Paris
Nicky leans against the wall of her cell, stretching her legs out on the cot. They returned her here two hours ago, after Byer departed with Vendel. Earlier, when they'd taken her to the interrogation room, they'd blindfolded her. On the way back through several back rooms and narrow passageways, they had either forgotten to, or had decided to forgo covering her eyes. She now knows she's at the Chancery of the American Embassy in Paris because she saw the Anstrude stone walls. The hard stone is from the Yonne region and was chosen for its durability, and because it matched the color of the other buildings on the Place de la Concorde where the Chancery is situated in the northwest corner.
The American Embassy's involvement means the highest echelons of government have been persuaded to sanction Byer's and NRAG's manhunt for Jason Bourne, Aaron Cross, and their accomplices.
Crossing her legs, she closes her eyes. It's nearing 11 am Paris time. Cross has had at least 4 hours to execute his part of the plan and extract the data from NRAG's systems – assuming they weren't caught in the system by a threat detection and response platform.
Do your thing, Cross, Nicky thinks while pleading silently, Don't rescue me, Jason.
She hopes – prays – that this Jason Bourne – the fucked-up one – can ignore his instincts and follow her orders.
It's going to be a long 24 hours.
Berlin
Three hours have elapsed by the time Marta gets back to Dassault's apartment. She'd flagged a taxi around the corner from the hotel's front entrance, and had the driver take her nearly forty minutes out of Berlin. Following protocol, she'd switched cabs multiple times, deliberately leaving the bag in one of those cars, backtracking and going in disparate directions, before circling back to Reuter's.
Aaron meets her at the front entrance, alerted by the text message that she had arrived. Once in the lobby, they bypass the elevator for the stairs. Aaron is taking steps two, three at time; Marta keeps pace with him, gritting her teeth as her blistered heels protest. He doesn't talk to her, doesn't look back at her. At the landing of the fifth floor, Aaron suddenly whirls around and catches her in his arms, crushing her in a suffocating hug. His kiss borders on violent; his mouth is hard and desperate as it slants across hers. Marta leans into his kiss, her response ardent, softening, comforting. Cross breaks off, takes her face in his hands, staring deeply into her eyes. Residual fear darkens his blue eyes.
"It's okay," she whispers. "I'm okay."
"Yeah you are," he murmurs, burying his face in her hair. Stepping back, he looks at her. "You go shopping?"
"More like shoplifted."
He nods. "Come on."
When they enter, Dassault barely acknowledges her; he's busily tapping on his keyboard. "She better have my coat."
"She's fine," answers Marta tartly. "And she has your boots, too."
Marta collapses on the sofa, waving off Aaron, who squeezes her arm before returning to the terminals. She's not sure what hurts worse: the blisters on her toes and heels, or the throbbing of her feet when she takes the boots off.
"Did you get the information?" she asks.
"We've exfiltrated three quarters of what we stole," Aaron tells her. "Another two hours and we should have everything. We're trying to go slowly and quietly so their monitoring systems don't go haywire."
"Nicky?"
His lips thin and he shakes his head. "I don't know. But Bourne – " he points behind her, "has been raising hell."
She turns. The TV monitors are set to different channels, each featuring different scenes – some are showing the American Embassy in Paris, black smoke billowing; a firefight on the embassy roof; what appears to be a high speed car chase through the city; Nicky's earlier fight with Treadstone agents. Marta leans against the couch, her attention shifting from scene to scene.
The adrenaline that's been her constant companion for the last half day slowly drains. Marta measures her breath, waiting for the panic that normally accompanies the aftermath of fight-or-flight; but she feels nothing: no anxiety, no terror. Just calm.
Marta closes her eyes.
Just a few minutes, she thinks. She just needs to rest for a moment…
Paris
The door to Nicky's cell opens. The guards stand with M-16s cocked, their fingers off-trigger.
Nicky sits up in her cot, blinking.
Dita Mandy waits silently at the entrance.
What time is it?
Did they capture Bourne yesterday?
Mandy gives nothing away. Nicky gets up from the cot and follows her.
Nicky didn't sleep the entire night, but she feels rested, alert.
They're not going back to the interrogation room.
Dita leads them up a few flights of stairs before entering a service elevator. Several floors up, they step into an opulent hallway which overlooks the atrium below. Octagonal lanterns surmounted with American eagles light the entryway, at the center of which are bronze busts of George Washington and the Marquis de Lafayette. A grand staircase winds upward, lined with portraits of American heroes and their French allies. An original Gilbert Stuart painting of President Washington stares solemnly from beneath the medallion seal of the United States, flanked by a portrait of James Monroe.
Mandy leads them past the foyer, through several reception rooms before coming to a set of ornate double doors. She knocks briefly before opening the door. Pushing it open she gestures to Nicky.
