“I don’t think so.” Hart got up, stood behind his chair. “Batt’s had you under surveillance from the moment you ruined his life. Those photos of you and Feir going in and out of the health club, the barbecue joint, and The Glass Slipper were taken by him.”
“But that’s not all he has.” Gold lifted his briefcase meaningfully.
“So,” Hart said, “I’m afraid your stay at CI will continue awhile longer.”
“How much longer?”
“What do you care?” Hart said. “You no longer have a life to go back to.”
While Kendall remained with two armed agents, Hart and Gold went next door, where Rodney Feir was sitting, guarded by another pair of agents.
“Is the general having fun yet?” Feir said as they took seats facing him. “This is a black day for him.” He chuckled at his own joke, but no one else did.
“Do you have any idea how serious your situation is?” Gold said.
Feir smiled. “I do believe I have a handle on the situation.”
Gold and Hart exchanged a glance; neither could understand Feir’s lighthearted attitude.
Gold said, “You’re going to jail for a very long time, Mr. Feir.”
Feir crossed one leg over the other. “I think not.”
“You think wrong,” Gold said.
“Rodney, we have you stealing Typhon secrets and handing them over to a ranking member of a rival intelligence organization.”
“Please!” Feir said. “I’m fully aware of what I did and that you caught me at it. What I’m saying is none of that matters.” He continued to look like the Cheshire Cat, as if he held a royal flush to their four aces.
“Explain yourself,” Gold said curtly.
“I fucked up,” Feir said. “But I’m not sorry for what I did, only that I got caught.”
“That attitude will certainly help your case,” Hart said caustically. She was done being manhandled by Luther LaValle and his cohorts.
“I’m not, by nature, prone to being contrite, Director. But like your evidence, my attitude is of no import. I mean to say, if I were contrite like Rob Batt, would it make any difference to you?” He shook his head. “So let’s not bullshit each other. What I did, how I feel about it is in the past. Let’s talk about the future.”
“You have no future,” Hart said tartly.
“That remains to be seen.” Feir kept his maddening smile trained on her. “What I’m proposing is a barter.”
Gold was incredulous. “You want to make a deal?”
“Let’s call it a fair exchange,” Feir said. “You drop all charges against me, give me a generous severance package and a letter of recommendation I can take into the private sector.”
“Anything else?” Hart said. “How about a summer house on the Chesapeake and a yacht to go with it?”
“A generous offer,” Feir said with a perfectly straight face, “but I’m not a pig, Director.”
Gold rose. “This is intolerable behavior.”
Feir eyed him. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist, counselor. You haven’t heard my side of the exchange.”
“Not interested.” Gold signaled the two agents. “Take him back down to the holding cell.”
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” Feir didn’t struggle as the agents grabbed hold of either arm and hauled him to his feet. He turned to Hart. “Director, did you ever wonder why Luther LaValle didn’t try a run at CI while the Old Man was alive?”
“I didn’t have to; I know. The Old Man was too powerful, too well connected.”
“True enough, but there’s another, more specific reason.” Feir looked from one agent to the other.
Hart wanted to wring his neck. “Let him go,” she said.
Gold stepped forward. “Director, I strongly recommend-”
“No harm in hearing the man out, Stu.” Hart nodded. “Go ahead, Rodney. You have one minute.”
“The fact is LaValle tried several times to make a run at CI while the Old Man was in charge. He failed every time, and do you know why?” Feir looked from one to the other, the Cheshire Cat grin back on his face. “Because for years the Old Man has had a deep-cover mole inside the NSA.”
Hart goggled at him. “What?”
“This is bullshit,” Gold said. “He’s blowing smoke up our ass.”
“Good guess, counselor, but wrong. I know the identity of the mole.”
“How on earth would you know that, Rodney?”
Feir laughed. “Sometimes-not very often, I admit-it pays to be CI’s chief file clerk.”
“That’s hardly what you-”
“That’s precisely what I am, Director.” A storm cloud of deep-seated anger momentarily shook him. “No fancy title can obscure the fact.” He waved a hand, his flash of rage quickly banked to embers. “But no matter, the point is I see things in CI no one else does. The Old Man had contingencies in place should he be killed, but you know this better than I do, counselor, don’t you?”
Gold turned to Hart. “The Old Man left a number of sealed envelopes addressed to different directors in the event of his sudden demise.”
“One of those envelopes,” Feir said, “the one with the identity of the mole inside NSA, was sent to Rob Batt, which made sense at the time, since Batt was chief of operations. But it never got to Batt, I saw to that.”
“You-” Hart was so enraged that she could barely speak.
“I could say that I’d already begun to suspect that Batt was working for the NSA,” Feir said, “but that would be a lie.”
“So you held on to it, even after I was appointed.”
“Leverage, Director. I figured that sooner or later I’d need my Get Out of Jail Free card.”
There was the smile that made Hart want to bury her fist in his face. With an effort, she restrained herself. “And meanwhile, you let LaValle trample all over us. Because of you I was led out of my office in handcuffs, because of you the Old Man’s legacy is a hair’s breadth from being buried.”
“Yeah, well, these things happen. What can you do?”
“I’ll tell you what I can do,” Hart said, signaling the agents, who grabbed Feir again. “I can tell you to go to hell. I can tell you that you’ll spend the rest of your life in jail.”
Even then, Feir appeared unfazed. “I said I knew who the mole is, Director. Furthermore-and I believe this will be of especial interest you-I know where he’s stationed.”
Hart was too enraged to care. “Get him out of my sight.”
As he was being led to the door, Feir said, “He’s inside the NSA safe house.”
The DCI felt her heart thumping hard in her chest. Feir’s goddamn smile was not only understandable now, it was warranted.
Thirty-three hours, twenty-six minutes from now. Icoupov’s ominous words were still ringing in Bourne’s ears when he saw a flicker of movement. He and Icoupov were standing in the foyer, the front door was still open, and a shadow had for a moment stained the opposite wall of the hallway. Someone was out there, shielded by the half-open door.
Bourne, continuing to talk to Icoupov, took the other man by his elbow and moved him back into the living room, across the rug, toward the hallway to the bedrooms and bath. As they passed one of the windows, it exploded inward with the force of a man swinging through. Bourne whirled, the SIG Sauer he’d taken from Icoupov coming to bear on the intruder.
“Put the SIG down,” a female voice said from behind him. He turned his head to see that the figure in the hallway-a young pale woman-was aiming a Luger at his head.
“Leonid, what are you doing here?” Icoupov seemed apoplectic. “I gave you express orders-”
“It’s Bourne.” Arkadin advanced through the welter of glass littering the floor. “It was Bourne who killed Mischa.”
“Is this true?” Icoupov turned on Bourne. “You killed Mikhail Tarkanian?”
“He left me no choice,” Bourne said.