He pushed his plate away. In dealing with these people he knew he was making a

calculated gamble; on the other hand, he felt the spark that emanated from Secretary

Halliday. Batt had entered the nation’s true power grid, a place he’d secretly longed to be, and a powerful sense of elation shot through him.

“Because the plan revolves around DCI Hart,” Batt said now, “my hope is that we’ll be

able to bring down two clay pigeons with one shot.”

“Not another word”-Halliday held up his hand-“to either of us. Luther and I must

maintain plausible deniability. We can’t afford this operation coming back to bite us on

the ass. Is that clear, Mr. Batt?”

“Perfectly clear, sir. This is my operation, pure and simple.”

Halliday grinned. “Son, those words are music to these big ol’ Texan ears.” He tugged

at the lobe of his ear. “Now, I assume Luther here told you about Typhon.”

Batt looked from the secretary to LaValle and back again. A frown formed on his face.

“No, sir, he didn’t.”

“An oversight,” LaValle said smoothly.

“Well, no time like the present.” A smile continued to light Halliday’s expression.

“We believe that one of CI’s problems is Typhon,” LaValle said. “It’s become too

much for the director to properly rehabilitate and manage CI, and keep tabs on Typhon.

As such, responsibility for Typhon will be taken off your shoulders. That section will be

controlled directly by me.”

The entire topic had been handled smoothly, but Batt knew he’d been deliberately

sandbagged. These people had wanted control of Typhon from the beginning. “Typhon is

home-grown CI,” he said. “It’s Martin Lindros’s brainchild.”

“Martin Lindros is dead,” LaValle pointed out needlessly. “Another female is the

director of Typhon now. That needs to be addressed, along with many other decisions

that will affect Typhon’s future. You will also need to be making crucial decisions, Rob,

about all of CI. You don’t want more on your plate than you can handle, do you.” It

wasn’t a question.

Batt felt himself losing traction on a slippery slope. “Typhon is part of CI,” he said as a last, feeble attempt to win back control.

“Mr. Batt,” Halliday interjected. “We have made our determination. Are you with us or

shall we recruit someone else for DCI?”

The man whose call had drawn Professor Specter out into the street was Mikhail

Tarkanian. Bourne suggested the National Zoo as a place to meet, and the professor had

called Tarkanian. The professor then contacted his secretary at the university to tell her

that he and Professor Webb were each taking a personal day. They got in Specter’s car,

which had been driven to the estate by one of his men, and headed toward the zoo.

“Your problem, Jason, is that you need an ideology,” Specter said. “An ideology

grounds you. It’s the backbone of commitment.”

Bourne, who was driving, shook his head. “As far back as I can remember I’ve been

manipulated by ideologues. So far as I can tell, all ideology does is give you tunnel

vision. Everything that doesn’t fit within your self-imposed limits is either ignored or

destroyed.”

“Now I know I’m truly speaking to Jason Bourne,” Specter said, “because I tried my

best to instill in David Webb a sense of purpose he lost somewhere in his past. When you

came to me you weren’t just cast adrift, you were severely maimed. I sought to help heal

you by helping you turn away from whatever it was that hurt you so deeply. But now I

see I was wrong-”

“You weren’t wrong, Professor.”

“No, let me finish. You’re always quick to defend me, to believe I’m always right.

Don’t think I don’t appreciate how you feel about me. I wouldn’t want anything to

change that. But occasionally I do make mistakes, and this was one of them. I don’t know

what went into the making of the Bourne identity, and believe me when I tell you that I

don’t want to know.

“What seems clear to me, however, is that however much you don’t want to believe it,

something inside you, something innate and connected with the Bourne identity, sets you

apart from everyone else.”

Bourne felt troubled by the direction of the conversation. “Do you mean that I’m Jason

Bourne through and through-that David Webb would have become him no matter what?”

“No, not at all. But I do think from what you’ve shared with me that if there had been

no intervention, if there had been no Bourne identity, then David Webb would have been

a very unhappy man.”

This idea was not a new one to Bourne. But he’d always assumed the thought occurred

to him because he knew so damnably little about who he’d been. David Webb was more

of an enigma to him than Jason Bourne. That realization itself haunted Bourne, as if

Webb were a ghost, a shadowing armature into which the Bourne identity had been hung,

fleshed out, given life by Alex Conklin.

Bourne, driving up Connecticut Avenue, NW, crossed Cathedral Avenue. The entrance

to the zoo appeared up ahead. “The truth is, I don’t think David Webb would have lasted

to the end of the school year.”

“Then I’m pleased I decided to involve you in my real passion.” Something seemed to

have been settled inside Specter. “It’s not often a man gets a chance to rectify his

mistakes.”

The day was mild enough that the gorilla family had been let out. Schoolchildren

clustered noisily at the end of the area where the patriarch sat, surrounded by his brood.

The silverback did his level best to ignore them, but when their incessant chatter became

too much for him, he walked to the other end of the compound, trailed by his family.

There he sat while the same annoyances spiraled out of control. Then he plodded back to

the spot where Bourne had first seen him.

Mikhail Tarkanian was waiting for them beside the silverback gorilla area. He looked

Specter up and down, clucking over his black eye. Then he took him in his arms, kissed

him on both cheeks. “Allah is good, my friend. You are alive and well.”

“Thanks to Jason here. He rescued me. I owe him my life.” Specter introduced the two

men.

Tarkanian kissed Bourne on both cheeks, thanking him effusively.

There came a shuffling of the gorilla family as some grooming got under way.

“Damn sad life.” Tarkanian hooked his thumb at the silverback.

Bourne noted that his English was heavily accented in the manner of the tough

Sokolniki slum of northeast Moscow.

“Look at the poor bastard,” Tarkanian said.

The gorilla’s expression was glum-resigned rather than defiant.

Specter said, “Jason’s here on a bit of a fact-finding mission.”

“Is he now?” Tarkanian was fleshy in the way of ex-athletes-neck like a bull, wary

eyes sunk in yellow flesh. He kept his shoulders up around his ears, as if to ward off an

expected blow. Enough hard knocks in Sokolniki to last a lifetime.

“I want you to answer his questions,” Specter said.

“Of course. Anything I can do.”

“I need your help,” Bourne said. “Tell me about Pyotr Zilber.”

Tarkanian, appearing somewhat taken aback, glanced at Specter, who had retreated a

pace in order to center his man’s full attention on Bourne. Then he shrugged. “Sure. What

d’you want to know?”

“How did you find out he’d been killed?”

“The usual way. Through one of our contacts.” Tarkanian shook his head. “I was

devastated. Pyotr was a key man for us. He was also a friend.”

“How d’you figure he was found out?”

A gaggle of schoolgirls pranced by. When they had passed out of earshot, Tarkanian

said, “I wish I knew. He wasn’t easy to get to, I’ll tell you that.”