“If you don’t,” Lindros said angrily, “who the hell does?”
“Alex was the only one who knew.”
“Jesus H. Christ, Alex Conklin’s dead!” Lindros rose and, leaning forward, swiped the cigar out of Driver’s mouth. “Randy, how long has Dr. Schiffer been missing?”
Driver closed his eyes. “Six weeks.”
Now Lindros understood. This was why Driver had been so hostile when he’d first come to him; he was terrified that the Agency suspected his egregious breach of security. He said now, “How on earth did you allow this to happen?”
Driver’s blue gaze rested on him for a moment. “It was Alex. I trusted him. Why wouldn’t I? I knew him for years—he was an Agency legend, for Christ’s sake. And then what does he up and do? He disappears Schiffer.”
Driver stared at the cigar on the floor as if it had become a malignant object. “He used me, Lindros, played me like a fiddle. He didn’t want Schiffer in my directorate, he didn’t want us, the Agency, to have him. He wanted to get him away from DARPA so he could disappear him.”
“Why?” Lindros said. “Why would he do that?”
“I don’t know. I wish to God I did.”
The pain in Driver’s voice was palpable, and for the first time since they’d met, Lindros felt sorry for him. Everything he’d ever heard about Alexander Conklin had turned out to be true. He was the master manipulator, the keeper of all the dark secrets, the agent who trusted no one—no one save Jason Bourne, his protégé. Fleetingly, he wondered what this turn of events was going to do to the DCI. He and Conklin had been close friends for decades; they’d grown up together in the Agency—it was their life. They’d relied on each other, trusted each other, and now this bitterest blow. Conklin had breached just about every major Agency protocol to get what he wanted: Dr. Felix Schiffer. He’d screwed not only Randy Driver but the Agency itself. How was he ever going to protect the Old Man from this news? Lindros wondered. But, even as he thought this, he knew that he had a more pressing problem to deal with.
“Obviously, Conklin knew what Schiffer was really working on and wanted it,” Lindros said. “But what the hell was it?”
Driver looked at him helplessly.
Stepan Spalko was standing in the center of Kapisztrán tér, within shouting distance of his waiting limo. Above him rose the Mary Magdalene Tower, all that was left of the thirteenth-century Franciscan church, whose nave and chancel were destroyed by Nazi bombs during World War II. As he waited, he felt a gust of chill wind raise the hem of his black coat, insinuating itself against his skin.
Spalko glanced at his watch. Sido was late. Long ago, he’d trained himself not to worry, but such was the significance of this meeting that he couldn’t help but experience a twinge of anxiety. At the top of the tower, the twenty-four-piece glockenspiel sounded fifteen minutes after the hour. Sido was very late.
Spalko, watching the crowds ebb and flow, was just about to break protocol and call Sido on the cell phone he’d given him when he saw the scientist hurrying toward him from the opposite side of the tower. He was carrying something that looked like a jeweler’s sample case.
“You’re late,” Spalko said shortly.
“I know, but it couldn’t be helped.” Dr. Sido wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his overcoat. “I had trouble getting the item out of storage. There was staff inside and I had to wait until the cold room was empty so as not to arouse—”
“Not here, Doctor!”
Spalko, who wanted to hit him for talking about their business in public, took Sido firmly by the elbow and all but frog-marched him deep into the desolate shadows thrown by the rather forbidding baroque stone tower.
“You’ve forgotten to watch your tongue around outsiders, Peter,” Spalko said. “We’re part of an elite group, you and I. I’ve told you that.”
“I know,” Dr. Sido said nervously, “but I find it difficult to—”
“You don’t find it difficult to take my money, do you?”
Sido’s eyes slipped away. “Here’s the product,” he said. “It’s everything you asked for and more.” He held out the case. “But let’s get this over and done with quickly. I have to get back to the lab. I was in the middle of a crucial chemical calculation when you called.”
Spalko pushed Sido’s hand away. “You hold onto that, Peter, at least for a little while longer.”
Sido’s spectacles flashed. “But you said you needed it now—immediately. As I told you, once put in the portable case, the material is alive for only forty-eight hours.”
“I haven’t forgotten.”
