The Prometheus Deception by Robert Ludlum Page B

display was meant to provide reassurance. A uniformed government driver got out and opened the vehicle’s rear door, and a short, wiry man stepped out. Bryson had seen him before—a fleeting face from C-SPAN. Some sort of intelligence official. Bryson stepped out onto his porch.
    â€œMr. Bryson,” the man said in a husky voice, the accent New Jersey. He was in his mid-fifties, Bryson estimated, with a thatch of white hair, the face narrow and creased; he wore an unstylish brown suit. “You know who I am?”
    â€œSomebody with a lot of explaining to do.”
    The government man nodded, his hands raised in a gesture of contrition. “We fucked up, Mr. Bryson, or Jonas Barrett if you prefer. I take full responsibility. Reason I’ve come up here is to apologize to you personally. And also to explain.”
    An image from a TV screen came to Bryson, white letters beneath a talking head. “You’re Harry Dunne. Deputy chairman of the CIA.” Bryson remembered watching him testify to a Congressional subcommittee once or twice.
    â€œI need to talk to you,” the man said.
    â€œI’ve got nothing to say to you. I wish I could direct you toward your Mr. Breyer or whatever his name is, but I’m drawing a blank.”
    â€œI’m not asking you to say anything. I’m just asking you to listen .”
    â€œThose were your goons, I take it.”
    â€œYes, they were,” Dunne admitted. “They overstepped the bounds. They also underestimated you—they figured, wrongly, that after five years out of the field you’d gone soft. You’ve also taught them a couple of key tactical lessons that will no doubt come in handy for them down the road. Especially Eldridge, once he gets stitched up.” There was a dry rattle in his throat when he laughed. “So now I’m asking you nice as I can. All aboveboard.” Dunne walked slowly over to the porch where Bryson was leaning against a wooden column, his arms folded behind his back. Taped to his upper back was the Beretta, which he could mobilize in an instant if he had to. On television, on the Sunday-morning talking-head shows, Dunne possessed a somewhat commanding presence; in person, he seemed almost shrunken, a little too small for his clothes.
    â€œI have no lessons to teach,” Bryson protested. “All I did was defend myself against a couple of men who were in the wrong place and didn’t seem to wish me well.”
    â€œThe Directorate trained you well, I’ll say that much.”
    â€œI wish I knew what you were talking about.”
    â€œYou know full well. Your reticence is to be expected.”
    â€œI think you’ve got the wrong man,” Bryson said quietly. “A case of mistaken identity. I don’t know what you’re referring to.”
    The CIA man exhaled noisily, followed by a rattling cough. “Unfortunately, not all of your former colleagues are as discreet, or maybe the correct word is principled , as you. Oaths of fealty and secrecy tend to loosen their holds when money changes hands, and I do mean serious money. None of your former colleagues came cheap.”
    â€œNow you’ve really lost me.”
    â€œNicholas Loring Bryson, born Athens, Greece, the only son of General and Mrs. George Wynter Bryson,” the CIA man recited, almost in a monotone. “Graduated from St. Alban’s School in Washington, D.C., Stanford, and Georgetown’s School of Foreign Service. Recruited while at Stanford into an all-but-invisible intelligence agency known to the very few who know about it as the Directorate. Trained in fieldwork, fifteen highly successful and secretly decorated years of service, with operations ranging from—”
    â€œNice bio,” Bryson interrupted. “Wish it were mine. We academics sometimes like to imagine what it might be like to live an active life outside these cloistered, ivied walls.” He spoke with some