“Thank you, sir.”
The DCI frowned, his gaze sought out that of his deputy, held it captive. “Only one way to thank me, Martin, bring me the ammunition I need to put the bitch-woman in her place.”
The advantage of having a girl in every port, McColl knew, was that he always had a place to hole up. There was, of course, an Agency safe house in Budapest—in fact, there were several, but with his bleeding arm he had no intention of showing up in an official residence and thereby announcing to his superiors his failure to satisfy the sanction the DCI himself had given him. In his section of the Agency, results were the only thing that mattered.
Ilona was home when, wounded arm at his side, he stumbled up to her door. As always, she was ready for action. He, for once, wasn’t, he had business to attend to first. He sent her to make him something to eat—something proteinaceous, he told her, for he needed to regain his strength. Then he went into her bathroom, stripped to the waist, and washed off the blood from his right arm. Then he poured hydrogen peroxide over the wound. The searing pain shot up and down his arm and made his legs tremble so that he was obliged to sit for a moment on the closed toilet lid in order to collect himself. In a moment the pain had subsided to a deep throbbing and he was able to assess the damage done him. The good news was that the wound was clean; the bullet had gone cleanly through the muscle of his arm and exited. Leaning over so that he could rest his elbow on the edge of the sink, he poured more hydrogen peroxide on the wound, whistled softly through his bared teeth. Then he rose, rifled through the cabinets without finding any sterile cotton pads. He did find, under the sink, a roll of duct tape. Using a pair of cuticle scissors, he cut off a length, wrapped it tightly around the wound.
When he returned, Ilona had his meal prepared. He sat, wolfing down the food without tasting it. It was hot and nourishing, which was all he cared about. She stood behind him as he ate, massaging the bunched muscles of his shoulders.
“You’re so tense,” she said. She was small and slender with flashing eyes, a ready smile, and curves in all the right places. “What did you do after you left me at the baths? You were so relaxed then.”
“Work,” he said laconically. He knew by experience that it wasn’t politic to ignore her questions, though he had very little desire for small talk. He needed to gather his thoughts, plan for the second, and final, assault on Jason Bourne. “I’ve told you my work is stressful.”
Her talented fingers continued to kneed the tension out of him. “I wish you’d quit then.”
“I love what I do,” he said, pushing his empty plate away. “I’d never quit.”
“And still you’re sullen.” She came around, held out her hand. “Then come to bed now. Let me make it better.”
“You go,” he said. “Wait for me there. I’ve some business calls to make. When I’m finished, I’ll be all yours.”
Morning came in a bevy of shouts to the small, anonymous room in a cheap hotel. The sounds of Budapest stirring penetrated the thin walls as if they were gauze, goading Annaka from her fitful sleep. For a time she lay immobile in the grayish morning illumination, side by side with Bourne on the double bed. At length she turned her head, stared at him.
How her life had changed since she’d met him on the steps of Matthias Church! Her father was dead and now she couldn’t return to her own apartment because its location was known to both Khan and the CIA. In truth, there wasn’t much about her apartment she’d miss, except for her piano. The pang of yearning she felt for it was akin to what she’d read identical twins experienced when they were separated by a great distance.
And what of Bourne, what did she feel for him? It was difficult for her to tell, since from an early age a certain switch had been thrown inside her that had turned off the spigot of emotion. The mechanism, a form of self-preservation instinct, was a complete mystery, even to experts who purported to study such phenomena. It was buried so deeply inside her mind that she could never reach it—another aspect of its preservation of the self.
As in everything else, she’d lied to Khan when she’d told him that she couldn’t control herself around him. She’d walked out on him because Stepan had ordered her to leave. She hadn’t minded; in fact, she’d rather relished the look on Khan’s face when she’d told him it was over. She’d hurt him, which she liked. At the same time she saw that he’d cared for her, and she was curious about this, not understanding it herself. Of course, long ago and far away she’d cared about her mother, but of what use had that emotion been? Her mother had failed to protect her; worse, she’d died.
