Robert Ludlum's the Bourne Imperative by Eric Van Lustbader Page A
Authors: Eric Van Lustbader
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thanked you for saving my life.”
“All in a day’s work,” Bourne said now. “Is Alef okay?” She frowned. “Who?”
“The man next to me. I pulled him out of the water several days ago.”
“Oh, you mean Manfred Weaving.” She glanced to Bourne’s left.
“He’s fine. Thanks to you. But I need to get him inside, too.” Bourne was beginning to regain movement in his limbs, but he was still dreadfully chilled. To keep his teeth from chattering, he said, “How d’you know him? What are you doing here?”
“I’ve been pursuing him for weeks now, all the way from Lebanon.”
She laughed. “You remember Lebanon, Bourne, don’t you?”
“How’s Colonel Ben David?”
“Pissed as a bear up a tree.”
“Good.”
“He hates your guts.”
“Even better.”
With a wry smile, she helped him up to a sitting position. “I’ve got to get you both warmed up.”
He turned, glanced at the man lying in his own blood. “Who the hell is this?”
“His name’s Ze’ev Stahl. He worked for Ari Ben David.”
Bourne looked at her. “You killed one of your own?”
“It’s a long story.” She nodded at Manfred Weaving. “We’d better get going.” She gave him a wry smile. “You, I don’t know about, but he’s far too valuable to let freeze to death.”
Peter Marks sat in his unmarked car, enjoying a Snickers bar.
He hated stakeouts so much that the only way to get through them was to give himself a constant supply of treats. It being a particularly mild day, he had all the windows down, breathing in the air of a coming spring. While he waited, he listened again to the relevant snippet of recording from his office:
Soraya: “I have it on good authority that Nicodemo is connected with Core Energy.”
Richards: “Where did you hear that?”
Peter nodded in satisfaction. He had to hand it to Soraya. She was a fucking expert. When she had first outlined her plan, he had counted on confronting Richards himself, but she had made a clear case otherwise.
“First, he won’t expect me to be in the office, let alone be sitting at your desk,” she had said. “Second, I give him the heebie-jeebies, I can tell. He doesn’t know whether to spit at me or ask me out.When he looks at me, I can see the heat in his eyes. I can use all that to rattle him.” As it turned out,she had been dead-on in her psychprofile of Dick Richards.
Taking a last luxurious bite of his Snickers, Peter glanced at the dashboard clock. Fifteen minutes since the impromptu meeting in his office had concluded. Movement at the entrance to the Treadstone building caused him to look up. Bingo! Here came Richards, hurrying down the steps, turning left into the guarded and electronically surveilled parking lot.
Peter watched as he climbed into his car, started the engine, and drove out. Putting his own car in gear, Peter nosed out into the traffic flow, taking up a position a car length behind Richards.
He had expected Richards to head across the Key Bridge into DC, but instead he went the other way, heading out past the suburban sprawl of Arlington, into the rolling Virginia hills, so lushly verdant in spring and summer, aflame in autumn, brown now, sleeping in winter’s chill.
Exiting the highway, they passed through sleepy villages and tony residential enclaves, separated by long swaths of parkland, stands of trees beside golf courses and tennis courts.
On the old Blackfriar Pike, they rose up, then swung down into a broad valley. The road ascended again, cresting a hill, and Peter thought, Really? This is where he’s gone?
Beyond, on the left, he could make out the thick brick walls of the Blackfriar, the oldest and still the most exclusive country club in the area, tendentiously outmuscling the clutch of multi-million-dollar pretenders that had sprung up over the decades. Blackfriar accepted only the most powerful pols, lobbyists, newsmen and -women, influence peddlers, and attorneys, starting, of
“All in a day’s work,” Bourne said now. “Is Alef okay?” She frowned. “Who?”
“The man next to me. I pulled him out of the water several days ago.”
“Oh, you mean Manfred Weaving.” She glanced to Bourne’s left.
“He’s fine. Thanks to you. But I need to get him inside, too.” Bourne was beginning to regain movement in his limbs, but he was still dreadfully chilled. To keep his teeth from chattering, he said, “How d’you know him? What are you doing here?”
“I’ve been pursuing him for weeks now, all the way from Lebanon.”
She laughed. “You remember Lebanon, Bourne, don’t you?”
“How’s Colonel Ben David?”
“Pissed as a bear up a tree.”
“Good.”
“He hates your guts.”
“Even better.”
With a wry smile, she helped him up to a sitting position. “I’ve got to get you both warmed up.”
He turned, glanced at the man lying in his own blood. “Who the hell is this?”
“His name’s Ze’ev Stahl. He worked for Ari Ben David.”
Bourne looked at her. “You killed one of your own?”
“It’s a long story.” She nodded at Manfred Weaving. “We’d better get going.” She gave him a wry smile. “You, I don’t know about, but he’s far too valuable to let freeze to death.”
Peter Marks sat in his unmarked car, enjoying a Snickers bar.
He hated stakeouts so much that the only way to get through them was to give himself a constant supply of treats. It being a particularly mild day, he had all the windows down, breathing in the air of a coming spring. While he waited, he listened again to the relevant snippet of recording from his office:
Soraya: “I have it on good authority that Nicodemo is connected with Core Energy.”
Richards: “Where did you hear that?”
Peter nodded in satisfaction. He had to hand it to Soraya. She was a fucking expert. When she had first outlined her plan, he had counted on confronting Richards himself, but she had made a clear case otherwise.
“First, he won’t expect me to be in the office, let alone be sitting at your desk,” she had said. “Second, I give him the heebie-jeebies, I can tell. He doesn’t know whether to spit at me or ask me out.When he looks at me, I can see the heat in his eyes. I can use all that to rattle him.” As it turned out,she had been dead-on in her psychprofile of Dick Richards.
Taking a last luxurious bite of his Snickers, Peter glanced at the dashboard clock. Fifteen minutes since the impromptu meeting in his office had concluded. Movement at the entrance to the Treadstone building caused him to look up. Bingo! Here came Richards, hurrying down the steps, turning left into the guarded and electronically surveilled parking lot.
Peter watched as he climbed into his car, started the engine, and drove out. Putting his own car in gear, Peter nosed out into the traffic flow, taking up a position a car length behind Richards.
He had expected Richards to head across the Key Bridge into DC, but instead he went the other way, heading out past the suburban sprawl of Arlington, into the rolling Virginia hills, so lushly verdant in spring and summer, aflame in autumn, brown now, sleeping in winter’s chill.
Exiting the highway, they passed through sleepy villages and tony residential enclaves, separated by long swaths of parkland, stands of trees beside golf courses and tennis courts.
On the old Blackfriar Pike, they rose up, then swung down into a broad valley. The road ascended again, cresting a hill, and Peter thought, Really? This is where he’s gone?
Beyond, on the left, he could make out the thick brick walls of the Blackfriar, the oldest and still the most exclusive country club in the area, tendentiously outmuscling the clutch of multi-million-dollar pretenders that had sprung up over the decades. Blackfriar accepted only the most powerful pols, lobbyists, newsmen and -women, influence peddlers, and attorneys, starting, of
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