Bourne hit him so hard he staggered back, struck the gurney on which Tarkanian was stirring out of his drugged stupor. The man took out his handgun with the suppressor. Bourne closed with him, grabbing him tightly, depriving him of s.p.a.ce to aim the gun.

Tarkanian ripped off the bandage the paramedics had used to keep light out of his eyes, blinked heavily, looking around. "What the h.e.l.l's going on?" he said drowsily to the gunman. "You told me Bourne was dead."

The man was too busy fending off Bourne's attack to answer. Seeing his firearm was of no use to him he dropped it, kicked it along the floor. He tried to get the knife blade inside Bourne's defense, but Bourne broke the attacks, not fooled by the feints the gunman used to distract him.

Tarkanian sat up, slid off the gurney. He found it difficult to talk, so he slipped to his knees, crawled across the cool linoleum to where the gun lay.

The gunman, one hand gripping Bourne's neck, was working the knife free, prepared to stab downward into Bourne's stomach.

"Move away from him." Tarkanian was aiming the gun at the two men. "I'll have a clear shot."

The gunman heard him, shoved the heel of his hand into Bourne's Adam's apple, choking him. Then he moved his upper body to one side.

Just as Tarkanian was about to squeeze the trigger Bourne rabbit-punched the gunman in the kidney. He groaned and Bourne hauled him between himself and Tarkanian. A coughing sound announced the bullet plowing into the gunman's chest.

Tarkanian cursed, moved to get Bourne back in his sights. As he did so, Bourne wrested the knife away from the gunman's limp hand, threw it with deadly accuracy. The force of it lifted Tarkanian backward off his feet. Bourne pushed the gunman away from him, crossed the room to where Tarkanian lay in a pool of his own blood. The knife was buried to the hilt in his chest. By its position, Bourne knew it had pierced a lung. Within moments Tarkanian would drown in his own blood.

Tarkanian stared up at Bourne. He laughed even as he said, "Now you're a dead man."

Ten.

ROB BATT made his arrangements through General Kendall, LaValle's second in command. Through him, Batt was able to access certain black-ops a.s.sets in the NSA. No congressional oversight, no fuss, no muss. As far as the federal government was concerned, these people didn't exist, except as auxiliary staff seconded to the Pentagon; they were thought to be pushing papers in a windowless office somewhere in the bowels of the building.

Now, this is the way the clandestine services should run, Batt said to himself as he laid out the operation for the eight young men ranged in a semicircle in a Pentagon briefing room Kendall had provided for him. No supervision, no snooping congressional committees to report to.

The plan was simple, as all his plans tended to be. Other people might like bells and whistles, but not Batt. Vanilla, Kendall had called it. But the more that was involved, the more that could go wrong was how he looked at it. Also, no one f.u.c.ked up simple plans; they could be put together and executed in a matter of hours, if need be, even with new personnel. But the fact was he liked these NSA agents, perhaps because they were military men. They were quick to catch on, quicker even to learn. He never had to repeat himself. To a man, they seemed to memorize everything as it was presented to them.

Better still, because of their military background, they obeyed orders unquestioningly, unlike agents in CI-Soraya Moore a case in point-who always thought they knew a better way to get things done. Plus, these bad boys weren't afraid of rendition; they weren't afraid to pull the trigger. If given the appropriate order they'd kill a target without either question or regret.

Batt felt a certain exhilaration at the knowledge that no one was looking over his shoulder, that he wouldn't have to explain himself to anyone-not even the new DCI. He'd entered an altogether different arena, one all his own, where he could make decisions of great moment, devise field operations, and carry them out with the confidence that he would be backed to the hilt, that no operation would ever boomerang on him, bring him face-to-face with a congressional committee and disgrace. As he wrapped up the pre-mission briefing, his cheeks were flushed, his pulse accelerated. There was a heat building inside him that could almost be called arousal.

He tried not to think of his conversation with the defense secretary, tried not to think of Luther LaValle heading up Typhon while he looked helplessly on. He desperately didn't want to give up control of such a powerful weapon against terrorism, but Halliday hadn't given him a choice.

