When Willard returned to the banquette it was with a bottle of single-malt. He filled his shot glass and topped off Marks‘s. ―Before we go any further,‖ he said, ―I‘m wondering why you haven‘t reported our startling information regarding Noah Perlis and Black River to the Arab.‖
―M. Errol Danziger is the new DCI,‖ Marks said thoughtfully, ―but I‘m not sure I want to report anything to him, especially if the NSA is involved.
He‘s Secretary Halliday‘s man through and through.‖
Willard took a sip of his single-malt. ―So what are you going to do?
Quit?‖
Marks shook his head. ―I love CI too much. It‘s my life.‖ He inclined his head. ―I‘d ask the same of you: Are you going to quit?‖
―Indeed not.‖ Willard threw down some more whisky. ―But I do plan to go my own way.‖
Marks shook his head. ―I‘m not following you.‖
Something had surfaced on Willard‘s face, a certain contemplative air, or perhaps his innate secretiveness was battling with an urge to recruit, because he said, ―Did you know Alex Conklin?‖
―No one knew Conklin—not really.‖
―I did. I don‘t say that as a boast, just hard fact. Alex and I worked together. I knew what he was building with Treadstone. I‘m not certain I approved then, but I was much younger. I hadn‘t experienced the things Alex had. In any case, he confided all of Treadstone‘s secrets to me.‖
―I thought the Treadstone files were destroyed.‖
Willard nodded. ―The ones the Old Man didn‘t shred, Alex did. Or that was his story, anyway.‖
Marks considered this for a moment. ―Are you saying the Tread-stone files still exist?‖
―Alex, being Alex, had prepared a duplicate set of files. Only two people know where the files are stored, and one of them is dead.‖
Marks downed his single-malt then sat back, regarding Willard with care.
―You want to reboot Treadstone?‖
Willard refilled their glasses from the bottle. ―It‘s already rebooted, Peter. I want to know whether you want to become part of Treadstone.‖
They‘ve been here no more than forty-eight hours, possibly as little as twenty-four.‖ Yusef, Soraya‘s agent in place in Khartoum, was a small man with skin the color of thoroughly cured leather. He had large, liquid eyes and very small ears, but he heard everything. He was one of Typhon‘s top agents because he was clever and resourceful enough to make use of the youth underground that had energized the city through its connection to the Internet. ―It‘s the quicklime, you see. Whoever dumped them wanted them completely destroyed in a way that even fire couldn‘t accomplish, because the quicklime will eat away everything, including bone and teeth, that could be used to ID the remains.‖
Soraya had made contact with Yusef on the way in from the airport and, at Amun Chalthoum‘s urging, had set up a meet with him, despite the men following them—actually because of them. ―These men have been sent by my enemies,‖ Amun had said to her in the car. ―I want them close enough so we can grab them.‖
Yusef had heard about the dead men from a young boy who‘d come across the grave while he and some friends were exploring the Ansar forts near Sabaloga Gorge; the forts had once been used to attack the troopships on their way to relieve the British General Gordon and his exhausted men in 1885. The young boy and his friend lived in the adjacent village, but a network of kids in Khartoum soon learned of the discovery of the bodies in their Internet chat room.
After handing them a pair of Glocks and extra ammunition, Yusef had led the way about fifty miles north, through the desert with its harsh winds and brutal sun. They used two four-wheel-drive vehicles, as Yusef had advised, because the rough roads and the unreliability of Sudanese vehicles made traveling in just one foolhardy.
―You see how much of the men is left,‖ Yusef said now, as they stared into the shallow pit that had been hastily dug in the packed-earth floor inside one of the old crumbling forts, ―despite the quicklime.‖
Soraya waved away a cloud of flies as she crouched down. ―Enough to see they‘ve all been shot in the back of the head.‖ Her nose wrinkled. At least the quicklime had taken care of the stench of rotting bodies.
―Execution, military-style,‖ Chalthoum said. ―But are we certain these four men are the ones we‘re after?‖
―They‘re the ones, all right,‖ Soraya said. ―The decomposition is still minimal. I recognize beef-fed men from the heartland of America when I see them.‖ She looked up at Amun. ―There‘s only one reason for Americans being executed military-style in Khartoum and brought here.‖
Chalthoum nodded. ―To sew up a major loose end.‖
At that moment Yusef, responding to the vibrating ring of his cell, put the phone to his ear, then snapped it shut. ―My lookout says your company‘s here,‖ he told them.
Bourne looked up as a familiar figure filled the doorway. The man with the dark, forbidding caterpillar eyebrows was holding an AK-47 and wearing a Kevlar vest. He stared at the figure of Bat-man sprawled on the floor.
―Nikolai, you cocksucker,‖ he said in guttural Russian, ―who the fuck killed you before I could bring you back to Mother Russia? Now I have been deprived of the pleasure of making you sing your head off.‖
Then, seeing Bourne, he stopped dead in his tracks.
―Jason!‖ Colonel Boris Karpov bellowed like a Russian ox. ―I should have known you‘d be at the heart of this bloody maze.‖
His gaze moved downward, taking in the blood-soaked form of the young woman cradled in Bourne‘s arms. At once, he yelled for a medic.
―It‘s too late for her, Boris,‖ Bourne said in a deadened voice.
Karpov came across the room and knelt beside Bourne. His blunt fingers moved delicately over the shards of glass embedded in Tracy‘s back.
―What a terrible way to die.‖
―They‘re all terrible, Boris.‖
Karpov handed Bourne a hip flask. ―Too true.‖
The medic from Boris‘s assault team, also in riot gear, showed up out of breath. He went to Tracy, tried to find a pulse, and shook his head sadly.
―Casualties?‖ Karpov asked, without taking his eyes off Bourne.
―One dead, two wounded, not seriously.‖
―Who died?‖
―Milinkov.‖
Karpov nodded. ―Tragic, but the building is secured.‖
Bourne felt the fire of the slivovitz all the way down to his stomach.
The growing warmth felt good, as if he‘d regained solid footing.
―Boris,‖ he said softly, ―have your man take Tracy. I don‘t want to leave her.‖