Страница 37 из 115
Bourne tracked his high-powered night-vision glasses from Soraya as she moved toward
the DCI, past clots of tourists hurrying about, to the agents in place around the west end
of the Mall. Two lounged, chatting, at the northeast corner of the Department of
Agriculture North Building. Another, hands in the pockets of his trench coat, was
crossing diagonally southwest from Madison Drive toward the Smithsonian. A fourth was
behind the wheel of an illegally parked car on Constitution Avenue. In fact, he was the
one who’d given the game away. Bourne had spotted the car illegally parked just before a
Metro police cruiser stopped parallel to it. Windows were rolled down, a conversation
ensued. ID was briefly flashed by the driver of the illegally parked car. The cruiser rolled on.
The fifth and sixth agents were east of the Freer, one approximately midway between
Madison and Jefferson drives, the other in front of the Arts Industries Building. He knew
there had to be at least one more.
It was almost five o’clock. A short winter twilight had descended, aided by the
twinkling lights wound festively around lampposts. With the location of each agent
memorized Bourne returned to the ground, using the window ledges for hands and feet.
The moment he showed himself the agents would start moving. Estimating the distance
they were from where the DCI and Soraya stood, he calculated he’d have no more than
two minutes with Hart to get the files.
Hidden in shadows, waiting for Soraya’s signal, he strained to pick out the remaining
agents. They couldn’t afford to leave Independence Avenue unguarded. If Hart didn’t in
fact have the files, then he’d do as Soraya first suggested and get out of the area without being spotted.
He imagined her at the entrance to the Freer, talking with the DCI. There would be the
first nervous moment of acknowledgment, then Soraya would have to direct the
conversation around to the files. She’d have to find a way for Hart to show them to her, to make sure they were authentic.
His phone beeped once and was still. The files were authentic.
He accessed the Internet, navigating to the DC Metro site, checked the up-to-the-
minute transit schedules, checking his options. This procedure took longer than he would
have liked. The very real and immediate danger was that one of the six agents was in
contact with home base-either CI or the Pentagon-whose sophisticated electronic
telemetry could pinpoint his phone and, worse, spy on what he was pulling up from the
Net. Couldn’t be helped, however. Access had to be made on site and at the immediate
moment in case of unforeseen transit delays. He put the worry out of his head,
concentrated on what he’d have to do. The next five minutes were crucial.
Time to go.
Moments after Soraya secretly contacted Bourne she said to Veronica Hart, “I’m afraid
we may have a problem.”
The DCI’s head whipped around. She’d been sca
Bourne’s presence. The crowds around the Freer had thickened as many made their way
to the Smithsonian Metro station around the corner, returning to their hotels to prepare
for di
“What kind of problem?”
“I think I saw one of the NSA shadows we picked up at lunch.”
“Hell, I don’t want LaValle knowing I’m meeting with Bourne. He’ll have a fit, go
ru
here.”
“What about my intel?” Soraya said. “What chance are we going to have without him?
I say let’s stay and talk to him. Showing him the material will go a long way toward
wi
The DCI was clearly on edge. “I don’t like any of this.”
“Time is of the essence.” Soraya took her by the elbow. “Let’s move back here,” she
said, indicating the loggia. “We’ll be out of the shadow’s line of sight.”
Hart reluctantly walked into the open space. The loggia was especially crowded with
people milling about, discussing the art they’d just seen, their plans for di
next day. The gallery closed at five thirty, so the building was starting to clear out.
“Where the hell is he, anyway?” Hart said testily.
“He’ll be here,” Soraya assured her. “He wants the material.”
“Of course he wants it. The material concerns his friend.”
“Clearing Martin’s name is extremely important to him.”
“I was speaking of Moira Trevor,” the DCI said.
Before Soraya could form a reply, a group of people spewed out of the front doors.
Bourne was in the middle of them. Soraya could see him, but he was shielded from
anyone across the street.
“Here he is,” she muttered as Bourne came quickly and silently up behind them. He
must have somehow gotten into the Independence Avenue entrance at the south side of
the building, closed to the public, made his way through the galleries to the front.
The DCI turned, impaling Bourne with a penetrating gaze. “So you came after all.”
“I said I would.”
He didn’t blink, didn’t move at all. Soraya thought that he was at his most terrifying
then, the sheer force of his will at its peak.
“You have something for me.”
“I said you could read it.” The DCI held out a small manila envelope.
Bourne took it. “I regret I haven’t the time to do that here.”
He whirled, snaking through the crowd, vanishing inside the Freer.
“Wait!” Hart cried. “Wait!”
But it was too late, and in any event three NSA agents came walking rapidly through
the entrance. Their progress was slowed by the people exiting the gallery, but they
pushed many of them aside. They trotted past the DCI and Soraya as if they didn’t exist.
A third agent appeared, took up position just inside the loggia. He stared at them and
smiled thinly.
Bourne moved as quickly as he thought prudent through the interior. Having
memorized it from the visitors’ brochure and come through it once already, he did not
waste a step. But one thing worried him. He hadn’t seen any agents on his way in. That
meant, more than likely, he’d have to deal with them on the way out.
Near the rear entrance, a guard was checking galleries just before closing time. Bourne
was obliged to detour around a corner with an outcropping of a fire call box and
extinguisher. He could hear the guard’s soft voice as he herded a family toward the exit
in front. Bourne was about to slip out when he heard other voices sharper, clipped.
Moving into shadow, he saw a pair of slim, white-haired Chinese scholars in pin-striped
suits and shiny brogues arguing the merits of a Tang porcelain vase. Their voices faded
along with their footsteps as they headed toward Jefferson Drive.
Without losing another instant Bourne checked the bypass he’d made on the alarm
system. So far it showed everything as normal. He pushed out the door. Night wind
struck his face as he saw two agents, sidearms drawn, hurrying up the granite stairs. He
had just enough time to register the oddness of the guns before he ducked back inside,
went directly to the fire call box.
They came through the door. The leading one got a face full of fire-smothering foam.
Bourne ducked a wild shot from the second agent. There was virtually no noise, but
something pinged off the Te
the floor. He hurled the fire extinguisher at the shooter. It struck him on the temple and
he went down. Bourne broke the call box’s glass, pulled hard on the red metal handle.
Instantly the fire alarm sounded, piercing every corner of the gallery.