The Bourne Initiative Page 20
As for Crowcroft, at first it was assumed the NSA was using it to debrief defectors, and perhaps in the beginning it was. But not when Bourne first began snooping around nine years ago. It was Bourne’s practice to come upon a target indirectly, slip through an unexpected interstice, and cut to the heart of the matter. This he did by befriending Jimmy Lang. Of course, the basis of the friendship was related to Bourne’s assignment, but the two men genuinely liked each other, and afterward he and Bourne remained friends.
This was why Keyre had said, “Seriously, you won’t believe it when I tell you,” when Bourne had asked him where the NSA had stashed General MacQuerrie.
How Keyre knew of Bourne’s friendship with Jimmy Lang was yet another question about the Somalian for which Bourne needed an answer.
“How long has it been?” Lang asked when Bourne approached him in the field. He had swung off his tractor, stood beside it, wiping his hands on a rag he kept stashed in the back pocket of his old-school overalls.
“That long,” Bourne said as he put down the small satchel he was carrying and locked hands with his friend.
Lang, with wide-set eyes, a shock of light-brown hair, and a jaw like a granite boulder, had a body built for the great outdoors. Bourne supposed that with the right training Jimmy could have been a WWE fighter; he didn’t have the disposition, though. He was a hunter the way his daddy and granddaddy were hunters: to put food on the family table. He hated violence and inhumanity, which is why Bourne had told him the first time they met what the NSA was really up to in the remade and remodeled great house.
“What’ve you been up to?” Jimmy held up his hands, palms outward. “Stupid question. Don’t ask, don’t tell.” He indicated with his head. “Shall we head up to the house? Got a rocking chair with your name on it. Plus, there’s a bottle of corn whiskey idling away in the pantry just begging to be drunk.”
“As good as that sounds…”
“Ah.” Lang nodded. “A business call. I should’ve known. What can I do for you?”
“Crowcroft.”
“Again.” Lang looked off to his left, toward the thick line of trees that separated his property from the NSA black site. When his gaze swung back, he said, “I got bad news on that score. They dynamited the last of those tunnels, including the one you used to get in last time.”
Bourne squinted in the deepening western light that elongated their shadows. “I’ve got to get in there, Jimmy.”
Lang sighed. “Well, I sure don’t know a way.” He considered for a minute, then snapped his fingers. “But there’s someone who just might.”
“What’s his name?”
“Arthur Lee.”
“Crowcroft’s manager.”
“Right.” Lang nodded. “He’s a good friend of mine.” He slapped his left thigh. “Ever since he fixed the leg I broke.”
Bourne reflected for a moment. “You can introduce me. I can say—”
“Now hold on a sec. Art’s a peculiar bird. For one thing, he don’t like big city people, especially those like to snooping around his property. For another, he’s a fistful of Prickly Petes.”
In other circumstances Bourne might have laughed. “There’s got to be a way,” he said. “Tell me everything you know about him.”
—
Arthur Lee squinted gimlet-eyed at Bourne when Jimmy introduced them. Jimmy had invited Art to his house for dinner, not an unusual occurrence; Art, an inveterate loner who didn’t even own a TV or a computer had never refused.
“Who’s this?” he said, standing in the open doorway. He had a face like a hobo’s shoe—every line a crevice, every protuberance a boulder. Black eyes, glossy and wary as a crow’s, scrutinized Bourne as if he were a piece of meat hanging in a butcher shop. “I don’t know him.” As if Bourne were deaf or invisible.
“Jason’s an old friend of mine,” Jimmy said easily. “Don’t stand on ceremony. Come on in, Art.”
Arthur Lee did not make a move to step over the threshold. From one fist dangled a bottle of mountain whiskey. “I think not.”
“Oh, come on. I made your favorite—”
“Not a bit of it.”
As Jimmy had said, the stubbornness in Arthur Lee stemmed from his background, stubbornness born of generations of fury.
