Stepan Spalko, newly returned to the Humanistas Ltd. headquarters in Budapest, was monitoring the international clandestine service cipher traffic for news on the summit when his cell phone rang.
"What is it?" he said tersely.
"I'm on my way to meet Bourne at 75 Hattyu utca," Annaka said. Spalko turned and walked away from where his technicians were sitting at their deciphering workstations. "He's sending you to the Eurocenter Bio-I Clinic," he said. "He knows about Peter Sido."
"He said he had an exciting new lead, but he wouldn't tell me what it was."
"The man's relentless," Spalko said. "I'll take care of Sido, but you can't let him anywhere near his office."
"I understand that," Annaka said. "In any event, Bourne's attention is initially going to be directed toward the American CIA agent who's been shadowing him."
"I don't want Bourne killed, Annaka. He's far too valuable to me alive— at least for the moment." Spalko's mind was sorting through possibilities, discarding them one by one until he arrived at his desired conclusion. "Leave everything else to me." Annaka, in the speeding taxi, nodded. "You can count on me, Stepan."
"I know that."
Annaka stared out the window at passing Budapest. "I never thanked you for killing my father."
"It was a long time coming."
"Khan thinks I'm angry because I didn't get to do it myself."
"Is he right?"
There were tears in Annaka's eyes and with some annoyance she wiped them away.
"He was my father, Stepan. Whatever he did ... still, he was my father. He raised me."
"Poorly, Annaka. He never really knew how to be a father to you." She thought about the lies she'd told Bourne without an iota of compunction, the idealized childhood she'd wished for herself. Her father had never read to her at night or changed her; he'd never once come to one of her graduations—it seemed he was always far away; and as for birthdays, he'd never remembered. Another tear, escaping her vigilance, crawled down her cheek and, at the corner of her mouth, she tasted its salt as if it were the bitterness of memory.
She tossed her head. "A child can never fully condemn her father, it seems."
"I did mine."
"That was different," she said. "And, anyway, I know how you felt about my mother."
"I loved her, yes." In his mind Spalko conjured up an image of Sasa Vadas: her large, luminous eyes, her creamy skin, the full bow of her mouth when that slow smile brought you close to her heart. "She was completely unique, a special creature, a princess as her name suggested."
"She was as much your family as she was mine," Annaka said. "She saw right through you, Stepan. In her heart she felt the tragedies you'd suffered without you having to tell her a thing."
"I waited a long time to take my revenge on your father, Annaka, but I never would've done it if I didn't know it was what you wanted, too."
Annaka laughed, now fully back to herself. The brief emotional wallow she'd fallen into disgusted her. "You don't expect me to believe that, do you, Stepan?"
"Now, Annaka—"
"Remember who you're trying to con. I know you, you killed him when it served your purpose. And you were right, he would've told Bourne everything and Bourne would've wasted no time coming after you with everything he had. That I'd wanted my father dead, too, was mere coincidence."
"Now you're underestimating your importance to me."
"That may or may not be true, Stepan, but it doesn't matter to me. I wouldn't know how to form an emotional attachment even if I wanted to try."
Martin Lindros presented his official papers to Randy Driver, Director of the Tactical Non-Lethal Weapons Directorate in person. Driver, who was staring at Lindros as if he had a chance of intimidating him, took the papers without comment and dropped them on his desk.
He was standing as a marine would stand, straight-spined, gut in, muscles taut, as if he were about to go into battle. His close-set blue eyes seemed almost crossed, such was his concentration. A slight antiseptic scent lingered in the white-metal office, as if he'd seen fit to fumigate the place in anticipation of Lindros' arrival.
"I see you've been a busy little beaver since last we met," he said, looking at no one in particular. Apparently, he'd realized that he wouldn't be able to intimidate Lindros simply with his stare. He was moving on to verbal intimidation.
"I'm always busy," Lindros said. "You just forced me into make-work." "Happy am I." Driver's face fairly creaked with the tightness of his smile.
Lindros shifted from one foot to the other. "Why do you see me as the enemy?"
"Possibly because you are the enemy." Driver finally sat down behind his smokedglass and stainless-steel desk. "What else would you call someone who comes in here wanting to dig up my backyard?"
"I'm only investigating—"
"Don't give that bullshit, Lindros!" Driver had leaped up, his face livid. "I can smell a witch-hunt at a hundred paces! You're the Old Man's bloodhound. You can't fool me. This isn't about Alex Conklin's murder."