One step at a time. If there was a way to foil Halliday and LaValle, he was confident he'd find it. But for the moment, he returned his attention to the job at hand. No one was going to f.u.c.k up his plan to capture Jason Bourne. He knew this absolutely. Within hours Bourne would be in custody, down so deep even a Houdini like him would never get out.

Soraya Moore made her way to Veronica Hart's office. Two men were emerging: d.i.c.k Symes, the chief of intelligence, and Rodney Feir, chief of field support. Symes was a short, round man whose red face appeared to have been applied directly to his shoulders. Feir, several years Symes's junior, was fair-haired, with an athletic body, an expression as closed as a bank vault.

Both men greeted her cordially, but there was a repellent condescension to Symes's smile.

"Bearding the lioness in her den?" Feir said.

"Is she in a bad mood?" Soraya asked.

Feir shrugged. "Too soon to tell."

"We're waiting to see if she can carry the weight of the world on those delicate shoulders," Symes said. "Just like with you, Director Director."

Soraya forced a smile though her clenched jaws. "You gentlemen are too kind."

Feir laughed. "Ready, willing, and able to oblige, ma'am."

Soraya watched them leave, two peas in a pod. Then she poked her head into the DCI's inner sanctum. Unlike her predecessor, Veronica Hart maintained an open-door policy when it came to her upper-echelon staff. It engendered a sense of trust and camaraderie that-as she'd told Soraya-had been sorely lacking at CI in the past. In fact, from the vast amount of electronic data she'd pored over the last couple of days it was becoming increasing clear to her that the previous DCI's bunker mentality had led to an atmosphere of cynicism and alienation among the directorate heads. The Old Man came from the school of letting the Seven vie with one another, complete with duplicity, backstabbing, and, so far as she was concerned, outright objectionable behavior.

Hart was a product of a new era, where the primary watchword was cooperation. The events of 2001 had proved that when it came to the intelligence services, compet.i.tion was deadly. So far as Soraya was concerned that was all to the good.

"How long have you been at this?" Soraya asked.

Hart glanced out the window. "It's morning already? I ordered Rob home hours ago."

"Way past morning." Soraya smiled. "How about lunch? You definitely need to get out of this office."

She spread her hands to indicate the queue of dossiers loaded onto her computer. "Too much work-"

"It won't get done if you pa.s.s out from hunger and dehydration."

"Okay, the canteen-"

"It's such a fine day, I was thinking of walking to a favorite restaurant of mine."

Hearing a warning note in Soraya's otherwise light voice, Hart looked up. Yes, there was definitely something her director of Typhon wanted to talk to her about outside the confines of the CI building.

Hart nodded. "All right. I'll get my coat."

Soraya took out her new cell, which she'd picked up at CI this morning. She'd found her old one in the gutter by her car at the Moira Trevor surveillance site, had disposed of it at the office. Now she texted a message.

A moment later Hart's cell buzzed. The text from Soraya read: VAN X ST VAN X ST. Van across the street.

Hart folded her cell away and launched into a long story at the end of which both women laughed. Then they talked about shoes versus boots, leather versus suede, and which Jimmy Choos they'd buy if they were ever paid enough.

Both women kept an eye on the van without seeming to look at it. Soraya directed them down a side street where the van couldn't go for fear of becoming conspicuous. They were moving out of the range of its electronics.

"You came from the private sector," Soraya said. "What I don't understand is why you'd give up that payday to become DCI. It's such a thankless job."

"Why did you agree to be director of Typhon?" Hart asked.

"It was a huge step up for me, both in prestige and in pay."

"But that's not really why you accepted it, was it?"

Soraya shook her head. "No. I felt a strong sense of obligation to Martin Lindros. I was in at the beginning. Because I'm half Arab, Martin sought out my input both in the creation of Typhon and in its recruitment. He meant Typhon to be a very different intelligence-gathering organization, staffed with people who understood both the Arab and the Muslim mind-set. He felt-and I wholeheartedly agree-that the only way to successfully combat the wide array of extremist terrorist cells was to understand what motivates them. Once you were in sync with their motivation, you could begin to antic.i.p.ate their actions."

