Not for the first time he wondered whether he had done the right thing, and then he tried to recall the last time he’d made a business decision of his own free will. More than a decade ago he’d been approached by a man who called himself Jonathan, though Liss soon enough surmised that wasn’t his name at all. Jonathan said that he was part of a large multinational group. If Liss played his cards right, if he pleased Jonathan and, therefore, the group, Jonathan would ensure that the group became Liss’s permanent client. Jonathan had then suggested to him that he found a private risk management firm under cover of which the business could become a private contractor for the US armed forces in overseas hot spots. That was how Black River had been formed. Jonathan’s group had provided the seed money, just as Jonathan had promised, and brought in the two partners. It was this same group that, through Jonathan, had given him advance warning of events taking place that would blow Black River out of the water sooner rather than later. The group had extricated him without him being implicated in any future investigation, congressional hearings, the filing of criminal charges, trials, and the inevitable incarcerations.
Then, only weeks after his parachute to safety, Jonathan had presented another suggestion, which wasn’t a suggestion at all, but an order: provide seed money for Treadstone. He hadn’t even heard of Treadstone, but then he’d been given an enciphered file detailing its creation and workings. That was when he’d learned that only one member of Treadstone remained alive: Frederick Willard. He contacted Willard and the rest had unfolded just as predicted.
Every once in a while he allowed himself the luxury of wondering how this group possessed such a staggering wealth of classified information. What were its sources? It seemed irrelevant whether the information was about American, Russian, Chinese, or Egyptian secret service agencies, to name just a few. The intelligence was always of the highest caliber and always correct.
The most mysterious aspect of this entire chapter of his life was that he’d never met any of these people face-to-face. Jonathan made suggestions, via the phone, to which he acceded without the faintest hint of a protest. He was not a man who enjoyed being enslaved-but he did savor every moment of being alive, and without these people he long ago would have been a dead man. He owed everything to Jonathan’s group.
Jonathan and his colleagues were hard taskmasters-utterly serious, intent on their goals-but they were generous with their rewards. Over the years the group had recompensed Liss beyond his wildest dreams-and that was another aspect of its existence that only added to the mystery: the group’s seemingly limitless wealth. Just as importantly, the group protected him, a promise Jonathan had made to him, a promise borne out when he had been extracted from the disaster that landed his two former Black River partners in federal penitentiaries for the rest of their lives.
A low beep alerted him that the cell phone was fully charged. Disconnecting it from the charger, he turned it on and punched in a local number. After two rings, the line connected and he said: “Delivery.” There was a short pause, then an automated female voice said, “Ecclesiastes three: six-two.”
It was always a book of the Bible, he had no idea why. He disconnected, picked up the paper. “Ecclesiastes” referred to the sports section. “Three: six-two” meant third column, sixth paragraph, second word.
Running his forefinger down the specified column he discovered today’s code word: steal.
He picked up his cell and punched in a ten-digit number. “Steal,” he said when the line engaged after one ring. Instead of a voice he heard a series of electronic clicks and pops as the complex network of servos and switchers rerouted his call again and again to a remote location that was God alone knew where. Then the icy sound of encrypting devices being engaged and, at last, a voice said:
“Hello, Oliver.”
“Good afternoon, Jonathan.”
The enciphering slowed the speech down, stripping it of emotion and tone, rendering it unrecognizable, closer to the voice of an automaton.
“Have you sent them on their way?”
“They took off an hour ago, they’ll be in London early tomorrow morning.” It was the voice that had sent him the dossier on the ring in the first place. “They have their orders, but…”
“Yes?”
“All Willard talks about is Arkadin and Bourne and the Treadstone program that created them. According to him, he’s discovered a method to make them even more… useful, I think was the term he used.”
Jonathan chuckled. At least Liss assumed it was a chuckle, though it came across to him as a dry rustle, as of a swarm of insects infesting high grass.
“I want you to stay out of his way, Oliver, is that clear?”
“Sure it’s clear.” Liss rubbed his forehead with his knuckles. What the hell was Jonathan’s purpose here? “But I’ve told him to put his plans on hold until the ring is found.”
“Just as you should have done.”
“Willard wasn’t happy.”
“You don’t say.”
“I have a feeling that he’s already plotting to bolt the farm.”
“And when he does,” Jonathan said, “you will do nothing to stop him.”
“What?” Liss was stunned. “But I don’t understand.”
“Everything is as it should be,” Jonathan said just before he disconnected.
Soraya, in the Dallas/Fort Worth airport, approached every rental-car agency with a photo of Arkadin. No one recognized him. She had something to eat, bought a paperback novel and a Snickers bar. While she ate the bar slowly, she strolled over to the desk of the airline Arkadin had flown in on and asked for the supervisor on duty.
This turned out to be a large man named Ted, who appeared to be an ex-football-lineman going to fat, as they all did sooner or later. He appraised her through the dusty lenses of his glasses and, after asking her name, suggested they go back into his office.
“I’m with Continental Insurance,” she said, snapping off a chunk of her Snickers. “I’m trying to locate a man named Stanley Kowalski.”
Ted sat back for a moment, laced his thick hands over his stomach, and said, “You’re kidding me, right?”
“No,” Soraya said, “I’m not.” She gave him the flight info on Kowalski.
Ted sighed and shrugged. Swiveling around, he checked his computer terminal. “Well, how about that,” he said, “there he is, just like you said.” He turned back to her. “Now, how can I help you?”
“I’d like to find out where he went from here.”
Ted laughed. “Now I know this is some kind of joke. This airport is one of the largest and busiest in the world. Your Mr. Kowalski could have gone anywhere, or nowhere at all.”
“He didn’t rent a car,” Soraya said. “And he didn’t make a connection to a national carrier because he went through Immigration right here in Dallas. Just to make sure, though, I checked the CCTV logs for that day.”
Ted frowned. “You sure are thorough, give you that.” He thought a moment. “But now I’m going to tell you something I bet you didn’t know. We have a number of regional carriers flying out of here.”
“I checked their CCTV logs as well.”
Ted smiled. “Well, I know you didn’t check the CCTV for our charter flights, ’cause they don’t have ’em.” He began to write on a slip of paper he tore off a pad. Then he handed it over. “These are their names.” He winked at her. “Good huntin’.”
She hit the jackpot at the fifth name Ted had given her. A pilot there remembered Arkadin’s face, though he didn’t give his name as Stanley Kowalski.