“I’d like to see these communications for myself.”

“For that you’ll have to see the DCI, which, quite honestly, I wouldn’t recommend.

There are still high-level operatives in CI who blame you for the Old Man’s death.”

“That’s absurd,” Bourne said. “I had nothing to do with his death.”

Soraya ran a hand through her thick hair. “It was you who brought Karim al-Jamil back

to CI thinking he was Martin Lindros.”

“He looked exactly like Martin, spoke exactly like him.”

“You vouched for him.”

“So did a phalanx of CI shrinks.”

“You’re an easy target around CI. Rob Batt, who’s just been promoted to deputy

director, is the ringleader of a group who are convinced you’re a schizophrenic,

unreliable rogue agent. I’m just saying.”

Bourne closed his eyes for a moment. He’d heard these allegations leveled against him

time and again. “You’ve left off another reason why I’m an easy target. I’m a legacy left

over from the Alex Conklin era. He had the Old Man’s confidence but hardly anyone

else’s, mainly because no one knew what he was doing, especially with the program that

created me.”

“All the more reason for you to stay in the shadows.”

Bourne glanced out the window. “I’ve got an early breakfast meeting.”

As he was about to get out of the car, Soraya put a hand on his arm. “Stay out of this,

Jason. That’s my advice.”

“And I appreciate the concern.” He leaned toward her, kissed her lightly on the cheek.

Then he was crossing the street. A moment later he’d vanished into shadow.

As soon as he was out of her sight, Bourne flipped open the cell phone he’d lifted from

her when he’d leaned in to kiss her. Quickly he scrolled through to Veronica Hart’s

number, connected with it. He wondered if he’d be pulling her out of sleep, but when she

answered she sounded wide awake.

“How’s the surveillance going?” She had a rich, mellow voice.

“That’s what I want to talk with you about.”

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 Jason Bourne 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 passed.

“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 shiver 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 associations with Monty Python’s “The

Lumberjack Song.”

Bourne ordered coffee as soon as he sat down.

“Good morning, David.” Specter cocked 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 cocked 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 shirt, 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 classroom.”

“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 identity, 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