Robert Ludlum's (TM) The Bourne Ascendancy by Eric Van Lustbader Page A
Authors: Eric Van Lustbader
Ads: Link
his recon of the lower staircase before answering. “It may be nothing, but there was some chatter—” He stopped abruptly. “You know, I’m not sure I should be repeating unattributed rumor.”
“Humor me,” Bourne said.
Hafiz appeared to consider this a moment. “Well, hall gossip had it that there was an ulterior motive behind the Doha summit.”
“Was there anything more detailed?”
Hafiz heaved a sigh. “According to the rumor, the summit had an artificial air to it, that it was planned for a specific purpose.”
“Which would be?”
Hafiz shrugged. “My best guess would be that someone here inside the ministry knew the massacre was going to happen. Ever since Qatar has been providing arms and materiel to the rebels here, it’s been on our shit list.”
Bourne shot Zizzy a quick glance before he said to Hafiz, “Could there be any hint of the foreknowledge in the ministry files?”
Hafiz frowned. “I doubt it.”
“Personal emails? Appointments? Missing periods from a minister’s calendar?”
“Who knows?” Hafiz said. “But it would be easy enough to check.”
He led them out of the fire stairs, back into the refrigerated hallway. In his office, he crossed the Isfahan on his way to his desk.
“I have access to almost every level of electronic communication,” he said. “And what I don’t have ready access to, I can obtain, no prob—”
A tinkling of window glass, a spray of blood as Hafiz’s body spun around and fell to the carpet.
12
S andcrabbing was not a particularly glamorous undertaking. In fact, it was shunned by many field operatives, or at least shunted off onto underlings. It was also never less than difficult, depending as much on raw intuition as on grubby digging. For Sara Yadin, the difficulty was compounded by the fact that she was a female in an Arab country. Had she been in Riyadh, for instance, where women were not even allowed to drive a car, instead of in Doha, a far less restrictive city, her job would have been impossible.
But Sara was unflaggingly intrepid. Even her few detractors, who thought that too often she flew too close to the sun, grudgingly admitted to that.
Start with what you know, her training had taught her, and move on from there.
The reason her father hadn’t objected to her coming to Doha was that he knew she ran a number of reliable contacts and conduits here. The trouble was, having been recuperating in hospital for months, she hadn’t been in touch with them for a while. The first one was out of the country, the second knew nothing, and the third was in hospital and unconscious, the victim of a stroke. She moved on to a man named Hassim, who owned Vongole, an upscale restaurant on a tony strip known as La Croisette.
Hassim wasn’t at the restaurant, so she drove to his house, a walled villa of pale gold, beyond which could be seen the tops of date palms clattering in the hot wind. Through the open gate, she could see that the place was three-tiered, with flat tiled roofs and a shaded entry portico. Hassim’s silver Rolls was in the driveway. She pulled up next to it, emerged into the blistering desert heat, and in the blessed shade beneath the portico rang the bell.
Hassim himself, rather than one of his servants, answered the door.
“Were you expecting me?” Sara said, half in jest.
“It happened I saw you drive up,” he said as he ushered her inside. “It’s a pleasure to see you, Rebeka, though your presence here seems a bit insecure.”
“I know, but I don’t have time for the usual dead-drop protocol.”
He nodded. “Fair enough.”
He led her through the octagonal entryway and into a large seating area. He was a small man, neat and fastidious. He and his family had made their fortune in oil, but, sensing the decline in fossil fuels, he had felt the need to diversify away from energy. Vongole was his third restaurant in Doha, the newest and the most successful, though as far as Sara knew they were all packed
“Humor me,” Bourne said.
Hafiz appeared to consider this a moment. “Well, hall gossip had it that there was an ulterior motive behind the Doha summit.”
“Was there anything more detailed?”
Hafiz heaved a sigh. “According to the rumor, the summit had an artificial air to it, that it was planned for a specific purpose.”
“Which would be?”
Hafiz shrugged. “My best guess would be that someone here inside the ministry knew the massacre was going to happen. Ever since Qatar has been providing arms and materiel to the rebels here, it’s been on our shit list.”
Bourne shot Zizzy a quick glance before he said to Hafiz, “Could there be any hint of the foreknowledge in the ministry files?”
Hafiz frowned. “I doubt it.”
“Personal emails? Appointments? Missing periods from a minister’s calendar?”
“Who knows?” Hafiz said. “But it would be easy enough to check.”
He led them out of the fire stairs, back into the refrigerated hallway. In his office, he crossed the Isfahan on his way to his desk.
“I have access to almost every level of electronic communication,” he said. “And what I don’t have ready access to, I can obtain, no prob—”
A tinkling of window glass, a spray of blood as Hafiz’s body spun around and fell to the carpet.
12
S andcrabbing was not a particularly glamorous undertaking. In fact, it was shunned by many field operatives, or at least shunted off onto underlings. It was also never less than difficult, depending as much on raw intuition as on grubby digging. For Sara Yadin, the difficulty was compounded by the fact that she was a female in an Arab country. Had she been in Riyadh, for instance, where women were not even allowed to drive a car, instead of in Doha, a far less restrictive city, her job would have been impossible.
But Sara was unflaggingly intrepid. Even her few detractors, who thought that too often she flew too close to the sun, grudgingly admitted to that.
Start with what you know, her training had taught her, and move on from there.
The reason her father hadn’t objected to her coming to Doha was that he knew she ran a number of reliable contacts and conduits here. The trouble was, having been recuperating in hospital for months, she hadn’t been in touch with them for a while. The first one was out of the country, the second knew nothing, and the third was in hospital and unconscious, the victim of a stroke. She moved on to a man named Hassim, who owned Vongole, an upscale restaurant on a tony strip known as La Croisette.
Hassim wasn’t at the restaurant, so she drove to his house, a walled villa of pale gold, beyond which could be seen the tops of date palms clattering in the hot wind. Through the open gate, she could see that the place was three-tiered, with flat tiled roofs and a shaded entry portico. Hassim’s silver Rolls was in the driveway. She pulled up next to it, emerged into the blistering desert heat, and in the blessed shade beneath the portico rang the bell.
Hassim himself, rather than one of his servants, answered the door.
“Were you expecting me?” Sara said, half in jest.
“It happened I saw you drive up,” he said as he ushered her inside. “It’s a pleasure to see you, Rebeka, though your presence here seems a bit insecure.”
“I know, but I don’t have time for the usual dead-drop protocol.”
He nodded. “Fair enough.”
He led her through the octagonal entryway and into a large seating area. He was a small man, neat and fastidious. He and his family had made their fortune in oil, but, sensing the decline in fossil fuels, he had felt the need to diversify away from energy. Vongole was his third restaurant in Doha, the newest and the most successful, though as far as Sara knew they were all packed
Similar Books
