Bourne 4 - The Bourne Legacy (48 page)

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 paniculate 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?"

"Alex was the only one who knew."

"Jesus H. Christ, Alex Conklin's dead!" Lindros rose and, leaning forward, swiped the cigar out of Driver's mouth. "Randy, how long has Dr. Schiffer been missing?" Driver closed his eyes. "Six weeks."

Now Lindros understood. This was why Driver had been so hostile when he'd first come to him; he was terrified that the Agency suspected his egregious breach of security. He said now, "How on earth did you allow this to happen?" Driver's blue gaze rested on him for a moment. "It was Alex. I trusted him. Why wouldn't I? I knew him for years—he was an Agency legend, for Christ's sake. And then what does he up and do? He disappears Schiffer."

Driver stared at the cigar on the floor as if it had become a malignant object. "He used me, Lindros, played me like a fiddle. He didn't want Schiffer in my directorate, he didn't want us, the Agency, to have him. He wanted to get him away from DARPA so he could disappear him."

"Why?" Lindros said. "Why would he do that?"

"I don't know. I wish to God I did."

The pain in Driver's voice was palpable, and for the first time since they'd met, Lindros felt sorry for him. Everything he'd ever heard about Alexander Conklin had turned out to be true. He was the master manipulator, the keeper of all the dark secrets, the agent who trusted no one—no one save Jason Bourne, his protege". Fleetingly, he wondered what this turn of events was going to do to the DCI. He and Conklin had been close friends for decades; they'd grown up together in the Agency—it was their life. They'd relied on each other, trusted each other, and now this bitterest blow. Conklin had breached just about every major Agency protocol to get what he wanted: Dr. Felix Schiffer. He'd screwed not only Randy Driver but the Agency itself. How was he ever going to protect the Old Man from this news? Lindros wondered. But, even as he thought this, he knew that he had a more pressing problem to deal with.

"Obviously, Conklin knew what Schiffer was really working on and wanted it," Lindros said. "But what the hell was it?"

Driver looked at him helplessly.

Stepan Spalko was standing in the center of Kapisztran ter, within shouting distance of his waiting limo. Above him rose the Mary Magdalene Tower, all that was left of the thirteenth-century Franciscan church, whose nave and chancel were destroyed by Nazi bombs during World War II. As he waited, he felt a gust of chill wind raise the hem of his black coat, insinuating itself against his skin.

Spalko glanced at his watch. Sido was late. Long ago, he'd trained himself not to worry, but such was the significance of this meeting that he couldn't help but experience a twinge of anxiety. At the top of the tower, the twenty-four-piece glockenspiel sounded fifteen minutes after the hour. Sido was
very
late.

Spalko, watching the crowds ebb and flow, was just about to break protocol and call Sido on the cell phone he'd given him when he saw the scientist hurrying toward him from the opposite side of the tower. He was carrying something that looked like a jeweler's sample case.

"You're late," Spalko said shortly.

"I know, but it couldn't be helped." Dr. Sido wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his overcoat. "I had trouble getting the item out of storage. There was staff inside and I had to wait until the cold room was empty so as not to arouse—"

"Not here, Doctor!"

Spalko, who wanted to hit him for talking about their business in public, took Sido firmly by the elbow and all but frog-marched him deep into the desolate shadows thrown by the rather forbidding baroque stone tower.

"You've forgotten to watch your tongue around outsiders, Peter," Spalko said. "We're part of an elite group, you and I. I've told you that."

"I know," Dr. Sido said nervously, "but I find it difficult to—"

"You don't find it difficult to take my money, do you?" Side's eyes slipped away. "Here's the product," he said. "It's everything you asked for and more." He held out the case. "But let's get this over and done with quickly. I have to get back to the lab. I was in the middle of a crucial chemical calculation when you called."

Spalko pushed Sido's hand away. "You hold onto that, Peter, at least for a little while longer."

Sido's spectacles flashed. "But you said you needed it now—immediately. As I told you, once put in the portable case, the material is alive for only forty-eight hours."

"I haven't forgotten."

"Stepan, I'm at a loss. I took a great risk in bringing it out of the clinic during working hours. Now I must get back or—"

Spalko smiled and, at the same time, tightened his grip on Sido's elbow. "You're not going back, Peter."

"What?"

"I apologize for not mentioning it before, but, well, for the amount of money I'm paying you, I want more than the product. I want you."

Dr. Sido shook his head. "But that's quite impossible. You know that!"

"Nothing is impossible, Peter, you know that."

"Well, this is," Dr. Sido said adamantly.

With a charming smile, Spalko produced a snapshot from inside his overcoat. "What do they say about a picture's worth?" he said, handing it over. Dr. Sido stared at it and swallowed convulsively. "Where did you get this photo of my daughter?"

Spalko's smile stayed firmly in place. "One of my people took it, Peter. Look at the date."

"It was taken yesterday." A sudden spasm overtook him and he tore the photo into pieces. "One can do anything with a photographic image these days," he said stonily.

"How true," Spalko said. "But I assure you this one wasn't doctored."

"Liar! I'm leaving!" Dr. Sido said. "Let go of me." Spalko did as the doctor asked, but as Sido started to walk away, he said, "Wouldn't you like to talk with Roza, Peter?" He held out a cell phone. "I mean right now?" Dr. Sido halted in midstep. Then he turned to face Spalko. His face was dark with anger and barely suppressed fear. "You said you were Felix's friend; I thought you were
my
friend."

Spalko continued to hold out the phone. "Roza would like to speak to you. If you walk away now. .." He shrugged. His silence was its own threat.

