“I apologize.” Bourne leaned forward, poured her more coffee, for which she thanked him in relief.
She sat back, sipping her coffee, her eyes turned inward. “You know, David, now that I think about it, there was an evening not long ago when Peter came home in a high state of excitement. So much so, in fact, that for once he forgot himself and mentioned something to me. I was cooking dinner and he was unusually late and I was having to juggle six things at once—a roast, you know, doesn’t like to be over-cooked, so I’d taken it out, then put it back when Peter finally walked through the door. I wasn’t happy with him that night, I can tell you.” She sipped again. “Now, where was I?”
“Dr. Sido came home very excited,” Bourne prompted.
“Ah, yes, just so.” She took up a tiny piece of the stollen between her fingers. “He’d been in contact with Felix, he said, who’d had some sort of breakthrough with the—thing—he’d been working on for more than two years.”
Bourne’s mouth was dry. It seemed odd to him that the fate of the world now lay with a housewife with whom he was cozily sharing coffee and homemade pastry. “Did your husband tell you what it was?”
“Of course he did!” Eszti Sido said with gusto. “That was the reason he was so exercised. It was a biochemical disperser—whatever that is. According to Peter, what was so extraordinary about it was that it was portable. It could be carried in an acoustic guitar case, he said.” Her kind eyes gazed at him. “Isn’t that an interesting image to use for a scientific thingy?”
“Interesting, indeed,” Bourne said, his mind furiously clicking into place pieces of the jigsaw puzzle the pursuit of which had more than once almost gotten him killed.
He rose. “Eszti, I’m afraid I must be going. Thank you so much for your time and your hospitality. Everything was delicious—especially the stollen.”
She blushed, smiling warmly as she saw him to the door. “Do come again, David, under happier circumstances.”
“I will,” he assured her.
Out on the street, he paused. Eszti Sido’s information confirmed both his suspicions and his worst fears. The reason everyone wanted to get their hands on Dr. Schiffer was that he had indeed created a portable means of dispersing chemical and biological pathogens. In a big city such as New York or Moscow, that would mean thousands of deaths with no means to save anyone within the radius of the dispersion. A truly terrifying scenario, one that would come true unless he could find Dr. Schiffer. If anyone knew, it would be Peter Sido. The mere fact that he’d become agitated of late confirmed that theory.
There was no doubt that he needed to see Dr. Peter Sido, the sooner the better.
“You realize you’re just asking for trouble,” Feyd al-Saoud said.
“I know that,” Jamie Hull replied. “But Boris forced it on me. You know he’s a sonuvabitch as well as I do.”
“First of all,” Feyd al-Saoud said evenly, “if you insist on calling him Boris, there can be no further discussion. You’re doomed to a blood feud.” He spread his hands. “Perhaps it’s my failing, Mr. Hull, so I would ask you to explain to me why you’d want to further complicate an assignment that’s already taxing all our security skills.”
The two agents were inspecting the Oskjuhlid Hotel’s HVAC system in which they’d installed both heat-sensitive infrared and motion detectors. This foray was quite apart from the daily inspection of the summit’s forum HVAC the three agents undertook as a team.
In a little over eight hours the first contingent of the negotiating parties would arrive. Twelve hours after that, the leaders would present themselves and the summit would begin. There was absolutely no margin for error for any of them, including Boris Illyich Karpov.
“You mean you don’t think he’s a sonuvabitch?” Hull said.
Feyd al-Saoud checked a branching against the schematic he seemed to carry with him at all times. “Frankly, I’ve had other things on my mind.” Satisfied that the junction was secure, Feyd al-Saoud moved on.
“Okay, let’s cut to the chase.”
Feyd al-Saoud turned to him. “I beg your pardon?”
“What I was thinking was that you and I make a good team. We get along well. When it comes to security, we’re on the same page.”
“What you mean is, I follow your orders well.”
Hull looked hurt. “Did I say that?”
“Mr. Hull, you didn’t have to. You, like most Americans, are quite transparent. If you’re not in complete control, you tend to either get angry or sulk.”
