Bourne 4 - The Bourne Legacy (45 page)

Bourne smiled at the attempt at humor. "I'll do my best to spare you that shock." Bourne dug in a pocket. "How much do I owe you?"

Dr. Ambrus raised his hands. "Please."

"How to thank you, then, Istvan?" Annaka said.

"Just to see you again, my dear, is payment enough." Dr. Ambrus took her face in his hands, kissed her on first one cheek, then the other. "Promise me you'll come to dinner one night soon. Bela misses you as much as I. Come, my dear. Come. She'll make you her goulash, which you loved as a child."

"I promise, Istvan. Soon."

Content at last with this promise of payment, Dr. Ambrus let them go.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

"Something needs to be done about Randy Driver," Lindros said. The DCI finished signing a set of papers, pushing them into his outbox before looking up. "I heard he gave you a sound tongue-lashing."

"I don't understand. Is this a source of amusement for you, sir?"

"Indulge me, Martin," he said with a smirk he refused to hide. "I have few sources of entertainment these days."

The sun-dazzle that had all afternoon spun off the statue of the three Revolutionary War soldiers outside the window was gone, making the bronze figures appear weary in the shadows shrouding them. The fragile light of another spring day had all too quickly passed into night.

"I want him taken care of. I want access—"

The DCI's face darkened." 'I want, I want'—what are you, a three-year-old?"

"You put me in charge of the investigation into Conklin's and Panov's murders. I'm only doing what you asked."

"Investigation?" The DCI's eyes sparked with anger. "There is no investigation. I told you in no uncertain terms, Martin, that I wanted an end to this. The bleeding is killing us with the bitch-woman. I want it cauterized so it can be forgotten. The last thing I need is for you to be running all over the Beltway, throwing your weight around like a bull in a china shop." He waved a hand to stave off his deputy's protestations. "Hang Harris, hang him high and loud enough for the National Security Advisor to be certain we know what we're doing."

"If you say so, sir, but with all due respect that would be just about the worst mistake we could make right now." As the DCI stared open-mouth at him, he spun across the desk the computer printout Harris had sent over.

"What is this?" the DCI said. He liked a precis of everything he was given before he had a chance to read it.

"It's part of the electronic record of a ring of Russians providing people with illegal handguns. The gun used to murder Conldin and Panov is there. It was falsely registered to Webb. This proves Webb was set up, that he didn't murder his two best friends." The DCI had begun reading the printout, and now his thick white brows furrowed.

"Martin, this proves nothing."

"Again, with all due respect, sir, I don't see how you can ignore the facts that are right in front of you."

The DCI sighed, pushed the printout away from him as he sat back in his chair. "You know, Martin, I've trained you well. But it occurs to me now that you still have a great deal to learn." He pointed a forefinger at the paper lying on his desk. "This tells me that the gun Jason Bourne used to shoot Alex and Mo Panov was paid for via a wire transfer from Budapest. Bourne has I don't know how many bank accounts overseas, in Zurich and Geneva mostly, but I don't see why he wouldn't have one in Budapest as well." He grunted. "It's a clever trick, one of so many taught to him by Alex himself." Lindros' heart had plummeted to his shoes. "So you don't think—"

"You want me to take this so-called evidence to the bitch-woman?" The DCI shook his head. "She'd shove it back down my throat."

Of course, the first thing that had entered the Old Man's mind was that Bourne had hacked into the U.S. Government database from Budapest, which was why he himself had activated Kevin McColl. No point telling Martin that; he'd only get himself all het up. No, the DCI thought obstinately, the money for the murder weapon had originated in Budapest and that was where Bourne had fled. Further damning evidence of his guilt. Lindros broke in on his musing. "So you won't authorize going back to Driver—"

"Martin, it's coming up on seven-thirty and my stomach has started to rumble." The DCI stood. "To show you that there's no hard feelings, I want you to join me for dinner."

The Occidental Grill was an insider restaurant at which the DCI had his own table. It was for civilians and low-grade government employees to stand on lines, not for him. In this arena his power rose out of the shadow world he inhabited, made itself known to all of Washington. There were precious few inside the Beltway who possessed this status. After a difficult day, there was nothing like using it.