Nicky steps into the large wood-paneled office, and wonders why Mandy knocked; the room is empty. The oak floors are laid out in a diagonal pattern of interlaced squares known as parquet Versailles. Large classical windows bring in the only light in the room. Judging by how bright it is, it's probably noon, a fact verified by the ornate gold clock on the ledge wedged between two flanking carved bookcases. Long rows of shelves are heavy with books, most of them old judging from the gilding on their leather spines. A long, oval rosewood table dominates the room, sixteen dark Louis XIV chairs surrounding it. Nicky takes a seat at one end, and waits.
This is the endgame.
Fifteen minutes later, Byer enters the room. Nicky looks up calmly. Show no fear. Soldier on.
Byer's lips are pressed in a taut line, his eyes steely. His entire frame is rigid with suppressed rage.
They don't have Bourne.
Jubilation floods her but Nicky betrays nothing, maintaining her placid demeanor.
Byer sits opposite her. Nicky clasps her hands on the table. Neither of them talk, the silence broken only by that rhythmic tap-tap-tap of Byer's fingers on the table. It's not a nervous tic. It's a deliberate action, contemplative.
Mandy occupies herself by looking at her phone. Vendel paces the room restlessly before finally leaving. It's a mirror of their scene with her mother, less Heidi's fearsome presence.
And yet it's as if Heidi is in the room with them. Nicky tries, and fails, to stop the small smile pulling at her mouth.
As if that twitch is what he's been waiting for, Byer stills his fingers. When he speaks, his voice is dispassionate. "I have two ex-wives. A child by each of them. I'm not their dad, not in the way they or their moms would consider fatherhood. I don't do calls, I don't have them for weekends, I don't do games or plays. I don't show up. They actually have stepfathers who do that. But I'm the best father they could ever hope to have because I do something else." His eyes burn. "You know why people in this country go to games and plays and do family things on weekends? It's because they take their safety and their security for granted. There's a quote that's often misattributed to George Orwell. Richard Grenier was a film critic for The Washington Times and he summarized Orwell's viewpoint when he wrote in an essay that people sleep peacefully in their beds at night only because rough men stand ready to do violence on their behalf."
"Is that how you want to justify the shit you've done? The experiments, the torture, the murder?" Nicky scoffs.
Byer's face is completely blank. "I don't justify anything. I stand ready. I do violence. People in this country - my wives, my children - sleep peacefully."
"Sin eater," Nicky hisses.
"Yes," Byer snarls.
"Your analyst was wrong," Nicky states.
Byer's eyebrows rise at her change of subject.
"He thought I had daddy issues. It's why you put me with Bourne, isn't it? Because he had some daddy issues with his father being murdered, just like mine? But your psych was wrong. You're wrong. You may see everything, but you don't know anything." Nicky leans forward, her expression fierce as she spits out each word in staccato syllables. "I didn't need a father. I had Heidi Langthorpe Parish. She was – is –mother, friend, protector, guide, goddess, savior." Her eyes are brilliant, her skin flushed. "Fucking Messiah."
Whatever Byer's about to say is interrupted when Zev enters the room, his expression taut. "They're here."
Byer's jaw tightens, and he nods curtly.
The door opens and a well-dressed man of medium height steps into the room. He goes to the table, followed by two male aides, who speak softly to him. He is white-haired and patrician in bearing; Nicky recognizes the American ambassador to France.
He looks at her. "Well. Ms. Parsons."
Berlin
Marta wakes abruptly. She blinks, the bright light bouncing off the widescreen, blinding her. She winces, turns away.
"What time is it?" she croaks.
"Past noon," comes the answer from Aaron.
"I slept an hour?" Marta is confused. Why does she feel so rested? Why does she recall Aaron trying to wake her? Dinner? What?
"No. It's tomorrow." Then he's in front of her, exhaustion lining his face – and something else. Elation.
Marta feels hope expanding in her next breath. "You did it."
Aaron holds up a small thumb drive. "Christian's about to send the first set to Wikileaks."
"Posted," comes the response.
Marta throws her arms around Aaron's neck with a gasp, burying her face in his neck. His arms are tight around her. But then she remembers –
She pushes him away – "But Nicky!"
Aaron's eyes are troubled. "I know. I'm not sure what –"
But Marta isn't listening to him anymore; her attention is on the screen behind him. An elegantly dressed greyhound of a woman, her silver hair perfectly framing her angular features is on TV, her name appearing on screen: Heidi Parish.
And just like that, Marta remembers.
Nicky's mom!
"Turn the sound on that screen!" she orders, pointing at the picture-in-picture box with Heidi's mom. The sound blares on the wrong image window. "No, the one with that woman!" An exasperated noise comes from Dassault, but the image changes, showcasing Heidi Parish in the main screen.
