Typhon director's chair, behind the Typhon director's desk, knew something was amiss the moment he heard the applause. He turned away from the computer terminal, where he had been devising a new system of cataloging Typhon e-files.
He rose, crossed the director's office, and opened the door. There he was greeted by the sight of Martin Lindros being surrounded by the members of his Typhon cadre, all of whom were smiling, laughing, and pumping his hand enthusiastically when they weren't egging him on with their applause.
Lerner could scarcely believe his eyes. Here comes Caesar, he thought bitterly. And why didn't the DCI see fit to tell me he'd returned? With a mixture of repulsion and envy, he watched the prodigal general making his slow, triumphal way toward him. Why are you here? Why aren't you dead?
With no small pain, he screwed a smile onto his face and held out his hand.
"All hail the returning hero."
Lindros reflected back the smile in all its steel-clad irony. "Thanks for keeping my chair warm,
Matthew."
He swept by Lerner and into his office. There he stood stock-still, taking inventory. "What, no new coat of paint?" As Lerner followed him in, he added: "A verbal debriefing will do, before you go upstairs."
Lerner did as he was asked while he went about gathering his personal items. When he was finished, Lindros said, "I'd appreciate getting the office back as I left it, Matthew."
Lerner glared at him for a microsecond, then carefully put back all the photos, prints, and memorabilia he had put away, hoping never to see again. As an accomplished commander, he knew when to leave the field of battle. It was with the certain knowledge that this was a war, and it had just begun.
Three minutes after Lerner had left the Typhon offices, Lindros's phone rang. It was the Old Man.
"I bet it feels good to be sitting behind that desk."
"You have no idea," Lindros said.
"Welcome back, Martin. And I mean that most sincerely. The confirmation of Dujja's intentions you obtained is invaluable."
"Yes sir. I've already worked up a step-by-step plan to interdict them."
"Good man," the DCI said. "Assemble your team and press forward with the mission, Martin. Until the crisis has been dealt with, your mission is CI's mission. From this moment, you have unlimited access to all of CI's resources."
"I'll get the job done, sir."
"I'm counting on you, Martin," the DCI said. "You'll be able to deliver your first briefing at dinner tonight. Eight sharp."
"I'll look forward to it, sir."
The DCI cleared his throat. "Now, what do you propose to do about Bourne?"
"I don't understand, sir."
"Don't play games with me, Martin. The man's a menace, we both know it."
"He brought me home, sir. I doubt anyone else could have done it."
The Old Man shook off Lindros's words. "We're in the midst of a national crisis of unprecedented proportion and gravity. The last thing we need is a loose cannon. I want you to get rid of him."
Lindros shifted in his chair, staring out the window at the silver pellets of freezing rain. He made a mental note to check whether Bourne's flight would be delayed. Into the mounting silence, he said: "I'm going to need clarification on that."
"Oh, no, no, nothing like that. Anyway, the man is cursed with nine lives." The DCI paused a moment. "I know you two have formed some sort of bond, but it's unhealthy. Trust me, I know. Consider that we buried Alex Conklin three years ago. It's dangerous for anyone to get too close to him."
"Sir-"
"If it helps, I'm giving you one last loyalty test, Martin. Your continuation at Typhon depends on it. I don't have to remind you there's someone snapping at your heels. As of this moment, you are to sever all ties with Jason Bourne. He gets no information-none at all-from your office or any other in the building. Are we clear?"
"Yessir." Lindros severed the connection.
Carrying the cordless phone, he rose and stood by the window, resting his cheek against the pane, felt the cold wash over him. His bone-deep aches and pains remained, along with a headache he'd neglected to mention to the CI physicians, which never quite left him-all vivid reminders of what had happened to him, how long his journey here had been.
Dialing a number, he held the phone to his ear. "Is Bourne's flight on time?" He nodded at the reply. "Good. He's at Washington National? You've made visual contact? Excellent, come on home. That's right." He severed the connection. Whatever might