Robert Ludlum's (TM) The Bourne Initiative (Jason Bourne series)(41)

She was not alone.

Bourne had expected a guard, perhaps two. The person standing between him and Mala was Keyre.





15



And Lieutenant Goode,” Morgana said, as she sipped her dirty martini. “Ah, Lieutenant Goode.”

Fran?oise, her hands cupped around a vodka rocks, said, “You know this man?”

“He was the one.” Morgana took another sip, delighting in how the icy liquid turned to fire in her belly. “The one who MacQuerrie prepped to suck me in.”

“A double honey trap.” Fran?oise nodded. “Very clever.”

“I was an idiot.”

“We’re all idiots once in a while.” Fran?oise laughed. “Otherwise, how would we know we’re human?”

Aifur Song was packed to the gills, an apt analogy given the preponderance of fish and seafood on the artfully designed menu. Since they had arrived a half hour ago, the noise level had steadily risen, until now it was a dull roar, like stormy surf heard at a short remove.

Their drinks finished, the waiter brought refills without being asked. Shortly thereafter, while the two women were catching each other up in a concerted attempt to restore Morgana’s equilibrium, a young man with dark, probing eyes and straight dark hair, slicked back to reveal a window’s peak, appeared out of the crowd, wending his way to their table.

“Ah, there you are,” Fran?oise said, raising a hand. She made the introductions. “Morgana Roy, meet Larry London, a terrific freelance photographer.”

Smiling warmly, Rozin, newly minted head of spetsnaz, briefly took Morgana’s hand before sliding into a chair at their four-top. “Very pleased to meet you, Ms. Roy.”

“Morgana, please.”

He nodded. “Morgana. And you must call me Larry.” He laughed. “All my friends do.” His laugh was dry and easy to digest; it drew you to him without any fuss. Their waiter materialized at his elbow; Rozin pointed to Morgana’s dirty martini. “I’ll have what the lovely lady is drinking.”

“Very good, sir,” the waiter said, departing.

“Morgana,” Fran?oise said, “you recall the photo of the mother and daughter Afghan refugees being pulled out of the water after their boat capsized.”

“The one that won the Pulitzer? Sure. It was the centerpiece of the Global Photographics traveling exhibit a few years back. Everyone’s seen it.”

“That was Larry’s work.”

Morgana cocked her head. “Really?”

He shrugged. “Right place, right time.”

Fran?oise scoffed. “He has no ego, this one. That was peak performance, Larry. Everyone knows that.”

The anecdote served its purpose; the ice had been neatly broken. When Rozin’s drink was set before him, they all toasted “better days,” and swallowed the alcohol.

“And what do you do, Morgana?” Rozin asked, setting his cocktail glass down.

“Oh, no, Larry,” Fran?oise cut in. “You mustn’t ask her that.”

“Mustn’t I?” Rozin’s eyes sparkled. He knew very well Morgana’s specialty, having been read in by Fran?oise via text message while Morgana was trying on clothes. “How delightfully intriguing.”

“Intrigue is just what we seek to avoid.” Fran?oise picked up her menu. “Isn’t that right, Morgie?”

Rozin made a face. “Oh, don’t call her that; Morgana is such a beautiful name. One you don’t hear very often. Welsh. From the compound Morcant—a circle or bright sea.”

Morgana was impressed. “That’s more than I knew.”

“Oh, Larry’s assignments take him to every corner of the globe,” Fran?oise said, “where he absorbs knowledge like a six-year-old.”

“Are you two lovers?” Morgana asked, looking from one to the other.

“Lovers?” Fran?oise burst out laughing.

“It’s that funny?” Rozin exclaimed. It wasn’t difficult evincing wounded pride.

“Larry’s one of my messengers,” Fran?oise said. “Receiving and delivering vital information.” Her eyes flashed merrily. “Number one. Ichiban, as the Japanese say.”

Rozin shot her a dark look, as if with her bantering she was cleaving too close to a kernel of truth. But Morgana was too entranced by the lighthearted byplay that included her as an instant friend—part of this family, one might say—to notice. Fun was to be had here, and a secure place to rest her still-spinning head, safe and protected from the dreadful events of the last twenty-four hours. Her unwinding had begun when Fran?oise had taken her shopping. It continued now, at a faster pace, running downhill like water to the ocean. And, oh, it felt so good to finally let her guard down.

That was when the shakes started. She looked up helplessly at Fran?oise, who understood that her friend was going into delayed shock. Jumping up, Fran?oise took Morgana by the hand, steered her through the restaurant as quickly as she could.

They made it into the ladies’ room just in time. Fran?oise held Morgana’s hair back from her face as, bent double, she vomited up the gin and terror that had been roiling inside her, clamoring to be released. Periodically, Fran?oise lifted her head past the electronic eye, automatically flushing the toilet over and over.

“Jesus, Fran?oise.” Ripping squares of toilet paper off the roll, Morgana wiped her mouth with shaky hands. “Jesus fucking Christ.” She was shaking like an addict in withdrawal. “I’m not cut out for this life.”