They valet-parked and mounted the long flight of granite steps to the restaurant. Inside, they went down a narrow passageway hung with photos of the presidents as well as other famous political personages who had dined at the grill. As he always did, the DCI paused in front of the photo of J. Edgar Hoover and his ever-constant shadow, Clyde Tolson. The DCI's eyes bored into the photo of the two men as if he had the power to expunge by fire this duo from the pantheon on the wall of greats.

"I distinctly remember the moment we intercepted the Hoover memo exhorting his senior officers to find the link that tied Martin Luther King, Jr., and the Communist Party to the anti-Vietnam War demonstrations." He shook his head. "What a world I've been a party to."

"It's history, sir."

"Ignominious history, Martin."

With that pronouncement, he passed through the half-glass doors into the restaurant itself. The room was all wooden booths, cut-glass partitions and mirrored bar. As usual, there was a line, which the DCI navigated like the Queen Mary sailing through a flotilla of motorboats. He stopped in front of the podium, which was presided over by an elegant silver-haired maitre d'.

At the DCI's approach, the man turned with a brace of long menus clutched to his breast. "Director!" His eyes opened wide. There was an odd paleness to his usually florid skin. "We had no idea that you'd be dining with us tonight."

"Since when do you need advance notice, Jack?" The DCI said.

"May I suggest a drink at the bar, Director? I have your favorite sour mash." The DCI patted his stomach. "I'm hungry, Jack. We'll dispense with the bar and go straight to my table."

The maitre d' looked distinctly uncomfortable. "Please give me a moment, Director," he said, hurrying away.

"What the hell's the matter with him?" muttered the DCI with some annoyance. Lindros had already taken a look at the DCI's corner table, saw that it was occupied, and blanched. The DCI saw his expression and he whirled, peering through the throng of waiters and patrons at his beloved table, where the power seat reserved for him was now occupied by Roberta Alonzo-Ortiz, National Security Advisor of the United States. She was deep in conversation with two senators from the Foreign Intelligence Services Committee.

"I'll kill her, Martin. So help me God, I'll rend the bitch-woman limb from limb." At that moment the maitre d', clearly sweating inside his collar, returned. "We have a nice table all set up for you, Director, a table for four, just for you gentlemen. And the drinks're on the house, all right?"

The DCI bit back his rage. "It's quite all right," he said, aware that he was unable to rid himself of his high color. "Lead on, Jack."

The maitre d' took them on a route that didn't pass his old table, and the DCI was grateful to Jack for that.

"I told her, Director," the maitre d' said almost under his breath. "I made it quite clear that that particular corner table was yours, but she insisted. She wouldn't take no for an answer. What could I do? I'll have the drinks over in just a minute." Jack said all this in a rush as he seated them, presenting the food and wine menus. "Is there anything else I can do, Director?" "No, thank you, Jack." The DCI picked up his menu. A moment later a burly waiter with muttonchop sideburns brought two glasses of sour mash, along with the bottle and a carafe of water. "Compliments of the maitre d'," he said. If Lindros had been under any illusion that the DCI was calm, he was disabused of that notion the moment the Old Man took up his glass to sip his sour mash. His hand shook, and now Lindros could see that his eyes were glazed with rage.

Lindros saw his opening and, like the fine tactician he was, took it. "The National Security Advisor wants the double murders attended to and swept away with as little fuss as possible. But if the basic assumption that underlies this reasoning—mainly that Jason Bourne is responsible—is untrue, then everything else falls apart, including the NSA's extremely vocal position."

The DCI looked up. He stared shrewdly at his deputy. "I know you, Martin. You already have some plan in mind, don't you?"

"Yessir, I do, and if I'm right, we'll make the NSA look like fools. But for that to happen, I need Randy Driver's full and complete cooperation." The waiter appeared with the chopped salads. The DCI waited until they were alone and poured them both more sour mash. With a tight smile, he said, "This business with Randy Driver—you believe it's necessary?"

"More than necessary, sir. It's vital."

"Vital, eh?" The DCI tucked into his salad, looked at the resulting piece of glistening tomato impaled on the tines of his fork. "I'll sign the paperwork first thing tomorrow."

"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.