accessed the Internet, navigating to the DC Metro site, checked the up-to-the-minute transit schedules, checking his options. This procedure took longer than he would have liked. The very real and immediate danger was that one of the six agents was in contact with home base-either CI or the Pentagon-whose sophisticated electronic telemetry could pinpoint his phone and, worse, spy on what he was pulling up from the Net. Couldn't be helped, however. Access had to be made on site and at the immediate moment in case of unforeseen transit delays. He put the worry out of his head, concentrated on what he'd have to do. The next five minutes were crucial.
Time to go.
Moments after Soraya secretly contacted Bourne she said to Veronica Hart, "I'm afraid we may have a problem."
The DCI's head whipped around. She'd been scanning the area for any sign of Bourne's presence. The crowds around the Freer had thickened as many made their way to the Smithsonian Metro station around the corner, returning to their hotels to prepare for dinner.
"What kind of problem?"
"I think I saw one of the NSA shadows we picked up at lunch."
"Hell, I don't want LaValle knowing I'm meeting with Bourne. He'll have a fit, go running to the president." She turned. "I think we ought to leave before Bourne gets here."
"What about my intel?" Soraya said. "What chance are we going to have without him? I say let's stay and talk to him. Showing him the material will go a long way toward winning his trust."
The DCI was clearly on edge. "I don't like any of this."
"Time is of the essence." Soraya took her by the elbow. "Let's move back here," she said, indicating the loggia. "We'll be out of the shadow's line of sight."
Hart reluctantly walked into the open space. The loggia was especially crowded with people milling about, discussing the art they'd just seen, their plans for dinner and the next day. The gallery closed at five thirty, so the building was starting to clear out.
"Where the hell is he, anyway?" Hart said testily.
"He'll be here," Soraya assured her. "He wants the material."
"Of course he wants it. The material concerns his friend."
"Clearing Martin's name is extremely important to him."
"I was speaking of Moira Trevor," the DCI said.
Before Soraya could form a reply, a group of people spewed out of the front doors. Bourne was in the middle of them. Soraya could see him, but he was shielded from anyone across the street.
"Here he is," she muttered as Bourne came quickly and silently up behind them. He must have somehow gotten into the Independence Avenue entrance at the south side of the building, closed to the public, made his way through the galleries to the front.
The DCI turned, impaling Bourne with a penetrating gaze. "So you came after all."
"I said I would."
He didn't blink, didn't move at all. Soraya thought that he was at his most terrifying then, the sheer force of his will at its peak.
"You have something for me."
"I said you could read it." The DCI held out a small manila envelope.
Bourne took it. "I regret I haven't the time to do that here."
He whirled, snaking through the crowd, vanishing inside the Freer.
"Wait!" Hart cried. "Wait!"
But it was too late, and in any event three NSA agents came walking rapidly through the entrance. Their progress was slowed by the people exiting the gallery, but they pushed many of them aside. They trotted past the DCI and Soraya as if they didn't exist. A third agent appeared, took up position just inside the loggia. He stared at them and smiled thinly.
Bourne moved as quickly as he thought prudent through the interior. Having memorized it from the visitors' brochure and come through it once already, he did not waste a step. But one thing worried him. He hadn't seen any agents on his way in. That meant, more than likely, he'd have to deal with them on the way out.
Near the rear entrance, a guard was checking galleries just before closing time. Bourne was obliged to detour around a corner with an outcropping of a fire call box and extinguisher. He could hear the guard's soft voice as he herded a family toward the exit in front. Bourne was about to slip out when he heard other voices sharper, clipped. Moving into shadow, he saw a pair of slim, white-haired Chinese scholars in pin-striped suits and shiny brogues arguing the merits of a Tang porcelain vase. Their voices faded along with