"What is it?" Aaron asks.
"That's Nicky's mother," she answers before waving at him to shush.
Heidi is standing in what appears to be small, windowless room, microphones shoved in her face. She is unruffled, cocking her head to hear a question. Below the screen is a title card:
Heidi Parish, CEO of Parish WorldWide, mother of fugitive with ties to a wanted terrorist.
Despite the word LIVE which is stamped in the upper right corner of the screen, the scroll below reads: Recorded earlier at Charles de Gaulle Airport.
"Mrs. Parish! Any comment on your daughter's apprehension?" calls out a reporter.
"As I'm sure you can appreciate, we cannot speak to that specifics of the matter publicly, but…" Heidi smiles, the gesture more shark-like than delighted, "I will allow that I'm looking forward to seeing my daughter again. As soon as we conclude this press conference, I will be meeting with the government officials who are waiting for me outside this room."
A ripple of excited chatter follows, but Heidi held her hands up. After a moment, the reporters settle.
"As I said, we cannot speak to the matter of my daughter at this time, but that's not why I've called this conference. Forgive me as I'm very tired – I've just returned from Singapore where we've spent the last few days completing an acquisition we've been working quickly to secure. I realize this is very unusual for Parish WorldWide to make an announcement so publicly, but I'm very pleased to share that we have bought out the ownership stake in Hong Kong's Presage Equity Partners. We are particularly excited as their operating company, Presage Industries, recently acquired Candent LLC in a private transaction. Through our operating companies, Parish WorldWide has led the way in several healthcare initiatives. We look forward to merging our capabilities with those of Candent's crown jewel, Sterisyn Morlanta, which is performing cutting edge therapies. Our team is currently in Manila at the Sterisyn Pacific plant to begin integration."
Heidi Parish stares directly into the cameras, cool, collected.
"Oh my God," Marta breathes.
The technology, the people, the intellectual property, the plants.
Sterisyn Morlanta - the primary source for all of NRAG's black ops and Beta programs research and chems - is now owned by Nicky's mother.
Paris
The door opens, and Heidi Parish sweeps into the room, not a hair out of place, elegant in bespoke pale pink YSL, an Hermès Birkin bag on her arm. Behind her, a small complement of men and women follow, their uniformly dark clothing a canvas against which her pastel presence seems formidable, rather than pallid.
"Hello Richard." Heidi's smile is wide for the American ambassador who moves forward to clasp her hand. "It's good to see you again. I'm hoping we'll have an opportunity to have you and Anne for dinner soon."
"Heidi," Ambassador Greyson's smile is equally wide though not as warm; but he kisses both of Heidi's cheeks. "I'll speak to Anne and we'll make arrangements. We have some paperwork to settle I understand?"
Two of Heidi's people step forward to talk to the ambassador and his aides.
When Heidi catches sight of Nicky, an expression settles on her face. It is not gloating satisfaction. It is immense pride that brightens Heidi's face. Nicky hears Byer's soft inhalation, knows he gets it. She turns to him, sees the narrowing eyes, the tightening around his mouth as he realizes he's been played.
"Colonel," says Nicky softly.
Byer turns to her.
"Rook to d8," she says so only he can hear. She can see him pulling up their aborted game in his head, can see when he recognizes that her last move effectively pins his king.
It was never Heidi's game. It was Nicky's.
"The thing about sacrificial material is that you forget about those one point pieces moving on the board. While you and your knights are gunning for the queen and taking out her court, that cheap little pawn crosses to the other side of the board. You know what everyone promotes their pawn to when they get to their opponent's side? Not knights. Queens. Now you've got another queen staring down at your knight."
Nicky pushes back from the table, stands up and holds out her hand, revealing a crumpled origami knight. "Fuck you, and the horse you rode in on."
The paper knight falls on the table as Nicky steps around to walk to her mother, who enfolds her in a tight embrace.
"Let's get you changed," Heidi says briskly. She turns to the ambassador. "Richard, might I prevail upon you for a private room where Nicolette can shower and change? I'm sure you don't want to the press to see Nicky…unkempt."
Her voice tightens on the last word as she brushes Nicky's bruised cheek.
"Of course," the Ambassador says with unfailing grace. He gestures to the door. "Ms. Parsons." He points to one of his aides. "Philippe will take you."
A young man in Heidi's entourage steps forward with a cloth garment bag for Nicky, who pauses, watching as her mother approaches the silent Eric Byer, a confident and competent looking woman by Heidi's side.
"Colonel, Rebecca Yang is one of my VPs. She can work with your team to schedule a discussion of the contracts and deliverables for the National Research Assay Group. We look forward to working with you."
Leaving her entourage to remain, Heidi follows Nicky out the door.