The Rolls-Royce was gargantuan, something out of the automotive Jurassic age. It stood gleaming like a silver train at the curb outside the office building. Stepping ahead of her, Lionel Binns opened the curbside rear door. As Moira bent and stepped inside, a wash of incense rolled over her. She sat down on the leather seat as the attorney closed the door after her.
As she settled herself, her eyes slowly adjusting to the murky gloom, she found herself sitting beside a rather large, blocky man with walnut-colored skin and windswept eyes, dark as the inside of a well. He had a great shock of dark hair, almost ringlets, and a beard long, thick, and as curly as Nebuchadnezzar's. Now the cardamom tea made sense to her. He was some sort of Arab. Inspecting further, she noticed that his suit, though clearly Western, draped his shoulders and chest like a Berber robe.
"Thank you for coming," he said in a great, booming voice that echoed off the finely polished walnut surfaces of the spacious interior, "for taking a small leap of faith." He spoke with a heavy, almost guttural accent, but his English was impeccable.
A moment later the driver, unseen behind a walnut panel, pulled the Rolls out into traffic, heading south.
"You are Mr. Binns's client, correct?"
"Indeed. My name is Jalal Essai, my home is in Morocco."
Yes, indeed. Berber. "And you had a laptop that was stolen."
"That's right."
Moira was sitting with her right shoulder against the door. She felt abruptly chilled; the interior now seemed suffocatingly small, as if the man's presence had spilled out of his body, invading and darkening the backseat, stealing over her, worming its way inside. She tried to catch her breath and managed only to shiver. The air seemed to fizz or shimmer, as if she were seeing a desert mirage. "Why me? I still don't get it."
"Ms. Trevor, you have certain, shall we say, unique abilities that I believe will be invaluable in finding my laptop and returning it to me."
"And those abilities would be..."
"You have successfully taken on both Black River and the NSA. Do you think that I could find a single private detective who has also done so?" He turned and smiled at her with a set of large, brilliant white teeth shining out of a dusky cardamom face defined by flat planes, high cheekbones, and deep-set eyes, hooded as a hawk's. "No need to answer, that wasn't a question."
"Okay, I'll ask you a question: Do you believe that clandestine agencies were involved in the theft?"
Essai appeared to consider this for some time, though Moira had the distinct impression that he knew for certain.
"It's possible," he said at length. "Even likely."
Moira crossed her arms over her breasts as if to protect herself from the way his logic was chipping away at her resolve, the waves of dark energy emanating from him like nothing she had felt before, as if she were sitting too near a particle collider. She shook her head emphatically. "Sorry."
Essai nodded. It seemed as if nothing she said or did surprised him.
"In any event, this is for you."
He handed over a manila folder, which Moira eyed with mounting suspicion and an eerie dread. Why did she feel like Eve taking the apple of knowledge? Nevertheless, as if her hands were obeying someone else's command, she took possession of the folder.
"Please. There are no strings," Essai said. "Rest assured."
She hesitated a moment, then opened it. Inside was a surveillance photo of one of the top operatives she'd poached from Black River meeting with the director of field operations for the NSA.
"Tim Upton? He's the NSA mole? This wasn't Photoshopped, was it?"
Essai said nothing, so she dropped her gaze to read the accompanying sheet of observed times and places when Upton met clandestinely with various members of the NSA. She sighed deeply, sitting back against the cushion, and slowly closed the file.
"This is extremely generous of you."
Essai shrugged as if it were nothing. And as if on cue the Rolls slowed and pulled to the curb.
"Good-bye, Ms. Trevor."
Moira actually got as far as grabbing the door handle before she turned back to the bearded man and said, "So what is it that makes this laptop of yours so valuable?"
Essai's smile shone like a beacon.
Chapter Four
BOURNE ARRIVED IN London on a depressingly murky, windblown morning. A misty rain swirled along the Thames, obscuring Big Ben, and the low sky, heavy as lead, pressed down against the modern rise of