Jens. Jens’s appearance told him that his enemy wasn’t leaving anything to chance. Jens’s

job was to keep Icoupov’s people away from Bourne, so that Bourne had a clear shot at

retrieving the attack plans. A certain dread gripped Icoupov. If Bourne was successful all

was lost; his enemy would have won. He couldn’t allow that to happen.

Leaning forward in the backseat, he drew a Luger.

“Pick up speed,” he told the driver.

Bracing himself against the door frame, he waited until the last instant before

depressing the button that slid the window down. He took aim at the running figure of

Jens, but Jens sensed him, slowed as he turned. With Bourne now safely three paces

ahead, Icoupov squeezed off two shots in succession.

Jens slipped to one knee, skidded off the sidewalk as he went down. Icoupov fired a

third shot, just to be sure Jens didn’t survive the attack, then he slid the window up.

“Go!” he said to the driver.

The Mercedes shot forward, down the street, screeching away from the bloody body

tangled in the gutter.

Thirty-Two

ROB BATT sat in his car, a pair of night-vision binoculars to his eyes, chewing over

the recent past as if it were a piece of gum that had lost its flavor.

From the time that Batt had been called into Veronica Hart’s office and confronted

with his treacherous actions against CI, he’d gone numb. At the moment, he’d felt

nothing for himself. Rather, his enmity toward Hart had morphed into pity. Or maybe, he

had thought, he pitied himself. Like a novice, he’d stepped into a bear trap; he’d trusted

people who never should have been trusted. LaValle and Halliday were going to have

their way, he had absolutely no doubt of it. Filled with self-disgust, he’d begun his long

night of drinking.

It wasn’t until the morning after that Batt, waking up with the father of all hangovers,

realized that there was something he could do about it. He thought about that for some

time, while he swallowed aspirins for his pounding head, chasing them down with a glass

of water and angostura bitters to calm his rebellious stomach.

It was then that the plan formed in his mind, unfolding like a flower to the rays of the

sun. He was going to get his revenge for the humiliation LaValle and Kendall had caused

him, and the real beauty part was this: If his scheme worked, if he brought them down,

he’d resuscitate his own career, which was on life support.

Now, sitting behind the wheel of a rented car, he swept the street across from the

Pentagon, on the lookout for General Kendall. Batt was canny enough to know better

than to go after LaValle, because LaValle was too smart to make a mistake. The same,

however, couldn’t be said for the general. If Batt had learned one thing from his abortive

association with the two it was that Kendall was a weak link. He was too tied to LaValle,

too slavish in his attitude. He needed someone to tell him what to do. The desire to please was what made followers vulnerable; they made mistakes their leaders didn’t.

He suddenly saw life the way it must appear to Jason Bourne. He knew the work that

Bourne had done for Martin Lindros in Reykjavik and knew that Bourne had put himself

on the line to find Lindros and bring him home. But like most of his former co-workers,

Batt had conveniently dismissed Bourne’s actions as collateral happenstance, choosing to

stick to the common wisdom that Bourne was an out-of-control paranoid who needed to

be stopped before he committed some heinous act that would disgrace CI. And yet,

people in CI had had no compunction about using him when all else failed, coercing him

into playing as their pawn. But at last he, Batt, was no one’s pawn.

He saw General Kendall exit a side door of the building and, huddled in his trench-

coat, hurry across the lot to his car. He kept the general in his sights as he put one hand on the keys he’d already inserted in the ignition. At the precise moment Kendall leaned

his right shoulder forward to start his engine, Batt flipped his own ignition, so Kendall

didn’t hear another car start when his did.

As the general pulled out of the lot, Batt set aside the night glasses and put his car in

gear. The night seemed quiet and still, but maybe that was simply a reflection of Batt’s

mood. He was a sentinel of the night, after all. He’d been trained by the Old Man himself;

he’d always been proud of that fact. After his downfall, though, he realized that it was

this pride that had distorted his thinking and his decision making. It was his pride that

made him rebel against Veronica Hart, not because of anything she said or did-he hadn’t

even given her the chance-but because he’d been passed over. Pride was his weakness,

one that LaValle had recognized and exploited. Twenty-twenty hindsight was a bitch, he

thought as he followed Kendall toward the Fairfax area, but at least it provided the

humility he needed to see how far he’d strayed from his sworn duties at CI.

He kept well back of the general’s car, varying his distance and his lane the better to

avoid detection. He doubted that Kendall would consider that he might be followed, but it

paid to be cautious. Batt was determined to atone for the sin he’d committed against his

own organization, against the memory of the Old Man.

Kendall turned in at an anonymous modern-looking building whose entire ground floor

was taken up by the In-Tune health club. Batt observed the general park, take out a small

gym bag, and enter the club. Nothing useful so far, but Batt had long ago learned to be

patient. On stakeouts it seemed nothing came quickly or easily.

And then, because he had nothing better to do until Kendall reappeared, Batt stared at

the IN-TUNE sign while he bit hunks off a Snickers bar. Why did that sign seem

familiar? He knew he had never been inside, had never, in fact, been in this part of

Fairfax. Maybe it was the name: In-Tune. Yes, he thought, it sounded maddeningly

familiar, but for the life of him he couldn’t think of why.

Fifty minutes had passed since Kendall had gone in; time to train his night glasses on

the entrance. He watched people of all description and build come in and out. Most were

solitary figures; occasionally two women came out talking, once a couple emerged,

headed in tandem for their car.

Another fifteen minutes passed and still no Kendall. Batt had taken the glasses away

from his eyes to give them a rest when he saw the gym door swung open. Fitting the

binoculars back to his eyes he saw Rodney Feir step out into the night. Are you kidding

me? Batt thought.

Feir ran his hand through his damp hair. And that’s when Batt remembered why the

name In-Tune was so familiar. All CI directors were required to post their whereabouts

after hours so if they were needed the duty officer could calculate how long it would take

them to get back to headquarters.

Watching Feir walk over and get into his car, Batt bit his lip. Of course it might be

sheer coincidence that General Kendall used the same health club as Feir, but Batt knew

that in his trade there was no such thing as coincidence.

His suspicion was borne out when Feir did not fire up his car, but sat silent and still

behind the wheel. He was waiting for something, but what? Maybe, Batt thought, it was

someone.

Ten minutes later, General Kendall emerged from the club. He looked neither to the

right nor the left, but went immediately to his car, started it up, and began to back out of his space. Before he’d exited the lot, Feir started his car. Kendall turned right out of the lot and Feir followed.