Slowly, carefully, she inched away from Bourne until finally she turned and rose. She was reaching for her coat when Bourne, rising from deep sleep to immediate wakefulness, spoke her name softly.
Annaka started, turned. “I thought you were fast asleep. Did I wake you?”
Bourne watched her, unblinking. “Where are you going?”
“I…we need new clothes.”
He struggled to sit up.
“How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine,” he said. He was in no mood for receiving sympathy. “Besides clothes, we both need disguises.”
“We?”
“McColl knew who you were, that means he’d been sent a photo of you.”
“But why?” She shook her head. “How did the CIA know you and I were together?”
“They didn’t—at least, they couldn’t be sure,” he said. “I’ve been thinking, and the only way they could’ve made you was through your computer’s IP address. I must’ve set off an internal alarm when I hacked into the government’s intranet.”
“God in heaven.” She slipped into her coat. “Still, it’s far safer for me out on the streets than it would be for you.”
“Do you know a shop that sells theatrical makeup?”
“There’s a district not far from here. Yes, I’m sure I can find a place.”
Bourne grabbed a pad and the stub of a pencil off the desk and made a hurried list. “This is what I’ll need for both of us,” he said. “I’ve also written down my shirt, neck and waist sizes. Do you have enough money? I have plenty but it’s in American dollars.”
She shook her head. “Too dangerous. I’d have to go to a bank and change it into Hungarian forint, and that might be noticed. There are ATM’s all over the city.”
“Be careful,” he warned.
“Don’t worry.” She glanced at the list he’d made. “I should be back in a couple of hours. Until then, don’t leave the room.”
She descended in the tiny creaking elevator. Save for the day clerk behind the desk, the commensurately tiny lobby was deserted. He lifted his head from his newspaper, glanced at her with bored eyes before returning to his reading. She went out into bustling Budapest. The presence of Kevin McColl, a complicating factor, made her uneasy, but Stepan reassured her when she telephoned him with the news. She’d been updating him when she’d telephoned him from her apartment every time she’d run the water in the kitchen.
As she entered the flow of pedestrian traffic, she glanced at her watch. It was just after ten. She had coffee and a sweet roll at a corner café, then proceeded on to an ATM about two-thirds of the way to the shopping district toward which she was headed. She slipped in her debit card, withdrew the maximum amount, put the wad of bills in her purse and, with Bourne’s list in hand, set out to shop.
Across town, Kevin McColl strode into the branch of the Budapest Bank that handled Annaka Vadas’ account. He flashed his credentials and, in due course, was admitted to the glass-enclosed office of the branch manager, a well-dressed man in a conservatively cut suit. They shook hands as they introduced themselves and the manager indicated that McColl sit in the upholstered chair facing him.
The manager steepled his fingers and said, “How can I be of assistance, Mr. McColl?”
“We’re looking for an international fugitive,” McColl began.
“Ah, and why isn’t Interpol involved?”
“
They are,” McColl said, “as well as the Quai d’Orsay in Paris, which was this fugitive’s last stop before coming here to Budapest.”
“And the name of this wanted man?”
McColl produced the CIA flyer, which he unfolded and set on the desk in front of the manager.
The bank manager adjusted his glasses as he scanned the flyer. “Ah, yes, Jason Bourne. I watch CNN.” He glanced up over the gold rim of his glasses. “You say he’s here in Budapest.”
“We’ve got a confirmed sighting.”
The bank manager set the flyer aside. “And how may I help?”
“He was in the company of one of your depositors. Annaka Vadas.”
“Really?” The bank manager frowned. “Her father was killed—shot dead two days ago. Do you think the fugitive murdered him?”
“It’s entirely possible.” McColl held tight rein on his impatience. “I would appreciate your help in finding out if Ms. Vadas has used an ATM anytime in the last twenty-four hours.”
“I understand.” The bank manager nodded sagely. “The fugitive needs money. He might force her to get it for him.”
“Precisely.” Anything, McColl thought, to get this guy to move off the dime.
