The Bourne Enigma By Eric Van Lustbader

The Bourne Enigma By Eric Van Lustbader

Prologue: The moment Jason Bourne stepped into the Royal Broweiser the hotel staff snapped to attention. Not that they had been standing idle. Herr Hummel, the executive director, would have had their jobs, and in any case they were too well trained. But Herr Bourne, well known to them, was a large tipper, and the staff scurried to take control of his three large, beautiful suitcases, each of which, they surmised, would have cost them six months’ salary. Bourne, a broad-shouldered, impeccably dressed gentleman of obvious means, had been staying at the Royal Broweiser over the past three or four months at irregular intervals. A businessman he might be, the staff speculated, but his physique marked him as a man who knew his way around a gym. He was always affable, loquacious, a font of slightly off-color jokes that never failed to delight the bellboys, who fell all over themselves to do his bidding. No request was too menial for them; they were happy to be put under his spell. This morning, Bourne was shown up to his usual suite on the top floor, and, after a special delivery platter from Herr Hummel himself, was left to his own devices. The moment he was alone, he stepped to the window that overlooked Thurn-und-Taxis-Platz in the Old Town, took out his mobile, and pressed a speed-dial number. A moment later, the connection made, a female voice answered. “I’m installed,” he said. “How long do I have to wait?” “A few days only.” The voice in his ear warmed him. “We’re tracking him; he’ll soon be on his way.” “Days…” “Don’t be like that,” she said. “Do you have any idea what it took to intercept an FSB confidential communique and substitute our own so Vanov was directed to you instead of to Bourne?” “Who better than me, Irina?” The man posing as Bourne already felt a stirring in his groin. “Still. What am I to do here?” “I know how deeply you despise Frankfurt, Jason.” “I love when you call me Jason.” “I’ll bet you do.” Irina chuckled. “You’re too fucking tense. Find something to relax yourself.” “You,” he said, almost wistfully. “Only you.” “Come, come, my animal,” she whispered. “Surely you can—” She must have heard his groan, though he thought it was barely audible. “What are you doing, Jason?” “You know what I’m doing.” His zipper was open, his right hand rubbing his arousal. “Relaxing.” “Then, by all means,” Irina cooed, “allow me to assist you.”

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