The next paragraphs dealt with NeoDyme, the company created to mine the rare earths at Indigo Ridge. NeoDyme had just gone public, but it had the backing of the US government. Peter immediately understood the strategic importance of NeoDyme and Indigo Ridge. In that event, Samaritan was linked in some way with the rare earth mine. But what was its purpose?

Peter got up and stretched. He waved away Ann, his secretary, as he emerged from his office, went over to get himself some coffee and a stale doughnut. He stirred sugar and half-and-half into his mug, took it and the doughnut back into his office to have a think.

Ever since he could remember, sugar had been a great stimulator of creative thinking for him. As he chomped down on the doughnut, he thought about the meeting between Hendricks and Danziger. And then the thought came: What if Samaritan was an interagency initiative? That would make it huge, indeed. And again, Peter felt the sharp pang of being left out. If Hendricks didn’t trust him, then why did he want Peter heading up Treadstone? It made no sense to him. Peter didn’t like mysteries, especially when they cropped up in his territory. And then he thought of something else that made him sit up straight. In trying to find out about Samaritan he’d been able to access all the clandestine services’ databases. Hendricks had told him that, almost as an aside. Odd, considering, so far as Peter was aware, it was an unprecedented coup. The various services were notoriously zealous in guarding their own data, even after the well-publicized revamping following 9/11. Being on the inside, Peter knew that plan was for PR purposes because the American public had to be calmed and soothed. The fact remained that when it came to interagency intel sharing nothing much had changed. The clandestine services community was still a feudal nightmare of separate fiefdoms, lorded over by political-minded mandarins jockeying for congressional funding while desperately staving off budget cuts and staff downsizing forced by the current economic climate.

Dusting off his fingertips, he took a swig of coffee and dived back into the top-secret soup he had at his fingertips, courtesy of his boss. At some point, he wondered whether Hendricks had had an ulterior motive in getting this access for Treadstone.

He couldn’t help but wonder why Hendricks had told him about it in such an offhand manner. He was trained in suspicion, to see ulterior motives, to peer into the dim interiors of what people said and did. Had Hendricks been giving him a subtle clue to hunt around the database soup? But for what?

What if it had to do with Hendricks himself? He navigated to Hendricks’s own computer and sat there for a moment, staring at the blinking box that asked for a security code. He thought about words that his boss might use. Sitting back, he closed his eyes, pondering the briefing at Hendricks’s house this morning. He went over everything that had been said, every move the secretary had made.

Then he recalled Hendricks’s curious parting line: “Oh, by the way, I’ve been able to get Treadstone access to all the clandestine services’ databases.” He frowned. No, that wasn’t quite it. His frown deepened as he struggled to recall the secretary’s exact phrasing.

“Excuse me, Director.”

He looked up to see Ann standing in the doorway. “What is it?” he snapped.

She flinched. She was not yet used to her boss’s moods. “I’m sorry to bother you, but there’s a problem at school with my son and I need a couple of hours off.”

“Of course,” he said, waving at her vaguely. “Go on.” His mind had already returned to its original train of thought.

Ann was about to leave when she turned back. “Oh, I almost forgot. Before she left, Director Moore asked for an additional server to be added to her—”

“She asked for what?”

Peter had swiveled toward her and was half out of his seat. She turned pale, clearly scared half to death. Through his mounting excitement, he recognized this and willed his voice to modulate more normally. “Ann, did you say that Soraya asked for another server?”

“Yes. It’s going to be installed tonight, so on the off chance you’re going to be working late—”

“Thank you, Ann.” He forced himself to smile at her. “As for your son, take as much time as you need.”

“Thank you, Director.” Slightly bewildered, she turned, grabbed her coat and handbag, and left.

Peter, turning back to his computer screen, thought long and hard about Hendricks’s precise words. Then he had it: “Oh, by the way, I’ve been able to get the Treadstone servers access to all the clandestine services’ databases.”

Servers. Peter’s eyes flew open. Why on earth had he said that when the servers had nothing to do with access? The Treadstone servers were where its own data was stored. He stared at the blinking box in the middle of the screen, asking its mysterious question. Jesus Christ, he thought, could it be that simple?

His fingers trembling slightly, he typed in the word: “servers.”

At once, the box was replaced by a file tree. Peter stared in disbelief. He was inside Hendricks’s computer. The secretary wanted him there, he was absolutely certain of that. He’d delivered a coded message to Peter. Why hadn’t he been able to tell Peter outright?

Peter’s first thought was that Hendricks was afraid his house was bugged, but he immediately dismissed the thought. The secretary’s house and offices were electronically swept twice a week. So Hendricks was afraid of something else. Was it someone on the inside, one of his own people?

Peter stared at the screen. He had a sense that he would find the answer somewhere within the secretary’s file tree. Leaning forward, he got to work with a feverish intensity.

This is utter madness,” the FARC commander said as Bourne hurtled the stolen jeep down National 40.

“How did you know I was in the tunnel?” Bourne said.

“You will be followed to the ends of the earth.” His name was Suarez. He hadn’t been reticent about telling Bourne his name or the ways in which he was certain Bourne would die.

Bourne smiled. “There isn’t one of your men who could get out of Colombia.”

Suarez laughed, even though it caused him some pain in the area behind his right ear. “Do you think FARC is my only affiliation?”

Bourne glanced at him and that was when he saw the gold ring, gleaming on the thick forefinger of his right hand.

“You’re a member of Severus Domna.”

“And you are a dead man,” the commander said flatly.

All at once he grabbed at the wheel. Bourne smashed the barrel of his Makarov down on the back of his hand, and Suarez bellowed like a maddened bull. He snatched his hand away, cradling it with the other.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” he cried. “You’ve broken it!”

“Relax.” Bourne hummed to himself as they rocketed along. He deftly moved the jeep around lumbering semis and laden flatbeds.

Suarez, rocking back and forth in pain, said, “What the hell are you so happy about, maricón?”

For some time, Bourne occupied himself by flying past vehicles. Then he said, “I know how you knew where I was.”

“No,” Suarez said, “you don’t.”

“Someone at the last roadblock before the tunnel made me and radioed you, someone also with the Domna.”

“This is true, but I am not following orders. Your death is a gift to a friend of mine, an enemy of yours.”

He was whey-faced, the pain causing beads of sweat to break out at his hairline. He stared fixedly ahead, until his gaze strayed to the side mirror. A smile flickered across his lips and, in the space of a heartbeat, was gone. Bourne, who had been checking the rearview mirror every minute or so, saw the two motorcycles flicking in and out of the traffic behind him.

“Roberto Corellos has expended a lot of capital with us to have you killed.”