Bourne 4 - The Bourne Legacy by Robert Ludlum, Eric Van Lustbader
Authors: Robert Ludlum, Eric Van Lustbader
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along the center aisle, swept across the floor just beneath the spot where Bourne lay suspended amid the strawberries.
"Okay," the first cop said, "close it up, buddy." The flashlight beam snapped off and the door slammed shut. Bourne waited until the truck was in gear, rolling at speed down the highway to D.C., before extricating himself. His mind was buzzing. The cops must have shown Guy the same photo of David Webb that was being broadcast on CNN. Within a half hour, the smooth highway driving had given way to the constant stop and start of urban streets with traffic lights. It was time to exit. Bourne went to the door, pushed on the safety lever. It wouldn't move. He tried again, this time with more force. Cursing under his breath, he snapped on the flashlight he'd taken from Conklin's house. In the bright circle of the beam, he saw that the mechanism had jammed. He was locked in.
CHAPTER FIVE
The Director of Central Intelligence was in a dawn conference with Roberta AlonzoOrtiz, the National Security Advisor. They met in the president's Situation Room, a circular space in the bowels of the White House. Many floors above them were the woodpaneled, beautifully dentiled rooms most people associated with this storied, historical building, but down here the full muscle and might of the Pentagon oligarchs held sway. Like the great temples of the ancient civilizations, the Sit Room had been built to last for centuries. Carved out of the old subbasement, its proportions were intimidating, as befitted such a monument to invincibility.
Alonzo-Ortiz, the DCI and their respective staffs—as well as select members of the Secret Service—were going over, for the hundredth time, the security plans for the terrorism summit in Reykjavik. Detailed schematics for the Oskjuhlid Hotel were up on a projection screen, along with notes on security issues regarding entrances, exits, elevators, roof, windows and the like. A direct video hook-up to the hotel had been established, so that Jamie Hull, the DCI's emissary-in-place, could participate in the briefing.
"No margin for error will be tolerated," Alonzo-Ortiz said. She was a formidablelooking woman with jet-black hair and bright, keen eyes. "Every aspect of this summit must go off like clockwork," she continued. "Any breach of security no matter how minuscule will have disastrous effects. It would destroy what coin the president has spent eighteen months building up with the principal Islamic states. I don't have to tell any of you that beneath the facade of cooperation lurks an innate distrust of Western values, the Judeo-Christian ethic and all that stands for. Any hint that the president has deceived them will have the most dire and immediate consequences." She looked slowly around the table. It was one of her special gifts that when addressing a group she made each and every member believe that she was speaking only to him. "Make no mistake, gentlemen. We are talking about nothing less than a global war here, a massed jihad such as we have never before seen and, quite possibly, cannot imagine."
She was about to turn the briefing over to Jamie Hull when a young, slim man entered the room, went silently over to the DCI, handed him a sealed envelope.
"My apologies, Dr. Alonzo-Ortiz," he said as he slit open the envelope. He read the contents impassively, though his heart rate had doubled. The National Security Advisor did not like her briefings interrupted. Aware that she was glaring at him, he pushed back his chair and rose.
Alonzo-Ortiz directed at him a smile so compressed her lips fairly disappeared. "I trust you have sufficient cause to leave us so abruptly."
"I do, indeed, Dr. Alonzo-Ortiz." The DCI, though an old hand and, therefore, a wielder of his own power, knew better than to butt heads with the one person the president relied on most. He remained on his best behavior even though he deeply resented Roberta Alonzo-Ortiz both because she had usurped his traditional role
"Okay," the first cop said, "close it up, buddy." The flashlight beam snapped off and the door slammed shut. Bourne waited until the truck was in gear, rolling at speed down the highway to D.C., before extricating himself. His mind was buzzing. The cops must have shown Guy the same photo of David Webb that was being broadcast on CNN. Within a half hour, the smooth highway driving had given way to the constant stop and start of urban streets with traffic lights. It was time to exit. Bourne went to the door, pushed on the safety lever. It wouldn't move. He tried again, this time with more force. Cursing under his breath, he snapped on the flashlight he'd taken from Conklin's house. In the bright circle of the beam, he saw that the mechanism had jammed. He was locked in.
CHAPTER FIVE
The Director of Central Intelligence was in a dawn conference with Roberta AlonzoOrtiz, the National Security Advisor. They met in the president's Situation Room, a circular space in the bowels of the White House. Many floors above them were the woodpaneled, beautifully dentiled rooms most people associated with this storied, historical building, but down here the full muscle and might of the Pentagon oligarchs held sway. Like the great temples of the ancient civilizations, the Sit Room had been built to last for centuries. Carved out of the old subbasement, its proportions were intimidating, as befitted such a monument to invincibility.
Alonzo-Ortiz, the DCI and their respective staffs—as well as select members of the Secret Service—were going over, for the hundredth time, the security plans for the terrorism summit in Reykjavik. Detailed schematics for the Oskjuhlid Hotel were up on a projection screen, along with notes on security issues regarding entrances, exits, elevators, roof, windows and the like. A direct video hook-up to the hotel had been established, so that Jamie Hull, the DCI's emissary-in-place, could participate in the briefing.
"No margin for error will be tolerated," Alonzo-Ortiz said. She was a formidablelooking woman with jet-black hair and bright, keen eyes. "Every aspect of this summit must go off like clockwork," she continued. "Any breach of security no matter how minuscule will have disastrous effects. It would destroy what coin the president has spent eighteen months building up with the principal Islamic states. I don't have to tell any of you that beneath the facade of cooperation lurks an innate distrust of Western values, the Judeo-Christian ethic and all that stands for. Any hint that the president has deceived them will have the most dire and immediate consequences." She looked slowly around the table. It was one of her special gifts that when addressing a group she made each and every member believe that she was speaking only to him. "Make no mistake, gentlemen. We are talking about nothing less than a global war here, a massed jihad such as we have never before seen and, quite possibly, cannot imagine."
She was about to turn the briefing over to Jamie Hull when a young, slim man entered the room, went silently over to the DCI, handed him a sealed envelope.
"My apologies, Dr. Alonzo-Ortiz," he said as he slit open the envelope. He read the contents impassively, though his heart rate had doubled. The National Security Advisor did not like her briefings interrupted. Aware that she was glaring at him, he pushed back his chair and rose.
Alonzo-Ortiz directed at him a smile so compressed her lips fairly disappeared. "I trust you have sufficient cause to leave us so abruptly."
"I do, indeed, Dr. Alonzo-Ortiz." The DCI, though an old hand and, therefore, a wielder of his own power, knew better than to butt heads with the one person the president relied on most. He remained on his best behavior even though he deeply resented Roberta Alonzo-Ortiz both because she had usurped his traditional role
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