Hull felt himself flooding with resentment. “We’re not children!” he cried.
“On the contrary,” Feyd al-Saoud said equably, “there are times when you remind me of my six-year-old son.”
Hull wanted to pull his Glock 31 .357 mm and shove its muzzle in the Arab’s face. Where did he get off talking to a representative of the U.S. Government like that? It was like spitting on the flag, for Christ’s sake! But what good would a show of force do him now? No, much as he hated to admit it, he needed to go another way.
“So what d’you say?” he said as equably as he could.
Feyd al-Saoud appeared unmoved. “In all honesty, I’d prefer to see you and Mr. Karpov work out your differences together.”
Hull shook his head. “Ain’t gonna happen, my friend, you know that as well as I do.”
Unfortunately, Feyd al-Saoud did know that. Both Hull and Karpov were entrenched in their mutual enmity. The best that could be hoped for now was that they’d confine hostilities to taking the occasional potshot at each other without an escalation into all-out war.
“I think I could best serve you both by maintaining a neutral position,” he said now. “If I don’t, who’s going to keep the two of you from rending each other limb from limb?”
After purchasing everything Bourne needed, Annaka left the men’s clothes shop. As she headed toward the theatrical district, she saw the reflection of movement behind her in the shop window. She didn’t hesitate or even break stride but slowed her pace enough so that as she strolled she confirmed that she was being followed. As casually as she could, she crossed the street, paused in front of a shop window. In it she recognized the image of Kevin McColl as he crossed the street behind her, ostensibly heading toward a café on the corner of the block. She knew that she had to lose him before she reached the area of theatrical makeup shops.
Making sure he couldn’t see, she pulled out her cell phone, dialed Bourne’s number.
“Jason,” she said softly, “McColl’s picked me up.”
“Where are you now?” he said.
“The beginning of Váci utca.”
“I’m not far away.”
“I thought you weren’t going to leave the hotel. What’ve you been doing?”
“I’ve discovered a lead,” he said.
“Really?” Her heart beat fast. Had he found out about Stepan? “What is it?”
“First, we’ve got to deal with McColl. I want you to go to 75 Hattyu utca. Wait for me at the front desk.” He continued, giving her details of what she was to do.
She listened intently, then said, “Jason, are you sure you’re up to this?”
“Just do what I tell you,” he said sternly, “and everything will be fine.”
She disconnected and called a taxi. When it came, she got in and gave the driver the address Bourne had made her repeat back to him. As they drove off, she looked around but didn’t see McColl, though she was certain he’d been following her. A moment later a battered dark-green Opel threaded its way through traffic, wedging itself behind her taxi. Annaka, peering into the driver’s off-side mirror, recognized the hulking figure behind the wheel of the Opel, and her lips curled in a secret smile. Kevin McColl had taken the bait; now if only Bourne’s plan would work.
Stepan Spalko, newly returned to the Humanistas Ltd. headquarters in Budapest, was monitoring the international clandestine service cipher traffic for news on the summit when his cell phone rang.
“Wh
at is it?” he said tersely.
“I’m on my way to meet Bourne at 75 Hattyu utca,” Annaka said.
Spalko turned and walked away from where his technicians were sitting at their deciphering workstations. “He’s sending you to the Eurocenter Bio-I Clinic,” he said. “He knows about Peter Sido.”
“He said he had an exciting new lead, but he wouldn’t tell me what it was.”
“The man’s relentless,” Spalko said. “I’ll take care of Sido, but you can’t let him anywhere near his office.”
“I understand that,” Annaka said. “In any event, Bourne’s attention is initially going to be directed toward the American CIA agent who’s been shadowing him.”
“I don’t want Bourne killed, Annaka. He’s far too valuable to me alive—at least for the moment.” Spalko’s mind was sorting through possibilities, discarding them one by one until he arrived at his desired conclusion. “Leave everything else to me.”
Annaka, in the speeding taxi, nodded. “You can count on me, Stepan.”
