“You mean the one that used Jason over and over again whenever it suited its purpose.”
He laughed, deflecting her blade of cynicism. “Isn’t that one of the things intelligence organizations do best?” He came toward her. “Come on, tell me that you don’t want the old CI back.”
“I want to be running Typhon again.”
“Yeah, well, you don’t want to know how Danziger’s going to fuck up the Typhon networks you built up.”
“To tell you the truth, Typhon’s future is all I’ve been thinking about since I walked out of HQ this afternoon.”
“Then join me.”
“What if Willard fails?”
“He won’t,” Marks said.
“Nothing in life is assured, Peter, you of all people should know that.”
“Okay, fair enough. If he fails, then we all fail. But at least we’ll feel that we’ve done whatever we could to bring back CI, that we haven’t simply knuckled under to Halliday and an NSA run rampant.”
Soraya sighed, picked her way across the carpet to join Marks. “Where the hell did Willard get the funding to resurrect Treadstone?”
Just by asking the question she saw she had agreed to his offer. She knew she was hooked. But while weighing this understanding, she almost missed the pained look on Peter’s face. “I’m not going to like it, am I?”
“I didn’t like it, either, but…” He shrugged. “Does the name Oliver Liss mean anything to you?”
“One of the principals of Black River?” She goggled at him. Then she burst out laughing. “You’re kidding, right? Jason and I were instrumental in discrediting Black River. I thought the three of them were all indicted.”
“Liss’s partners were, but he severed all ties to Black River months before the shit you and Bourne threw hit the fan. No one could find a trace of his participation in the illegal activity.”
“He knew?”
Peter shrugged. “Possibly he was simply lucky.”
She gave him a penetrating look. “I don’t believe that and neither do you.”
Marks nodded.
“You’re damn right I don’t like it. What does that say about Willard’s sense of ethics?”
Marks took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Halliday plays as dirty as anyone I’ve ever known. Whatever it takes to defeat him, bring it on, I say.”
“Even making a deal with the devil.”
“Perhaps it takes one devil to destroy another devil.”
“Whatever the truth of what you say, this is a treacherous slope, Peter.”
Marks grinned. “Why d’you think I want you on board? At some point I’m going to need someone to pull me out of the shit before it closes over my head. And I can’t think of a better person to do that than you.”
Moira Trevor, Lady Hawk pistol strapped into her thigh holster, stood looking at the empty offices of her new but compromised company, Heartland Risk Management, LLC. The space had so quickly become toxic that she wasn’t sad to leave it, only dismayed because she had been in business for less than a year. There was nothing here now but dust, not even memories she could take with her.
She turned to leave and saw a man filling the open doorway to the outside hall. He was dressed in an expensively cut three-piece suit, spit-shined English brogues, and despite the clear weather he carried a neatly rolled umbrella with a hardwood handle.
“Ms. Trevor, I presume?”
She stared hard at him. He had hair like steel bristles, black eyes, and an accent she couldn’t quite place. He was holding a plain brown paper bag, which she eyed with suspicion. “And you are?”
“Binns.” He offered his hand. “Lionel Binns.”
“Lionel? You must be joking, no one’s named Lionel these days.”
He looked at her unblinkingly. “May I come in, Ms. Trevor?”
“Why would you want to do that?”
“I’m here to make you an offer.”
She hesitated for a moment, then nodded. He crossed the threshold without seeming to have moved.
Peering around, he said, “Oh, dear. What have we here?”
“Desolation Row.”
Binns gave her a quick smile. “I’m an early Dylan fan myself.”
“What can I do for you, Mr. Binns?”
She tensed as he lifted the brown paper bag and opened it.
Taking out two paper cups, he said, “I brought us some cardamom tea.”
The first clue. “How nice,” Moira said, accepting the tea. She took off the plastic top to peer inside. It was pale with milk. She took a sip. And very sweet. “Thank you.”
“Ms. Trevor, I am an attorney. My client would like to hire you.”
“Lovely.” She looked around Desolation Row. “I could use some work.”
“My client wants you to find a notebook computer that was stolen from him.”
Moira paused with the cup halfway to her lips. Her coffee-colored eyes watched Binns with uncommon scrutiny. She had a strong face with a personality to match.
“You must have me confused with a private detective. There’s no shortage of those in the district, any one of them-”
“My client wants you, Ms. Trevor. Only you.”
She shrugged. “He’s barking up the wrong tree. Sorry. Not my line of work.”
“Oh, but it is.” There was nothing sinister or even discomforting in Binns’s face. “Let me see if I have this right. You were a highly successful field operative for Black River. Eight months ago you left and started Heartland by poaching the best and the brightest from your former employer. You didn’t back down when Black River tried to intimidate you, in fact you fought back and were instrumental in bringing to light the company’s criminal dealings. Now, for his trouble, your old boss Noah Perlis is dead, Black River has been disbanded, and two of its founding principals are under indictment. Stop me if I’ve gotten anything wrong so far.”
Moira, astonished, said nothing.
“From where my client sits,” he continued, “you’re the perfect candidate to find and retrieve his stolen laptop.”
“And where, exactly, does your client sit?”
Binns grinned at her. “Interested? There’s quite a handsome remuneration for you.”
“I’m not interested in money.”
“Despite needing the work?” Binns cocked his head. “But never mind, I wasn’t speaking of money, though your entire usual fee will be paid in advance. No, Ms. Trevor, I’m talking about something more valuable to you.” He looked around the empty room. “I’m talking about the reason you’ve moved out of here.”
Moira froze, her heartbeat accelerating. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“You have a traitor in your organization,” Binns said without inflection. “Someone on the NSA’s payroll.”
Moira frowned. “Just who is your client, Mr. Binns?”
“I’m not authorized to reveal his identity.”
“And I suppose you’re also not authorized to tell me how he knows so much about me?”
Binns spread his hands.
She nodded. “Fine. I’ll find my goddamn traitor myself.”
Oddly, this response brought a cat-like smile to Binns’s face. “My client said that would be your answer. I didn’t believe him, so now I’m out a thousand dollars.”
“I’m sure you’ll find a way to make it up in fees.”
“Once you get to know me, you’ll realize I’m not that sort of man.”
“You’re being overly optimistic,” Moira said.
He nodded. “Possibly.” Retreating to the doorway, he lifted a hand. “If you’ll accompany me…” When she made no move to follow him, he added, “Just this once, I beg you to indulge me. It will only take fifteen minutes of your time, what do you have to lose?”
Moira couldn’t think of a damn thing, so she allowed him to usher her out.
Chaaya lived in the penthouse of one of Bangalore’s glittering high-rise mini-cities, a gated residential community guarded day and night against the city’s multitude of ravages. But whether the precautions kept the city out or imprisoned the denizens in its citadel, Arkadin thought, was only a matter of perspective.