Oskar took a deep breath. The door of the institute building loomed in front of him. He’d gone through that door thousands of times, but this time he felt as if he were heading through a portal that led to a battlefield. He didn’t know if he could do it. Once he was inside, he was on his own. There would be no communication, electronic or otherwise. No receiver in his ear, not for someone going through security on the eighth floor. There was too much risk that any devices might be discovered. But that meant he had no way to seek help if things went wrong.
He glanced across the street. The man who called himself Jason Bourne leaned against the opposite building, drinking coffee and seemingly waiting for his shift to begin. Oskar felt the man watching him without appearing to watch him at all. A disguise had transformed Bourne, who was now dressed as an ordinary maintenance man in a blue, slightly oversized uniform. The man’s shoulders slumped, and he’d made himself up to look older than he was. His hair was shot through with gray. His expression was bored, uninterested in the world, a man with a dead-end job.
Who was this man? This stranger. This killer.
Bourne had told Oskar almost nothing about his background, and yet he was someone who inspired both fear and trust. Oskar was putting his life in his hands, which made no sense at all, but he had the impression that Bourne would be willing to die if it meant keeping Oskar and his information safe.
Even so, the man was not a robot. He was human. That was obvious whenever he looked at the woman Oskar had destroyed. This man, Bourne, was clearly in love with Abbey Laurent, and she was in love with him.
Oskar pasted an expression of calm on his face. To everyone else in the building, this had to look like an ordinary day. He climbed the steps and went inside, along with a dozen or so other workers arriving at the same time. No one talked to each other, but there was a cloud of nervousness in the air. Yesterday there had been a bomb scare. What did that mean? Was it safe to go back?
He saw it among the guards, too. The two men who ran the show here, Heinrich Kessler and Fritz Haber, were both gone. In their absence, confusion reigned. But Bourne had warned him that if the remaining guards were scared, they might be overzealous in their desire to make sure nothing else went wrong. They might intensify their searches and screenings. They might ask him things they never had before.
Don’t panic. Stick to the plan.
That was easier when he wasn’t staring at an armed, uniformed guard watching every employee go inside. In the line ahead of him, a worker from another floor asked about the chaos of the previous day. “Was gibt’s mit dieser Bombe?”
The man checking IDs didn’t answer, but the guard next to him did. “Es war ein Streich.”
That was the story they were going with. It was a prank. A false alarm. No reason to be concerned. But Oskar could tell in the faces of the people around him that many of the others were not convinced.
He walked up to the checkpoint and handed over his ID. He worked hard to keep a bland, uninterested expression on his face, but he could feel the guard giving him a thorough look from head to toe, the way the man had done to everyone in line this morning. Oskar kept repeating the mantra in his head: It’s an ordinary day. Nothing is different.
The computer beeped. He knew his name had popped up on the screen. Oskar Vogel. Eighth floor.
Was there also an alert? Detain this man!
But the clerk simply handed him back his ID, and Oskar headed for the elevator banks as usual. He used his access ID to select the eighth floor, and again, his badge worked without difficulty. When he got off at the top of the building, he repeated the process of showing his ID to people who had known him and watched him come and go for three years. But they treated him like a stranger. Scanned his card. Confirmed his name and face. Cleared him to go to his desk.
Nearby, he saw the X-rays and full-body scanners that were in place to search everyone who wanted to leave the floor. Soon he would do just that. He would leave the building and never come back, but he wondered if the guards would stop him before he got out.
Oskar wandered to the far end of the building, where the windows looked toward the river. The pimply kid who’d taken over Jochim’s desk hadn’t arrived yet. He noted that Herr Kessler’s door was shut and locked; the office was empty. He booted up his terminal and pretended to work, but his eyes were on the clock. It was almost eight thirty in the morning. At nine o’clock—precisely at nine o’clock—he’d begin the download. If all went well, Bourne would be in position downstairs, waiting. If all didn’t go well, Oskar knew he was unlikely to make it out of the building alive. They’d be coming for him.
He got out of his chair and went to the kitchenette area to get himself a cup of coffee. But coffee wasn’t what he wanted. He poured himself a cup, then cursed as he spilled it while reaching for a packet of sugar. Hot brown liquid poured over the counter, and Oskar bent down to grab a roll of paper towels from under the sink. As he did, he reached farther back to retrieve the thumb drive that he’d wedged into a hiding place behind the pipes. The last thing he’d wanted was to leave the thing at his desk, because he suspected that every desk got searched overnight after they left.
As he straightened up with the towels in hand, he slipped the drive into his pocket. He completed the cleanup of the counter, then returned to his desk.
A normal day. Nothing was different.
