"What do you want from me?" Nicky shouts, fists clenched by her sides. "Why are you still here?"
Everything in this room is at once familiar and completely foreign: the tea, the coffee, the pastries, the man. This man instinctively knows what breakfast should comprise, but he does not know her at all. It's like being in a funhouse where the reflections are warped. That's her entire relationship with Jason Bourne now: a convex image, everything distorted and upside down.
"We're not done talking."
"You already know about Treadstone and Conklin and Abbott and Neski. You tried to bring down Blackbriar but Vosen's still kicking and Landy's facing treason charges now. Byer rules them all."
"Not that, Nicky."
Nicky's heart slams in her chest. "What else is there?"
He doesn't react to her outburst; he remains calm. "What I don't know is what happened to me on that boat. Was there an objective beyond killing Wombosi? Were they testing something and I got a raw deal? Did…did Treadstone do something to me? Was it a set up, some new protocol? Did…did you…"
Nicky feels that near accusation like a punch in the gut. She can't believe the pain that roils through her. "Fuck. You."
He doesn't pursue the thought, acknowledges her denial and silence descends.
"I'm sorry." His voice is quiet, regretful.
She focuses on the refrigerator, at the handwritten notes kept in place by solid round magnets.
Breathe. In. Out. Breathe.
Nicky reaches for the teacup, stealing what time she can. She can't talk, not yet, not if she doesn't want to howl. She observes again that her hand is steady, her body betraying not one iota of the turmoil she feels. Nicky inhales the floral notes in the tea before she takes a careful sip, the liquid hot enough to scald. Why did he know to make tea? This tea? She sets the teacup back down on the counter. The pretense at normalcy can only hold for so long; better to be as blank a slate as him than to betray the vulnerability of a shaking hand.
"Nicky." He sounds so tired, so worn out. "I don't know anything about me other than a bare set of facts. I keep coming back to what you said – I was never debriefed so they don't know what went haywire with me. If they're afraid it can happen to their other assets, they're not going to stop until they get me and dissect me."
He's not wrong.
Bourne looks at her quizzically, expectantly. Belatedly, Nicky realizes she spoke aloud.
In the safe house, Conklin screaming at Bourne.
"He's lost it! You'd better start filling in the blanks here. Boy, you don't what you're doing, do you, Jason? You don't have a goddamned clue! You're a total goddamned catastrophe and by God, if it kills me, you're gonna tell me how this happened!"
She continues: "After…the safe house, they had me in lockdown for weeks, questioning me, going over everything that happened."
For two weeks she'd been held at a Treadstone facility, their analysts interviewing her, probing for answers. They'd wanted to know why Bourne had spared her, what had been discussed between him and Conklin. They'd wanted her impressions of Bourne's behavior, his mannerisms, his expressions. She'd answered everything truthfully as she'd observed it – including her opinion that Bourne appeared to be suffering from some sort of amnesia. Separate teams of interrogators had been in her face, asking the same questions, logging the answers she'd provided, comparing it against what she'd said previously.
He waits.
"They were trying to figure out what happened to you. Then they investigated Conklin's death."
His brows rise fractionally. Nicky knows Bourne had nothing to do with it; she'd known from the moment Conklin left that safe house without answers that he was a loose end, a dead man. When they'd placed her on administrative leave after her debriefing, she'd seriously wondered if she was a loose end, too.
"After they cleared me, I was part of the team responsible for analyzing your…digression."
Because he hadn't been available for dissection, they'd re-evaluated and reassessed the mission, trying to figure out what could have gone wrong, what had caused Bourne to fail so spectacularly. They'd pored over documentation, the mission research and logistics, the memos; they'd reviewed tapes of the briefing Nicky had given him, specialists studying every aspect of Bourne's demeanor, his answers, his tone of voice, his body language.
Six months of her life had been devoted to this. Even after the final presentations and conclusions had been delivered, the question remained unanswered: "What happened to Bourne?"