“Stepan, I’m at a loss. I took a great risk in bringing it out of the clinic during working hours. Now I must get back or—”
Spalko smiled and, at the same time, tightened his grip on Sido’s elbow. “You’re not going back, Peter.”
“What?”
“I apologize for not mentioning it before, but, well, for the amount of money I’m paying you, I want more than the product. I want you.”
Dr. Sido shook his head. “But that’s quite impossible. You know that!”
“Nothing is impossible, Peter, you know that.”
“Well, this is,” Dr. Sido said adamantly.
With a charming smile, Spalko produced a snapshot from inside his overcoat. “What do they say about a picture’s worth?” he said, handing it over.
Dr. Sido stared at it and swallowed convulsively. “Where did you get this photo of my daughter?”
Spalko’s smile stayed firmly in place. “One of my people took it, Peter. Look at the date.”
“It was taken yesterday.” A sudden spasm overtook him and he tore the photo into pieces. “One can do anything with a photographic image these days,” he said stonily.
“How true,” Spalko said. “But I assure you this one wasn’t doctored.”
“Liar! I’m leaving!” Dr. Sido said. “Let go of me.”
Spalko did as the doctor asked, but as Sido started to walk away, he said, “Wouldn’t you like to talk with Roza, Peter?” He held out a cell phone. “I mean right now?”
Dr. Sido halted in midstep. Then he turned to face Spalko. His face was dark with anger and barely suppressed fear. “You said you were Felix’s friend; I thought you were my friend.”
Spalko continued to hold out the phone. “Roza would like to speak to you. If you walk away now…” He shrugged. His silence was its own threat.
Slowly, heavily, Dr. Sido came back. He took the cell phone in his free hand, put it up to his ear. He found that his heart was beating so loudly he could scarcely think. “Roza?”
“Daddy? Daddy! Where am I? What’s happening?”
The panic in his daughter’s voice sent a lance of terror through Sido. He could never remember being so afraid.
“Darling, what’s going on?”
“Men came to my room, they took me, I don’t know where, they put a hood over my head, they—”
“That’s enough,” Spalko said, taking the phone from Dr. Sido’s nerveless fingers. He cut the connection, put the phone away.
“What have you done to her?” Dr. Sido’s voice shook with the force of the emotions running through him.
“Nothing yet,” Spalko said easily. “And nothing will happen to her, Peter, as long as you obey me.”
Dr. Sido swallowed as Spalko resumed possession of him. “Where…where are we going?”
“We’re taking a trip,” Spalko said, guiding Dr. Sido toward the waiting limo. “Just think of it as a vacation, Peter. A well-deserved vacation.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
The Eurocenter Bio-I Clinic was housed in a modern stone building the color of lead. Bourne entered with the quick authoritative strides of someone who knew where he was going and why.
The interior of the clinic spoke of money, a great deal of it. The lobby was marble-clad. Classical-looking columns were interspersed with bronze statuary. Along the walls were arched niches in which resided the busts of the historical
demigods of biology, chemistry, microbiology and epidemiology. The ugly metal detector was particularly offensive in this tranquil and monied setting. Beyond the skeletal structure was a high bank behind which sat three harried-looking attendants.
Bourne passed through the metal detector without incident, his ceramic gun going entirely unnoticed. At the front desk, he was all business.
“Alexander Conklin to see Dr. Peter Sido,” he said so crisply that it was akin to being an order.
“ID, please, Mr. Conklin,” said one of the three female attendants, unconsciously responding and snapping to.
Bourne handed over his false passport, which the attendant glanced at it, looking at Bourne’s face only long enough to make visual confirmation before returning it to Bourne. She handed over a white plastic tag. “Please wear this at all times, Mr. Conklin.” Such was Bourne’s tone and demeanor that she failed to ask if Sido was expecting him, taking it for granted that “Mr. Conklin” had an interview with Dr. Sido. She provided the new visitor with directions and Bourne set off.
“They require special ID tags to get into his section, white for visitors, green for resident doctors, blue for assistants and support staff,” Eszti Sido had told him, so his immediate task was to find a likely member of the staff.