But Oskar felt sweat under his arms and on the back of his neck. The reality of what he had to do stared him in the face. At nine o’clock, he had to plug the drive into his computer—My God, if anyone walks by, they’ll see it!—and then begin downloading the files from Louisa’s deleted account. It was a sea of data and would take several minutes to complete, and every second the download was in process, he was at risk. The guards might spot what he was doing. The other workers might see the drive in the USB slot and report him. The tech in the downstairs server room would get an alert, and if Bourne wasn’t there to stop him, then a phone call would be made upstairs.
Oskar Vogel. Take him to security. He is a spy!
He could still walk away. He could quit, and no one would be the wiser. But in his mind, he saw Louisa’s face. Her face in that video had been full of pain and despair. She’d given up everything to make amends for her lies, and now she was dead. Murdered. He couldn’t fail her.
Nine o’clock. He’d begin the download.
But first things first. It was almost eight forty-five, and Bourne would be entering the building. Oskar needed to clear the way for him, which meant taking the first risk in their plan. He glanced around the eighth floor to make sure that no one was watching him. Then he logged out of his account and used one of his dummy accounts to hack into the institute’s personnel files. It wasn’t hard; it didn’t take him long. This was what he did to other businesses day in, day out. He was leaving fingerprints of his work behind, and sooner or later, they’d track the unauthorized access back to this terminal.
Hopefully, by then, he’d be long gone.
Oskar called up the record for Horst Grauman and saw the personnel record, photo, clearance, and contact information for the maintenance man. Quickly, eyes on the clock, Oskar changed the man’s name: Hans Dugan.
Then he deleted the man’s photograph with a new picture that he’d planted in the cloud overnight. This photo showed a bored older man with graying hair. Underneath the disguise, the picture was of Jason Bourne.
Eight forty-five.
Bourne entered the building. With no way to communicate with Oskar, timing was everything. And if things went wrong, he had no gun. He couldn’t risk it being discovered during a security search.
As he headed through the lobby, he walked with a slight limp. The hunch of his body made him look smaller than he was. His face was devoid of expression, nothing but an older man counting off the days until he could retire. But behind dead eyes, he stayed alert to the two men at the checkpoint—the man running IDs through the scanner and the armed uniformed guard beside him.
When he got to the front of the line, he dug in his pocket with an annoyed expression, as if he couldn’t remember where he’d left his ID card. Then he found it clipped to his pocket and handed it over to the man at the computer terminal. Without giving anything away, Bourne tensed as the card went through the scanner. He wondered if Oskar had successfully hacked the database, because if not, the photo of Horst Grauman would not match the man standing in front of them.
Just for an instant, the clerk at the computer terminal cocked his head in surprise. Bourne wondered if one cached entry had appeared for an instant, only to be replaced by new information and a new photo. The man looked at the screen, looked at Bourne, and then back at the screen.
Noticing the delay, the guard with the gun grew alert.
“Name?” the man asked.
“Dugan,” Bourne replied in a lazy voice. “Hans Dugan.”
“Sind Sie neu?”
Jason shook his head in mock disgust, as if the idea of being a new employee was ridiculous. “Drei Jahre.”
The man checked the screen again, comparing employee dates on the record, and confirming that the system agreed that Hans Dugan had worked for the institute for three years. The face was unfamiliar to him, but the man saw hundreds of faces every day. He shrugged, as if some people were simply forgettable, and waved Bourne into the building. Jason felt the armed guard’s eyes following him as he headed for the stairwell, but he made a point of not looking back.
Time: Eight fifty-two. The entry had taken longer than he’d wanted.
Bourne took the stairs to the building’s underground level. He’d watched and rewatched the video taken by Saira when she was inside the facility, and he’d used it to build a map in his head. He followed the corridors to the location of the physical plant, where the maintenance area was located. Outside, he hesitated, not wanting to confront anyone who would recognize that he didn’t belong there. Watching the area, he saw only one man, obviously the boss, behind the glass door of an office. The man was on the phone and was facing the other way, so Bourne quickly found the locker belonging to Horst Grauman. He took the man’s tool belt and strapped it around his waist, then grabbed a six-foot ladder under his arm and headed out again before the boss turned around.
Time: Eight fifty-five.
His next stop was the server room. Bourne entered, listening to the hum of the mainframes, feeling cool air from the vents overhead. No one challenged him. Watching Saira’s video, Oskar had pinpointed the office where a senior tech monitored data activity around the building. Jason carried the ladder there and rapped his knuckles sharply on the closed door. Someone on the other side shouted for him to enter.
He opened the door, dragging the ladder with him. A man sat at a long counter with half a dozen computer monitors in front of him. He was in his thirties, with long blond hair tied in a ponytail behind his back. He wore a wool sweater, because the room was cold, and he had music from a German rock band playing from speakers. The noise was loud, but Bourne hadn’t heard it outside the office, which meant the place was soundproofed. That was good.
Jason shut the door.
