he said.

Bourne produced his passport, opened it to the inside cover.

Icoupov nodded. “I see. Is this where you kill me at the behest of Dominic Specter?”

“You mean Asher Sever.”

“Oh, dear,” Icoupov said, “there goes my surprise.” He smiled. “I confess I’m shocked. Nevertheless, I congratulate you, Mr. Bourne. You’ve come by knowledge no one else has. By what means is a complete mystery.”

“Let’s keep it that way,” Bourne said.

“No matter. What’s important is that I don’t have to waste time trying to convince you that Sever has played you. Since you’ve already uncovered his lies, we can move on to the next stage.”

“What makes you think I’m going to listen to anything you have to say?”

“If you’ve discovered Sever’s lies, then you know the recent history of the Black Legion, you know we were once like brothers, you know how deep the enmity between us runs. We are enemies, Sever and I. There can be only one outcome to our war, you understand me?”

Bourne said nothing.

“I want to help you stop his people from attacking your country, is that clear enough?” He shrugged. “Yes, of course you’re right to be skeptical, I would be if I was in your place.” He moved his left hand very slowly to the edge of his overcoat, pulled it back to reveal the lining. There was something sticking out of the slit pocket. “Perhaps before anything untoward happens, you should take a look at what I have here.”

Bourne leaned in, took the SIG Sauer Icoupov had holstered at his belt. Then he pulled the packet free.

As he was opening it up, Icoupov said, “I went to a great deal of trouble to steal those from my nemesis.”

Bourne found himself looking over the architectural plans for the Empire State Building. When he glanced up, he found Icoupov watching him intently. “This is what the Black Legion means to attack. Do you know when?”

“Indeed, I do.” Icoupov glanced at his watch. “Precisely thirty-three hours, twenty-six minutes from now.”

VERONICA HART was looking at The Drudge Report when Stu Gold escorted General Kendall into her office. She was sitting in front of her desk, the monitor turned toward the door so Kendall could get a clear view of the photos of him and the woman from The Glass Slipper.

“That’s just one site,” she said, waving them to three chairs that had been arranged opposite her. “There are so many others.” When her guests were seated, she addressed Kendall. “Whatever is your family going to say, General? Your minister, and the congregation?” Her expression remained neutral; she was careful to keep the gloat out of her voice. “I understand that a goodly number of them aren’t fond of African Americans, even as maids and nannies. They prefer the Eastern Europeans-young blond Polish and Russian women. Isn’t that right?”

Kendall said nothing, sat with his back ramrod-straight, his hands clasped primly between his knees, as if he were at a court-martial.

Hart wished Soraya were here, but she hadn’t returned from the NSA safe house, which was worrying enough; she wasn’t answering her cell, either.