“Arthur thinks of himself as some kinda freak,” Jimmy had told Bourne while relating as much of his friend’s family history as he knew. “Well, it’s more than that, really. He despises the English lord in him. Y’see, Jason, he’s overseer and slave all wrapped up in one self-hating bundle. I sure as hell wouldn’t want to be him. But don’t judge him too harshly. Deep down, he’s got a good heart; trouble is he often has a problem locating it.”
Which was why, just after Jimmy had called to invite his friend over for dinner, Bourne used a pair of small scissors he found in Jimmy’s bathroom to open up the stitches in his shoulder. Immediately, he started to bleed. When he had come out, blood seeping through his shirt, Jimmy said, “Damnit all, what the hell did you do?” And then his eyes lit up, and he grinned, tapping the side of his head with his forefinger.
Now, as Arthur Lee backed away, Jimmy said, “Hold on, Art, it’s not that I didn’t want your company, but… and Jason told me straight out he didn’t want any help, but, I mean, just take a look…”
Lee hesitated, still suspicious, took a step back toward them.
“What now?”
“His shoulder. Here, take a look…”
Lee squinted. “Awful lot of blood there.”
Jimmy nodded. “See what I mean. The boy’s as stubborn as you, not wanting to take any help.”
Lee took another step forward, studying the mass of blood soaking through the shirt. Then he glanced up at Bourne. “Son, I do believe you’re lucky I’m here.”
Then, handing Jimmy the bottle of mountain whiskey, he stepped inside, already taking over.
—
Arthur Lee cocked his head. “What did you say your name was?”
“I didn’t,” Bourne said.
“It’s Jason—” Jimmy began before Bourne cut him off.
“Smith,” Bourne said, with a quick glance at Jimmy. “Jason Smith.”
They were sitting in the hallway just outside Jimmy’s bathroom, where he had pulled up three chairs. Lee, leaning on his elbows after peeling off Bourne’s shirt, pursed his thick lips. “That’s some wound you’ve got there, Mr. Smith.”
“Why don’t you call me Jason.”
“Why don’t the sun crawl down from the sky.” Lee addressed Jimmy without taking his eyes off the wound, rattling off a list of items he’d need. While Jimmy was in the bathroom hunting and gathering, Lee continued in a jaundiced tone. “Someone did a right nice job the first time around.” He eyed Bourne. “What happened?”
“I live an active life.”
Lee gave a little bark that might have been a laugh. “No city feller, huh?”
“I hate cities,” Bourne said truthfully.
“Ach, don’t get me started.”
Jimmy returned with all the first aid requirements, and Lee set about his work. “Arthur,” he said, “Jason is something of a linguist.”
“Is that so.” Lee concentrated all the harder on cleaning and disinfecting Bourne’s wound. “I’ll bet he doesn’t know how to speak my language,” he said, in Powhatan, an eastern Algonquin offshoot.
“I would be honored if you would address me directly, Powtitianna.” Bourne replied in the same language.
Arthur Lee stopped what he was doing. With surgical thread and needle in his hands, he looked directly at Bourne, “I am no chieftain. But I do thank you for the honor.”
As he began to put the needle to good use, Bourne said, “As far as I can tell, you are around these parts, Arthur.”
Lee grunted, but he couldn’t keep the smile of pleasure off his face. “Done,” he said, after tying off the thread. He had returned to English, mainly because of Jimmy. “Keep your activities to a minimum for the next severa
l days.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible.”
Arthur Lee sat back on his haunches. “What is it you said you do?”
“I didn’t,” Bourne replied. Then switching back to Powhatan, “I need the Powtitianna’s help.”
Arthur Lee, the very essence of stillness, regarded Bourne for several moments. “That’s a mighty forward request, Jason.” Then he broke out into a smile. “Nevertheless, I do believe I’ll take it under advisement.”
—
Bourne was naturally eager to get inside Crowcroft, but in Arthur Lee’s world all things presented themselves in their time. There was simply no use in being impatient; the man moved at his own speed. Over generous pours of the excellent mountain whiskey he had brought and the equally excellent meal Jimmy had prepared, Bourne followed Lee’s lead, sinking into his deliberate pace.
