The Bourne Sanction

by Robert Ludlum

  “I already told you why I think that would be a bad idea.” She looked out at the wet tarmac, rainbow-streaked with droplets of fuel and oil. Raindrops trickled down the Perspex window like racing cars in their lanes. “And I find myself not wanting to be here at all.”

  Bourne opened the file he’d taken from Veronica Hart, turned it around, held it out. “I’d like you to take a look at this.”

  Moira turned back, put the file on her lap, paged through it. All at once she looked up. “Was it CI that had me under surveillance?” When Bourne nodded, she said, “Well, that’s a relief.”

  “How is it a relief?”

  She lifted the file. “This is all disinformation, a setup. Two years ago, when bidding for the Long Beach LNG terminal was at its height, my bosses suspected that AllEn, our chief rival, was monitoring our communications in order to get a handle on the proprietary systems that make our terminal unique. As a favor to me, Martin went to the Old Man for permission to set up a sting. The Old Man agreed, but it was imperative that no one else know about it, so he never told anyone else at CI. It worked. By tracking our cell conversations we discovered that AllEn was, indeed, monitoring the calls.”

  “I recall the settlement,” Bourne said.

  “Because of the evidence Martin and I provided, AllEn had no incentive to go to trial.”

  “NextGen got a mid-eight-figure settlement, right?”

  Moira nodded. “And won the rights to build the LNG terminal in Long Beach. That’s how I got my promotion to executive vice president.”

  Bourne took back the file. He, too, was relieved. For him, trust was like an ill-made boat, springing leaks at every turn, threatening at any moment to sink him. He’d ceded part of himself to Moira, but the loss of control was like a knife in his heart.

  Moira looked at him rather sadly. “Did you suspect me of being a Mata Hari?”

  “It was important to make sure,” he said.

  Her face closed up. “Sure. I understand.” She began to stuff papers into a slim leather briefcase more roughly than was needed. “You thought I’d betrayed Martin and was going to betray you.”

  “I’m relieved it’s not true.”

  “I’m so very happy to hear that.” She shot him an acid stare.

  “Moira…”

  “What?” She pulled hair off her face. “What is it you want to say to me, Jason?”

  “I… This is hard for me.”

  She leaned forward, peering at him. “Just tell me.”

  “I trusted Marie,” Bourne said. “I leaned on her, she helped me with my amnesia. She was always there. And then, suddenly, she wasn’t.”

  Moira’s voice softened. “I know.”

  He looked at her at last. “There is no good thing about being alone. But for me it’s all a matter of trust.”

  “I know you think I haven’t told you the truth about Martin and me.” She took his hands in hers. “We were never lovers, Jason. We were more like brother and sister. We supported each other. Trust didn’t come easily to either of us. I think it’s important for both of us that I tell you that now.”

  Bourne understood that she was also talking about the two of them, not her and Martin. He’d trusted so few people in his life: Marie, Alex Conklin, Mo Panov, Martin, Soraya. He saw all the things that had been keeping him from moving on with his life. With so little past, it was difficult letting go of the people he’d known and cared about.

  A pang of sorrow shot through him. “Marie is dead. She’s in the past now. And my children are far better off with their grandparents. Their life is stable and happy. That’s best for them.”

  He rose, needing to get moving.

  Moira, aware he was ill at ease, changed the subject. “Do you know how long you’ll be in Moscow?”

  “The same amount of time you’ll be in Munich, I imagine.”

  That got a smile out of her. She stood, leaned toward him. “Be well, Jason. Stay safe.” She gave him a lingering, loving kiss. “Remember me.”

  Sixteen

  SORAYA MOORE was ushered cordially into the hushed sanctuary of the Library where less than twenty-four hours before, Luther LaValle and General Kendall had had their post-rendition fireside chat. It was Kendall himself who had picked her up, chauffeured her to the NSA safe house deep in the Virginia countryside. Soraya had, of course, never been here.

  LaValle, in a midnight-blue chalk-striped suit, blue shirt with white collar and cuffs, a striped tie in the Yale colors, looked like a merchant banker. He rose as Kendall brought her over to the area by the window. There were three chairs grouped around the antique card table.