The bank manager swiveled around, began to type on his computer keyboard. “Let’s see then. Ah, yes, here she is. Annaka Vadas.” He shook his head. “Such a tragedy. And now to be subjected to this.”
He was staring at his computer screen when a chirp sounded. “It seems you were right, Mr. McColl. Annaka Vadas’ PIN number was used at an ATM less than a half hour ago.”
“Address,” McColl said, leaning forward.
The manager wrote the address down on a sheet of notepaper, handed it to McColl, who was up and on his way with a “Thank you” thrown over his shoulder.
Bourne, down in the lobby of the hotel, asked the clerk for directions to the nearest public Internet access point. He walked the twelve blocks to AMI Internet Café at 40 Váci utca. Inside, it was smoky and crowded, people sitting at computer stations, smoking as they read e-mail, did research or simply surfed the Web. He ordered a double-espresso and a buttered roll from a spike-haired young woman, who handed him a time-stamped slip of paper with the number of his station on it and directed him to a free computer that was already logged onto the Internet.
He sat down and began his work. In the “Search” field, he typed in the name of Peter Sido, Dr. Schiffer’s former partner, but found nothing. That, in itself, was both odd and suspicious. If Sido was a scientist of any note at all—which Bourne had to assume he was if he’d worked with Felix Schiffer—then chances were he’d be somewhere on the Web. The fact that he wasn’t caused Bourne to consider the fact that his “absence” was deliberate. He’d have to try another path.
There was something about the name Sido that rang a bell in his linguist’s brain. Was it Russian in origin? Slavic? He searched these language sites but came up blank. On a hunch he switched to a site on the Magyar language, and there it was.
It turned out that Hungarian family names—what Hungarians called bynames—most always meant something. For instance, they could be patronymic, meaning they used the father’s name, or they could be locative, identifying where the person came from. Their family name could also tell you their profession—interestingly, he noted that Vadas meant hunter. Or what they were. Sido was the Hungarian word for Jew.
So Peter Sido was a Hungarian, just like Vadas. Conklin had chosen Vadas to work with. Coincidence? Bourne didn’t believe in coincidences. There was a connection; he could sense it. Which opened up the following line of thought: All the world-class hospitals and research facilities in Hungary were in Budapest. Could Sido be here?
Bourne’s hands flew over the keyboard, accessing the online Budapest phone directory. And there he found a Dr. Peter Sido. He noted the address and phone number, then logged off, paid for his time on-line and took his double espresso and roll to the café section, where he sat at a corner table away from other patrons. He chomped on his roll while he took out his cell phone and dialed Sido’s number. He sipped his double espresso. After several rings, a female voice answered.
“Hello,” Bourne said in a cheerful voice, “Mrs. Sido?”
“Yes?”
He hung up without responding, wolfed down the rest of his breakfast while waiting for the taxi he’d called for. One eye on the front door, he scrutinized everyone who walked in, on the lookout for McColl or any other Agency operative who might have been sent into the field. Certain that he was unobserved, he went out into the street to meet the taxi. He gave the driver Dr. Peter Sido’s address and not more than twenty minutes later, the taxi drew up in front of a small house with a stone facade, a tiny garden in front, and miniature iron balconies projecting from each story.
He climbed the steps and knocked. The front door was opened by a rather rotund woman of middle years with soft brown eyes and a ready smile. She had brown hair, pulled back in a bun, and was stylishly dressed.
“Mrs. Sido? Dr. Peter Sido’s wife?”
“That’s right.” She gazed at him inquiringly. “May I help you?”
“My name is David Schiffer.”
“Yes?”
He smiled winningly. “Felix Schiffer’s cousin, Mrs. Sido.”
“I’m sorry,” Peter Sido’s wife said, “but Felix never mentioned you.”
Bourne was prepared for this. He chuckled. “That’s not surprising. You see, we lost touch with each other. I’m only now just returned from Australia.”
“Australia! My word!” She stepped aside. “Well, do come in, please. You must think me rude.”