“Where did you learn to speak Powhatan?” Lee asked, midway through the meal.
“In another life I was a college professor,” Bourne said. “Comparative languages was my field. I have an instinctive ability to learn languages, the more obscure the better.”
“Well, Powhatan sure is obscure.” Lee nodded. “Leastwise, these days.”
“It wasn’t always like that.”
Lee squinted at him. “You know?”
“The history of the indigenous people hereabouts? Yes, sir, indeed I do.”
“Well, don’t that beat everything.” Lee pointed with a leathery forefinger. “The decline and fall of civilization.” He almost spat, such was his disdain. “And after the carpetbaggers, the industries, the conglomerates, and the criminals, what are we left with?”
“I divorced myself from all that years ago.”
“Betrayal upon betrayal, right?”
Bourne nodded. “As it was with you, it is with me,” he said in Powhatan which, as it happened, was a far more powerful and involving language than English.
They drank coffee laced with more mountain whiskey, and for once there was a silence pregnant with expectation around the table. Bourne said nothing; it was for Arthur Lee to approach the heart of the matter that had brought Bourne here.
Lee laid both forearms on the table, hands open, in the manner of the Powhatan at a parlay among equals. The open hands showed Lee’s receptive intent far better than anything he could say.
“How may I be of service to you, Jason?”
No point in beating around the bush now, Bourne thought. “The men who run Crowcroft now have devious intent. They are beyond any border of civilization.”
Arthur Lee watched him carefully but made no comment. Did he know about the NSA’s doings inside the great house? Bourne wondered. The man gave him no outward clue. On the other hand, he was still listening.
“These people are holding a man against his will,” Bourne continued. “I need to get inside Crowcroft to reach him.”
“Do you mean to free him?”
Bourne felt the black crow’s eyes on him like a weight. Arthur Lee needed an answer, and Bourne knew better than to lie to him about his intent. “No.”
“Then why?”
“His mind holds the key to a problem that is otherwise unsolvable.”
“This problem,” Arthur Lee said, “it is of great importance.”
Bourne reverted to Powhatan. “Powtitianna, a great many people are trying to kill me because they believe I have the answer.”
One eye closed, the other seeming to increase its power of discernment. “Are you a federal agent?”
“Federal agents are among those trying to kill me.”
Arthur Lee poured himself the last of the mountain whiskey while he deliberated. He swallowed the liquor, closed his eyes for an instant, savoring the flavor to its utmost. Then he smacked his lips and, addressing Bourne, said, “I understand your dilemma, Jason. Now you must understand mine.
“Apart from several dark years, I have worked at Crowcroft all my life. In that sense, it is more mine than any owner’s—including the current ones. Loyalty is of extreme importance to me—as I believe it is to you—thus you will comprehend me when I tell you that my loyalty lies entirely with Crowcroft.”
“We are both men of intent, Powtitianna. You know what transpires in the great house.”
“Oh, not only in the great house, Jason. No, indeed.”
Bourne glanced out the window. “It’s dark now. It’s time for me to go. Will you help me gain entrance to Crowcroft, Arthur?”
Lee spread his hands. “Jason, over the course of these hours breaking bread with you, we have become friends.” His expression bore a sorrow beyond comprehension. “I know what is done inside the buildings of Crowcroft. Terrible things. Things which should not exist in this world. Things that belong to the time of the Southern slave owners and the Northern carpetbaggers who came after. There was little difference between them: both wanted to exploit us, to make their fortunes off our backs. Today is it any different?” He shook his head. “Which makes it even more painful to tell you that all the tunnels have been rendered impassible; every time I go in and out, every square inch of my car is inspected. Men with specially trained dogs surround the vehicle; I couldn’t smuggle in a gram of weed even if I wanted to.” He sighed. “There is no conceivable way I can sneak you into Crowcroft. I’m afraid your mission is doomed to failure.”
