Darkness at noon. The lowering clouds let go the first stuttering spurt, then the rain started in earnest, pocking the sidewalks, running in the gutters, hurling itself onto the car’s roof, against the windshield, turning the world smeary, draining it of color.
Coven had been an agnostic when it came to the changing of the guard at DCI level. Wet work was wet work; he didn’t think that his job, a universe away from the district, would be jeopardized no matter who was running the show. But that was before DCI Danziger had issued new orders, which he considered unprofessional at best, a potential disaster at worst.
Now, squinting through the rain as Bourne emerged from the building, Coven found himself wondering at DCI Danziger’s hidden agenda. It wouldn’t be the first time a DCI had one, but this man was new, hadn’t come up through the ranks, had hardly earned loyalty from people like Coven who risked their lives in the field every hour of every day and night. The thought that this interloper might be running him as part of his own designs pissed Coven off royally. So the moment he spied Bourne exiting the building, he decided to handle the assignment his way and screw DCI Danziger and his secret agenda. If Bourne had something he wanted that badly, Coven would do well to take it for himself.
My family’s entire history is on that laptop,” Jalal Essai said.
“That would hardly be a reason for Black River and the NSA to be after it,” Moira countered.
“No, of course not.”
Essai sighed as he sat back against his chair. They were seated at a corner table in the heart of the terrace restaurant at Caravanserai, a small, exclusive boutique hotel in Virginia, which Essai owned. Ivy-covered brick walls rose on three sides, the fourth being taken up by a row of enormous French doors that led to the restaurant’s interior section.
Mint tea had been set before them, along with an elegant menu of the day’s fresh offerings, but Moira was far more interested in her host. He was more relaxed now, either because she was on the verge of agreeing to his proposal or because they were in surroundings he could control. While the restaurant’s interior was a bit more than half filled, theirs was the only occupied table on the flagstone terrace. A veritable fleet of servers stood by, waiting to be summoned by their master. There was something distinctly Eastern in the tone of the service that made it easy to imagine they were outside the borders of the United States. Far outside.
“I could lie but I have too much respect for you.” Essai moistened his lips with the tea. “The history of my family is of interest-quite possibly great interest-to elements of your government, as well as to a number of individuals and organizations in the private sector.”
“Why would that be?” Moira asked. “And please be specific.”
Essai smiled. “I knew the moment we met that I would like you, and I was right.”
“Did you make a bet with Mr. Binns?”
Essai laughed, a dark, bronze-edged sound that sounded uncannily like a gong being struck. “He told you about our bet, did he?” He shook his head. “Our Mr. Binns is a conservative sort, one wager is all he would accede to.”
Moira noted the our but decided to ignore it for the moment. “Let’s get back to basics.”
Essai took more of his tea. As with most Arabs, direct conversations were not a part of his repertoire; he preferred a circuitous route that would allow both parties time to gain valuable knowledge before closing a business deal. Moira knew this, of course, but Binns and Essai had blindsided her and she didn’t like it. She needed to regain the ground she had lost during the string of surprises Essai had sprung on her in the Rolls, and she calculated that the best way do this was to dictate the pace and flow of the conversation.
“This has something to do with Noah, doesn’t it?” she said suddenly. “I worked for him at Black River and he was involved with the laptop, which is why you chose me, correct?”
Essai looked at her directly. “You are the right person for this job for many reasons, as I told you. One of them is, yes, your relationship with Noah Perlis.”
“What did Noah do? Was he the one who stole the laptop?”
Essai had picked up his menu and perused it. “Ah, the Dover sole is a special today. I highly recommend it.” He looked up, his dark eyes serious. “It’s plated with authentic Moroccan couscous.”
“Then how could I refuse?”
“Splendid!” He looked genuinely delighted and, when he turned, a server was at his right elbow. He ordered for them, then handed the server their menus. When they were alone again he steepled his fingers and said, in much the same tone of voice, “Your late, and I gather unlamented, boss Mr. Perlis was very much involved.”
Moira found herself leaning forward in anticipation. “And?”
He shrugged. “We cannot go forward, you and I, until our deal is ratified. Will you or won’t you agree to find my laptop?”
Moira felt herself breathe, but it was as if she were detached from her body, as if she were looking down at this scene from a height. This was it: She could say no, even now. But she found that she didn’t want to walk away from this assignment. She needed work, needed a new door opened for her, and since this man had given her information that could save her new company from ruin she thought she might as well say yes.
“All right,” she heard herself say. “But I want double my usual fee.”
“Done.” Essai nodded, as if he was expecting this answer all along. “Most gratifying, Ms. Trevor. I thank you from the bottom of my heart.”
“Thank me when I’ve returned your laptop,” she said. “Now about Noah.”
“Your Mr. Perlis was something of a pilot fish. That is to say, he thrived on going after other people’s initiatives.” He spread his hands. “But I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know, am I?”
Moira shook her head.
“This was no exception. Mr. Perlis came to the game a bit on the late side.”
A warning bell went off in Moira’s head. “How late?”
“The mission to find and obtain my notebook by illegal means was the brainchild of CI. More accurately, the small DoN-”
“DoN?”
“Dead of Night,” Essai explained. “This term isn’t known to you?” He waved a hand: It was of no matter. “The DoN arm known as Treadstone.”
Moira felt stunned. “Alex Conklin wanted your laptop?”
“That’s right.” Essai sat back as the appetizers of prawn salad, the heads still on, were placed in front of them. The server vanished without a word.
“And he engineered the raid?”
“Oh, no, not Conklin.”
Essai took up his fork with his right hand and for a moment concentrated on deftly separating the heads from the bodies of his prawns. With one head still impaled on the tines of his fork, his gaze met hers again in such a shocking manner that she instinctively moved back, as if scrambling out of the line of fire.
“It was your friend Jason Bourne who came into my house, where my family eats and sleeps and laughs.”
In that frozen moment, while her heart seemed to cease beating, she knew the dislocated feeling for what it really was: the terrifying moment when your car’s brakes fail and, accelerating beyond your control, you see another vehicle about to slam into you head-on.
“Where my wife sews my clothes, where my daughter rests her head on my lap, where my son is day by day learning to be a man.” A dark vibration, as of a vengeance-filled scream, turned his voice ragged. “Jason Bourne violated every sacred tenet of my life when he stole my laptop.” He lifted the shrimp head as if it were a banner on the field of war. “And now, Ms. Trevor, by all that’s holy you’re going to get it back.”
5
THE CITY OF London, just over a mile square, is the historic core of what is now London proper. In medieval times it encompassed London, Westminster, and Southwark, guarded by a defensive wall built by the Romans in the second century, around which the modern metropolis threw its many arms like a spider extending its web. These days the City, slightly expanded, was the financial hub of London. Aguardiente Bancorp, being largely a commercial rather than a retail bank, had its one and only branch on Chancery Lane, just north of Fleet Street. From its large, stately windows, which faced southwest, Bourne could imagine rising the Temple Bar, the historic gate that a century ago linked the City, the financial center, to the road to Westminster, London’s political seat. The Temple Bar, named after the Temple Church, once home of the Knights Templar, was soberly presided over by statues of a griffin and a pair of dragons. Bourne did not, of course, look like Bourne, but rather Noah Perlis, the result of having made a number of purchases at a theatrical makeup shop in Covent Garden.