“I know that.”
Annaka stared out the window at passing Budapest. “I never thanked you for killing my father.”
“It was a long time coming.”
“Khan thinks I’m angry because I didn’t get to do it myself.”
“Is he right?”
There were tears in Annaka’s eyes and with some annoyance she wiped them away. “He was my father, Stepan. Whatever he did…still, he was my father. He raised me.”
“Poorly, Annaka. He never really knew how to be a father to you.”
She thought about the lies she’d told Bourne without an iota of compunction, the idealized childhood she’d wished for herself. Her father had never read to her at night or changed her; he’d never once come to one of her graduations—it seemed he was always far away; and as for birthdays, he’d never remembered. Another tear, escaping her vigilance, crawled down her cheek and, at the corner of her mouth, she tasted its salt as if it were the bitterness of memory.
She tossed her head. “A child can never fully condemn her father, it seems.”
“I did mine.”
“That was different,” she said. “And, anyway, I know how you felt about my mother.”
“I loved her, yes.” In his mind Spalko conjured up an image of Sasa Vadas: her large, luminous eyes, her creamy skin, the full bow of her mouth when that slow smile brought you close to her heart. “She was completely unique, a special creature, a princess as her name suggested.”
“She was as much your family as she was mine,” Annaka said. “She saw right through you, Stepan. In her heart she felt the tragedies you’d suffered without you having to tell her a thing.”
“I waited a long time to take my revenge on your father, Annaka, but I never would’ve done it if I didn’t know it was what you wanted, too.”
Annaka laughed, now fully back to herself. The brief emotional wallow she’d fallen into disgusted her. “You don’t expect me to believe that, do you, Stepan?”
“Now, Annaka—”
“Remember who you’re trying to con. I know you, you killed him when it served your purpose. And you were right, he would’ve told Bourne everything and Bourne would’ve wasted no time coming after you with everything he had. That I’d wanted my father dead, too, was mere coincidence.”
“Now you’re underestimating your importance to me.”
“That may or may not be true, Stepan, but it doesn’t matter to me. I wouldn’t know how to form an emotional attachment even if I wanted to try.”
Martin Lindros presented his official papers to Randy Driver, Director of the Tactical Non-Lethal Weapons Directorate in person. Driver, who was staring at Lindros as if he had a chance of intimidating him, took the papers without comment and dropped them on his desk.
He was standing as a marine would stand, straight-spined, gut in, muscles taut, as if he were about to go into battle. His close-set blue eyes seemed almost crossed, such was his concentration. A slight antiseptic scent lingered in the white-metal office, as if he’d seen fit to fumigate the place in anticipation of Lindros’ arrival.
“I see you’ve been a busy little beaver since last we met,” he said, looking at no one in particular. Apparently, he’d realized that he wouldn’t be able to intimidate Lindros simply with his stare. He was moving on to verbal intimidation.
“I’m always busy,” Lindros said. “You just forced me into make-work.”
“Happy am I.” Driver’s face fairly creaked with the tightness of his smile.
Lindros shifted from one foot to the other. “Why do you see me as the enemy?”
“Possibly because you are the enemy.” Driver finally sat down behind his smoked-glass and stainless-steel desk. “What else would you call someone who comes in here wanting to dig up my backyard?”
“I’m only investigating—”
“Don’t give me that bullshit, Lindros!” Driver had leaped up, his face livid. “I can smell a witch-hunt at a hundred paces! You’re the Old Man’s bloodhound. You can’t fool me. This isn’t about Alex Conklin’s murder.”
“And why would you think that?”
“Because this investigation is about me!”
Now Lindros was really interested. Aware that Driver had given him the advantage, he seized it with a knowing smile. “Now why would we want to investigate you, Randy?” He’d chosen his words with care, using “we” to tell Driver that he was operating with the full force of the DCI behind him and his first name to unnerve him.
“You already know why, damnit!” Driver stormed, falling into the trap Lindros had set for him. “You must’ve known the first time you ambled in here. I could see it on your face when you asked to talk to Felix Schiffer.”