Slowly, heavily, Dr. Sido came back. He took the cell phone in his free hand, put it up to his ear. He found that his heart was beating so loudly he could scarcely think. "Roza?"

"Daddy? Daddy! Where am I? What's happening?"

The panic in his daughter's voice sent a lance of terror through Sido. He could never remember being so afraid.

"Darling, what's going on?"

"Men came to my room, they took me, I don't know where, they put a hood over my head, they—"

"That's enough," Spalko said, taking the phone from Dr. Sido's nerveless fingers. He cut the connection, put the phone away.

"What have you done to her?" Dr. Sido's voice shook with the force of the emotions running through him.

"Nothing yet," Spalko said easily. "And nothing will happen to her, Peter, as long as you obey me."

Dr. Sido swallowed as Spalko resumed possession of him. "Where ... where are we going?"

"We're taking a trip," Spalko said, guiding Dr. Sido toward the waiting limo. "Just think of it as a vacation, Peter. A well-deserved vacation."

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

The Eurocenter Bio-I Clinic was housed in a modern stone building the color of lead. Bourne entered with the quick authoritative strides of someone who knew where he was going and why.

The interior of the clinic spoke of money, a great deal of it. The lobby was marble-clad. Classical-looking columns were interspersed with bronze statuary. Along the walls were arched niches in which resided the busts of the historical demigods of biology, chemistry, microbiology and epidemiology. The ugly metal detector was particularly offensive in this tranquil and monied setting. Beyond the skeletal structure was a high bank behind which sat three harried-looking attendants.

Bourne passed through the metal detector without incident, his ceramic gun going entirely unnoticed. At the front desk, he was all business.

"Alexander Conklin to see Dr. Peter Sido," he said so crisply that it was akin to being an order.

"ID, please, Mr. Conklin," said one of the three female attendants, unconsciously responding and snapping to.

Bourne handed over his false passport, which the attendant glanced at it, looking at Bourne's face only long enough to make visual confirmation before returning it to Bourne. She handed over a white plastic tag. "Please wear this at all times, Mr. Conklin." Such was Bourne's tone and demeanor that she failed to ask if Sido was expecting him, taking it for granted that "Mr. Conklin" had an interview with Dr. Sido. She provided the new visitor with directions and Bourne set off.

"They require special ID tags to get into his section, white for visitors, green for
resident doctors, blue for assistants and support staff,"
Eszti Sido had told him, so his immediate task was to find a likely member of the staff.

On his way to the Epidemiological Wing, he passed four men, none of whom were the right somatotype. He needed someone who was more or less his size. Along the way he tried every door that wasn't marked as an office or lab, looking for storage rooms and the like, places that would be infrequently visited by the medical staff. He was unconcerned with members of the cleaning crew, since it was likely that they wouldn't be in until the evening.

At length he saw coming toward him a man in a white lab coat of more or less his height and weight. He wore a green ID tag that identified him as Dr. Lenz Morintz.

"Excuse me, Dr. Morintz," Bourne said with a deprecating smile, "I wonder if you could direct me to the Microbiological Wing. I seem to have lost my way."

"Indeed you have," Dr. Morintz said. "You're headed straight for the Epi-demiological Wing."

"Oh, dear," Bourne said, "I really have got myself turned around."

"Not to worry," Dr. Morintz said. "Here's all you have to do." As he turned to point Bourne in the right direction, Bourne chopped down with the edge of his hand and the bacteriologist collapsed. Bourne caught him before he could hit the floor. Standing him more or less upright, he half-carried, half-dragged the doctor back to the nearest storage room, ignoring the searing pain from his cracked ribs. Inside, Bourne turned on the light, took off his jacket, and stuffed it into a corner. Then he stripped Dr. Morintz of his lab coat and ID. Using some spare surgical tape, he bound the doctor's hands behind his back, taped his ankles tightly, and wrapped a final piece across his mouth. Then he dragged the body into a corner, stashing it behind a couple of large cartons. He returned to the door, turned off the light and went out into the corridor.

For a time after she arrived at the Eurocenter Bio-I Clinic, Annaka sat in the taxi while the meter ran. Stepan had made it abundantly clear that they were now entering the mission's final phase. Every decision they made, every move they took, was of critical importance. Any mistake now could lead to disaster. Bourne or Khan. She didn't know which was the greater wild card, which one presented the greatest danger. Of the two, Bourne was the more stable, but Khan was without compunction. His similarity to her was an irony she couldn't afford to ignore.

And yet it had occurred to her most recently that there were more differences that she'd once imagined. For a start, he hadn't been able to bring himself to kill Jason Bourne, despite his stated desire to do so. And then, just as startlingly, there was his lapse in her Skoda when he'd leaned down to kiss the nape of her neck. From the moment she'd walked out on him she'd wondered whether what he'd felt for her had been genuine. Now she knew. Khan could feel; he could, if given enough incentive, forge emotional attachments. Frankly, she'd never have believed it of him, not with his background.

"Miss?" the taxi driver's query broke into her thoughts. "Are you meeting someone here or is there somewhere else you want me to take you?"

Annaka leaned forward, pressing a wad of bills into his hand. "This will be fine here." Still she didn't move, but she looked around, wondering where Kevin McColl was. It was easy for Stepan sitting safe in his office at Humanistas to tell her not to worry about the CIA agent, but she was in the field with a capable and dangerous assassin and the severely wounded man he was determined to kill. When the bullets began to fly, she was the one who was going to be in the line of fire.