"They weren't willing to accept that you had –have disassociative amnesia, but they couldn't isolate any anomalies in the mission profile. So they went back and reviewed the prior ten missions. And then the twenty missions before that." She pauses. "Then they pulled all the assets and subjected them to the same conditions you'd experienced on the Wombosi mission. None of them succumbed. None of them failed."
She doesn't talk about the further torturous conditions to which the assets had been subjected in an effort to induce a similar mental collapse.
"Ultimately they had to conclude that what happened on the Wombosi mission was an aberration. Not all of them were willing to buy off on the amnesia thing, though. Some of them still think you're operating on full capacity because none of the others broke."
"Who normally debriefed me after my missions?"
"I did."
"Do it." It's a request, but his tone brooks no refusal.
"Why?" counters Nicky.
"Maybe it gets us to what happened."
Everything in her leaps at his offer and simultaneously screams with fear. In private, Nicky had studied the mission through the eyes of Bourne's lover, held the secret knowledge of what had transpired that morning to the light. They'd argued about her leaving; but they'd argued before and he'd never miscarried a mission. Not a single one. Treadstone assets did not deviate…ever. They were so regimented, regulated to the point of compartmentalizing everything. The Professor, for example, had been sent out on a mission after Maggie – Nicky pauses, thinks about her former colleague. The Professor had been sent out on a mission after Maggie – and he'd finished his task without a single hitch.
Bourne's failure is a complete anomaly, so severe – amnesia! – that the distraction of an argument with his lover could not alone be the answer.
So what had happened to him?
She ponders for a moment, considers what has to be done, then lifts her chin, brown eyes determined and hard. "All right." This has to end. You're killing me. "But not here and not now." She looks away. "I have…things to take care of."
"Cross."
It's not a question. She nods.
His jaw clenches. "Jesus. You're really going through with helping him?"
"Why does it matter to you? If we succeed, you get some peace from them. If we fail, you're no worse off."
He looks at her as if he wants to argue a point. She knows why David would have objected: because she's putting herself on the line for a stranger, with a stranger, for no clearly achievable outcome. It's harder to get a handle on Bourne. He wants to warn her off; but he doesn't know why or what to say. So he's silent, and conflicted.
"I can meet you in two days," she tells him. "At my old apartment in the Marais, the one I used when I worked for Treadstone."
He looks at her dubiously. Returning to her former flat could be as dangerous as going to the one he'd lived in whilst under his Treadstone guise.
"It's where I stashed copies of that mission file and the analysis from Treadstone."
His eyes widen.
"I thought…maybe some day they'd be useful."
"Why aren't the files here?"
"Because…" Her breath hitches but she forges on. "Because they aren't."
She can see him weighing his decision. Finally, he nods. "All right."
She recites the address for the Marais flat, watches him commit it to memory. "21:00, when it's dark. Too risky to expose ourselves when they're looking for us. Keep low until then."
It's as much a dismissal as a directive. He gives her a considering look, those blue eyes sharp, flinty. With a brusque nod, he walks past her out the kitchen door. Nicky does not turn to watch him leave; but when she hears the door open, then close, she lets go of a shuddering breath.
Lifting her hand, she observes it trembling finally.
Marta studies her right hand in the morning light, notes the long, elegant fingers. The taper of joint and knuckle to the fingertips could have been a pianist's dream, but had been beautifully suited instead to a lab. Her skin is smooth, though not unblemished; some burn marks, some minor scars. But the hand is steady as she spreads her fingers, no tremor visible as she considers the whorls of her knuckles, the oval of her nails. Her hand is steady in the light of a dawning Berlin morning.
After leaving Nicky's flat two nights ago, Aaron had secured a car…or rather, he'd stolen one, changed the license plates, and they'd been on their way to the A1/E19 headed for Germany. It had been nerve wracking, passing through the border to Belgium two hours into the drive. She'd been fearful of being recognized, especially with the heightened alerts from Interpol; but Aaron had counted on the late night, the bored and tired border patrol to simply wave through Monsieur and Madame Alain Grignan, of Paris. Another two and a half hours had seen a repetition of the scenario at the German border, this time with another car tag and two more identities, Mr. and Mrs. Christopher Livry of America, on tour through Europe. Once again, they'd been waved through after a cursory check and a few brief questions. Another four hours and they'd arrived in Berlin. He'd ditched the car on the outskirts of the city and they'd taken a cab to Friedrichshain, a quiet little neighborhood adjacent to Mitte and Prenzlauer Berg.