  “Director Moore, having heard so much about you, it’s a genuine pleasure to meet you.” Smiling broadly, LaValle indicated a chair. “Please.”

  Soraya saw no point in refusing the invitation. She didn’t know whether she was more curious or alarmed by the abrupt summons. She did, however, glance around the room. “Where is Secretary Halliday? General Kendall informed me that the invitation came from him.”

  “Oh, it did,” LaValle said. “Unfortunately, the secretary of defense was called into a meeting in the Oval Office. He phoned me to convey to you his apologies and to insist that we carry on without him.”

  All of which meant, Soraya knew, that Halliday had never had any intention of attending this little tкte-а-tкte. She doubted he even knew about it.

  “Anyway,” LaValle said as Kendall sat in the third chair, “now that you’re here you might as well enjoy yourself.” He raised his hand, and Willard appeared as if by prestidigitation. “Something to drink, Director? I know as Muslim you’re forbidden alcohol, but we have a full range of potions for you to choose from.”

  “Tea, please,” she said directly to Willard. “Ceylon, if you have it.”

  “Of course, ma’am. Milk? Sugar?”

  “Neither, thank you.” She’d never formed the British habit.

  Willard seemed to bow before he vanished without a sound.

  Soraya redirected her attention to the two men. “Now, gentlemen, in what way can I help you?”

  “I rather think it’s the other way around,” General Kendall said.

  Soraya cocked her head. “How d’you figure that?”

  “Frankly, because of the turmoil at CI,” LaValle said, “we think Typhon is working with one hand tied behind its back.”

  Willard arrived with Soraya’s tea, the men’s whiskeys. He set the japanned tray down with the cup, glasses, and tea service, then left.

  LaValle waited until Soraya had poured her tea before he continued. “It seems to me that Typhon would benefit immensely from taking advantage of all the resources at NSA’s disposal. We could even help you expand beyond the scope of CI’s reach.”

  Soraya lifted her cup to her lips, found the fragrant Ceylon tea exquisitely delicious. “It seems that you know more about Typhon than any of us at CI were aware.”

  LaValle let go with a soft laugh. “Okay, let’s stop beating around the bush. We had a mole inside CI. You know who it is now. He made a fatal mistake in going after Jason Bourne and failing.”

  Veronica Hart had relieved Rob Batt of his position that morning, a fact that must have come to LaValle’s attention, especially since his replacement, Peter Marks, had been one of Hart’s most vocal supporters from day one. Soraya knew Peter well, had suggested to Hart that he deserved the promotion.

  “Is Batt now working for NSA?”

  “Mr. Batt has outlived his usefulness,” Kendall said rather stiffly.

  Soraya turned her attention to the military man. “A glimpse of your own fate, don’t you think, General?”

  Kendall’s face closed up like a fist, but following an almost imperceptible shake of LaValle’s head he bit back a rejoinder.

  “While it’s certainly true that life in the intelligence services can be harsh, even brutal,” LaValle interjected, “certain individuals within it are-shall we say-inoculated against such unfortunate eventualities.”
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br />   Soraya kept her gaze on Kendall. “I suppose I could be one of those certain individuals.”

  “Yes, absolutely.” LaValle put one hand over the other on his knee. “Your knowledge of Muslim thought and custom, your expertise as Martin Lindros’s right hand as he put Typhon together are invaluable.”

  “You see how it is, General,” Soraya said. “One day an invaluable asset like me is bound to take over your position.”

  LaValle cleared his throat. “Does that mean you’re on board?”

  Smiling sweetly, Soraya put her teacup down. “I’ll say this for you, Mr. LaValle, you certainly know how to make lemonade from lemons.”

  LaValle returned her smile as if it were a tennis serve. “My dear Director, I do believe you’ve hit upon one of my specialities.”

  “What makes you think I’d abandon CI?”

  LaValle put a forefinger beside his nose. “My reading of you is that you’re a pragmatic woman. You know better than we do what kind of a mess CI is in. How long do you think it’s going to take the new DCI to right the ship? What makes you think she even can?” He raised his finger. “I’m exceedingly interested in your opinion, but before you answer think about how little time we might have before this unknown terrorist group is going to strike.”

