was talking to a harried overworked intern, who directed him to a small room, one of

many off the corridor. Bourne saw that the other rooms were filled.

The two paramedics rolled Tarkanian into the room, checked the IV, took his vitals

again, unhooked him.

“He’ll come around in a minute,” one of them said. “Someone will be in shortly to see

to him.” He produced a practiced smile that was not unlikable. “Don’t worry, your

friend’s going to be fine.”

After they’d left, Bourne went back to Tarkanian, said, “Mikhail, I know the

Frunzenskaya embankment well. Where exactly is your apartment?”

“He’s not going to tell you.”

Bourne whirled just as the first gunman-the one he’d wrapped the python around-threw

himself on top of him. Bourne staggered back, bounced hard against the wall. He struck

at the gunman’s face. The gunman blocked it, punched Bourne hard on the point of his

sternum. Bourne grunted, and the gunman followed up with a short chop to Bourne’s

side.

Down on one knee, Bourne saw him pull out a knife, swipe the blade at him. Bourne

shrank back. The gunman attacked with the knife point-first. Bourne landed a hard right

flush on his face, heard the satisfying crack of the cheekbone fracturing. Enraged, the

gunman closed, the blade swinging through Bourne’s shirt, bringing out an arc of blood

like beads on a string.

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 space 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 hell’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 assets 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 fucked 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 fuck 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: Dick

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.”

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