Hart nodded, her long face in a neutral set as she sank deeper in thought. "My own motivations were similar to yours. I grew sick of the cynical att.i.tude of the private security firms. All of them, not just Black River where I worked, were focused on how much money they could milk out of the mess in the Middle East. In times of war, the government is a mighty cash cow, throwing newly minted money at every situation, as if that alone will make a difference. But the fact is, everyone involved has a license to plunder and steal to their heart's content. What happens in Iraq stays in Iraq. No one's going prosecute them. They're indemnified against retribution for profiting from other people's misery."

Soraya took them into a clothes store, where they made a pretense of checking out camisoles to cover the seriousness of the conversation.

"I came to CI because I couldn't change Black River, but I felt I could make a difference here. The president gave me a mandate to change an organization that was in disarray, that long ago had lost its way."

They went out the back, across the street, hurrying now, down the block, turning left for a block, then right for two blocks, left again. They went into a large restaurant boiling with people. Perfect. The high level of ambient noise, the multiple crosscurrents of conversations would make their own conversation undetectable.

At Hart's request they were seated at a table near the rear where they had excellent sight lines of the interior as well as the front door. Everyone who came in would be visually vetted by them.

"Well executed," Hart said when they were seated. "I see you've done this before."

"There were times-especially when I was working with Jason Bourne -when I was obliged to lose a CI tail or two."

Hart scanned the large menu. "Do you think that was a CI van?"

"No."

Hart looked at Soraya over the menu. "Neither do I."

They ordered brook trout, Caesar salads to start, mineral water to drink. They took turns checking out the people who came into the restaurant.

Halfway through the salads Soraya said, "We've intercepted some unconventional chatter in the last couple of days. I don't think alarming alarming would be a too strong a word." would be a too strong a word."

Hart put down her fork. "How so?"

"It seems possible that a new attack on American soil is in its final stages."

Hart's demeanor changed instantly. She was clearly shaken. "What the h.e.l.l are we doing here?" she said angrily. "Why aren't we in the office where I can mobilize the forces?"

"Wait until you hear the whole story." Soraya said. "Remember that the lines and frequencies Typhon monitors are almost all overseas, so unlike the chatter other intelligence agencies scan, ours is more concentrated, but from what I've seen it's also far more accurate. As you know, there's always an enormous amount of disinformation in the regular chatter. Not so with the terrorists we keep an ear on. Of course, we're checking and rechecking the accuracy of this intel, but until proven otherwise we're going on the a.s.sumption that it's real. We have two problems, however, which is why mobilizing CI now isn't the wisest course."

Three women came in, chatting animatedly. The manager greeted them like old friends, showed them to a round table near the window, where they settled in.

"First, we have an immediate time frame, that is to say within a week, ten days at the outside. However, we have almost nothing on the target, except from the intercepts we know it's large and complex, so we're thinking a building. Again, because of our Muslim expertise we believe it will be a structure of both economic and symbolic importance."

"But no specific location?"

"East Coast, most probably New York."

"Nothing's crossed my desk, which means none of our sister agencies has a clue about this intel."

"That's what I'm telling you," Soraya said. "This is ours alone. Typhon's. This is why we were created."

"You haven't yet told me why I shouldn't inform Homeland Security and mobilize CI."

"Because the source of this intel is entirely new. Do you seriously think HS or NSA would take our intel at its face value? They'd need corroboration-and A, they wouldn't get it from their own sources, and, B, their mucking about in the bush would jeopardize the inroads we've made."

"You're right about that," Hart said. "They're about as subtle as an elephant in Manhattan."

Soraya hunched forward. "The point is the group planning the attack is unknown to us. That means we don't know their motivation, their mind-set, their methodology."

Two men came in, one after the other. They were dressed as civilians, but their military bearing gave them away. They were seated at separate tables on opposite sides of the restaurant.

"NSA," Hart said.

Soraya frowned. "Why would NSA be shadowing us?"

"I'll tell you in a minute. Let's continue with what's most immediately pressing. You mean we're dealing with a complete unknown, an unaffiliated terrorist organization that is capable of planning a large-scale attack? That sounds far-fetched."

"Imagine how it'll sound to your directorate heads. Plus, our operatives have determined that keeping our information secret is the only way to get more intel. The moment this group catches wind of our mobilizing they'll postpone the operation for another time."

"a.s.suming the current time frame is correct, could they abort or postpone at this late stage?"