  Soraya felt as if she’d been rabbit-punched. How in the hell had NSA gotten wind of the Typhon terrorist intercepts? At the moment, however, that was a moot point. The important thing was how to respond to this breach of security.

  Before she could formulate a counter, LaValle said, “I’m curious about one thing, though. Why is it that Director Hart saw fit to keep this intel to herself, rather than bringing in Homeland Security, FBI, and NSA?”

  “That was my doing.” I’m in it now, Soraya thought. I might as well go all the way. “Until the incident at the Freer, the intel was sketchy enough that I felt the involvement of other intelligence agencies would only muddy the waters.”

  “Meaning,” Kendall said, glad of the opportunity to get in a dig, “you didn’t want us rooting around in your carrot patch.”

  “This is a serious situation, Director,” LaValle said. “In matters of national security-”

  “If this Muslim terrorist group-which we now know calls itself the Black Legion-gets wind that we’ve intercepted their communications we’ll be sunk before we even start trying to counter their attack.”

  “I could have you shit-canned.”

  “And lose my invaluable expertise?” Soraya shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

  “So what do we have?” Kendall snapped.

  “Stalemate.” LaValle passed a hand across his brow. “Do you think it would be possible for me to see the Typhon intercepts?” His tone had changed completely. He was now in conciliatory mode. “Believe it or not, we’re not the Evil Empire. We actually might be able to be of some assistance.”

  Soraya considered. “I think that be can arranged.”

  “Excellent.”

  “It would have to be Eyes Only.”

  LaValle agreed at once.

  “And in a controlled, highly restricted environment,” Soraya added, following up her advantage. “The Typhon offices at CI would be perfect.”

  LaValle spread his hands. “Why not here?”

  Soraya smiled. “I think not.”

  “Under the current climate I think you can understand why I’d be reluctant to meet you there.”

  “I take your point.” Soraya thought for a moment. “If I did bring the intercepts here I’d have to have someone with me.”

  LaValle nodded vigorously. “Of course. Whatever makes you feel comfortable.” He seemed far more pleased than Kendall, who looked at her as if he had caught sight of her from a battlefield trench.

  “Frankly,” Soraya said, “none of this makes me feel comfortable.” She glanced around the room again.

  “The building is swept three times a day for electronic bugs,” LaValle pointed out. “Plus, we have all the most sophisticated surveillance systems, basically a computerized monitoring system that keeps track of the two thousand closed-circuit video cameras installed throughout the facility and grounds, compares them from second to second for any anomalies whatsoever. The DARPA software compares any anomalies against a database of more than a million images, makes real-time decisions in nanoseconds. For instance, a bird in flight would be ignored, a running figure wouldn’t. Believe me, you have nothing to worry about.”

  “Right now, the only thing I worry about,” Soraya said, “is you, Mr. LaValle.”

  “I understand completely.” LaValle finished off his whiskey. “That’s what this exercise is all about, Director. To engender trust between us. How else could we be expected to work together?”

  General Kendall sent Soraya back to the district with one of his drivers. She had him drop her where she’d arranged to meet Kendall, outside what had once been the National Historical Wax Museum on E Street, SW. She waited until the black Ford had been swallowed up in traffic, then she turned away, walked all the way around the block at a normal pace. By the end of her circuit she was certain she was free of tags, NSA or otherwise. At that point, she sent a three-letter text message via her cell. Two minutes later, a young man on a motorcycle appeared. He wore jeans, a black leather jacket, a gleaming black helmet with the smoked faceplate lowered. He slowed, stopped just long enough for her to climb on behind him. Handing her a helmet, he waited for her to don it, then he zoomed off down the street.

  I have several contacts within DARPA,” Deron said. DARPA was an acronym for the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency, an arm of the Department of Defense. “I have a working knowledge of the software architecture at the heart of the NSA’s surveillance system.” He shrugged. “This is one way I keep my edge.”

  “We gotta find a way around it or through it,” Tyrone said.

