Moira frowned. “Don’t you miss them?”

“I miss them terribly,” Bourne said, “but the truth is they’re far better off where they

are. What kind of life could I offer them? And then there’s the constant danger from my

Bourne identity. Marie was kidnapped and threatened in order to force me to do

something I had no intention of doing. I won’t make that mistake again.”

“But surely you see them from time to time.”

“As often as I can, but it’s difficult. I can’t afford to have anyone following me back to

them.”

“My heart goes out to you,” Moira said, meaning it. She smiled. “I must say it’s odd

seeing you here, on a university campus, behind a desk.” She laughed. “Shall I buy you a

pipe and a jacket with elbow patches?”

Bourne smiled. “I’m content here, Moira. Really I am.”

“I’m happy for you. Martin’s death was difficult for both of us. My anodyne is going

back to work full-bore. Yours is obviously here, in a new life.”

“An old life, really.” Bourne looked around the office. “Marie was happiest when I

was teaching, when she could count on me being home every night in time to have dinner

with her and the kids.”

“What about you?” Moira asked. “Were you happiest here?”

A cloud passed across Bourne’s face. “I was happy being with Marie.” He turned to

her. “I can’t imagine being able to say that to anyone else but you.”

“A rare compliment from you, Jason.”

“Are my compliments so rare?”

“Like Martin, you’re a master at keeping secrets,” she said. “But I have doubts about

how healthy that is.”

“I’m sure it’s not healthy at all,” Bourne said. “But it’s the life we chose.”

“Speaking of which.” She sat down on a chair opposite him. “I came early for our

dinner date to talk to you about a work situation, but now, seeing how content you are

here, I don’t know whether to continue.”

Bourne recalled the first time he had seen her, a slim, shapely figure in the mist, dark

hair swirling about her face. She was standing at the parapet in the Cloisters, overlooking the Hudson River. The two of them had come there to say good-bye to their mutual friend

Martin Lindros, whom Bourne had valiantly tried to save, only to fail.

Today Moira was dressed in a wool suit, a silk blouse open at the throat. Her face was

strong, with a prominent nose, deep brown eyes wide apart, intelligent, curved slightly at

their outer corners. Her hair fell to her shoulders in luxuriant waves. There was an

uncommon serenity about her, a woman who knew what she was about, who wouldn’t be

intimidated or bullied by anyone, woman or man.

Perhaps this last was what Bourne liked best about her. In that, though in no other way,

she was like Marie. He had never pried into her relationship with Martin, but he assumed

it had been romantic, since Martin had given Bourne standing orders to send her a dozen

red roses should he ever die. This Bourne had done, with a sadness whose depth surprised

even him.

Settled in her chair, one long, shapely leg crossed over her knee, she looked the model

of a European businesswoman. She had told him that she was half French, half English,

but her genes still carried the imprint of ancient Venetian and Turkish ancestors. She was

proud of the fire in her mixed blood, the result of wars, invasions, fierce love.

“Go on.” He leaned forward, elbows on his desk. “I want to hear what you have to

say.”

She nodded. “All right. As I’ve told you, NextGen Energy Solutions has completed our

new liquid natural gas terminal in Long Beach. Our first shipment is due in two weeks. I

had this idea, which now seems utterly crazy, but here goes. I’d like you to head up the

security procedures. My bosses are worried the terminal would make an awfully tempting

target for any terrorist group, and I agree. Frankly, I can’t think of anyone who’d make it more secure than you.”

“I’m flattered, Moira. But I have obligations here. As you know, Professor Specter has

installed me as the head of the Comparative Linguistics Department. I don’t want to

disappoint him.”

“I like Dominic Specter, Jason, really I do. You’ve made it clear that he’s your mentor.

Actually, he’s David Webb’s mentor, right? But it’s Jason Bourne I first met, it feels like it’s Jason Bourne I’ve been coming to know these last few months. Who is Jason

Bourne’s mentor?”

Bourne’s face darkened, as it had at the mention of Marie. “Alex Conklin’s dead.”

Moira shifted in her chair. “If you come work with me there’s no baggage attached to

it. Think about it. It’s a chance to leave your past lives behind-both David Webb’s and

Jason Bourne’s. I’m flying to Munich shortly because a key element of the terminal is

being manufactured there. I need an expert opinion on it when I check the specs.”

“Moira, there are any number of experts you can use.”

“But none whose opinion I trust as much as yours. This is crucial stuff, Jason. More

than half the goods shipped into the United States come through the port at Long Beach,

so our security measures have to be something special. The US government has already

shown it has neither the time nor the inclination to secure commercial traffic, so we’re

forced to police it ourselves. The danger to this terminal is real and it’s serious. I know how expert you are at bypassing even the most arcane security systems. You’re the

perfect candidate to put nonconventional measures into place.”

Bourne stood. “Moira, listen to me. Marie was David Webb’s biggest cheerleader.

Since her death, I’ve let go of him completely. But he’s not dead, he’s not an invalid. He

lives on inside me. When I fall asleep I dream of his life as if it was someone else’s, and I wake up in a sweat. I feel as if a part of me has been sliced off. I don’t want to feel that way anymore. It’s time to give David Webb his due.”

Veronica Hart’s step was light and virtually carefree as she was admitted past

checkpoint after checkpoint on her way into the bunker that was the West Wing of the

White House. The job she was about to be handed-director of Central Intelligence-was a

formidable one, especially in the aftermath of last year’s twin debacles of murder and

gross breach of security. Nevertheless, she had never been happier. Having a sense of

purpose was vital to her; being singled out for daunting responsibility was the ultimate

validation of all the arduous work, setbacks, and threats she’d had to endure because of

her gender.

There was also the matter of her age. At forty-six she was the youngest DCI in recent

memory. Being the youngest at something was nothing new to her. Her astonishing

intelligence combined with her fierce determination to ensure that she was the youngest

to graduate from her college, youngest to be appointed to military intelligence, to central army command, to a highly lucrative Black River private intelligence position in

Afghanistan and the Horn of Africa where, to this day, not even the heads of the seven

directorates within CI knew precisely where she had been posted, whom she commanded,

or what her mission had been.

Now, at last, she was steps away from the apex, the top of the intelligence heap. She’d

successfully leapt all the hurdles, sidestepped every trap, negotiated every maze, learned

who to befriend and who to show her back to. She had endured relentless sexual

innuendo, rumors of conduct unbecoming, stories of her reliance on her male inferiors

who supposedly did her thinking for her. In each case she had triumphed, emphatically

putting a stake through the heart of the lies and, in some instances, taking down their