On his way to the Epidemiological Wing, he passed four men, none of whom were the right somatotype. He needed someone who was more or less his size. Along the way he tried every door that wasn’t marked as an office or lab, looking for storage rooms and the like, places that would be infrequently visited by the medical staff. He was unconcerned with members of the cleaning crew, since it was likely that they wouldn’t be in until the evening.
At length he saw coming toward him a man in a white lab coat of more or less his height and weight. He wore a green ID tag that identified him as Dr. Lenz Morintz.
“Excuse me, Dr. Morintz,” Bourne said with a deprecating smile, “I wonder if you could direct me to the Microbiological Wing. I seem to have lost my way.”
“Indeed you have,” Dr. Morintz said. “You’re headed straight for the Epidemiological Wing.”
“Oh, dear,” Bourne said, “I really have got myself turned around.”
“Not to worry,” Dr. Morintz said. “Here’s all you have to do.”
As he turned to point Bourne in the right direction, Bourne chopped down with the edge of his hand and the bacteriologist collapsed. Bourne caught him before he could hit the floor. Standing him more or less upright, he half-carried, half-dragged the doctor back to the nearest storage room, ignoring the searing pain from his cracked ribs.
Inside, Bourne turned on the light, took off his jacket, and stuffed it into a corner. Then he stripped Dr. Morintz of his lab coat and ID. Using some spare surgical tape, he bound the doctor’s hands behind his back, taped his ankles tightly, and wrapped a final piece across his mouth. Then he dragged the body into a corner, stashing it behind a couple of large cartons. He returned to the door, turned off the light and went out into the corridor.
For a time after she arrived at the Eurocenter Bio-I Clinic, Annaka sat in the taxi while the meter ran. Stepan had made it abundantly clear that they were now entering the mission’s final phase. Every decision they made, every move they took, was of critical importance. Any mistake now could lead to disaster. Bourne or Khan. She didn’t know which was the greater wild card, which one presented the greatest danger. Of the two, Bourne was the more stable, but Khan was without compunction. His similarity to her was an irony she couldn’t afford to ignore.
And yet it had occurred to her most recently that there were more differences than she’d once imagined. For a start, he hadn’t been able to bring himself to kill Jason Bourne, despite his stated desire to do so. And then, just as startlingly, there was his lapse in her Skoda when he’d leaned down to kiss the nape of her neck. From the moment she’d walked out on him she’d wondered whether what he’d felt for her had been genuine. Now she knew. Khan could feel; he could, if given enough incentive, forge emotional attachments. Frankly, she’d never have believed it of him, not with his background.
“Miss?” the taxi driver’s query broke into her thoughts. “Are you meeting someone here or is there somewhere else you want me to take you?”
Annaka leaned forward, pressing a wad of bills into his hand. “This will be fine here.”
Still she didn’t move, but she looked around, wondering where Kevin McColl was. It was easy for Stepan sitting safe in his office at Humanistas to tell her not to worry about the CIA agent, but she was in the field with a capable and dangerous assassin and the severely wounded man he was determined to kill. When the bullets began to fly, she was the one who was going to be in the line of fire.
She got out at last, her agitation causing her to look up and down the block for the battered green Opel before she caught herself and with a grunt of irritation went through the front door of the clinic.
Inside, the setup was just as Bourne had described it to her. She wondered where he’d gotten his information in such short order. She had to hand it to him; he had a remarkable ability for ferreting out information.
Passing through the metal detector, she was stopped on the other side, was asked to open her purse so the officer could peer through its contents. Following Bourne’s instructions to the letter, she approached the high marble bank, smiled at one of the three attendants who looked up long enough to acknowledge her presence.
“My name is Annaka Vadas,” she said. “I’m waiting for a friend.”
The attendant nodded, went back to her work. The two others were either on the phone or inputting data into a computer workstation. Another phone rang and the woman who’d smiled at Annaka, picked up the receiver, spoke into it for a moment, then, astonishingly, beckoned her over.
When Annaka approached the bank, the attendant said, “Miss Vadas. Dr. Morintz is expecting you.” She glanced briefly at Annaka’s driver’s license, then handed her a white plastic ID tag. “Please wear that at all times, Miss Vadas. The doctor is waiting for you in his laboratory.”
