Read Online Bourne 4 - The Bourne Legacy by Robert Ludlum, Eric Van Lustbader - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Robert Ludlum, Eric Van Lustbader
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you go to bed now." A moment later he heard the satisfying whisper of the basement door closing. Why couldn't she leave him alone at a time like this? he fumed. Thirty years married, you'd think she'd know better.
He returned to his work, fitting the arm with the cupped hand to the shoulder of the torso, red to red, deciding on the final position. This was how the DCI dealt with situations over which he had no control. He played god with his miniature soldiers, buying them, cutting them to pieces, then, later, reconstructing them, molding them into the positions that suited him. Here, in the world he himself had created, he controlled everyone and everything.
The phone continued to ring in its mechanical, monotonous fashion and the DCI gritted his teeth, as if the sound was abrasive. What marvelous deeds had been accomplished in the days when he and Alex had been young! The mission inside Russia when they had almost landed in the Lubyanka, running the Berlin Wall, extracting secrets from the Staasi, vetting the defector from the KGB in the Vienna safe house, discovering that he was a double. The killing of Bernd, their longtime contact, the compassion with which they had told his wife that they would take care of Bernd's son Dieter, take him back to America, put him through college. They had done precisely that and had been rewarded for their generosity. Dieter had never returned to his mother. Instead, he had joined the Agency, had for many years been the director of the Science & Technology Directorate until the fatal motorcycle accident.
Where had that life gone? Laid to rest in Bernd's grave, and Dieter's— now Alex's. How had it been reduced so quickly to flashpoints in his memory? Time and responsibilities had crippled him, no question. He was an old man now, in some respects with more power, yes, but the daring deeds of yesterday, the elan with which he and Alex had bestrode the secret world, changing the fate of nations, had burned to ash, never to return.
The DCI's fist hammered the tin soldier into a cripple. Then and only then did he pick up the phone.
"Yes, Martin."
There was a weariness in his voice Lindros picked up on immediately. "Are you all right, sir?"
"No, I fucking well am not all right!" This was what the DCI had wanted. Another opportunity to vent his anger and frustration. "How could I be all right given the circumstances?"
"I'm sorry, sir."
"No, you're not," the DCI said waspishly. "You couldn't be. You have no idea." He stared at the soldier he had crushed, his mind hounded by past glories. "What is it you want?"
"You asked for an update, sir."
"Did I?" The DCI rested his head in his hand. "Yes, I suppose I did. What have you found?"
"The third car in Conklin's driveway belongs to David Webb." The DCI's keen ear responded to a tone in Lindros' voice. "But?"
"But there's no sign of Webb."
"Of course there isn't."
"He was definitely there, though. We gave the dogs a sniff at the interior of his car. They found his scent on the property and followed it into the woods but lost it at a stream."
The DCI closed his eyes. Alexander Conklin and Morris Panov shot to death, Jason Bourne MIA and on the loose five days before the terrorism summit, the most important international meeting of the century. He shuddered. He abhorred loose ends, but not nearly as much as Roberta Alonzo-Ortiz, the National Security Advisor, and these days she was running the show. "Ballistics? Forensics?"
"Tomorrow morning," Lindros said. "That was as much as I could push them."
"As far as the FBI and other law-enforcement agencies—"
"I've already neutralized them. We have a clear field." The DCI sighed. He appreciated the DDCI's initiative, but he despised being interrupted. "Get back to work," he said gruffly, and cradled the receiver. For a long time afterward, he stared into the wooden bin, listening to the house breathing. It sounded like an old man. Boards creaked, familiar as an old friend's voice. Madeleine
He returned to his work, fitting the arm with the cupped hand to the shoulder of the torso, red to red, deciding on the final position. This was how the DCI dealt with situations over which he had no control. He played god with his miniature soldiers, buying them, cutting them to pieces, then, later, reconstructing them, molding them into the positions that suited him. Here, in the world he himself had created, he controlled everyone and everything.
The phone continued to ring in its mechanical, monotonous fashion and the DCI gritted his teeth, as if the sound was abrasive. What marvelous deeds had been accomplished in the days when he and Alex had been young! The mission inside Russia when they had almost landed in the Lubyanka, running the Berlin Wall, extracting secrets from the Staasi, vetting the defector from the KGB in the Vienna safe house, discovering that he was a double. The killing of Bernd, their longtime contact, the compassion with which they had told his wife that they would take care of Bernd's son Dieter, take him back to America, put him through college. They had done precisely that and had been rewarded for their generosity. Dieter had never returned to his mother. Instead, he had joined the Agency, had for many years been the director of the Science & Technology Directorate until the fatal motorcycle accident.
Where had that life gone? Laid to rest in Bernd's grave, and Dieter's— now Alex's. How had it been reduced so quickly to flashpoints in his memory? Time and responsibilities had crippled him, no question. He was an old man now, in some respects with more power, yes, but the daring deeds of yesterday, the elan with which he and Alex had bestrode the secret world, changing the fate of nations, had burned to ash, never to return.
The DCI's fist hammered the tin soldier into a cripple. Then and only then did he pick up the phone.
"Yes, Martin."
There was a weariness in his voice Lindros picked up on immediately. "Are you all right, sir?"
"No, I fucking well am not all right!" This was what the DCI had wanted. Another opportunity to vent his anger and frustration. "How could I be all right given the circumstances?"
"I'm sorry, sir."
"No, you're not," the DCI said waspishly. "You couldn't be. You have no idea." He stared at the soldier he had crushed, his mind hounded by past glories. "What is it you want?"
"You asked for an update, sir."
"Did I?" The DCI rested his head in his hand. "Yes, I suppose I did. What have you found?"
"The third car in Conklin's driveway belongs to David Webb." The DCI's keen ear responded to a tone in Lindros' voice. "But?"
"But there's no sign of Webb."
"Of course there isn't."
"He was definitely there, though. We gave the dogs a sniff at the interior of his car. They found his scent on the property and followed it into the woods but lost it at a stream."
The DCI closed his eyes. Alexander Conklin and Morris Panov shot to death, Jason Bourne MIA and on the loose five days before the terrorism summit, the most important international meeting of the century. He shuddered. He abhorred loose ends, but not nearly as much as Roberta Alonzo-Ortiz, the National Security Advisor, and these days she was running the show. "Ballistics? Forensics?"
"Tomorrow morning," Lindros said. "That was as much as I could push them."
"As far as the FBI and other law-enforcement agencies—"
"I've already neutralized them. We have a clear field." The DCI sighed. He appreciated the DDCI's initiative, but he despised being interrupted. "Get back to work," he said gruffly, and cradled the receiver. For a long time afterward, he stared into the wooden bin, listening to the house breathing. It sounded like an old man. Boards creaked, familiar as an old friend's voice. Madeleine
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