“I wanted to give you the chance to come clean before I went to the DCI.” Lindros was having fun following the path Driver was laying out, even though he had no idea where it was leading. On the other hand, he had to be careful. One false move on his part, one mistake and Driver would realize his ignorance and, likely as not, clam up, waiting for advice from his lawyer. “It’s not too late for you to do so now.”
Driver stared at him for a moment, before pressing the heel of his hand to his damp forehead. He slumped a little before falling back into his mesh chair.
“Christ Almighty, what a mess,” he mumbled. As if having received a devastating body blow, all the wind had gone out of him. He looked around at the Rothko prints on the wall, as if they might be doorways through which he could flee. At last, finally resigned to his fate, he let his gaze return to the man standing patiently in front of him.
He gestured. “Sit down, Deputy Director.” His voice was sad. When Lindros had taken his seat, he said, “It started with Alex Conklin. Well, it always started with Alex, didn’t it?” He sighed, as if all at once overcome by nostalgia. “Almost two years ago Alex came to me with a proposition. He’d befriended a scientist at DARPA; the connection was coincidental, though, to tell you the truth, Alex networked with so many people I doubt if anything in his life was coincidence. I imagine you’ve worked out that the scientist in question was Felix Schiffer.”
He paused for a moment. “I’m dying for a cigar. D’you mind?”
“Knock yourself out,” Lindros said. So that explained the smell: air freshener. The building, like all government facilities, was supposed to be smoke-free.
“Care to join me?” Driver asked. “They were a present from Alex.”
When Lindros declined, Driver pulled out a drawer, extracted a cigar from a humidor, went through the complex ritual of lighting up. Lindros understood; he was calming his nerves. He sniffed as the first puff of blue smoke wafted through the room. It was a Cuban.
“Alex came to see me,” Driver continued. “No, that’s not quite accurate—he took me out to dinner. He told me he’d met this guy who worked at DARPA. Felix Schiffer. He hated the military types there and wanted out. Would I help his friend?”
“And you agreed,” Lindros
said, “just like that?”
“Of course, I did. General Baker, the head of DARPA, had poached one of our guys last year.” Driver took a puff on his cigar. “Payback’s a bitch. I leaped at the chance to stick it to that uptight asshole Baker.”
Lindros stirred. “When Conklin came to you, did he tell you what Schiffer was working on at DARPA?”
“Sure. Schiffer’s field was pushing around airborne particulates. He was working on methods to clear indoor areas infected with biologicals.”
Lindros sat up. “Like anthrax?”
Driver nodded. “That’s right.”
“How far along was he?”
“At DARPA?” Driver shrugged. “I wouldn’t know.”
“But surely you’d gotten updates on his work after he came to work for you.”
Driver glared at him, then pressed some keys on his computer terminal. He swivelled the screen around so they could see.
Lindros leaned forward. “Looks like gibberish to me, but then I’m no scientist.”
Driver stared at the end of his cigar as if now, at the moment of truth, he couldn’t bring himself to look at Lindros. “It is gibberish, more or less.”
Lindros froze. “What the hell d’you mean?”
Driver was still staring with fascination at the end of his cigar. “This couldn’t be what Schiffer had been working on because it makes no sense.”
Lindros shook his head. “I don’t understand.”
Driver sighed. “It’s possible that Schiffer isn’t much of a particulate expert.”
Lindros, who had begun feeling a ball of icy terror form in his gut, said, “There’s another possibility, isn’t there?”
“Well, yes, now that you mention it.” Driver ran his tongue around his lips. “It’s possible that Schiffer was working on something else entirely that he wanted neither DARPA nor us to know about.”
Lindros looked perplexed. “Why haven’t you asked Dr. Schiffer about this?”
“I’d very much like to,” Driver said. “The trouble is I don’t know where Felix Schiffer is.”
“If you don’t,” Lindros said angrily, “who the hell does?”
The Bourne Legacy Page 38