She pointed the way and Annaka, baffled, followed her direction down a corridor. At the first T-junction, she turned left and ran right into a man in a white lab coat.
“Oh, excuse me! What…?” She’d looked up to see Jason Bourne’s face. On his lab coat was a green plastic ID tag with the name Dr. Lenz Morintz printed on it, and she started to laugh. “Oh, I see, a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Morintz.” She squinted. “Even though you don’t look all that much like your photo.”
“You know how those cheap cameras are,” Bourne said, taking her by the elbow and leading her back to the corner she’d just turned. “They never do you justice.” Peering around the corner, he said, “Here comes the CIA, right on schedule.”
Annaka saw Kevin McColl showing his credentials to one of the attendants. “How’d he get his gun past the metal detector?” she asked.
“He didn’t,” Bourne said. “Why d’you think I directed you here?”
Despite herself, she looked at him with admiration. “A trap. McColl’s here without a gun.” He was clever indeed, and this realization caused her a spark of concern. She hoped Stepan knew what he was doing.
“Look, I discovered that Schiffer’s former partner, Peter Sido, works here. If anyone knows where Schiffer is, it’s Sido. We need to speak with him, but first we’ve got to take care of McColl once and for all. Are you ready?”
Annaka took a second look at McColl and, shuddering, nodded in assent.
Khan had used a taxi to tail the battered green Opel; he hadn’t wanted to use the rental Skoda in case it had been made. He waited for Kevin McColl to pull into a parking space, then he had the taxi go past, and when the CIA agent got out of his Opel, he paid the driver and started after the other on foot.
Last evening, following McColl from Annaka’s, he had called Ethan Hearn and read him off the license plate of the green Opel. Within the hour Hearn had gotten him the name and number of
the rental car location McColl had used. Posing as an Interpol agent, he’d obtained from the suitably cowed attendant, McColl’s name and address in the States. He hadn’t left a local address, but as it had turned out, with typical American arrogance, he’d used his real name. It had been a simple matter, then, for Khan to call another number, where a contact of his in Berlin had run McColl’s name through his data banks and come up with CIA.
Up ahead, McColl turned the corner onto Hattyu utca, entering a modern gray stone building at 75 that had more than a passing resemblance to a medieval fortress. It was fortunate that Khan waited a moment, as was his habit, because just then McColl ducked out. Khan watched him, curious, as he went to a trash bin. Looking around to make sure no one was paying him any attention, he drew out his gun, placed it quickly and carefully into the bin.
Khan waited until McColl had returned inside, then continued on, passing through the steel and glass door into the lobby. There, he observed McColl throwing around his Agency credentials. Observing the metal detector, Khan realized why McColl had gotten rid of his weapon. Was it coincidence or had Bourne set a trap for him? It’s what Khan himself would’ve done.
As McColl was given an ID tag and went down the corridor, Khan passed through the metal detector, showed the Interpol ID he’d picked up in Paris. This, of course, alarmed the attendant, especially after seeing the Agency man, and she wondered aloud whether she should either alert the clinic’s security or call the police, but Khan calmly assured her that they were on the same case and were only here for interview purposes. Any interruption in that process, he warned her sternly, could only lead to unforseen complications, which he knew she didn’t want. Still slightly nervous, she nodded and waved him through.
Kevin McColl saw Annaka Vadas up ahead and knew that Bourne had to be close by. He was certain she hadn’t made him, but in any event he fingered the small plastic square attached to the wristband of his watch. Inside was a length of nylon line retracted onto a tiny reel hidden within the plastic housing. He’d have preferred to complete the Bourne sanction with a gun because it was quick and clean. The human body, no matter how powerful, couldn’t fight off a bullet to the heart or lungs or brain. Other methods using surprise and brute force, which the presence of the metal detector was forcing him into using, took longer and were more often than not messy. He understood the increased risk, as well as the possibility that he would have to kill Annaka Vadas as well. That thought alone caused him a pang of regret. She was a handsome, sexy woman; it went against the grain to kill such beauty.
The Bourne Legacy Page 39