The Bourne Deception by Robert Ludlum, Eric Van Lustbader Page A
Authors: Robert Ludlum, Eric Van Lustbader
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How many times during the night had she been roused out of a shallow and restless sleep, compelled to pad into the bathroom to stare at the reflection in the mirror she did not recognize. It was as if she had been unceremoniously thrust into someone else’s life, a life she neither wanted nor understood.
“Who are you?” she said over and over to that strange reflection. “How did you get here? What is it you want?”
Neither she nor her reflection had answers. In the stillness of the night she wept for the loss of who she had been, in despair of the new and incomprehensible future that had invaded her body like a transfusion.
But in the morning she was herself again: pragmatic, focused, ruthless both in her recruiting and in the stringent rules she set out for her operatives. She made each one swear allegiance to Heartland as if it were a sovereign nation—which in many respects Black River, her main rival, already was.
And yet, the moment the sun fell from the sky, twilight and uncertainty crept through her, and her thoughts returned to Bourne with whom she’d had no contact since she had left Bali three months ago with the body of a dead Australian drifter and the paperwork identifying it as Bourne’s. It was a recurring disease she’d picked up on the island: The thought of his imminent death was enough to cause her to run, and keep running. Except that wherever she went she ended up at the terrifying place where she’d started, at the moment he’d fallen to the ground, at the moment her heart had stopped beating.
The elevator door opened onto the shadow-drenched concrete expanse of the garage, and she stepped out, her car key in her hand. She hated this latenight walk through the almost deserted garage. The smears of oil and gas, the stench of exhaust, the echoes of her heels ringing against the concrete made her feel sad and achingly lonely, as if there was no place in the world she could call home.
There were very few cars left; the parallel white lines painted on the unsealed concrete stretched away from her, ending where she’d parked her car. She heard the cadence of her own strides, saw the movement of her crooked shadow as it passed across one square pillar after another.
She heard a car engine cough to life and came to a halt, standing still, her senses questing for the source. A dove-gray Audi pulled out from behind a pillar, turned on its headlights, and came toward her, gathering speed.
She drew her custom Lady Hawk 9mm from its thigh holster, moved to an expert sharpshooter’s crouch, thumbed off the safety. She was just about to pull the trigger when the passenger’s-side window slid down and the Audi screeched to a halt, rocking on its shocks.
“Moira—!”
She bent her knees more to lower her line of vision.
“Moira, it’s me, Jay!”
Peering inside the Audi, she saw Jay Weston, an operative she’d poached from Hobart, the largest government ODC—overseas defense contractor—six weeks ago.
At once she put up the Lady Hawk, holstered it. “Jesus, Jay, you could’ve gotten yourself killed.”
“I need to see you.”
She squinted. “Well, shit, you could’ve called.”
He shook his head. His face was pinched and tight with unaccustomed tension. “Cell phones are too insecure. I couldn’t take the risk, not with this.”
“Well,” she said, leaning on the window frame, “what’s so important?”
“Not here,” he said, looking around furtively. “Not anywhere where we can be overheard.”
Moira frowned. “Don’t you think you’re being a bit paranoid?”
“Being paranoid is in my job description, isn’t it?”
She nodded; she supposed it was. “All right, how d’you—”
“I need to show you something,” he said, patting a pocket of an expensive-looking sapphire-blue suede jacket slung across the passenger’s seat, then took off toward the ramp up to the street before she had a chance to climb in or even answer him.
She
“Who are you?” she said over and over to that strange reflection. “How did you get here? What is it you want?”
Neither she nor her reflection had answers. In the stillness of the night she wept for the loss of who she had been, in despair of the new and incomprehensible future that had invaded her body like a transfusion.
But in the morning she was herself again: pragmatic, focused, ruthless both in her recruiting and in the stringent rules she set out for her operatives. She made each one swear allegiance to Heartland as if it were a sovereign nation—which in many respects Black River, her main rival, already was.
And yet, the moment the sun fell from the sky, twilight and uncertainty crept through her, and her thoughts returned to Bourne with whom she’d had no contact since she had left Bali three months ago with the body of a dead Australian drifter and the paperwork identifying it as Bourne’s. It was a recurring disease she’d picked up on the island: The thought of his imminent death was enough to cause her to run, and keep running. Except that wherever she went she ended up at the terrifying place where she’d started, at the moment he’d fallen to the ground, at the moment her heart had stopped beating.
The elevator door opened onto the shadow-drenched concrete expanse of the garage, and she stepped out, her car key in her hand. She hated this latenight walk through the almost deserted garage. The smears of oil and gas, the stench of exhaust, the echoes of her heels ringing against the concrete made her feel sad and achingly lonely, as if there was no place in the world she could call home.
There were very few cars left; the parallel white lines painted on the unsealed concrete stretched away from her, ending where she’d parked her car. She heard the cadence of her own strides, saw the movement of her crooked shadow as it passed across one square pillar after another.
She heard a car engine cough to life and came to a halt, standing still, her senses questing for the source. A dove-gray Audi pulled out from behind a pillar, turned on its headlights, and came toward her, gathering speed.
She drew her custom Lady Hawk 9mm from its thigh holster, moved to an expert sharpshooter’s crouch, thumbed off the safety. She was just about to pull the trigger when the passenger’s-side window slid down and the Audi screeched to a halt, rocking on its shocks.
“Moira—!”
She bent her knees more to lower her line of vision.
“Moira, it’s me, Jay!”
Peering inside the Audi, she saw Jay Weston, an operative she’d poached from Hobart, the largest government ODC—overseas defense contractor—six weeks ago.
At once she put up the Lady Hawk, holstered it. “Jesus, Jay, you could’ve gotten yourself killed.”
“I need to see you.”
She squinted. “Well, shit, you could’ve called.”
He shook his head. His face was pinched and tight with unaccustomed tension. “Cell phones are too insecure. I couldn’t take the risk, not with this.”
“Well,” she said, leaning on the window frame, “what’s so important?”
“Not here,” he said, looking around furtively. “Not anywhere where we can be overheard.”
Moira frowned. “Don’t you think you’re being a bit paranoid?”
“Being paranoid is in my job description, isn’t it?”
She nodded; she supposed it was. “All right, how d’you—”
“I need to show you something,” he said, patting a pocket of an expensive-looking sapphire-blue suede jacket slung across the passenger’s seat, then took off toward the ramp up to the street before she had a chance to climb in or even answer him.
She
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