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“How did he know?” Hererra shook his head. “That’s a question we’d all like answered.”
Book Three
21
AMERICANS!” Soraya said. “God in heaven, what madness is this?”
She half expected Amun to make an acerbic comment, but he remained mute, watching her with his large scarab eyes.
“A cadre of American military men who just happen to be on leave here in Al Ghardaqah are given a mission that begins in Khartoum two weeks or so before an Iranian Kowsar 3 missile brings down an American passenger jet in Egyptian airspace. It’s unthinkable.” She raked a hand through her thick black hair. “For God’s sake, Amun, say something.”
They were sitting at a seaside restaurant, eating because they knew they had to. Soraya had no appetite and, she saw, Amun apparently didn’t have much more. Three of his men were sitting nearby, guarding Stephen, who was scarfing down a meal as if it was going to be his last. The sun was a ruddy, flattened disk near the horizon. The cloudless sky arched above them, vast and somehow desolate.
Chalthoum pushed his food around his plate. “I still think he’s lying to save his skin,” he said sourly.
“What if he’s not? The dive shop owner corroborated his story. There were four Americans diving off the boat approximately two weeks ago. They dived for three days, paid cash, and left abruptly, without talking to anyone.”
“Sounds like anyone and everyone.” Amun shot a poisonous glance over at the prisoner. “It does make a compelling story, doesn’t it?”
“Amun, I don’t think we can afford to take the chance he’s lying. I think we should go to Khartoum.”
“And abandon the probability that Iranian terrorists were here in Egypt?” He shook his head. “Not a chance.”
Soraya was already on her phone, punching in Veronica Hart’s number. If she was going to go to Khartoum—with or without Amun—she had to confirm her decision with the DCI. Heading into Sudan was serious business.
She frowned as the phone continued to ring and no voice mail intervened. At length, a male voice answered.
“Who is this?”
“Soraya Moore. Who the hell are you?”
“It’s Peter, Soraya. Peter Marks.” Marks was the chief of CI operations, smart and reliable.
“What are you doing answering the DCI’s private cell?”
“Soraya, DCI Hart is dead.”
“What?” The blood drained from Soraya’s face and all at once she felt the breath rush out of her. “Dead? How could—?” Her voice sounded thin, attenuated, faraway. Dimly, she realized she was in shock. “What happened?”
“There was an explosion—a car bomb, we think.”
“Oh, my God!”
“There were two individuals with her: Moira Trevor and someone by the name of Humphry Bamber, a software designer with his own boutique firm.”
“Are they alive or dead?”
“Alive, presumably,” Marks said, “though that’s pure speculation. We have no idea where they are. For all we know, they were responsible for the DCI’s death.”
“Or they fled for their lives.”
“Another possibility,” Marks conceded. “At the very least, they need to be brought in and questioned as the only witnesses to the incident.” He paused for a moment. “The thing is, the Trevor woman was involved with Jason Bourne.”
Events were moving faster than Soraya could follow in her current state. “How is that relevant?” she said curtly.
“I don’t know if it is, but she was also involved with Martin Lindros. Some months ago, DCI Hart was investigating the connection.”
“I was part of that investigation,” Soraya said. “There was nothing to it. Moira Trevor and Martin were friends, period.”
“And yet, both Lindros and Bourne are now dead.” Marks cleared his throat. “Did you know Ms. Trevor was with Bourne when he was killed?”
A tremor of premonition chilled her. “I didn’t, no.”
“I’ve done some digging. It turns out that Ms. Trevor used to work at Black River.”
Soraya’s mind was reeling. “So did DCI Hart.”
“Interesting, no? There’s more: Ms. Trevor and Bamber were admitted to the ER at George Washington University Hospital less than twenty minutes after the blast. No one saw them leave, but—and here’s the really good part—a man who flashed a government ID asked for them by name less than five minutes after they began treatment.”
“Someone followed them.”
“I would say so,” Marks said.
