Free The Bourne Deception by Robert Ludlum, Eric Van Lustbader Page A

America for aid. It would alienate its constituency, as it did in Afghanistan, Iraq, and many other Middle Eastern countries, and turn the so-called freedom fighters into our implacable enemies. Time and again, ignorance of the culture, religion, and real aims of these groups has combined to defeat us.”

    “Which is why you’ll be part of the forensics team,” Hart said. “However, as you can see, the Black River intel doesn’t concern Ganji or his people. We aren’t talking here about a velvet revolution, but one steeped in blood.”

    “Ganji has said that he doesn’t want war, but his policy has been floundering for some time. You know as well as I do that the regime wouldn’t allow him to survive, let alone to speak out, if his power was substantial. Ganji’s of no use to Halliday, but this new group’s aims would suit his purposes to a T.”

    Hart nodded. “That’s just what I was thinking. So while you’re in Egypt I want you to nose around. Use Typhon’s Egyptian contacts to find out what you can about the legitimacy of this group.”

    “That won’t be easy,” Soraya said. “I can guarantee you that the national secret police are going to be all over us—especially me.”

    “Why especially you?” Hart asked.

    “Because the head of al Mokhabarat is Amun Chalthoum. He and I had a heated confrontation.”

    “How heated?”

    Soraya’s memory immediately clamped down. “Chalthoum is a complex character, difficult to read—his entire life seems wrapped up in his career in al Mokhabarat, an organization of thugs and assassins to which he’s been given a life sentence.”

    “Lovely,” Hart said with no little sarcasm.

    “But it would be naive to believe that’s all there is to him.”

    “Do you think you can handle him?”

    “I don’t see why not. I think he’s got a thing for me,” Soraya said, not quite understanding why she wasn’t telling Veronica the whole truth.

    Eight years ago, on a courier mission, she’d been captured by agents of al Mokhabarat who, unbeknownst to her, had infiltrated CI’s local network to which she was to deliver a microdot on which was etched the network’s new orders. She had no idea what was on the microdot, had no desire to know. She was thrown in a basement cell of al Mokhabarat’s offices in downtown Cairo. Three days later, with no sleep and only water and a crust of moldy bread to eat once each day, she was taken upstairs and brought before Amun Chalthoum, who took one look at her and immediately ordered her cleaned up. She was shown to a shower, where she scrubbed every inch of her body with a soapy washcloth. When she stepped out, a set of new clothes was waiting for her. She assumed her old clothes were being ripped apart and scrutinized by an al Mokhabarat forensics team searching for the intel she was carrying.

    Everything fit her perfectly. To her surprise, she was then escorted out of the building. It was night. It occurred to her that she’d had no idea of time passing. In the boiling street a car was waiting at the curb, its headlights illuminating plainclothes guards watching her with studied attention. When she climbed in she had another shock: Amun Chalthoum sat behind the wheel. He was all alone.

    He drove very hard and very fast across the city, heading west into the desert. He said nothing, but from time to time when traffic allowed, he watched her with his avid hawk’s gaze. She was famished but was determined to keep her hunger to herself.

    He took her to Wadi AlRayan. He stopped the car, told her to get out. They stood facing each other in the blue moonlight. Wadi AlRayan was so desolate, they could have been the last two humans on earth.

    “Whatever you’re looking for,” she said, “I don’t have it.”

    “Yes, you do.”

    “It’s already been delivered.”

    “My sources tell me otherwise.”

    “You don’t pay your sources nearly enough. Besides, you’ve checked my clothes and everything