  He was still wearing his black leather jacket. His black helmet was on a table alongside the one he’d given Soraya for the high-speed trip here to Deron’s house-lab. Soraya had met both Deron and Tyrone when Bourne had brought her to this nondescript olive-colored house just off 7th Street, NE.

  “You must be joking, right?” Deron, a tall, slim, handsome man with skin the color of light cocoa, looked from one to the other. “Tell me you’re joking.”

  “If we were joking we wouldn’t be here.” Soraya rubbed the heel of her hand against her temple as she sought to ignore the fierce headache that had began after her terrifying interview with LaValle and Kendall.

  “It’s just not possible.” Deron put his hands on his hips. “That software is state-of-the-art. And two thousand CCTV cameras! Fuck me.”

  They sat on canvas chairs in his lab, a double-height room filled with all manner of monitors, keyboards, electronic systems whose functions were known only to Deron. Ranged around the wall were a number of paintings-all masterpieces by Titian, Seurat, Rembrandt, van Gogh. Water Lilies, Green Reflection, Left Part was Soraya’s favorite. That all of them were painted by Deron in the atelier in the next room had stunned her the first time she was here. Now they simply filled her with wonder. How he had reproduced Monet’s exact shade of cobalt blue was beyond her. It was hardly surprising that Bourne used Deron to forge all his ID documents, when in this day and age it was becoming increasingly difficult to do. Many forgers had quit, claiming governments had made their job impossible, but not Deron. It was his stock in trade. Little wonder that he and Bourne were so close. Birds of a feather, Soraya thought.

  “What about mirrors?” Tyrone said.

  “That would be simplest,” Deron said. “But one of the reasons they’ve installed so many cameras is to give the system multiple views of the same area. That negates mirrors right there.”

  “Too bad Bourne killed dat fucker Karim al-Jamil. He could probably write a worm t’screw with the DARPA software like he did with the CI database.”

  Soraya turned to Deron. “Can it be done?” she said. “Could you do it?”

  �
�Hacking’s not my thing. I leave that to my old lady.”

  Soraya didn’t know Deron had a girlfriend. “How good is she?”

  “Please,” Deron snorted.

  “Can we talk to her?”

  Deron looked dubious. “This is the NSA we’re talking about. Those fuckers don’t fool around. To be frank, I don’t think you ought to be messing with them in the first place.”

  “Unfortunately, I have no choice,” Soraya said.

  “They fuckin’ wid us,” Tyrone said, “and unless we get all medieval on they ass, they gonna walk all over us an’ own us forever.”

  Deron shook his head. “You sure put some interesting notions in this man’s head, Soraya. Before you came along he was the best street protection I ever had. Now look at him. Messing with the big boys in the bad world outside the ghetto.” He didn’t hide the pride he felt for Tyrone, but his voice held a warning, too. “I hope to hell you know what you’re getting yourself into, Tyrone. If this thing comes apart in any way you’re in the federal slammer till Gabriel comes calling.”

  Tyrone crossed his arms over his chest, stood his ground.

  Deron sighed. “All right, then. We’re all adults here.” He reached for his cell. “Kiki’s upstairs in her lair. She doesn’t like to be interrupted, but in this case I think she’ll be intrigued.” He spoke briefly into the cell, then put it down. Moments later a slim woman with a beautiful African face and deep chocolate skin appeared. She was as tall as Deron, with the upright carriage of proud and ancient royalty.

  Her face split into a ferocious grin when she saw Tyrone. “Hey,” they said to each other. That one word seemed all that was needed.

  “Kiki, this is Soraya,” Deron said.

  Kiki’s smile was wide and dazzling. “My name’s actually Esiankiki. I’m Masai. But in America I’m not so formal; everyone calls me Kiki.”

  The two women touched hands. Kiki’s grip was cool and dry. She regarded Soraya out of large coffee-colored eyes. She had the smoothest skin Soraya had ever seen, which she instantly envied. Her hair was very short, marvelously cut like a cap to fit her elongated skull. She wore a brown ankle-length dress that clung provocatively to her slim hips and small breasts.