“What was the man’s name and what department of the government is he with?”
“The billion-dollar question. No one could remember, the place was a madhouse. So I checked myself. Either no one is owning up to this agent or he wasn’t government. On the other hand, it wouldn’t surprise me to learn that the DoD has secretly authorized some Black River ops to carry government IDs.”
Soraya took several deep breaths both to calm herself and to allow her mind to start making connections. “Peter, the DCI sent me to Egypt to try to find out about the indigenous Iranian freedom fighters Black River made contact with, but in my most recent conversation with her she agreed to let me explore a theory that the Iranian terrorists who shot down our jet had help transshipping the missile, possibly from the Saudis.”
“Jesus, and…?”
“The reason I was calling her now is that there’s a possibility that the Iranians weren’t involved at all.”
“What?” Marks exploded. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“I wish I were. Two weeks ago, four American military men on leave were suddenly sent on a mission that began in Khartoum.”
“So?”
“Amun Chalthoum and I have been operating under the supposition that the Saudis helped the Iranian terrorists transport the Kowsar 3 missile through Iraq and across the Red Sea, to someplace along the east coast of Egypt. His people have been swarming the coast all day with nothing to show for it, so we’ve been searching for alternatives. The only other access into Egypt is from the south.”
She heard Marks’s sharp intake of breath. “That would be Sudan.”
“And Khartoum would be the logical staging area, the place where the Kowsar 3 could be flown in under everyone’s radar.”
“I don’t understand. What’s the connection between our military and Iranian terrorists?”
“That’s just the point, there isn’t any,” Soraya said. “We’re looking at a scenario that doesn’t involve either Iranians or Saudis.”
Marks laughed uneasily. “What are you implying, that we shot down our own jet?”
“The government wouldn’t,” she said perfectly serious. “But Black River might.”
“That theory is almost as crazy,” he said.
“What if the terrible incidents back home are connected to what’s happened over here?”
“That’s something of a stretch, even for you.”
“Listen to me carefully, Peter. DCI Hart was concerned about the current relationship between the NSA—specifically Secretary Halliday—and Black River. Now she’s the victim of a car bomb.” She allowed that pronouncement to hang in the air for a moment before continuing. “The only way to get to the bottom of the mystery is eyes on the ground. I need to go to Khartoum.”
“Soraya, Sudan is far too dangerous for a director to—”
“Typhon has an agent in place in Khartoum.”
“Good, let him investigate.”
“This is too big, Peter, the ramifications too grave. Besides, after all that’s happened, I don’t trust anyone.”
“What about this Chalthoum character? He’s the head of al Mokhabarat, for chrissakes.”
“Believe me, he has as much to lose from this situation as we do.”
“It’s incumbent on me to point out that your agent in Khartoum can’t guarantee your safety.”
By his tone, she knew he’d acquiesced. “No one can, Peter. Keep DCI Hart’s phone with
you. I’ll keep you apprised.”
“Okay, but—”
As Soraya severed the connection, she looked at Amun. “The director of Central Intelligence was just killed in Washington by a car bomb. This situation stinks, Amun. We’re not up against Iranian terrorists, I know it. Will you come with me to Khartoum?”
Amun rolled his eyes, then threw his hands into the air. “Azizti, what choice have you left me?”
After Moira and Humphry Bamber exited the taxi in Foggy Bottom, he led her west across the bridge and into Georgetown. He was nervous, walking so quickly that several times she had to take him by the arm to slow him down because he was too terrified to listen to her. Along the way she checked plate-glass windows and cars’ side-mirrors for any signs of a tail, both vehicular and pedestrian. At least twice she had them walk around the block or enter a shop as a double blind, to make certain they were absolutely clean. Only then would she allow Bamber to take her to their destination.
This turned out to be on R Street: a redbrick Federal-style town house with a copper mansard roof and four dormer windows where fat-breasted pigeons sat, cooing drowsily. They climbed the slate steps, and Bamber used the brass knocker on the polished wooden door. In a moment it swung inward to reveal a slender man with longish brown hair, green eyes, and angular cheekbones.
