Free The Prometheus Deception by Robert Ludlum Page B

on a snowy mountain road. The remembered pain slammed Bryson in the gut; after all these years, it was still almost unbearable.
    â€œLet me ask you something, Bryson. Did you believe this was an accident? You were fifteen, already a brilliant student, terrific athlete, prime of American youth, all that. Now both your parents are suddenly killed. Your godparents take you in…”
    â€œUncle Pete,” Bryson said tonelessly. He was in a world of his own, a world of shock and pain. “Peter Munroe.”
    â€œThat was the name he took, sure, not the name he was born with. And he made sure you went to college where you did, and made a lot of other decisions for you besides. All of which pretty much guaranteed that you’d end up in their hands. The Directorate’s, I mean.”
    â€œYou’re saying that when I was fifteen, my parents were murdered,” Bryson said numbly. “You’re saying my entire life has been some kind of … immense deception.”
    Dunne hesitated, wincing. “If it makes you feel any better, you weren’t alone,” he said gently. “There were dozens just like you. It’s just that you were their most spectacular success.”
    Bryson wanted to press the point, argue with the CIA man, show the essential illogic of his reasoning, point out the flaws in his case. But instead he found himself overcome by an intense feeling of vertigo, a harrowing sense of guilt. If what Dunne said was correct, even anywhere near correct, then what in his life was real? What had ever been true? Did he even know who he was himself? “And Elena?” he asked stonily, not wanting to hear the answer.
    â€œYes, Elena Petrescu, too. Interesting case. We believe she was recruited out of the Romanian Securitate, assigned to you by the Directorate in order to keep tabs on you.”
    Elena … no, it was inconceivable , she wasn’t Securitate! Her father was an enemy of the Securitate, a brave mathematician who turned against the government. And Elena … he had rescued her and her parents, they had built a life together …
    *   *   *
    They were horseback riding along an endless stretch of deserted sandy beach in the Caribbean. Coming off a full gallop, they slowed to a trot. The moonlight was silvery, the night cool.
    â€œIs this island all ours, Nicholas?” she exulted. “I feel like we’re all alone here, that we own everything we see!”
    â€œWe do, my darling,” Bryson said, infected by her playful exuberance. “Didn’t I tell you? I’ve been diverting funds from discretionary accounts. I’ve bought the island.”
    Her laugh was musical, joyful. “Nicholas, you are terrible!”
    â€œâ€˜Nick-o-las’—I love the way you say my name. Where did you learn to ride so well? I didn’t know they even had horses in Romania.”
    â€œOh, but they do. I learned to ride on my grandmother Nicoleta’s farm in the foothills of the Carpathian mountains, on a Hutsul pony. They’re bred to work in the mountains, but they’re so marvelous for riding, so lively and strong and sure-footed.”
    â€œYou could be describing yourself.”
    The waves crashed loudly behind them, and she laughed once more. “You never really saw my country, did you, my dear? The Communists made Bucharest so ugly, but the countryside, Transylvania and the Carpathians, is so beautiful and unspoiled. They still live in the old way, with the horse-drawn wagons. Whenever we tired of university life we would stay with Nicoleta in Dragoslavele, and every day she’d make us mamagliga, fried cornmeal mush, and ciorba, my favorite soup.”
    â€œYou miss the homeland.”
    â€œA little. But mostly I miss my parents. I miss them so terribly. It’s such agony for me not to be able to see them. The sterile phone calls maybe twice a year—it’s not