The man in front of the monitors glanced at him, but seeing the maintenance uniform, he looked away again. “Was wollen Sie?” he asked in a bored voice.
“There’s an issue with the vent,” Bourne replied in German. “Somebody called it in.”
“I haven’t noticed anything.”
“Must have been the overnight man. Shouldn’t take me long to fix.”
The tech shrugged. His gaze returned to the monitors, which included rotating camera feeds from throughout the building, as well as two monitors that streamed data—a raw tracking list, Oskar had reported, of keyboard commands and information going in and out of the building. Emails. Search requests. Data transfers. As soon as he began the download, the volume of data being transferred would quickly trigger an alert for follow-up with the on-duty tech.
Time: Exactly nine o’clock.
If they were on schedule, Oskar was plugging the thumb drive into his terminal on the eighth floor and launching the download.
Bourne set up the ladder not far from where the man was sitting, which drew an annoyed look. He climbed several steps until he could reach the ceiling panels, and then he removed one and continued climbing until he could shine a flashlight inside. Then he waited. Every minute or so, he grabbed a tool from the utility belt and pretended to be working on machinery in the ceiling.
More minutes ticked by.
Five. Ten. It was taking longer than Bourne expected. Maybe the download wasn’t triggering an alarm. Or maybe Oskar had already been grabbed by the guards. Then he heard a shrill whistle from one of the computers, and the tech hissed from the desk below him.
“Was gibt’s?” the man murmured to himself.
Bourne glanced down from atop the ladder. He watched the tech lean forward and squint at an area of the data feed. The man backed up the stream and watched the information transfer, and a low curse growled from his throat.
“Scheiße!”
The man reached for a phone.
As he did, Bourne lashed out with his boot. His kick caught the tech under his jaw and lifted him off the chair. The man flew, his body hitting the tiled floor, the wheeled chair rolling away. Jason dropped down heavily from the ladder. The tech was groggy but still conscious. Bourne took a fistful of the man’s blond hair and knocked his skull hard against the floor. The man’s eyes rolled and closed, and he was out.
Bourne grabbed for the phone. He dialed Oskar’s extension. “We’re clear. How long up there?”
“Ten more minutes, maybe fifteen. The transfer is going slowly.”
“You have to be heading out of the building at nine thirty,” Bourne reminded him. “That’s when they need to call maintenance.”
“I understand.”
“Remember, when it’s done, get out right away. Don’t wait for anything. Head for the train station. Abbey and Saira will meet you there.”
Oskar hung up the phone. He watched the files downloading on the screen, one after another, hundreds of them. It was as if Louisa’s whole life were streaming in front of his eyes. Her secret life.
He scribbled nonsense on a yellow pad as if he were working, and all the while, he surveyed the morning activity on the eighth floor. The kid next to him had shown up and was tapping on his keyboard. Two additional guards had suddenly appeared—both of them armed—and were waiting next to the exit scanner and X-ray. Why were they there? What did they think was going to happen?
Then he understood.
Someone exited the elevator, wearing a suit. He was in his thirties, tall and muscular, with an air of authority. Seeing him, the two guards snapped to attention, and Oskar heard one of them call, “Herr Gerlitz.”
The new man snapped his fingers. He marched between the desks with long strides, and the two guards followed on his heels. They headed straight for Heinrich Kessler’s office, and Gerlitz used a key to unlock the door. He signaled the guards inside, and Oskar could see the men beginning to unload papers from Kessler’s file cabinets. As they did, Gerlitz stood in the office doorway, his arms folded over his chest, and his gaze went from worker to worker on the eighth floor.
Oskar looked down, not wanting to meet his eyes, not wanting to show any fear or concern. But he felt a wave of both.
Mein Gott, do they know?
He stared at the screen, willing the transfer to go faster. It was too late to stop now, too late to do anything but see it through.
Time: Nine twenty-five.
Too slow! He wasn’t going to be done! And what would happen to Bourne if the call didn’t come on time?
Then, finally, finally, the streaming of files on his screen stopped, and the cursor blinked at him. The download was complete. Oskar silently withdrew the thumb drive from the computer, making sure he wasn’t being watched, then slid it into his pocket. Not waiting, he stood up and headed for the men’s toilet. The route took him past Kessler’s office, and he had to go right by Herr Gerlitz, who was still in the doorway, his face icy. It would be strange not to acknowledge him, so Oskar nodded at the man, and the man nodded back, saying nothing.
Time: Nine twenty-six.
He went into the bathroom. With a curse, he realized there was someone in one of the stalls! He couldn’t follow the plan unless it was empty. Killing time, Oskar turned on water at one of the sinks and began to wash his face. Whoever was in the stall had a lot to do, or he was busy playing games on his phone, because Oskar heard humming and no indication that the man was getting ready to leave.