Aaron has a flat in a non-descript building a few streets off Karl Marx Allee, the main boulevard that bisects the neighborhood. The flat is surprisingly large, a wide square with the bedroom, bathroom and kitchen on one side, the living room occupying the other half. The walls might have been white once, but are now yellowing, the floors a serviceable wood. The apartment is basic, devoid of architectural flourishes, and saved from being sterile only by the two large windows that overlook a green space across the street.
"Rent's cheap," he'd explained. "People living here are mainly students, leftists, and artists."
"In a few years it's going to be highly desirable to live here," she'd observed, walking to the window and admiring the leafy park across the road.
"I'll sell it then and pocket the cash," he had said.
"How do you have a flat in Berlin?" she'd inquired.
"Lab rats get smart, Doc. You didn't notice we were getting paranoid and mistrustful?"
"Oh I noticed. I just didn't think it was manifesting with you acquiring a real estate portfolio."
He'd hitched the duffel full of cash and passports further up on his shoulder. "I don't know about the others but if they were anything like me, they were skimming every chance they got and acquiring sizeable chunks of cash and hidey holes."
Shortly after settling her into the flat, he'd gone off to meet with his hacker, eliciting a promise that she stay in the apartment till he returned. He hadn't come back until nearly two in the morning, a pattern he repeated the following day.
Marta turns her hand until she's looking at her palm.
Beside her, Aaron's eyes are closed, his breath deep and rhythmic. Sleep has released her from its borders, offering her no refuge. Even after a week in Europe, her body still wants to function on Southeast Asian time. Marta spreads her fingers, watches the early morning light filter through.
A man's hand, scarred and callused, suddenly comes into view, warm, hard fingers lacing with hers until her hand is intertwined with his.
"What're you doing?" he murmurs drowsily.
"Checking," Marta says softly, turning her head to look at Cross. "Some day it's going to shake."
He's wide awake now, watching her from his own pillow. His sandy hair is tousled, those blue eyes intent. "Then I'll hold your hand and keep it still."
She smiles, squeezing his hand, savoring the quiet bond. These moments are few, and in their newfound intimacy, precious. He presses a kiss to the back of her hand. His morning scruff is rough against her skin, and she slides her finger along his jawline.
"You should try to sleep," he tells her. He glances at his wristwatch. "I need to meet up with the kid in a few hours."
"When are you expecting Nicky –"
"Tomorrow, latest. Some of the admins have begun changing their passwords. The window's tight."
"Aaron, will this work?"
He doesn't lie to her. "I don't know. Too many things hinge on something else. It's not as clean cut as I'd like."
"Should we pull it?"
"We can. But…there's not a lot to lose with this scenario. We hack their system, steal their files, leave and hold the info hostage. We're invisible to them – everything's on a network, everything's spoofed to look like it's one of their own in the network."
"But Nicky has to expose herself and be bait."
He nodded. "I don't like it, but Nicky says she can do it. She says she's got an angle to play, and to trust her."
"Do you?"
He nods. "Yes."
"Aaron…If…if we don't get the files, what next?"
"We all go underground again." His lips flatten. "I unload my Swiss accounts, we find ourselves somewhere quiet and keep our heads down."
"You don't have a private island in your real estate portfolio, do you?"
His blue eyes brighten with amusement. "I couldn't skim that much money without you guys noticing."
"A little village where we won't be noticed?" Her voice begins to take on a dreamy note. "Maybe a little house at the seaside and we can walk the beach?"
He plays along. "Sure. Get a dog?"
She smiles happily at the thought.
He looks at her seriously. "Do you want kids?"
