Luther LaValle looked up from his reading, said ominously, "What kind of game are you playing, Director?"
Soraya kept herself from starting. "I beg your pardon?"
"I've been through these transmission intercepts you claim come from the Black Legion twice now. Nowhere do I find any reference to that name or, for that matter, any name at all."
Willard appeared, handed General Kendall a folded slip of paper. Kendall read it without any expression. Then he excused himself. Soraya watched him leave the Library with no little trepidation.
To regain her attention, LaValle waved the sheets briefly in the air like a red flag in front of a bull. "Tell me the truth. For all you know, these conversations could be between two sets of eleven-year-olds playing terrorist games."
Soraya could feel herself bristling. "My people assure me they're genuine, Mr. LaValle, and they're the best in the business. If you don't believe that, I can't imagine why you want a piece of Typhon."
LaValle conceded her point, but he wasn't finished with her. "Then how do you know they're from the Black Legion."
"Collateral intelligence."
LaValle sat back in his chair. His drink was left untouched on the table. "Just what the holy hell does collateral intelligence mean?"
"Another source, unrelated to the intercepts, has knowledge of an imminent attack on American soil that originates with the Black Legion."
"Who we have no tangible evidence actually exist."
Soraya was growing increasingly uncomfortable. The conversation was veering perilously close to an interrogation. "I brought these intercepts at your behest with the intention of engendering trust between us."
"That's as may be," LaValle said. "But quite frankly these anonymous intercepts, alarming as they seem on the surface, don't do it for me. You're holding something back, Director. I want to know the source of your so-called collateral intel."
"I'm afraid that's impossible. The source is absolutely sacrosanct." Soraya could not tell him that her source was Jason Bourne. "However-" She reached down to her slim attach泄 case, pulled out several photos, handed them over.
"It's a corpse," LaValle said. "I fail to see the significance-"
"Look at the second photo," Soraya said. "It's a close-up of the inside of the victim's elbow. What do you see?"
"A tattoo of three horses' heads attached to-what is this? It looks like the Nazi SS death's head."
"And so it is." Soraya handed him another photo. "This is the uniform patch of the Black Legion under their leader Heinrich Himmler."
LaValle pursed his lips. Then he put sheets back in the file, returned it to Soraya. He held up the photos. "If you could find this insignia, anyone could. This could be a group that's simply appropriated the Black Legion's sign, like the skinheads in Germany appropriated the swastika. Besides, this isn't proof that the intercepts came from the Black Legion. And even if they did I have a problem, Director. It's the same as yours, I would think. You've told me-also according to your sacrosanct source-that the Black Legion is being fronted by the Eastern Brotherhood. If the NSA acts on this intel, we'll have every flavor of PR nightmare visited on us. The Eastern Brotherhood, as I'm sure you're aware, is exceedingly powerful, especially with the overseas press. We run with this and we're wrong, it's going to cause the president and this country an enormous amount of humiliation, which we can't afford now. Do I make myself clear?"
"Perfectly, Mr. LaValle. But if we ignore it and America is successfully attacked again, then how do we look?"
LaValle scrubbed his face with one hand. "So we're between a rock and hard place."
"Sir, you know as well as I do that action is better than inaction, especially in a volatile situation like this."
LaValle was about to capitulate, Soraya knew it, but here came Willard again, gliding up, silent as a ghost. He bent, whispered something in LaValle's ear.
"Thank you, Willard," Lavalle said, "that will be all." Then he returned his attention to Soraya. "Well, Director, it seems I'm urgently wanted elsewhere." He stood up and smiled down at her, but spoke with a steely tone. "Please join me."
Soraya's heart plummeted. This invitation wasn't a request.
Yakov, the bombila driver, who'd been ordered to park across the avenue from the front entrance of the Metropolya Hotel, had been joined forty minutes ago by a man who looked as if he'd been in a fistfight with a meat grinder. Despite efforts to cover it up, his face was swollen, dark as pounded flesh. He wore a silver patch over