"And why would you think that?"
"Because this investigation is about me!"
Now Lindros was really interested. Aware that Driver had given him the advantage, he seized it with a knowing smile. "Now why would we want to investigate you, Randy?" He'd chosen his words with care, using "we" to tell Driver that he was operating with the full force of the DCI behind him and his first name to unnerve him.
"You already know why, damnit!" Driver stormed, falling into the trap Lindros had set for him. "You must've known the first time you ambled in here. I could see it on your face when you asked to talk to Felix Schiffer."
"I wanted to give you the chance to come clean before I went to the DCI." Lindros was having fun following the path Driver was laying out, even though he had no idea where it was leading. On the other hand, he had to be careful. One false move on his part, one mistake and Driver would realize his ignorance and, likely as not, clam up, waiting for advice from his lawyer. "It's not too late for you to do so now." Driver stared at him for a moment, before pressing the heel of his hand to his damp forehead. He slumped a little before falling back into his mesh chair.
"Christ Almighty, what a mess," he mumbled. As if having received a devastating body blow, all the wind had gone out of him. He looked around at the Rothko prints on the wall, as if they might be doorways through which he could flee. At last, finally resigned to his fate, he let his gaze return to the man standing patiently in front of him. He gestured. "Sit down, Deputy Director." His voice was sad. When Lindros had taken his seat, he said, "It started with Alex Conklin. Well, it always started with Alex, didn't it?" He sighed, as if all at once overcome by nostalgia. "Almost two years ago Alex came to me with a proposition. He'd befriended a scientist at DARPA; the connection was coincidental, though, to tell you the truth, Alex networked with so many people I doubt if anything in his life was coincidence. I imagine you've worked out that the scientist in question was Felix Schiffer."
He paused for a moment. "I'm dying for a cigar. D'you mind?"
"Knock yourself out," Lindros said. So that explained the smell: air freshener. The building, like all government facilities, was supposed to be smoke-free.
"Care to join me?" Driver asked. "They were a present from Alex." When Lindros declined, Driver pulled out a drawer, extracted a cigar from a humidor, went through the complex ritual of lighting up. Lindros understood; he was calming his nerves. He sniffed as the first puff of blue smoke wafted through the room. It was a Cuban.
"Alex came to see me," Driver continued. "No, that's not quite accurate— he took me out to dinner. He told me he'd met this guy who worked at DARPA. Felix Schiffer. He hated the military types there and wanted out. Would I help his friend?"
"And you agreed," Lindros said, "just like that?"
"Of course, I did. General Baker, the head of DARPA, had poached one of our guys last year." Driver took a puff on his cigar. "Payback's a bitch. I leaped at the chance to stick it to th
at uptight asshole Baker."
Lindros stirred. "When Conklin came to you, did he tell you what Schiffer was working on at DARPA?"
"Sure. Schiffer's field was pushing around airborne particulates. He was working on methods to clear indoor areas infected with biologicals."
Lindros sat up. "Like anthrax?"
Driver nodded. "That's right."
"How far along was he?"
"At DARPA?" Driver shrugged. "I wouldn't know."
"But surely you'd gotten updates on his work after he came to work for you." Driver glared at him, then pressed some keys on his computer terminal. He swivelled the screen around so they could see.
Lindros leaned forward. "Looks like gibberish to me, but then I'm no scientist." Driver stared at the end of his cigar as if now, at the moment of truth, he couldn't bring himself to look at Lindros. "It is gibberish, more or less." Lindros froze. "What the hell d'you mean?"
Driver was still staring with fascination at the end of his cigar. "This couldn't be what Schiffer had been working on because it makes no sense."
Lindros shook his head. "I don't understand."
Driver sighed. "It's possible that Schiffer isn't much of a paniculate expert." Lindros, who had begun feeling a ball of icy terror form in his gut, said, "There's another possibility, isn't there?"
"Well, yes, now that you mention it." Driver ran his tongue around his lips. "It's possible that Schiffer was working on something else entirely that he wanted neither DARPA nor us to know about."
Lindros looked perplexed. "Why haven't you asked Dr. Schiffer about this?"
"I'd very much like to," Driver said. "The trouble is I don't know where Felix Schiffer is."
"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 protege". 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 Kapisztran ter, 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?" Side'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.
Bourne 4 - The Bourne Legacy Page 37