The Bourne Betrayal by Robert Ludlum, Eric Van Lustbader Page A
Authors: Robert Ludlum, Eric Van Lustbader
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his head. “If you knew me better, you’d know I work alone.”
Soraya looked as if she was about to say something, then changed her mind. “Look, as you said yourself, you’re already in hot water with the Old Man. You’re going to need someone on the inside. Someone you can trust absolutely.” She took a step back toward the motorcycle. “Because you know as sure as we’re both standing here that the Old Man’s going to find ways to fuck you every which way from Sunday.”
Six
KIM LOVETT was tired. She wanted to go home to her husband of six months. He was too new to the district and they were too new to each other for him to have yet succumbed to the crushing separation dictated by his wife’s job.
Kim was always tired. The D.C. Fire Investigation Unit knew no typical hours or workdays. As a consequence, agents like Kim, who were clever, experienced, and knew what they were doing, were called on to labor hours akin to those of an ER surgeon in a war zone.
Kim had caught the call from DCFD during a brief lull in the mind-numbing drudgery of filling out paperwork on a phalanx of arson investigations, one of the few moments during the past weeks when she’d allowed herself to think about her husband-his wide shoulders, his strong arms, the scent of his naked body. The reverie didn’t last long. She had picked up her kit and was on her way to the Hotel Constitution.
She engaged the siren as she headed out. From Vermont Avenue and 11th Street to the northeast corner of 20th and F took no more than seven minutes. The hotel was surrounded by police cars and fire engines, but by now the fire had been contained. Water streamed down the facade from the open wound at the end of the fifth floor. The EMT vehicles had come and gone, and there was about the scene the brittle, jittery aftermath of cinders and draining adrenaline Kim’s father had described to her so well.
Chief O’Grady was waiting for her. She got out of the car and, displaying her ID, was admitted past the police barricades.
“Lovett,” O’Grady grunted. He was a big, beefy man with short but unruly white hair and ears the size and shape of a thick slice of pork tenderloin. His sad, watery eyes watched her guardedly. He was one of the majority who felt that women had no place in the DCFD .
“What’ve we got?”
“Explosion and fire.” O’Grady lifted his chin in the direction of the gaping wound.
“Any of our men killed or injured?”
“No, but thanks for asking.” O’Grady wiped his forehead with a dirty paper towel. “There was a death, however-probably the occupant of the suite, though with the tiny fragments I’ve found I can tell you it will be impossible to make an ID. Also, the cops say one employee is missing. Damn lucky for a fireworks display like this one.”
“You said probably the guest.”
“That’s right. The fire was unnaturally hot, and it was one bitch to put out. That’s why FIU was called in.”
“Any idea what caused the explosion?” she asked.
“Well, it wasn’t the fucking boiler,” the chief said shortly. He stepped closer to her, the burned rubber-and-cinder smell coming off him in waves. When he spoke again, his voice was low, urgent.
“You’ve got about an hour up there before Metro Police hand everything over to Homeland Security. And you know what’s gonna happen when those boyos start tramping through our crime scene.”
“Gotcha.” Kim nodded.
“Okay. Go on up. A Detective Overton is waiting.”
He strode off in his rolling, slightly bandy-legged gait.
The lobby was filled with cops and firemen milling around. The cops were taking the temperature of the staff and guests, huddled in separate corners like plotting factions. The firefighters were busy dragging equipment across the blackened runner and marble floor. The place smelled of anxiety and frustration, like a stalled subway car at rush hour.
Kim rode the elevator up, stepping out into a charred and ruined fifth-floor
Soraya looked as if she was about to say something, then changed her mind. “Look, as you said yourself, you’re already in hot water with the Old Man. You’re going to need someone on the inside. Someone you can trust absolutely.” She took a step back toward the motorcycle. “Because you know as sure as we’re both standing here that the Old Man’s going to find ways to fuck you every which way from Sunday.”
Six
KIM LOVETT was tired. She wanted to go home to her husband of six months. He was too new to the district and they were too new to each other for him to have yet succumbed to the crushing separation dictated by his wife’s job.
Kim was always tired. The D.C. Fire Investigation Unit knew no typical hours or workdays. As a consequence, agents like Kim, who were clever, experienced, and knew what they were doing, were called on to labor hours akin to those of an ER surgeon in a war zone.
Kim had caught the call from DCFD during a brief lull in the mind-numbing drudgery of filling out paperwork on a phalanx of arson investigations, one of the few moments during the past weeks when she’d allowed herself to think about her husband-his wide shoulders, his strong arms, the scent of his naked body. The reverie didn’t last long. She had picked up her kit and was on her way to the Hotel Constitution.
She engaged the siren as she headed out. From Vermont Avenue and 11th Street to the northeast corner of 20th and F took no more than seven minutes. The hotel was surrounded by police cars and fire engines, but by now the fire had been contained. Water streamed down the facade from the open wound at the end of the fifth floor. The EMT vehicles had come and gone, and there was about the scene the brittle, jittery aftermath of cinders and draining adrenaline Kim’s father had described to her so well.
Chief O’Grady was waiting for her. She got out of the car and, displaying her ID, was admitted past the police barricades.
“Lovett,” O’Grady grunted. He was a big, beefy man with short but unruly white hair and ears the size and shape of a thick slice of pork tenderloin. His sad, watery eyes watched her guardedly. He was one of the majority who felt that women had no place in the DCFD .
“What’ve we got?”
“Explosion and fire.” O’Grady lifted his chin in the direction of the gaping wound.
“Any of our men killed or injured?”
“No, but thanks for asking.” O’Grady wiped his forehead with a dirty paper towel. “There was a death, however-probably the occupant of the suite, though with the tiny fragments I’ve found I can tell you it will be impossible to make an ID. Also, the cops say one employee is missing. Damn lucky for a fireworks display like this one.”
“You said probably the guest.”
“That’s right. The fire was unnaturally hot, and it was one bitch to put out. That’s why FIU was called in.”
“Any idea what caused the explosion?” she asked.
“Well, it wasn’t the fucking boiler,” the chief said shortly. He stepped closer to her, the burned rubber-and-cinder smell coming off him in waves. When he spoke again, his voice was low, urgent.
“You’ve got about an hour up there before Metro Police hand everything over to Homeland Security. And you know what’s gonna happen when those boyos start tramping through our crime scene.”
“Gotcha.” Kim nodded.
“Okay. Go on up. A Detective Overton is waiting.”
He strode off in his rolling, slightly bandy-legged gait.
The lobby was filled with cops and firemen milling around. The cops were taking the temperature of the staff and guests, huddled in separate corners like plotting factions. The firefighters were busy dragging equipment across the blackened runner and marble floor. The place smelled of anxiety and frustration, like a stalled subway car at rush hour.
Kim rode the elevator up, stepping out into a charred and ruined fifth-floor
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