Bourne 4 - The Bourne Legacy by Robert Ludlum, Eric Van Lustbader Page A
Authors: Robert Ludlum, Eric Van Lustbader
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with the president and because she was a woman. For these reasons, he employed what little power was at his command—the withholding of what she wanted most to know: the nature of the emergency dire enough to take him away.
The National Security Advisor's smile tightened further. "In that event, I would appreciate a full briefing of the crisis, whatever it may be, as soon as is practicable."
"Absolutely," the DCI said, beating a hasty retreat. As the thick door to the Sit Room swung shut behind him, he added, dryly, "Your Highness," eliciting a gust of laughter from the field agent his office had employed as a messenger.
It took the DCI less than fifteen minutes to return to HQ where a meeting of Agency directorate heads was awaiting his arrival. The subject: the murders of Alexander Conklin and Dr. Morris Panov. The prime suspect: Jason Bourne. These were whey-faced men in impeccably tailored conservative suits, rep ties, polished brogues. Not for them striped shirts, colored collars, the passing fads of fashion. Used to striding the corridors of power inside the Beltway, they were as immutable as their clothes. They were conservative thinkers from conservative colleges, scions from the correct families who, early on, had been directed by their fathers to the offices, and thence the confidences, of the right people—leaders with vision and energy who knew how to get the job done. The nexus in which they now sat was a tightly held secret world, but the tentacles that fanned out from it stretched far and wide.
As soon as the DCI entered the conference room, the lights were dimmed. On a screen appeared the forensic photos of the bodies in situ.
"For the love of God, take those down!" the DCI shouted. "They're an obscenity. We shouldn't be viewing these men like that."
Martin Lindros, the DDCI, pressed a button and the screen went blank. "To bring everyone up to date, yesterday we confirmed that it was David Webb's car in Conklin's driveway." He paused as the Old Man cleared his throat.
"Let's call a spade a spade." The DCI leaned forward, fists upon the gleaming table.
"The world at large may know this . .. this man as David Webb but here he is known as Jason Bourne. We will use that name."
"Yessir," Lindros said, determined not to run afoul of the DCI's exceedingly black mood. He barely needed to consult his notes, so fresh and vivid in his mind were the findings. "W—Bourne was last seen on the Georgetown campus approximately an hour before the murders. A witness observed him hurrying toward his car. We can assume he drove directly to Alex Conklin's house. Bourne was definitely in the house at or around the time of the murders. His fingerprints are on a glass of half-finished Scotch found in the media room."
"What about the gun?" the DCI asked. "Is it the murder weapon?" Lindros nodded.
"Absolutely confirmed by ballistics." "And it's Bourne's, you're certain, Martin?" Lindros consulted a photocopied sheet, spun it across the table to the DCI.
"Registration confirms that the murder weapon belongs to David Webb. Our David Webb."
"Sonuvabitch!" The DCI's hands were trembling. "Are the bastard's fingerprints on it?"
"The gun was wiped clean," Lindros said, consulting another sheet. "No fingerprints at all."
"The mark of a professional." The DCI looked abruptly weary. It wasn't easy to lose an old friend.
"Yessir. Absolutely."
"And Bourne?" the DCI growled. It appeared painful for him even to utter the name.
"Early this morning we received a tip that Bourne was holed up in a Virginia motel near one of the roadblocks," Lindros said. "The area was immediately cordoned off, an assault team sent into the motel. If Bourne was in fact there, he'd already fled, slipped through the cordon. He's vanished into thin air."
"Goddammit!" Color had risen to the DCI's cheeks.
Lindros' assistant came silently in, handed him a sheet of paper. He scanned it for a moment, then looked up. "Earlier, I sent a team to Webb's home,
The National Security Advisor's smile tightened further. "In that event, I would appreciate a full briefing of the crisis, whatever it may be, as soon as is practicable."
"Absolutely," the DCI said, beating a hasty retreat. As the thick door to the Sit Room swung shut behind him, he added, dryly, "Your Highness," eliciting a gust of laughter from the field agent his office had employed as a messenger.
It took the DCI less than fifteen minutes to return to HQ where a meeting of Agency directorate heads was awaiting his arrival. The subject: the murders of Alexander Conklin and Dr. Morris Panov. The prime suspect: Jason Bourne. These were whey-faced men in impeccably tailored conservative suits, rep ties, polished brogues. Not for them striped shirts, colored collars, the passing fads of fashion. Used to striding the corridors of power inside the Beltway, they were as immutable as their clothes. They were conservative thinkers from conservative colleges, scions from the correct families who, early on, had been directed by their fathers to the offices, and thence the confidences, of the right people—leaders with vision and energy who knew how to get the job done. The nexus in which they now sat was a tightly held secret world, but the tentacles that fanned out from it stretched far and wide.
As soon as the DCI entered the conference room, the lights were dimmed. On a screen appeared the forensic photos of the bodies in situ.
"For the love of God, take those down!" the DCI shouted. "They're an obscenity. We shouldn't be viewing these men like that."
Martin Lindros, the DDCI, pressed a button and the screen went blank. "To bring everyone up to date, yesterday we confirmed that it was David Webb's car in Conklin's driveway." He paused as the Old Man cleared his throat.
"Let's call a spade a spade." The DCI leaned forward, fists upon the gleaming table.
"The world at large may know this . .. this man as David Webb but here he is known as Jason Bourne. We will use that name."
"Yessir," Lindros said, determined not to run afoul of the DCI's exceedingly black mood. He barely needed to consult his notes, so fresh and vivid in his mind were the findings. "W—Bourne was last seen on the Georgetown campus approximately an hour before the murders. A witness observed him hurrying toward his car. We can assume he drove directly to Alex Conklin's house. Bourne was definitely in the house at or around the time of the murders. His fingerprints are on a glass of half-finished Scotch found in the media room."
"What about the gun?" the DCI asked. "Is it the murder weapon?" Lindros nodded.
"Absolutely confirmed by ballistics." "And it's Bourne's, you're certain, Martin?" Lindros consulted a photocopied sheet, spun it across the table to the DCI.
"Registration confirms that the murder weapon belongs to David Webb. Our David Webb."
"Sonuvabitch!" The DCI's hands were trembling. "Are the bastard's fingerprints on it?"
"The gun was wiped clean," Lindros said, consulting another sheet. "No fingerprints at all."
"The mark of a professional." The DCI looked abruptly weary. It wasn't easy to lose an old friend.
"Yessir. Absolutely."
"And Bourne?" the DCI growled. It appeared painful for him even to utter the name.
"Early this morning we received a tip that Bourne was holed up in a Virginia motel near one of the roadblocks," Lindros said. "The area was immediately cordoned off, an assault team sent into the motel. If Bourne was in fact there, he'd already fled, slipped through the cordon. He's vanished into thin air."
"Goddammit!" Color had risen to the DCI's cheeks.
Lindros' assistant came silently in, handed him a sheet of paper. He scanned it for a moment, then looked up. "Earlier, I sent a team to Webb's home,
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