Conklin ran Treadstone operations, but he was never an operator. If he was soft around the middle, if his reflexes were not battle ready, it didn't matter: he had good aim and a better brain. His job was overseeing protocols and methodologies. When he failed at that, NRAG disposed of him.
Nicky could've taken him, easily.
But Rick Byer is different animal: a former special operator whose leanness masks a still agile body, a warrior's toughness. He folds from Nicky's surprise assault but recovers quickly. The lights snap back on just as he catches Nicky's elbow between his hands and twists, hard. She yelps as her body follows the movement and she is tossed across the table, her temple scraping along the edge. Nicky winces, her tongue probing the blood from a cut in her lip. The door opens and the two guards rush in.
Byer cuts them off. "Leave her." The men stop and reassemble at the door. Byer looks at Nicky incredulously. "Where did you think you were going?"
She's in a locked containment room. How the hell was she going to get out even if she'd managed to overpower Byer?
Nicky pushes herself up slowly. God, everything hurts. "No where."
She just wanted a shot at the bogeyman. She would've preferred a facer to a gut punch, but she'll take what she can. There are no second chances with Rick Byer.
Byer shakes his head, the expression on his face more chilling than amused. "...Fucking Conklin."
They keep saying that, as if Conklin should have divined something about her that did not exist on paper. The truth is, Nicky Parsons was exactly whom they had all expected; it took loving and losing David Webb to make her the creature she is now.
Zev Vendel approaches the open door. "Rick, we've got him on the roof. We've also got a bead on Cross."
Goddammit, thinks Nicky. Goddammit.
"Right on time," Byer remarks. He stares at her, his eyes cold. "They can't help themselves."
Vendel jerks his chin toward Nicky. "What do you want us to do with her?"
"We'll need her until we can get her mother."
Nicky gasps.
"I never said I had her." Byer smiles thinly. "You inferred that. She wasn't available yesterday when we went to talk to her about those manifests. She's apparently in Asia, though strangely, her people don't seem to know where in Asia."
Of course they know, Nicky thinks. But Heidi's people are loyal, to the point of fanaticism.
Byer takes her silence in stride. "Don't worry. Once she surfaces, we'll take care of her."
He closes the door behind him, leaving Nicky half-sprawled on the interrogation table. She drops her head, takes a shuddering breath, and curls her fist around an origami piece.
The backpack bounces, the straps pulling at her shoulders as Marta runs along Schiffbauderdamm. She doesn't know what kind of tracking device she's carrying, but she assumes the range of Christian Dassault's frequency jammers isn't greater than one mile, at which point Rick Byer will be able to get a firm lock on her. Once they have that, a swarm of agents will sweep into the city to find their quarry. She has to stay within that range to keep the electronic interference engaged, but she also has to get the damn thing away from them. She considers the Spree River, which runs westerly in parallel with Schiffbauderdamm, but it's morning and people are stepping out, starting their morning, on their way to work, to school, to tour this vibrant city; throwing her backpack into the river isn't an inconspicuous act.
Four hundred meters up the street, she sees a sign for a hotel, and veers left. The contemporary glass and metal building overlooks the River Spree, a stand of trees lining its entrance. Marta stops across the street, watches as guests mill around the drive at the entrance. Despite the early morning, the valet stand is busy as travelers wait for their cars. Bellhops are loading open trunks with luggage, and taxis wait patiently in a queue. Marta glances down at herself, notes the long coat that covers her nudity – Christ it is cold – and combat boots; she's hardly the type of guest who would stay at this hotel, which caters to a high end guest. But she's learned that appearances aren't about what she's wearing; it's how she carries herself and what she conveys. Squaring her shoulders, she crosses the street, weaving in between two luggage carts laden with monogrammed leather bags.
Marta stands as if she has every right to be there, affecting a bored expression, appearing to wait for someone. She watches as a slender, well-dressed blond woman gets into the back of a black sedan. Marta monitors the two valets who are racing back and forth between the luggage racks, grabbing suitcases and trunks, and loading them into the blond woman's sedan, and the taxi behind it. Marta looks around, sees the other guests engaged with having their cars retrieved or waiting for help from the valets. She casually drops her shoulder and lets the backpack slide into the valet cart to her left at the same time she swiftly snags a Louis Vuitton rolling case from the one on the right and turns to walk up the steps to the lobby entrance. Her heart is hammering as she waits to hear someone call her out for the theft – what if the owner was looking out the window of her sedan and saw Marta steal her bag? What if another valet, another guest saw? But no one challenges her as she reaches the revolving door, and spinning her way inside, Marta sees the valet load the backpack, pressing it down as he closes and knocks on the trunk. As she watches, the taxi reverses a few feet, then swerves around the black sedan, heading out of the circular driveway.