“H, you look—What happened to you?”
“Chrissie, this is Moira Trevor. Moira, meet Christian Lamontierre.”
“The dancer?”
Bamber was already on the threshold. “Moira saved my life. Can we come in?”
“Saved your…? Of course.” Lamontierre stepped back into the small, jewel-like entryway. He did so with a grace and power no untrained human being could muster. “Where are my manners?” His face was clouded by worry. “Are you two all right? I can call my doctor.”
“No doctor,” Moira said.
As their host closed the heavy door, Bamber double-locked it.
Seeing this, Lamontierre said, “I think we could use a drink.” He gestured, leading the way into a beautifully appointed living room in dove gray and cream. It was a world of calm and elegance. Books on ballet and modern dance were scattered about the coffee table; on shelves were photos of Lamontierre on stage and in informal poses with Martha Graham, Mark Morris, Bill T. Jones, and Twyla Tharp, among others.
They sat on gray-and-silver–striped sofas while Lamontierre crossed to a sideboard, then abruptly turned.
“You two look like you need a rest and some food. Why don’t I toddle on off to the kitchen and make us all something to eat?”
Without waiting for a reply, he left them alone, for which Moira was grateful, since she had a number of questions she wanted to ask Bamber without causing him embarrassment.
Bamber was one step ahead of her. Sighing as he leaned back against the sofa, he said, “When I hit my thirties, it began to dawn on me that men weren’t designed to be monogamous, either physically or emotionally. We were designed to propagate, to continue the species at all costs. Being gay doesn’t change that biological imperative.”
Moira recalled him telling her that he was taking her somewhere even Stevenson hadn’t known about. “So you’ve been having an affair with Lamontierre.”
“It would’ve killed Steve to talk about it.”
“You mean he knew?”
“Steve wasn’t stupid. And he was intuitive, if not about himself, then about those around him. He might have suspected, or not. I don’t know. But his self-image wasn’t the best; he was always concerned that I would leave him.” He rose, poured some water for both of them, brought the glasses back, and handed one to her.
“I wouldn’t have left him, not ever,” he said as he sat down.
“I’m not going to judge you,” Moira said.
“No? Then you’d be the first.”
Moira took a long drink of water; she was parched. “Tell me about you and Noah Perlis.”
“That fucker.” Bamber pulled a face. “A tidy little war, that’s what Noah wanted from me, something he could tie up in a bow and present as a gift to his client.”
“You got paid well enough.”
“Don’t remind me.” Bamber drained his glass. “That blood money’s going straight to AIDS research.”
“Back to Noah,” Moira said gently.
“Right.”
“Please explain the phrase, ‘a tidy little war.’ ”
At that moment, Lamontierre called to them and they rose wearily, Bamber leading the way down a hall, past a bathroom, and into the kitchen at the rear of the town house. Moira was eager to hear Bamber’s reply, but her stomach was growling, and in order to regain her strength she knew she needed to get some food in her.
When she’d been house hunting, Moira had been inside homes like this one. Lamontierre had had a skylight installed, so instead of the dark and gloomy space it must once have been, the kitchen was now bright and cheery. It was painted a rich egg-yolk yellow, with backsplashes behind the umber granite countertops of glass tiles in a complex Byzantine pattern of golds, greens, and blues.
They sat at an antique parquet wood table. Lamontierre had made scrambled eggs with turkey bacon and whole-grain toast. As they ate, he kept stealing worried glances at Bamber because when he asked what had happened Bamber said: “I don’t want to talk about it.” And then because Lamontierre looked hurt, added: “It’s for your own good, Chrissie, trust me.”
“I don’t know what to say here,” Lamontierre said. “Steve’s death—”
“The less said about that the better,” Bamber cut in.
“I’m sorry. That’s all I was going to say. I’m sorry.”