24
There came a time in everyone’s life when the innocence of childhood was punctured and the adult world, with all its hatred, betrayal, and sewage, was revealed. The break was often abrupt, shocking; it was always irrevocable. Such a moment came to Morgana Roy on a mid-morning like any other she had experienced since landing in Kalmar. She had awoken early in her hotel room, a floor below Françoise. It was barely light out. She performed her forty-five minutes of aikido exercises, ordered breakfast, showered, and was dressed in time to usher in the room service girl with her rolling cart.
She ate in silence while she watched the news on TV: one story after another about the increasingly warlike stance of the Russian Federation, its growing belligerence toward the United States. The president had called Russia a “regional power,” enraging both the Sovereign and the Kremlin as a whole. The stories frightened and sickened her in equal measure. Her fried eggs and pickled herring lay in her stomach like lead shot. Switching off the TV, she pushed the cart away. The taste of fish in her mouth nauseated her further. She took a swig of coffee, washing her mouth out with it, spitting it onto her plate before taking another gulp, swallowing it this time.
As she had the day before and the days before that, she met Larry London in the lobby. Together they made the short walk to the building where Larry had his temporary office, riding up to the fifth floor. She wasn’t comfortable there. If she were to be honest with herself, the entire fifth floor gave her the creeps. It was deserted when they arrived in the morning, was similarly devoid of life when they exited late in the afternoon or early evening.
The office itself was nothing to look at: bare walls painted battleship gray, wood floors, a minimum of Swedish Modern furniture—desks, a sofa, a pair of chairs, a low table, and two floor lamps, that was it. The space was as anonymous as a doctor’s waiting room. In fact, with its spray of magazines on the table, that’s precisely what it reminded her of.
Three hours of work trying to decipher the latest bit of code she had found led to nothing at all. After so many days both in D.C. and here of slogging through incomprehensible code, a suspicion had begun to grow that she was trying to put together a jigsaw puzzle with the wrong pieces: nothing fit together, no matter which way she tried to integrate the various bits. If there was a unifying algorithm, she had yet to discover it, which was a first for her. She was hitting her head against a wall so often it had begun to hurt.
Abruptly, she pushed her chair away from the laptop, stalked over to the window, stared down at the anonymous passersby on the anonymous street, while she put her fists just above her buttocks and arched her back, stretching hugely.
“It’s your turn to go get it.”
“So it is.” He nodded. “What d’you want?”
“Anything so long as it isn’t fish.”
He laughed easily. “Tall order, but I’m sure I’m up to it.” He grabbed his coat. “Back soon.”
She didn’t bother to answer him. She was in a dark mood. The shock of her sudden incarceration had worn off, leaving behind a dull ache, like a bruise on her psyche. Lately, though, she had realized that she was homesick. She missed D.C., missed her apartment, missed the people she had worked with at Meme LLC. Often now, she found herself wondering what had happened to them. With Mac taken into custody, surely Meme LLC had been disbanded. Where had her team gone? Scattered to the four winds, she supposed, which was a pity; it had been a long and painstaking process finding them, meshing them into a well-oiled machine.
With a spasm of disgust at her self-pity, she turned from the window, went back to her laptop. She sat down and began to work again, but her heart wasn’t in it, so she left it behind, went out into the street, walking purposefully until she found a shop selling running clothes. She bought a pair of sneakers, set out on a ten-mile run, five miles out, five back. That was her lunch hour, and reconnecting with her body settled her, damped down her anxiety, made her feel more herself again.
Back in the office, she returned to work, feeling refreshed and optimistic. Surprisingly, Larry hadn’t yet returned with lunch. Who knew what he was up to? For all she knew, he was having a matinee somewhere discreet. He seemed just the type.
She frowned, picking up where she’d left off on the latest packet of code. For the next ten or so minutes, she was immersed in trying once again to parse the code, and when, as usual, that didn’t work, she tried to fit it into the mosaic of the previous bits she had stored on her laptop. The screen flickered; she paid it no mind—the electricity in foreign countries always seemed dodgy to her. Then it happened again, and it was like a mote in God’s eye, a speck that had attached itself to her eyeball and was now making her eye water.