Robert Ludlum's the Bourne Imperative Read Free

window, stars rippled. The president’s eyes were half-closed, his breathing deep and even. If Hendricks didn’t know better, he’d think the president had fallen asleep.
    The president gestured for the file and Hendricks slid it back to him. The president opened it, leafing through the dense paragraphs of typescript. “Tell me about your shop.”
    “Treadstone is running quite well.”
    “Both your directors are up to speed?”
    “Yes.”
    “You say that too quickly, Chris. Four months ago, Peter Marks was struck at the periphery of a car bomb. At almost the same time, Soraya Moore was hurt, involved as she was in tragic circumstances in Paris.”
    “She got the job done.”
    “No need to be defensive,” the president said. “I’m simply voicing my concern.”
    “They’ve both been cleared medically and psychologically.”
    “I’msincerelygladtohearit.Buttheseareuniquedirectors,Chris.” “How so?”
    “Oh, come on, I don’t know any other intelligence directors who routinely deploy themselves in the field.”
    “That’s the way it’s done in Treadstone. It’s a very small shop.”
    “By design, I know.” The president paused. “And how is Dick Richards working out?”
    “Integrating into the team.”
    The president nodded. He tapped his forefinger ruminatively against his lower lip. “All right,” he said at length. “Put Treadstone on this business, if you must—Marks, Moore, Richards, whichever. But—” he raised a warning forefinger “—you’ll provide me with daily briefings on their progress. Above all, Chris, I want facts. Give me proof that this businessman—”
    “The next great enemy to our security.”
    “Whatever he is, give me proof that he warrants our attention, or you’ll deploy your valuable personnel on other pressing matters. Understood?”
    “Yes, sir.” Hendricks rose and left the Oval Office, even more troubled than when he had entered.
    When Soraya Moore had returned from Paris three months ago, she had found Treadstone a changed place. For one thing, because security had been breached when the car bomb that had injured Peter went off in the underground garage of the old offices, Treadstone had been moved out of Washington to Langley, Virginia. For another, the presence of a tall, reedy man with thinning hair and a winning smile.
    “Who moved my cheese?” she had said to her co-director and close friend Peter Marks in a parody of a stage whisper.
    Peter had barked a laugh as he embraced her. She knew he was about to ask her about Amun Chalthoum, the head of al Mokhabarat, the Egyptian secret service, who had been killed during her mission in Paris. She gave him a warning look and he bit his tongue. The tall, reedy man, having emerged from his cubicle, was wandering over to them. He stuck out his hand, introducing himself as Dick Richards. An absurd name, Soraya thought.
    “It’s good to have you back,” he said affably.
    She shot him a quizzical look. “Why would you say that?”
    “I’ve heard lots about you since my first day on the job, mostly from Director Marks.” He smiled. “I’d be pleased to get you up to date on the intel files I’ve been working, if you like.”
    She plastered a smile on her face until he nodded to them both. When he was gone, she turned to Peter. “Dick Richards? Really?”
    “Richard Richards. Like something out of Catch-22 .”
    “What was Hendricks thinking?”
    “Richards isn’t our boss’s doing. He’s a presidential appointee.”
    Soraya had glanced at Richards, who was back toiling away at his computer. “A spy in the house of Treadstone?”
    “Possibly,” Peter had said. “On the plus side, he’s got a crackerjack rep at IDing and foiling cyber spying software.”
    She had meant it as a joke, but Peter had answered her in all seriousness. “What, all of a sudden the president doesn’t trust Hendricks?”
    “I think,” Peter had said in her ear, “that after what has happened to both of us, the