Robert Ludlum's the Bourne Imperative (2 page)

He struck a hard blow to her jaw. The EAA lay in the snow, some distance away. Shaking off the effects of the blow, she heaved him off her. He rolled back, and before she had a chance to move, grabbed the hilt of the knife, and ground the blade deeper into the muscle of her shoulder. She gritted her teeth, but she didn’t scream. Instead, she jabbed the tips of her fingers into the cricoid cartilage of his throat. He coughed, gagging, and his hand came off the knife. Grabbing hold of it, she drew it out. Her blood glimmered darkly as it ran down the narrow blade.

Rearing back away from her, he lunged for the EAA, snatched it up and aimed it at her. When she laughed at him, he pulled the trigger, pulled it again and again. It was empty. What had she meant to do? This thought was racing through his mind when she pulled a Glock 20 out of her parka. Throwing the useless EAA at her, he lurched up, turned, and ran a patternless path through the pines, toward the water. It was his only chance now to escape her.

As he ran, he unzipped his coat, shrugged it off. In the water, it would only help to carry him down. The water would be frigid—so cold that he would have only five or six minutes to swim away to safety before the temperature penetrated to his bones, anesthetizing him. Paralysis would not be far behind, followed by death.

A shot from behind him whistled past his right knee, and he stumbled, crashed into a tree, bounced off and kept running, deeper and deeper into the woods, closer and closer to the water, whose sound rushed at him like a conquering army. He pushed himself on, panted breath streaming from him.

When he saw the first glint of the water, his heart lifted and the breath came easier in his chest. Breaking free of the pines, he lurched along snowy scrub grass sprouting between bald rocks that sloped steeply down to the sea.

He was almost there when he skidded on a slick of muck, and the second shot, meant for his shoulder, grazed the side of his head. He spun around, arms flung wide, continued blindly, legs churning as he reached the lip of land, and, blinded by his own blood, plunged down into the icy depths.

Gazing at the spattering of tiny islets around him, rimed in ice, Jason Bourne sat in the center of the small fishing skiff, rod in one hand, flicking it back and forth as he trolled for sea trout, pike, or perch.

“You don’t like fishing much, do you?” Christien Norén said.

Bourne grunted, brushing himself off. The brief eruption of intense snow had vanished almost as quickly as it had appeared. The sky was an oppressive icy gray.

“Keep still,” Christien admonished. He held his rod at a careless angle. “You’re scaring the fish away.”

“It’s not me.” Bourne frowned, peering down into the water, which was streaked brown and green. Shadows swayed as if to an unheard melody. “Something else is scaring them away.”

“Oh, ho.” Christien laughed. “There’s an underwater conspiracy coming to light.”

Bourne looked up. “Why did you take me out here? It doesn’t appear that you like fishing much, either.”

Christien regarded him steadily for some time. At length he said, “When discussing conspiracies, it’s best to do so in a space without walls.”

“A remote location. Hence this trip outside of Stockholm.”

Christien nodded. “Except that Sadelöga isn’t quite remote enough.”

“But out on the water, this boat finally meets your requirements.”

“It does.”

“The explanation for what you and Don Fernando have been up to had better be good. What I learned from Peter Marks in DC—”

“It’s not good,” Christien said. “In fact, it’s very, very bad. Which is why—”

Bourne’s silent signal—the flat of his free hand cutting through the chill air—silenced Christien immediately. Bourne pointed at the disturbance near them, the sudden rushing curl of water arched like a dorsal fin. Something was surfacing, something large.

“Good God,” Christien exclaimed.

Abandoning his rod, Bourne leaned forward and grabbed the rising body.

"RUMOR, INNUENDO,intimation, supposition.” The president of the United States skimmed the buff-jacketed daily intel report across the table, where it was fielded by Christopher Hendricks.

“With all due respect, sir,” the secretary of defense said, “I think it’s a bit more than that.”

The president leveled his clear, hard gaze at his most trusted ally. “You think it’s the truth, Chris.”

“I do, sir, yes.”

The president pointed at the folder. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my long and storied political career, it’s that a truth without facts is more dangerous than a lie.”

Hendricks drummed his fingers on the file. “And why would that be, sir?” He said this without rancor; he sincerely wanted to know.

The president heaved a sigh. “Because without facts, rumor, innuendo, intimation, and supposition have a way of conflating into myth. Myths have a way of worming their way into people’s psyches, becoming something more, something larger than life. Something indelible. