Robert Ludlum's (TM) The Bourne Initiative (Jason Bourne series)(81)
“Huh. And how exactly am I to do that? I doubt Morgana’s ever even held a gun.”
“All the better,” her brother said. “Niki will never suspect her until she pulls the trigger, and by then it’ll be too late.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
Gora cleared the dishes, stacking them in the small stainless-steel sink. “Simple,” he said, “you’ll put her in a situation where she has no other option.”
Just like me, Fran?oise thought in despair.
—
Everybody knows that in the field the best-laid plans are sometimes undone by the simplest of human quirks which, no matter how one tries, cannot be anticipated. Everybody knows no plan is airtight. Everybody knows it can all go sideways, but the plans are made nevertheless because in the field the dice are rolled and the chances are taken. There is no other way.
And so, what everybody knows, everybody conveniently forgets.
One of these unforeseen human quirks had occurred the previous night, when Morgana told Fran?oise what she had learned about Larry London. When they parted ways, both women to their hotel rooms, Morgana could not sleep. After switching off the light, tossing and turning on a roiling sea of anxiety, she relit her bedside lamp. When reading didn’t help, she got out of bed, dressed, and stood by the window, looking out at the street below, just as she had as a kid when high fevers made sleep impossible. Watching the wind in the willows, the play of moonlight on the brushlike branches, soothed her more effectively than a cold compress across her brow. In this urban setting, the streetlights, the occasional passing car, the lamps blinking in mysterious conversation along the marina wharf, did the same. And she stood there, her mind starting to relax as the night staggered to its end and light returned to the world.
A short time later, she spotted Fran?oise hurrying out of the hotel. She crossed the street, heading toward the marina. Curious where her friend might be going at this ungodly hour, she slipped out of her room, ran down the stairs, and out the front door, following in Fran?oise’s urgent footsteps.
She ducked behind the corner of a building as Fran?oise turned to look over her shoulder. For upward of twenty minutes Fran?oise appeared to do nothing but survey the area. Why then had she been in such a hurry? Morgana wondered. She hesitated, awash in guilt. What was she doing, following a friend, the woman who had moved heaven and earth to free her from the clutches of the NSA? And yet, she found her feet moving forward, as if of their own volition. Curiosity killed the cat, she thought. But it created a terribly strong impulse, one that wouldn’t be denied.
At length, she saw Fran?oise heading along one of the wooden walkways. Boats rocked gently in their slips, rigging snapped, far off a buoy clanged. All soft sounds. Morgana, still partially in hiding, observed that Fran?oise stopped in front of the slip where a boat named Carbon Neutral was tied up. Two burly, rough-looking men with Slavic faces guarded the gangway. One of them barred her way, but the other appeared to know her, for he beckoned to her.
Fran?oise stepped aboard with the alacrity and confidence that could only come from having been on Carbon Neutral before. What in the world could she be up to? Something stirred inside her, a cool, slithery thing that raised questions along with its head.
Moments later, she saw the guard who had recognized Fran?oise escorting a young blond woman off the boat. Her hair was uncombed, her makeup smeared. Her ultra-short skirt and her ultra-high heels marked her out as a prostitute. With a little cry, she ripped her arm away from the guard’s grip, turned her back on him, strode unsteadily away. Morgana marked her drunken progress along the walkway, and when she was almost at the end, where the wooden wharf met the concrete dock, Morgana decided on a course of action.
She waited until the blonde was out of sight of the two men guarding Carbon Neutral, then started on her trajectory. As she neared the blonde she increased her speed until, glancing fearfully over her shoulder, she ran right into her.
“Oh, my God, I’m so sorry,” she said as she helped the blonde back onto her feet.
“Shit’s sake! What’s the matter with you, anyway?” the blonde all but snarled. “Idiot! Why don’t you look where you’re going?”
Morgana put on an apologetic face. “Well, I would have, except for the man who was trying to grab me.”
As Morgana had calculated, this little tidbit immediately reversed the blonde’s demeanor. “What?”
“It happened back there.” Morgana gestured vaguely toward the streets. “I was on my way home after, you know, a long night with…” She cleared her throat. “A guy I met in a bar. I was drunk, not thinking clearly. I was almost at my hotel when this guy grabbed me. When he started to pull me into an alley I kicked him in the balls and ran like hell.”
The blonde nodded, captured her unruly hair, which the sea breeze kept blowing into her face, deftly twisted it into a knot at the top of her head. “I know exactly how you feel.” She unbuttoned her shirt halfway down so Morgana could see the deep bruise darkening between her breasts. “Something of the kind happened to me this morning.”
Morgana squeezed her shoulder in sympathy. “I’d say what we both need is some strong coffee and a good breakfast. What d’you say?” She held out her hand. “My name’s Morgana.”
The blonde took her hand briefly but energetically. “Natalie,” she said. “And, I don’t know about you, but I’d love a jigger or two of liquor in my coffee.”