Isfahan carpet, ox-blood leather furniture. Three walls were fitted floor-to-ceiling with

books neatly arrayed on mahogany shelves. The fourth wall was pierced by a large

leaded-glass window overlooking stands of stately firs on a knoll, which sloped down to

a pond guarded by a weeping willow, shivering in the wind.

Specter’s personal physician had been summoned, but the professor had insisted the

doctor tend to Bourne’s flayed heel first.

“I’m sure we can find you a pair of shoes somewhere,” Specter said, sending one of the

half a dozen men in residence scurrying off with Bourne’s remaining shoe.

This rather large stone-and-slate house deep in the Virginia countryside to which

Specter had directed Bourne was a far cry from the modest apartment the professor

maintained near the university. Bourne had been to the apartment numerous times over

the years, but never here. Then there was the matter of the staff, which Bourne noted with

interest as well as surprise.

“I imagine you’re wondering about all this,” Specter said, as if reading Bourne’s mind.

“All in good time, my friend.” He smiled. “First, I must thank you for rescuing me.”

“Who were those men?” Bourne said. “Why did they try to kidnap you?”

The doctor applied an antibiotic ointment, placed a gauze pad over the heel, taped it in

place. Then he wrapped the heel in cohesive bandage.

“It’s a long story,” Specter said. The doctor, finished with Bourne, now rose to

examine the professor. “One I propose to tell you over the breakfast we were unable to

enjoy earlier.” He winced as the doctor palpated areas of his body.

“Contusions, bruises,” the doctor intoned colorlessly, “but no broken bones or

fractures.”

He was a small swarthy man with a mustache and dark slicked-back hair. Bourne made

him as Turkish. In fact, all the staff seemed of Turkish origin.

He gave Specter a small packet. “You may need these painkillers, but only for the next

forty-eight hours.” He’d already left a tube of the antibiotic cream, along with

instructions, for Bourne.

While Specter was being examined, Bourne used his cell phone to call Deron, the art

forger whom he used for all his travel documents. Bourne recited the license tag of the

black Cadillac he’d commandeered from the professor’s would-be kidnappers.

“I need a registration report ASAP.”

“You okay, Jason?” Deron said in his sonorous London-accented voice. Deron had

been Bourne’s backup through many hair-raising missions. He always asked the same

question.

“I’m fine,” Bourne said, “but that’s more than I can say for the car’s original

occupants.”

“Brilliant.”

Bourne pictured him in his lab in the northeast section of DC, a tall, vibrant black man

with the mind of a conjuror.

When the doctor departed, Bourne and Specter were left alone.

“I already know who came after me,” Specter said.

“I don’t like loose ends,” Bourne replied. “The Cadillac’s registration will tell us

something, perhaps something even you don’t know.”

The professor nodded, clearly impressed.

Bourne sat on the leather sofa with his leg up on the coffee table. Specter eased himself

into a facing chair. Clouds chased each other across the windblown sky, setting patterns

shifting across the Persian carpet. Bourne saw a different kind of shadow pass across

Specter’s face.

“Professor, what is it?”

Specter shook his head. “I owe you a most sincere and abject apology, Jason. I’m

afraid I had an ulterior motive in asking you to return to university life.” His eyes were

filled with regret. “I thought it would be good for you, yes, that’s true enough, absolutely.

But also I wanted you near me because…” He waved a hand as if to clear the air of

deceit. “Because I was fearful that what happened this morning would happen. Now,

because of my selfishness, I’m very much afraid that I’ve put your life in jeopardy.”

Turkish tea, strong and intensely aromatic, was served along with eggs, smoked fish,

coarse bread, butter, deep yellow and fragrant.

Bourne and Specter sat at a long table covered with a white hand-finished linen cloth.

The china and silverware were of the highest quality. Again, an oddity in an academic’s

household. They remained mute while a young man, slim and sleek, served their perfectly

cooked, elegantly presented breakfast.

When Bourne began to ask a question, Specter cut him off. “First we must fill our

stomachs, regain our strength, ensure our minds are working at full capacity.”

The two men did not speak again until they were finished, the plates and cutlery were

cleared, and a fresh pot of tea had been poured. A small bowl of gigantic Medjool dates

and halved fresh pomegranates lay between them.

When they were again alone in the dining room, Specter said without preamble, “The

night before last I received word that a former student of mine whose father was a close

friend was dead. Murdered in a most despicable fashion. This young man, Pyotr Zilber,

was special. Besides being a former student he ran an information network that spanned

several countries. After a number of difficult and perilous months of subterfuge and

negotiation he had managed to obtain for me a vital document. He was found out, with

the inevitable consequences. This is the incident I’ve been dreading. It may sound

melodramatic, but I assure you it’s the truth: The war I’ve been engaged in for close to

twenty years has reached its final stage.”

“What sort of a war, Professor?” Bourne said. “Against whom?”

“I’ll get to that in a moment.” Specter leaned forward. “I imagine you’re curious,

shocked even, that a university professor should be involved in matters that are more the

province of Jason Bourne.” He lifted both arms briefly to encompass the house. “But as

you’ve no doubt noted there is more to me than meets the eye.” He smiled rather sadly.

“This makes two of us, yes?

“As someone who also leads a double life I understand you better than most others. I

need one personality when I step onto campus, but here I’m someone else entirely.” He

tapped a stubby forefinger against the side of his nose. “I pay attention. I saw something

familiar in you the moment I met you-how your eyes took in every detail of the people

and things around you.”

Bourne’s cell buzzed. He flipped it open, listened to what Deron had to say, then put

the phone away.

“The Cadillac was reported stolen a hour before it appeared in front of the restaurant.”

“That is entirely unsurprising.”

“Who tried to kidnap you, Professor?”

“I know you’re impatient for the facts, Jason. I would be, too, in your place. But I

promise they won’t have meaning without some background first. When I said there’s

more to me than meets the eye, this is what I meant: I’m a terrorist hunter. For many

years, from the camouflage and sanctuary my position at the university affords me, I have

built up a network of people who gather intelligence just like your own CI. However, the

intelligence that interests me is highly specific. There are people who took my wife from

me. In the dead of night, while I was away, they snatched her from our house, tortured

her, killed her, then dumped her on my doorstep. As a warning, you see.”

Bourne felt a prickling at the back of his neck. He knew what it felt like to be driven by

revenge. When Martin died all Bourne could think about was destroying the men who’d

tortured him. He felt a new, more intimate connection with Specter, even as the Bourne

identity rose inside him, riding a cresting wave of pure adrenaline. All at once the idea of him working at the university struck him as absurd. Moira was right: He was already