Robert Ludlum's (TM) The Bourne Initiative (Jason Bourne series)(51)
Bourne shot her a skeptical look. “And how is he fighting the infidel by trading in human trafficking?” He took her wrist; his voice was a raspy whisper. “You and Liis were part of that.”
“There is no good side here,” she said tersely. “No angels in residence.”
“Tell him I want Giza. Tell him to let your daughter go.”
She shook her head sadly. “He’ll never agree.”
“He must if he—”
“No. Don’t you understand? He wouldn’t let me go. He would never have made that bargain. You forced it. You’re in no condition to force anything.” She looked away. “Besides, Giza is his daughter, too.”
He let go of her wrist. “You shouldn’t have brought me here. You know that.”
“I had no choice.”
“You were only following orders.” His voice mocked her.
Her face fell, all pretense gone. “Only one man has the key.” Her voice cracked. “How I wish it were otherwise.” She turned away abruptly, ensuring he wouldn’t see her eyes well up.
“Mala…”
“It’s no good.” She shook her head. “There’s no exit for me.” She took a breath, turned her head back to him. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have brought you back.”
“Then help me get out of here.”
“That won’t be necessary,” said Keyre, filling the open doorway. So rapt were they in their conversation, neither had heard him open the door. “Nor is it desirable.”
He stepped toward them, his eyes burning like coals, and involuntarily, the Angelmaker moved back to stand in the semi-darkness beyond the monitor. Her eyes were blank; her expression revealed nothing. It was as if their intimate conversation had never occurred.
“Look at me, Bourne, not her,” Keyre said with silken smoothness. “You’re with me, until I say otherwise.”
—
After almost a week, Morgana was growing used to Kalmar—the breakfasts of thick, sun-yellow yogurt, dark bread spread with Kalles kaviar out of a tube, the strong coffee that seemed to burn its way through the lining of her stomach, the ubiquitous muesli, to which Larry London insisted on adding crushed flax and sesame seeds, the open smoked fish sandwiches for lunch. Even the Proviva, a juice drink said to ensure digestive health, which had nauseated her the first day, was now palatable. But the profusion of fresh berries—many of which, like cloudberries, she had never before heard of—took no getting used to at all. She had also become inured to the sonorous bells from the spires of the Kalmar Cathedral and Lutheran churches ringing at all hours. But she never forgave Larry and Fran?oise for serving her filmj?lk—the fermented milk Swedes are so fond of—without first warning her.
“The look on your face,” Fran?oise had cried as she and Larry doubled over in laughter. “Priceless!”
Actually, she did forgive them. How could she not? Fran?oise had saved her from incarceration—and possibly worse—and Larry treated her like an old friend, trusting her completely. In fact, within days of her arrival, the three of them, having swung easily into a routine, were acting as tightly as a family unit. This was particularly gratifying to Morgana, coming from a broken family with a mother and a sister who wanted no part of her.
But of course this was an integral part of the plan Fran?oise had devised for Marshall Fulmer. Or was it for Gora Maslov? Well, in this case it was for both, though only her brother was aware of it. There was something about working both ends of the block that appealed powerfully to her—a woman brought up with a strong, willful father and brother, who, consciously or not, undercut her at every turn. Their bullying necessitated her building a series of personae, strong as brick-and-mortar edifices, to hide her true identity. This process had begun so early in her life and gone on for so long that she had become lost behind the walls she had erected, until she no longer knew who she really was. Nor did she particularly want to know. This could be viewed as a flaw in her character, perhaps even a weakness. But since no one had yet breached her defenses, certainly not Gora, whose personality dictated that he be attuned to taking advantage of situations rather than people, it was hardly a danger.
Morgana’s routine consisted of spending days with Larry London and evenings with Fran?oise—dinner once or twice with both of them. Larry was smooth without being obvious about it; he knew how to draw her out, to set her at ease. It was a gift, a great one at that.
“You’re a photographer,” she said the first day they were together. “Why are you interested in cyber-sleuthing?”
“Ah, well,” Larry London said. “You have me there.”
They were sitting next to each other in what passed for the business center of her hotel, a small windowless room bare apart from task chairs, a fax, and a pair of computer terminals on an unsecured wi-fi so riddled with malware and keystroke loggers Larry wouldn’t touch them with a six-foot Cossack. Guests came and went, checking email, logging into their airline accounts, opening themselves up to credit card or identity theft.
“Morgana…Fran?oise said I could trust you with a secret. Is she right?”
“Fran?oise and I know each other quite well.”
A slow smile crossed his face. “Very well, then.” He scooted his task chair closer to hers, looked over his right shoulder, then his left, leaned in and whispered: “My job as a freelance photographer is a cover.”