Free The Bourne Deception by Robert Ludlum, Eric Van Lustbader

long black hair. A former CI chief of station, she had been thrust unceremoniously into the directorship of Typhon, the organization she helped create, when her mentor, Martin Lindros, had died last year. Since then, she’d struggled with the labyrinthine political maneuvering any director in the intelligence community was forced to master. In the end, however, her struggle with Luther LaValle had taught her many important lessons. “To be honest, I keep thinking I’m seeing him out of the corner of my eye. But when I look—really look, that is—
    it’s always someone else.”

    “Of course it’s someone else,” Hart said, not unsympathetically.

    “You didn’t know him the way I did,” Soraya said sadly. “He was able to cheat death so many times it now seems impossible that this last time he failed.”

    She put her head down, and Hart squeezed her hand briefly.

    The night they heard of Bourne’s death, she’d taken Soraya out to dinner, then insisted she come back to her apartment, steadfastly ignoring all of Soraya’s protestations. The evening was difficult, not the least because Soraya was Muslim; they couldn’t go on a good old-fashioned bender. Grieving stone-cold sober was a drag, and Soraya had begged Hart to drink if she wanted to. The DCI refused. That night an unspoken bond had sprung up between them that nothing could now sunder.

    Soraya looked up then, gave the DCI a wan smile. “But you didn’t call me in to hold my hand again.”

    “No, I didn’t.” Hart told Soraya about the downing of the passenger jetliner in Egypt. “Jaime Hernandez and Jon Mueller are putting together a joint NSA-DHS forensics team to fly to Cairo.”

    “Good luck with that,” Soraya said caustically. “Which one of the team is going to interface with the Egyptians, speak to them in their own language, or be able to interpret their thinking by their replies?”

    “As a matter of fact, you are.” When she saw the look of astonishment on Soraya’s face, she added, “I had the same reaction to the task force you did.”

    “How much of a fight did Halliday put up?”

    “He fired off the usual objections, including slurs directed at your heritage,” Hart said.

    “How he hates all of us,” Soraya said. “He can’t even make the distinction between Arab and Muslim, let alone Sunni and Shi’a.”

    “Never mind,” Hart said. “I presented my reasons to the president and he agreed.”

    The DCI handed over a copy of the intel they’d all been reading when news came of the air disaster.

    As Soraya looked it over, she said, “This data’s from Black River.”

    “Having worked for Black River, that’s precisely my concern. Given the methods they use to gather intel it seems to me that Halliday is leaning on them a bit too heavily.” She tipped her head toward the file. “What do you think of their intel on this pro-Western dissident group in Iran?”

    Soraya frowned. “There have been rumors of its existence for years, of course, but I can tell you that no one in the Western intelligence community has met a member or has ever been contacted by the group. Frankly, it always struck me as part of the right-wing neocon fantasy of a democratic Middle East.” She continued to page through the file.

    “Yet there is a bona fide dissident movement in Iran that has been calling for democratic elections,” Hart said.

    “Yes, but it’s unclear whether its leader, Akbar Ganji, would be proWestern. My guess is probably not. For one thing, he’s been canny enough to reject the administration’s periodic offers of money in exchange for an armed insurrection. For another, he knows, even if our own people don’t, that throwing American dollars at what we euphemistically call the ‗indigenous liberal forces’ within Iran is a recipe for disaster. Not only would it endanger the already fragile movement and their aim of a velvet revolution, but it would encourage its leaders to become dependent on