Part 9 (1/2)

Batt looked from the secretary to LaValle and back again. A frown formed on his face. ”No, sir, he didn't.”

”An oversight,” LaValle said smoothly.

”Well, no time like the present.” A smile continued to light Halliday's expression.

”We believe that one of CI's problems is Typhon,” LaValle said. ”It's become too much for the director to properly rehabilitate and manage CI, and and keep tabs on Typhon. As such, responsibility for Typhon will be taken off your shoulders. That section will be controlled directly by me.” keep tabs on Typhon. As such, responsibility for Typhon will be taken off your shoulders. That section will be controlled directly by me.”

The entire topic had been handled smoothly, but Batt knew he'd been deliberately sandbagged. These people had wanted control of Typhon from the beginning. ”Typhon is home-grown CI,” he said. ”It's Martin Lindros's brainchild.”

”Martin Lindros is dead,” LaValle pointed out needlessly. ”Another female is the director of Typhon now. That needs to be addressed, along with many other decisions that will affect Typhon's future. You will also need to be making crucial decisions, Rob, about all of CI. You don't want more on your plate than you can handle, do you.” It wasn't a question.

Batt felt himself losing traction on a slippery slope. ”Typhon is part of CI,” he said as a last, feeble attempt to win back control.

”Mr. Batt,” Halliday interjected. ”We have made our determination. Are you with us or shall we recruit someone else for DCI?”

The man whose call had drawn Professor Specter out into the street was Mikhail Tarkanian. Bourne suggested the National Zoo as a place to meet, and the professor had called Tarkanian. The professor then contacted his secretary at the university to tell her that he and Professor Webb were each taking a personal day. They got in Specter's car, which had been driven to the estate by one of his men, and headed toward the zoo.

”Your problem, Jason, is that you need an ideology,” Specter said. ”An ideology grounds you. It's the backbone of commitment.”

Bourne, who was driving, shook his head. ”As far back as I can remember I've been manipulated by ideologues. So far as I can tell, all ideology does is give you tunnel vision. Everything that doesn't fit within your self-imposed limits is either ignored or destroyed.”

”Now I know I'm truly speaking to Jason Bourne,” Specter said, ”because I tried my best to instill in David Webb a sense of purpose he lost somewhere in his past. When you came to me you weren't just cast adrift, you were severely maimed. I sought to help heal you by helping you turn away from whatever it was that hurt you so deeply. But now I see I was wrong-”

”You weren't wrong, Professor.”

”No, let me finish. You're always quick to defend me, to believe I'm always right. Don't think I don't appreciate how you feel about me. I wouldn't want anything to change that. But occasionally I do make mistakes, and this was one of them. I don't know what went into the making of the Bourne ident.i.ty, and believe me when I tell you that I don't want to know.

”What seems clear to me, however, is that however much you don't want to believe it, something inside you, something innate and connected with the Bourne ident.i.ty, sets you apart from everyone else.”

Bourne felt troubled by the direction of the conversation. ”Do you mean that I'm Jason Bourne through and through-that David Webb would have become him no matter what?”

”No, not at all. But I do think from what you've shared with me that if there had been no intervention, if there had been no Bourne ident.i.ty, then David Webb would have been a very unhappy man.”

This idea was not a new one to Bourne. But he'd always a.s.sumed the thought occurred to him because he knew so d.a.m.nably little about who he'd been. David Webb was more of an enigma to him than Jason Bourne. That realization itself haunted Bourne, as if Webb were a ghost, a shadowing armature into which the Bourne ident.i.ty had been hung, fleshed out, given life by Alex Conklin.

Bourne, driving up Connecticut Avenue, NW, crossed Cathedral Avenue. The entrance to the zoo appeared up ahead. ”The truth is, I don't think David Webb would have lasted to the end of the school year.”

”Then I'm pleased I decided to involve you in my real pa.s.sion.” Something seemed to have been settled inside Specter. ”It's not often a man gets a chance to rectify his mistakes.”

The day was mild enough that the gorilla family had been let out. Schoolchildren cl.u.s.tered noisily at the end of the area where the patriarch sat, surrounded by his brood. The silverback did his level best to ignore them, but when their incessant chatter became too much for him, he walked to the other end of the compound, trailed by his family. There he sat while the same annoyances spiraled out of control. Then he plodded back to the spot where Bourne had first seen him.

Mikhail Tarkanian was waiting for them beside the silverback gorilla area. He looked Specter up and down, clucking over his black eye. Then he took him in his arms, kissed him on both cheeks. ”Allah is good, my friend. You are alive and well.”

”Thanks to Jason here. He rescued me. I owe him my life.” Specter introduced the two men.

Tarkanian kissed Bourne on both cheeks, thanking him effusively.

There came a shuffling of the gorilla family as some grooming got under way.

”d.a.m.n sad life.” Tarkanian hooked his thumb at the silverback.

Bourne noted that his English was heavily accented in the manner of the tough Sokolniki slum of northeast Moscow.

”Look at the poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d,” Tarkanian said.

The gorilla's expression was glum-resigned rather than defiant.

Specter said, ”Jason's here on a bit of a fact-finding mission.”

”Is he now?” Tarkanian was fleshy in the way of ex-athletes-neck like a bull, wary eyes sunk in yellow flesh. He kept his shoulders up around his ears, as if to ward off an expected blow. Enough hard knocks in Sokolniki to last a lifetime.

”I want you to answer his questions,” Specter said.

”Of course. Anything I can do.”

”I need your help,” Bourne said. ”Tell me about Pyotr Zilber.”

Tarkanian, appearing somewhat taken aback, glanced at Specter, who had retreated a pace in order to center his man's full attention on Bourne. Then he shrugged. ”Sure. What d'you want to know?”

”How did you find out he'd been killed?”

”The usual way. Through one of our contacts.” Tarkanian shook his head. ”I was devastated. Pyotr was a key man for us. He was also a friend.”

”How d'you figure he was found out?”

A gaggle of schoolgirls pranced by. When they had pa.s.sed out of earshot, Tarkanian said, ”I wish I knew. He wasn't easy to get to, I'll tell you that.”

Bourne said casually, ”Did Pyotr have friends?”

”Of course he had friends. But none of them would betray him, if that's what you're asking.” Tarkanian pushed his lips out. ”On the other hand . . .” His words trailed off.

Bourne found his eyes, held them.

”Pyotr was seeing this woman. Gala Nematova. He was head-over-heels about her.”

”I a.s.sume she was properly vetted,” Bourne said.

”Of course. But, well, Pyotr was a bit, um, headstrong when it came to women.”

”Was that widely known?”

”I seriously doubt it,” Tarkanian said.

That was a mistake, Bourne thought. The habits and proclivities of the enemy were always for sale if you were clever and persistent enough. Tarkanian should have said, I don't know. Possibly I don't know. Possibly. As neutral an answer as possible, and closer to the truth.

”Women can be a weak link.” Bourne thought briefly of Moira and the cloud of uncertainty that hovered over her from the CI investigation. The idea that Martin could have been seduced into revealing CI secrets was a bitter pill to swallow. He hoped when he read the communication between her and Martin that Soraya had unearthed, he could lay the question to rest.

”We're all sick about Pyotr's death,” Tarkanian offered. Again the glance at Specter.

”No question.” Bourne smiled rather vaguely. ”Murder's a serious matter, especially in this case. I'm talking to everyone, that's all.”