She wonders who will be more outraged when the taxi is pulled over by gun-wielding agents – the hapless hotel guest whose cab now contains the beacon in its trunk, or Byer's people, deprived of their prey?
She thinks longingly of the warm, soft cashmere blanket, stuffed into that same bag.
Marta heads toward the front desk, pulling the Vuitton roller with her.
Panic rises as uniformed man approaches her, a curious expression on his hard face. He's in his thirties, with short hair and flat blue eyes. Swallowing hard, she schools her features into a welcoming smile. "Excuse me, do you speak English?"
He nods, takes in her coat and combat boots. "Yes madam, I do," he answers, his accented voice wary.
She feigns relief. "Wonderful. The taxi driver from the airport didn't speak English and I don't speak German and I was trying to tell him that I needed to get to the Holiday Inn in Berlin City Center, and this is where he took me."
"Ah." The face relaxes just a bit, though the curiosity remains as he considers her obviously expensive luggage. Clearly she belongs at a cheap hotel - but her bag is incongruous for such accommodations.
Marta doesn't try to explain the luggage. Too much detail can only lead to a mistake, so she keeps her mouth shut, waits for him to respond.
"Heinrich!" he calls out to one of the young bellhops. He speaks to the young man, who nods. Turning back to her, he tells her: "Heinrich will call a cab for you, madam."
She beams. "Thank you for your help."
He nods, then heads back to the front desk. She follows Heinrich. They are almost at the doors when she pauses. "Do you think I could use the ladies' room to freshen up while you get my cab?"
"Yes madam, of course," answers the young man, gesturing toward a hallway to their left.
"I won't be long," says Marta.
He nods. "I'll have a cab waiting, madam."
Inside the ladies' room, Marta pulls the suitcase into the largest stall. She sags in relief when she unzips it and finds the bag is full of women's clothing – very expensive clothing from the labels. A few minutes later, she's dressed in a loose black turtleneck sweater so soft it could only be cashmere, and a pair of lined wool pants that are a size too big, and four inches too long. She cinches a belt around her waist and cuffs the hems of her pants. There was nothing as utilitarian as socks or shoes in the suitcase, so she slips her bare feet back into the combat boots, wincing as a forming blister scrapes against the leather. She hopes no one will notice the boots under the trouser legs. She folds a silken Hermès scarf and wraps it over head, tying the ends under her chin. Tucking her hair into the triangle, she digs around the zipped compartments, nearly squealing when she finds an oversized pair of sunglasses.
Marta folds Christian's dark coat over her arm, careful to make sure the gun is not dislodged from the side pocket as she exits the ladies' room, striding across the lobby as if she belongs. In her borrowed finery, she certainly looks as if she fits. This time, no one approaches her as she makes her way to the restaurant on the other side of the lobby. Crossing through the bustling dining area full of breakfasting guests, Marta eyes the side exit.
A child darts in front of her, and Marta nearly trips. The little boy's flustered mother rushes in front of Marta, proffering apologies as she takes the boy's hand. Marta waits as the woman leads her child back to their table. She glances around. No one is behind her, no one is coming for her. To her left, a bank of a televisions behind the bar is set to various news and financial news stations.
Marta stops as a familiar name scrolls across on one of the monitors.
Heidi Parish.
Wait. Heidi Parish? She knows that name. Where does she know that name? That's -
"Madam, do you need a table?"
A young woman steps in front of Marta, waving a menu card. Marta's gaze remains fixed on the screen.
The video shows the American Embassy in Paris, people running across the roofline as smoke coils into the sky. It cuts away to the earlier footage of Nicky fighting Treadstone agents at a Paris cafe. She can't hear what the newscaster is saying, but now they are flashing up images of Nicky Parsons and Bourne, side by side. Marta knows what's next. She freezes as her picture and Cross' flash up on the screen.
But her impatient waitress is not watching the monitor - she is waiting for Marta to answer. Unable to say anything, Marta shakes her head and hurries past the girl toward the exit. Cold sweat washes over her body and she keeps her head down as she steps out on Bertolt-Brecht Platz.