Bamber finally looked up from his plate and tried for a bleak smile. “Thank you, Chrissie. I appreciate it. I apologize for being such a godawful shit.”
“He’s been through a lot today,” Moira said.
“We both have.” Bamber’s gaze returned to his plate.
Lamontierre looked from one to the other. “Okay, then, I have to practice.” He stood up. “If you need me, I’ll be in the studio downstairs.”
“Thanks, Chrissie.” Bamber gave him a tender smile. “I’ll be down in a while.”
“Take your time.” Lamontierre turned to Moira. “Ms. Trevor.”
Then he left the kitchen. They saw he hadn’t touched his food.
“That went well,” Moira said, trying, and failing, to lighten the mood.
Bamber put his head in his hands. “I acted like a total jerk. What’s happening to me?”
“Stress,” Moira offered. “And a whole lot of delayed shock. It’s what happens when you try to stuff two pounds of shit in a one-pound bag.”
Bamber laughed briefly, but when he brought his head up, his eyes were enlarged with tears. “What about you? Are car bombs part of your daily routine?”
“Frankly, they used to be. Car bombs and so much more.”
He stared wide-eyed at her for a moment. “Jesus, what did Noah get me involved in?”
“That’s what I need you to tell me.”
“He said he had a client who—he wanted to run real-life scenarios, as close to real-world simulations as possible. I told him there wasn’t anything on the market that would fit his criteria, but that I could build him a program that could.”
“For a fee.”
“Of course, for a fee,” Bamber said shortly. “I’m not running a not-for-profit.”
Moira wondered why she was being so harsh on him. Fleetingly, she realized that her ill temper had nothing at all to do with Bamber. She had called Dr. Firth in Bali, anxious to talk to Willard for an update on Jason’s recovery, only to be told that Willard had returned to DC. Firth didn’t know where Bourne was—or claimed not to, anyway. She’d tried Bourne’s cell several times since then, but the call went straight to his voice mail. This made her terribly uneasy, though she tried to calm herself with the thought that if Jason was with Willard he was safe and in good hands.
“Go on,” she
said now, abruptly ashamed and vowing to be kinder to Bamber.
Bamber rose, collected their plates, and took them to the double sink, where he scraped what was left of the food into the Disposall, then placed plates and silverware into the dishwasher. When he was finished clearing the table, he stood behind his chair, hands wrapped around the top slat of the back, his knuckles standing out starkly. His renewed fear created a circuit of nervous energy he was barely able to contain.
“To be honest, I thought his client wanted to test out a new hedge fund formula. I mean Noah offered so much money, so I thought, what the hell, I’ll have my fuck-you money in a month or two and then no matter what happens in my business I’ll have this substantial stash. It’s tough working freelance, the minute a downturn hits, the business dries up like you wouldn’t believe.”
Moira sat back for a moment. “Didn’t you know that Noah worked for Black River?”
“He presented himself as Noah Petersen. That’s all I knew.”
“You mean you don’t run ID checks on your clients?”
“Not when they deposit two and a half million dollars in my bank account.” He shrugged. “Besides, I’m not the FBI.”
Moira could see his point. In any case, she knew firsthand how persuasive Noah could be, how good he was at being someone else. He loved playing roles as much as a Hollywood actor. That way he never had to be himself.
“At any time during the creation of Bardem did you get a hint that the program wasn’t meant for a hedge fund?”
A certain sadness came into Bamber’s face, and he nodded. “But not until near the end. Not even when Noah gave me instructions from his client for the second revision. He told me I needed to expand the parameters of the real-life data to include government responses to terrorist attacks, military incursions, and the like.”
“And that didn’t set off alarm bells?”
Bamber sighed. “Why should it? These factors are important to hedge funds since they would significantly impact the financial markets, and it’s my understanding that some hedge funds are set up to take advantage of short-term market dislocations.”
“But at some point you came to a different conclusion.”
