Read Online Bourne 4 - The Bourne Legacy by Robert Ludlum, Eric Van Lustbader - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Robert Ludlum, Eric Van Lustbader
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stripped Jomo of his pride. A stupid and possibly costly mistake, considering what was to happen. In any event, he was in the business of promoting goodwill, not resentment. He held out his hand and Jomo slipped his dry, heavily calloused hand into his. Spalko liked that hand; it was a hand of a manual laborer, someone who was not afraid to get dirty.
After Jomo and his entourage had left, it was time to give an orientation tour to Ethan Hearn, the new employee. Spalko could have delegated the orientation to any one of a number of assistants, but he prided himself on personally making sure all his new employees were settled. Hearn was a bright young spark who had previously worked at the Eurocenter Bio-I Clinic on the other side of the city. He was a highly successful fundraiser and was well connected among the rich and elite of Europe. Spalko found him to be articulate, personable and empathetic—in short, a born humanitarian, just the sort he needed to maintain the stellar reputation of Humanistas, Ltd. Besides which, he genuinely liked Hearn. He reminded him of himself when he was young, before the incident that had burned off half the skin of his face. He took Hearn through the seven floors of offices, comprising laboratories, departments devoted to compiling the statistics the development people used in fund-raising, the lifeblood of organizations such as Humanistas, Ltd., as well as accounting, procurement, human resources, travel, the maintenance of the company's fleets of private jets, transport planes, ships and helicopters. The last stop was the development department, where Hearn's new office awaited him. At the moment, the office stood empty save for a desk, swivel chair, computer and phone console.
"The rest of your furniture," Spalko told him, "will be arriving in a few days."
"No problem, sir. A computer and phones are all I really need." "A warning," Spalko added. "We keep long hours here, and there will be times you'll be expected to work through the night. But we're not inhuman. The sofa we provide folds out into a bed." Hearn smiled. "Not to worry, Mr. Spalko. I'm quite used to those hours." "Call me Stepan." Spalko gripped the younger man's hand. "Everyone else does."
The Director of Central Intelligence was soldering the arm on a painted tin soldier—a British redcoat from the Revolutionary War—when the call came. At first he considered ignoring it, perversely letting the phone ring even though he knew who would be on the other end of the line. Perhaps, he thought, this was because he did not want to hear what the Deputy Director would have to say. Lindros believed the DCI had dispatched him to the crime scene because of the importance of the dead men to the Agency. This was true, as far as it went. The real reason, however, was that the DCI couldn't bear to go himself. The thought of seeing Alex Conklin's dead face was too much for him. He was sitting on a stool in his basement workshop, a tiny, enclosed, perfectly ordered environment of stacked drawers, aligned cubbyholes, a world unto itself, a place his wife—and his children when they had lived at home—were forbidden to enter. His wife, Madeleine, poked her head through the open door to the cellar. "Kurt, the phone," she said needlessly.
He took an arm out of the wooden bin of soldier parts, studied it. He was a largeheaded man, but a mane of white hair combed back from his wide, domed forehead lent him the aspect of a wiseman, if not a prophet. His cool blue eyes were still as calculating as ever, but the lines at the corners of his mouth had deepened, pulling them down into something of a perpetual pout.
"Kurt, do you hear me?"
"I am not deaf." The fingers at the end of the arm were slightly cupped as if the hand was preparing to reach out for something unnameable and unknown.
"Well, are you going to answer it?" Madeleine called down.
"Whether I answer it or not is none of your goddamn business!" he shouted with vehemence. "Will
After Jomo and his entourage had left, it was time to give an orientation tour to Ethan Hearn, the new employee. Spalko could have delegated the orientation to any one of a number of assistants, but he prided himself on personally making sure all his new employees were settled. Hearn was a bright young spark who had previously worked at the Eurocenter Bio-I Clinic on the other side of the city. He was a highly successful fundraiser and was well connected among the rich and elite of Europe. Spalko found him to be articulate, personable and empathetic—in short, a born humanitarian, just the sort he needed to maintain the stellar reputation of Humanistas, Ltd. Besides which, he genuinely liked Hearn. He reminded him of himself when he was young, before the incident that had burned off half the skin of his face. He took Hearn through the seven floors of offices, comprising laboratories, departments devoted to compiling the statistics the development people used in fund-raising, the lifeblood of organizations such as Humanistas, Ltd., as well as accounting, procurement, human resources, travel, the maintenance of the company's fleets of private jets, transport planes, ships and helicopters. The last stop was the development department, where Hearn's new office awaited him. At the moment, the office stood empty save for a desk, swivel chair, computer and phone console.
"The rest of your furniture," Spalko told him, "will be arriving in a few days."
"No problem, sir. A computer and phones are all I really need." "A warning," Spalko added. "We keep long hours here, and there will be times you'll be expected to work through the night. But we're not inhuman. The sofa we provide folds out into a bed." Hearn smiled. "Not to worry, Mr. Spalko. I'm quite used to those hours." "Call me Stepan." Spalko gripped the younger man's hand. "Everyone else does."
The Director of Central Intelligence was soldering the arm on a painted tin soldier—a British redcoat from the Revolutionary War—when the call came. At first he considered ignoring it, perversely letting the phone ring even though he knew who would be on the other end of the line. Perhaps, he thought, this was because he did not want to hear what the Deputy Director would have to say. Lindros believed the DCI had dispatched him to the crime scene because of the importance of the dead men to the Agency. This was true, as far as it went. The real reason, however, was that the DCI couldn't bear to go himself. The thought of seeing Alex Conklin's dead face was too much for him. He was sitting on a stool in his basement workshop, a tiny, enclosed, perfectly ordered environment of stacked drawers, aligned cubbyholes, a world unto itself, a place his wife—and his children when they had lived at home—were forbidden to enter. His wife, Madeleine, poked her head through the open door to the cellar. "Kurt, the phone," she said needlessly.
He took an arm out of the wooden bin of soldier parts, studied it. He was a largeheaded man, but a mane of white hair combed back from his wide, domed forehead lent him the aspect of a wiseman, if not a prophet. His cool blue eyes were still as calculating as ever, but the lines at the corners of his mouth had deepened, pulling them down into something of a perpetual pout.
"Kurt, do you hear me?"
"I am not deaf." The fingers at the end of the arm were slightly cupped as if the hand was preparing to reach out for something unnameable and unknown.
"Well, are you going to answer it?" Madeleine called down.
"Whether I answer it or not is none of your goddamn business!" he shouted with vehemence. "Will
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