“Not at all,” Bourne said. “Simply surprised, as anyone would be.”
She showed him into a small sitting room, comfortably, if darkly, furnished and bade him make himself at home. The air smelled of yeast and sugar. When he was seated in an over-upholstered chair, she said, “Would you like coffee or tea? I have some stollen. I baked it this morning.”
“Stollen, a favorite of mine,” he said. “And only coffee will do with stollen. Thank you.”
She chuckled and headed for the kitchen. “Are you sure you’re not part Hungarian, Mr. Schiffer?”
“Please call me David,” he said, rising and following her. Not knowing the family background, he was on shaky ground when it came to the Schiffers. “Is there something I can help you with?”
“Why, thank you, David. And you must call me Eszti.” She pointed at a covered cake platter. “Why don’t you cut us each a piece?”
On the refrigerator door, he saw among several family snapshots, one of a young woman, very pretty, alone. Her hand was pressed to the top of her Scottish tam and her long dark hair was windblown. Behind her was the Tower of London.
“Your daughter?” Bourne said.
Eszti Sido glanced up and smiled. “Yes, Roza, my youngest. She’s at school in London. Cambridge,” she said with understandable pride. “My other daughters—there they are with their families—are both happily married, thank God. Roza’s the ambitious one.” She smiled shyly. “Shall I tell you a secret, David? I love all my children, but Roza is my favorite—Peter’s too. I think he sees something of himself in her. She loves the sciences.”
Several more minutes of bustling around the kitchen brought a carafe of coffee and plates of stollen on a tray, which Bourne carried back into the sitting room.
“So you’re Felix’s cousin,” she said when they were both settled, he on the chair, she on the sofa. Between them was a low table on which Bourne had placed the tray.
“Yes, and I’m eager for news of Felix,” Bourne said as she poured the coffee. “But, you see, I can’t find him, and I thought…well, I was hoping your husband could help me out.”
“I don’t think he knows where Felix is.” Eszti Sido handed him the coffee and a plate of stollen. “I don’t mean to alarm you, David, but he’s been quite upset lately. Though they hadn’t officially worked together for some time, they’d had a long
-distance correspondence going recently.” She stirred cream into her coffee. “They never stopped being good friends, you see.”
“So this recent correspondence was of a personal nature,” Bourne said.
“I don’t know about that.” Eszti frowned. “I gathered that it had something to do with their work.”
“You wouldn’t know what, would you, Eszti? I’ve come a long way to find my cousin, and, frankly, I’ve begun to worry a little. Anything you or your husband could tell me, anything at all would be of great help.”
“Of course, David, I understand completely.” She took a dainty bite of her stollen. “I imagine Peter would be quite happy to see you. At the moment, though, he’s at work.”
“D’you think I could have his phone number?”
“Oh, that won’t do you any good. Peter never answers his phone at work. You’ll have to go to the Eurocenter Bio-I Clinic at 75 Hattyu utca. When you do, you’ll first go through a metal detector, after which you’ll be stopped at the front desk. Because of the work they do there, they’re exceptionally security conscious. They require special ID tags to get into his section, white for visitors, green for resident doctors, blue for assistants and support staff.”
“Thank you for the information, Eszti. May I inquire as to what your husband specializes in?”
“You mean Felix never told you?”
Bourne, sipping his delicious coffee, swallowed. “As I’m sure you know, Felix is a secretive person, he never spoke to me about his work.”
“Quite so.” Eszti Sido laughed. “Peter’s just the same and, considering the frightening field he’s in, it’s just as well. I’m sure if I knew what he was into, I’d have nightmares. You see, he’s an epidemiologist.”
Bourne’s heart skipped a beat. “Frightening, you say. He must work with some nasty bugs then. Anthrax, pneumonic plague, Argentinian hemorrhagic fever…”
Eszti Sido’s face clouded over. “Oh dear, oh dear, please!” She waved a pudgy-fingered hand. “Those are just the things I know Peter works with but don’t want to know about.”
The Bourne Legacy Page 37
