The Bourne Dominion by Robert & Lustbader Ludlum Page A

various extremist terrorist factions both foreign and homegrown, was such a time.
    To that end, Hendricks had hired Soraya Moore and Peter Marks. Moore had headed up CI’s own black-ops group, Typhon, until being summarily fired by M. Errol Danziger, the monomaniacal new head of CI, and Peter Marks had been close to the former heads of CI. They knew each other well, had complementary temperaments, and were smart enough to think outside the box, which, in Hendricks’s opinion, was what was needed in this new splinter war of a thousand cadres they found themselves in. Best of all, Soraya Moore was Muslim, half Egyptian, with a massively deep pool of knowledge, expertise, and hands-on experience in the Middle East and beyond. The two of them were, in short, the polar opposites of the sclerotic generals and career politicians that littered the American intelligence community like bird droppings.
    Marks and Moore were opposite him on a leather sofa, the twin of the one on which he sat. His assistant, Jolene, stood behind, a Bluetooth earplug connecting her to her cell. Sunlight crept in between the thick curtains. Through the slice of visible window could be seen the shadows of the secretary’s National Guard detail. On the low table between them were the remnants of breakfast. Cleo, Hendricks’s gorgeous golden boxer, sat immobile against his leg, mouth slightly open, head slightly cocked, staring at her master’s two guests as if curious about the long silence.
    Soraya and Marks exchanged a quick glance, then she cleared her throat. Her large, deep-blue eyes and her prominent nose were the centerpieces of a bold Arabian face the color of cinnamon. She waspossessed of a commanding presence that Hendricks found impressive. What he liked best, however, was that she wasn’t girlie—nor was she brittlely masculine like so many females in a male-dominated structure. She was her own person, which he found refreshing as well as curiously comforting. He therefore weighed her words as carefully as he did those of Marks.
    “Peter and I want to move on a tip that came through early this morning,” Soraya finally said.
    “What sort of tip?”
    “Excuse me, Mr. Secretary,” Jolene said, leaning in, “I have Brad Findlay on the line.”
    Hendricks’s head whipped around. “Jolene, what did I tell you about interrupting this briefing?”
    Jolene took an involuntary step back. “I’m sorry, sir, but seeing as how it’s the head of Homeland Security, I assumed you—”
    “Never, ever assume,” he snapped. “Go into the kitchen. You know how to handle Findlay.”
    “Yessir.” Cheeks flaming, Jolene beat a hasty retreat out of the room.
    Marks and Soraya exchanged glances again.
    Soraya cleared her throat. “It’s difficult to say.”
    “It’s not what you’d call a normal tip,” Marks said.
    Hendricks drew his brows together. “Meaning?” He had completely forgotten Jolene, the call, and his waspish reaction.
    “It didn’t originate from any of the usual suspects: disgruntled mullahs, opium warlords, the Russian, Albanian, or Chinese mafias.” Soraya rose and went around the room, touching a bronze sculpture here, the corner of a photo frame there. Cleo watched her with her large, liquid eyes.
    Soraya stopped abruptly and, turning, looked at Hendricks. “All these things here are known. This particular tip came from the unknown—”
    The secretary’s brow furrowed further. “I don’t understand. Terrorism—”
    “Not terrorism,” Soraya said. “At least not as we have defined it so far. This is an individual who reached out to me.”
    “Why did he want to turn? What’s his motivation?”
    “That was still to be determined.”
    “Well, whoever your informant is, get him over here for a debriefing,” Hendricks said. “I don’t much care for mysteries.”
    “That would be the protocol, of course,” Marks said. “Unfortunately, he’s dead.”
    “Murdered?”
    “Hit-and-run,” Marks said.
    “The