Her answer is swift. "No. God no." As if aware her immediate refusal might be taken as an insult, she strokes his jawline gently. "If things were different, I'd give anything to have your kids. But Aaron, my kids have the worst odds in the world – fifty percent chance – to get this godawaful disease. So no. I don't want to inflict this curse on them. Apart from spending your life wondering if you're at risk for dying early, watching your parent die the way I watched my mother die isn't something I'd ever want our child to endure."
She doesn't bring up the fact that their child would be growing up in an endangered life, on the run from shadowy figures.
He nods, his head sliding on the pillow.
A soft sound escapes her, akin to a sigh. "I like those words, though."
His blue eyes are curious. "What words?"
"Our child," she whispers wistfully.
Nicky is so damned tired. The last 48 hours have been a whirlwind of activity, scoping out and setting up her planned entry and exit routes, calculating every step in executing her plan. Everything requires precision timing. Her head is down as she comes to the intersection of her former residence. She's dressed in dark clothing, a cap over her gathered blond hair.
The Marais is one of Paris' most fashionable districts, stretching across the 3rd and 4th arondissements. Nicky's old apartment is in the quieter, northern 3rd arondissement, at the corner of Rue des Gravilliers and Rue Beaubourg. The honey-colored, stone building faces a smooth, white limestone counterpart. The ground floor houses shops, restaurants and storefronts, while the residential apartments occupy the five floors above.
The street lamps are lit, the cafes and eateries along the boulevards busy with a late dinner crowd. Nicky enters the amber-colored walk-up building. The round foyer is dark: the overhead light fixture appears to be broken. She knows that to her left are the residents' mailboxes. A man detaches himself from the shadows of the opposite wall and walks toward her. Ah. That would explain the darkened lobby: Bourne disabled the light.
"Follow me," she says, approaching the digital keypad for the glass doors which bar entry to the residences. Beyond the door are an elevator, and a door leading to the stairwell. She swiftly enters a code and the light flashes green, a resounding click indicating the door is open. She pushes through and beelines for the stairs, bypassing the elevator. Bourne follows behind her, his movements nearly silent. She can hear his unasked question.
"It's the manager's building passcode. I snagged it years ago. I figured my code wouldn't work any more, but his was likely to stay the same."
"Security?" he asks.
"Other than the digicode keyboard to enter, minimal," she replies. "There aren't cameras or anything."
"There weren't then," he corrects. "But now?"
"I don't know." So they keep their faces averted in case there are new security measures, their movements swift as she leads him up to the fourth floor. Entering the hallway to her previous residence, Nicky feels her nerves tensing. Unlike the flat they'd shared, this one will have no hallmarks of a life lived together. However, it is a repository of memories more painful than anything endured in the flat in Montparnasse.
She's got to end this soon, Nicky decides. She's got to finish this thing with him, get away from him and move on with her life. She cannot bear being continually dragged into a past he does not recall.
The hallway bisects four apartments, two doors on either side at opposite ends. Nicky heads towards the door furthest down on the left.
"Aren't there people living here now?" Bourne asks in a low voice.
"No. It's a furnished corporate apartment. I've already checked. It's vacant."
That's as much of an explanation as she's willing to give him; and he takes it at face value. Bourne shields her in case a resident enters the hallway. They're both on edge, the warm light in the hallway exposing them. Despite the high tech digital lock in the lobby, all the resident apartments are fitted with old fashioned deadbolt locks. It's child's play for her to pull out a set of lock picks and swiftly manipulate the tumblers to open the door.
Bourne locks the door behind them. Nicky draws in a ragged breath as she takes in her former home. The French windows filter in moonlight, making the white walls appear silvery. The room is in shadows, simply furnished: a sofa bed against one wall, a dining table for two opposite, by the kitchen door. That wall is mirrored, reflecting the moonlit view of the sofa. A round rug separates the sofa from the table, a glass coffee table centered upon it. Nicky averts her gaze from the living room, the rug and the mirror, feeling her heart beat faster as she scurries toward the door leading to the bedroom. In the bedroom are a full-sized bed, side tables, and a wardrobe facing the window.
Pulling out a pen light, she shines it above the bed at a square vent in the corner where the walls meet.
"There," says Nicky.