"We couldn't, that's for sure." Soraya gave her a sardonic smile. "But terrorist networks have no infrastructure or bureaucracy to slow them down, so who knows? Part of the difficulty in locating them and taking them down is their infinite flexibility. This superior methodology is what Martin wanted for Typhon. That's my mandate." couldn't, that's for sure." Soraya gave her a sardonic smile. "But terrorist networks have no infrastructure or bureaucracy to slow them down, so who knows? Part of the difficulty in locating them and taking them down is their infinite flexibility. This superior methodology is what Martin wanted for Typhon. That's my mandate."

The waiter took their half-eaten salads away. A moment later, their main courses arrived. Hart asked for another bottle of mineral water. Her mouth was dry. Now she had NSA on one side, an off-the-grid terrorist organization about to carry out an attack on a large East Coast building on the other. Scylla and Charybdis. Either one could wreck her career at CI before it even began. She couldn't allow that to happen. She wouldn't.

"Excuse me a moment," she said, getting up.

Soraya scanned the restaurant, but kept at least one of the agents in her peripheral vision. She saw him tense when the DCI went off to the ladies' room. He had risen and was making his way toward the rear when Hart returned. He reversed course, sat back down.

When the DCI had settled herself in her chair she looked Soraya in the eye. "Since you decided to deliver this intel here instead of the office I a.s.sume you have a specific idea as to how to proceed."

"Listen," Soraya said, "we have a red-hot situation, and we don't have enough intel to mobilize, let alone act. We have less than a week to find out everything on this terrorist organization based G.o.d only knows where with who knows how many members.

"This isn't the time or place for the usual protocols. They're not going to avail us anything." She glanced down at her fish as if it were the last thing she wanted to put in her mouth. When her gaze rose again, she said, "We need Jason Bourne to find this terrorist group. We'll take care of the rest."

Hart looked at her as if she were out of her mind. "Out of the question."

"Given the urgency of the mission," Soraya said, "he's the only one who has a chance of finding them and stopping them."

"I wouldn't last a day in the job once it got out that I was using Jason Bourne."

"On the other hand," Soraya said, "if you don't follow through on this intel, if this group executes their attack, you'll be out of CI before you can catch your breath."

Hart sat back, produced a short laugh. "You really are a piece of work. You want me to authorize the use of a rogue agent-a man who's unstable at best, who many powerful people in this organization feel is dangerous to CI in particular-for a mission that could have dire consequences for this country, for the continuation of CI as you and I know it?"

A jolt of anxiety ran down Soraya's spine. "Wait a minute, back that up. What do you mean the continuation of CI as we know it?"

Hart glanced from one of the NSA agents to the other. Then she expelled a deep breath and told Soraya everything that had happened from the moment she'd been summoned into the Oval Office to meet with the president and had found herself confronting Luther LaValle and General Kendall.

"After I managed to prevail with the president, LaValle accosted me outside for a chat," Hart concluded. "He told me that if I didn't play nice with him he'd come after me with everything he has. He wants to take over CI, Soraya, wants it as part of his ever-enlarging intelligence services domain. But it isn't just LaValle we're fighting, it's his boss, the secretary of defense. The plan is Bud Halliday's through and through. Black River had some dealings with him when I was there, none of them pleasant. If he succeeds in bringing CI into the Pentagon fold, you can be sure the military will come in, ruin everything with their usual war-like mentality."

"Then there's even more reason to let me bring Jason in for this." Soraya's voice had taken on added urgency. "He'll get the job done where a company of agents can't. Believe me, I've worked with him in the field twice. Whatever's said about him within CI is totally false. Sure, lifers like Rob Batt hate his guts, why wouldn't they? Bourne's got a freedom they wish they had. Plus, he's got abilities they never dreamed of."

"Soraya, it's been implied in several evaluations that you once had an affair with Bourne. Please tell me the truth-I need to know if you're being swayed by anything other than what you think will be best for the country and for CI."

Soraya knew this was coming and was prepared. "I thought Martin had laid that office scuttleb.u.t.t to rest. There's absolutely no truth to it. We became friends when I was chief of station in Odessa. That was a long time ago; he doesn't remember. When he came back last year to rescue Martin he had no idea who I was."

"Last year you were in the field with him again."