to clutter and distort their relationship. Icoupov had relied on Harun for his wise counsel. His was a sad loss indeed.
His thoughts were interrupted by the orchestrated chaos around him. A score of people were staffing computer consoles hooked up to satellite feeds, surveillance networks, public transportation CCTV from major hubs all over the world. They were coming to the final buildup to the Black Legion's attack; every screen had to be scrutinized and analyzed, the faces of suspicious people picked out and run through a nebula of software that could identify individuals. From this, Icoupov's operatives were building a mosaic of the real-time backdrop against which the attack was scheduled to take place.
Icoupov became aware that three of his aides were clustered around his desk. Apparently, they'd been trying to talk to him.
"What is it?" His voice was testy, the better to cover up his grief and inattention.
Ismail, the most senior of his aides, cleared his throat. "We wanted to know who you intend to send after Jason Bourne now that Harun..." His voice trailed off.
Icoupov had been contemplating the same question. He'd made a mental list that included any number of people he could send, but he kept eliminating most of them, for one reason or another. But on the second and third run through he began to realize that these reasons were in one way or another trivial. Now, as Ismail asked the question again, he knew.
He looked up into his aides' anxious faces and said. "It's me. I'm going after Bourne myself."
Chapter Twenty-Four
IT WAS disturbingly hot in the Alter Botanischer Garten, and as humid as a rain forest. The enormous glass panels were opaque with beads of mist sliding down their faces. Moira, who had already taken off her gloves and long winter coat, now shrugged out of the thick cable-knit sweater that helped protect her from Munich's chill, damp morning, which could penetrate to the bone.
When it came to German cities, she much preferred Berlin to Munich. For one thing, Berlin had for many years been on the cutting edge of popular music. Berlin was where such notable pop icons as David Bowie, Brian Eno, and Lou Reed, among many others, had come to recharge their creative batteries by listening to what musicians far younger than they were creating. For another, it hadn't lost its legacy of the war and its aftermath. Berlin was like a living museum that was reinventing itself with every breath it took.
There was, however, a strictly personal reason why she preferred Berlin. She came for much the same reason Bowie did, to get away from stale habits, to breathe the fresh air of a city unlike those she knew. At an early age Moira became bored with the familiar. Every time she felt compelled to join a group because that was what her friends were doing she sensed she was losing a piece of herself. Gradually, she realized that her friends had ceased to become individuals, devolving into a cliquey "they" she found repellent. The only way to escape was to flee beyond the borders of the United States.
She could have chosen London or Barcelona, as some other college sophomores did, but she was a freak for Bowie and the Velvet Underground, so Berlin it was.
The botanical garden was built in the mid-1800s as an exhibition hall, but eighty years later, after its garden was destroyed by a fire, it gained new life as a public park. Outside, the awful bulk of the prewar Fountain of Neptune cast a shadow across the space through which she strolled.
The array of gorgeous specimens on display inside this glassed-in space only underscored the fact that Munich itself was without verve or spark. It was a plodding city of untermenchen, businessmen as gray as the city, and factories belching smoke into the low, angry sky. It was also a focal point of European Muslim activity, which, in one of those classic action-reaction scenarios, made it a hotbed of skinhead neo-Nazis.
Moira glanced at her watch. It was precisely 9:30 AM, and here came Noah, striding toward her. He was cool and efficient, personally opaque, even withholding, but he wasn't a bad sort. She'd have refused him as a handler if he was; she was senior enough to command that respect. And Noah did respect her, she was certain of that.
In many ways Noah reminded her of Johann, the man who'd recruited her while she was at the university. Actually, Johann hadn't contacted her at college;