Two minutes passed.
At last he heard a flush, and one of the other hackers emerged, giving a loud sigh. The man didn’t acknowledge Oskar and didn’t wash his hands. As soon as he was gone, Oskar yanked a small spool of duct tape from his pocket, along with the thumb drive, and he taped the device under the first sink. Then, hurrying, he went into the farthest stall from the door and kicked off his shoes. He was wearing multiple pairs of socks, and he peeled off the first pair, shoved them into the toilet, and flushed, watching the water go down and then rise back up as the balled-up socks clogged inside the pipe. As water overflowed the toilet, he switched to the next stall and repeated the process. Water spilled from under the stall doors and spread across the toilet floor.
Oskar put his shoes back on over wet socks and returned to the office. He didn’t go back to his desk. Instead, he headed straight for the security checkpoint in front of the elevators. With a smile and a roll of his eyes, he emptied his pockets and then proceeded through the scanner with his arms over his head. On the other side, he reclaimed his wallet, keys, and ID card.
The guard gave him the all-clear, then said, “Wo gehen Sie?”
“I need to pick up a prescription at the pharmacy,” Oskar replied with a shrug. “I’ll be back in ten minutes.”
He turned for the elevator, then casually stopped and called over his shoulder. “Oh, and the fucking toilets have flooded again. You better call maintenance.”
The guard swore.
Oskar headed for the elevator and noticed the time. Nine thirty-four. His heart sank, and he swallowed a curse as the elevator doors closed with him inside.
He was late.
Bourne checked to make sure the tech in the server room was still out cold. He grabbed the ladder, closed the door behind him, and retraced his steps to the maintenance facility inside the building. It was nine twenty-nine. If Oskar was on time, then the call about the flooded toilets on the eighth floor should be coming in to the head of maintenance in the next few seconds.
He waited near the lockers, staying out of sight. From where he was, he saw the boss in his office, door open. It was only twenty yards away. When the phone rang, he’d see the man take the call, and as soon as the boss hung up, he’d make his move. But nine twenty-nine clicked to nine thirty, and there was no call. Then nine thirty-one.
Oskar, where are you?
Nine thirty-two.
The physical plant area around him was noisy with the throb of machines, and the overhead lights were dim. He was mostly invisible from where the boss was sitting, but the more time passed, the more the man might take note of one of his staff hanging around near the lockers with nothing to do. But not one of his staff. A stranger.
Nine thirty-three.
Bourne kept his eyes locked on the man in the office, and he was so focused on him that he missed the footsteps coming from behind.
“Hey, Horst, wie geht’s?” said a booming voice.
Jason couldn’t help it. He turned around. As he did, he saw a short, overweight bald man in a matching blue maintenance jumpsuit. The man had a grin on his face, but the grin evaporated as he realized that the man in front of him was not Horst Grauman. Confusion and suspicion filled his eyes.
He knew everyone who worked in maintenance, and Jason was not one of them.
The man shouted, both at Jason and at the boss in the office.
“Hey, wer sind Sie? Hey, Klaus, kommst du hier! Schnell!”
Bourne shot out a fist that caught the man in the throat, cutting off his cry, but it was too late. The alarm had been raised. He spun the heavyset man around and wrapped his neck in a chokehold that cut off the blood to his brain and rendered him unconscious in seconds. The man slumped in his arms, and Jason lowered him to the floor. At the same moment, he heard the thunder of heavy footsteps from the office behind him.
He also heard the phone ringing.
As Bourne turned back, the boss flew at him. The man had a hammer raised high over his head, and he came at Bourne, swinging the tool hard and landing it with a painful crack on Jason’s shoulder before he had a chance to dodge the blow. His muscles froze with a shudder of pain. The man drew back and swung the hammer sideways, aiming for Bourne’s skull, and Jason ducked as the tool rushed over his head. The missed swing left the man off-balance. Bourne took the man’s wrist and bent it sharply, then shoved both wrist and hammer toward the man’s head. With a sickening fracture of bone, the man slammed the hammer into his own skull, and he keeled forward.
The phone was still ringing.
Bourne leaped for the office, crossed the distance in a few long strides, and scooped up the receiver. He was out of breath and tried to hide it. “Ja, ja, was ist los?”
A guard on the eighth floor told him about the flooded toilets, and Bourne replied, hoping the man didn’t recognize that he was talking to a stranger. “Ja, okay, I’ll send Hans up there now. He’ll take care of it.”
Jason hung up the phone.
He dragged the two unconscious men into the office and found some twine to quickly tie their hands and feet, but he wasn’t sure how well the knots would hold. He closed the door, hoping that if the men woke up, there was enough noise in the physical plant to cover their calls for help.
With a shop vac in tow, Bourne headed for the elevators.
The clock was ticking, but the plan was coming apart.