Part 5 (1/2)

There was the briefest of silences before she answered. ”Who is this?”

”Jason Bourne.”

”Where is Soraya Moore?”

”Soraya is fine, Director. I simply needed a way to contact you once I'd broken the surveillance, and I was quite certain Soraya wouldn't give it to me willingly.”

”So you stole her phone.”

”I want to meet with you,” Bourne said. He didn't have much time. At any moment, Soraya might reach for her phone, would know he'd hijacked it and come after him. ”I want to see the evidence that led you to order the surveillance on Moira Trevor.”

”I don't take kindly to being told what to do, especially by a rogue agent.”

”But you will meet with me, Director, because I'm the only one with access to Moira. I'm your fast track to finding out if she's really rotten or whether you're on a wild goose chase.”

I think I'll stick to the proven way.” Veronica Hart, sitting in her new office with Rob Batt, mouthed the words think I'll stick to the proven way.” Veronica Hart, sitting in her new office with Rob Batt, mouthed the words Jason Bourne Jason Bourne to her DDCI. to her DDCI.

”But you can't,” Bourne said in her ear. ”Now that I've broken the surveillance I can ensure that Moira vanishes off your grid.”

Hart stood up. ”I also don't respond well to threats.”

”I have no need to threaten you, Director. I'm simply telling you the facts.”

Batt studied her expression as well as her responses, trying to get a reading of the conversation. They had been working nonstop since she'd returned from her meeting with the president. He was exhausted, on the point of leaving, but this call interested him intensely.

”Look,” Bourne said, ”Martin was my friend. He was a hero. I don't want his reputation tarnished.”

”All right,” Hart said, ”come to my office later this morning, say around eleven.”

”I'm not setting foot inside CI headquarters,” Bourne said. ”We'll meet this evening at five at the entrance to the Freer Gallery.”

”What if I-?”

But Bourne had already severed the connection.

Moira was up, clad in her paisley robe, when Bourne returned. She was in the kitchen, making fresh coffee. She glanced at him without comment. She had more sense than to ask about his comings and goings.

Bourne took off his coat. ”Just checking the area for tails.”

She paused. ”And did you find any?”

”Quiet as the grave.” He didn't believe that Moira had been pumping Martin for CI intel, but the inordinate sense of security-of secretiveness-instilled in him by Conklin warned him not to tell her the truth.

She relaxed visibly. ”That's a relief.” Setting the pot on the flame, she said, ”Do we have time for a cup together?”

Gray light filtered through the blinds, brightening by the minute. An engine coughed, traffic started up on the street. Voices rose briefly, and a dog barked. The morning had begun.

They stood side by side in the kitchen. Between them on the wall was a Kit-Cat Klock, its raffish kitty eyes and tail moving back and forth as time pa.s.sed.

”Jason, tell me it wasn't just mutual loneliness and sorrow that motivated us.”

When he took her in his arms he felt a tiny s.h.i.+ver work its way through her. ”One-night stands are not in my vocabulary, Moira.”

She put her head against his chest.

He pulled her hair back from her cheek. ”I don't feel like coffee right now.”

She moved against him. ”Neither do I.”

Professor Dominic Specter was stirring sugar into the strong Turkish tea he always carried with him when David Webb walked into the Wonderlake diner on 36th Street, NW. The place was lined with wooden boards, the tables reclaimed wooden slabs, the mismatched chairs found objects. Photographs of loggers and Pacific Northwest vistas were ranged around the walls, interspersed with real logging tools: peaveys, cant hooks, pulp hooks, and timberjacks. The place was a perennial student favorite because of its hours, the inexpensive food, and the inescapable a.s.sociations with Monty Python's ”The Lumberjack Song.”

Bourne ordered coffee as soon as he sat down.

”Good morning, David.” Specter c.o.c.ked his head like a bird on a wire. ”You look like you haven't slept.”

The coffee was just the way Bourne liked it: strong, black, sugarless. ”I had a lot to think about.”

Specter c.o.c.ked his head. ”David, what is it? Anything I can help with? My door is always open.”

”I appreciate that. I always have.”

”I can see something's troubling you. Whatever it is, together we can work it out.”

The waiter, dressed in red-checked flannel s.h.i.+rt, jeans, and Timberland boots, set the menus down on the table and left.

”It's about my job.”

”Is it wrong for you?” The professor spread his hands. ”You miss teaching, I imagine. All right, we'll put you back in the cla.s.sroom.”

”I'm afraid it's more serious than that.”

When he didn't continue, Professor Specter cleared his throat. ”I've noticed a certain restlessness in you over the past few weeks. Could it have anything to do with that?”

Bourne nodded. ”I've think I've been trying to recapture something that can't be caught.”

”Are you worried about disappointing me, my boy?” Specter rubbed his chin. ”You know, years ago when you told me about the Bourne ident.i.ty, I counseled you to seek professional help. Such a serious mental schism inevitably builds up pressure in the individual.”

”I've had help before. So I know how to handle the pressure.”

”I'm not questioning that, David.” Specter paused. ”Or should I be calling you Jason?”

Bourne continued to sip his coffee, said nothing.

”I'd love you to stay, Jason, but only if it's the right thing for you.”

Specter's cell phone buzzed but he ignored it. ”Understand, I only want what's best for you. But your life's been in upheaval. First, Marie's death, then the demise of your best friends.” His phone buzzed again. ”I thought you needed sanctuary, which you always have here. But if you've made up your mind to leave . . .” He looked at the number lit up on his phone. ”Excuse me a moment.”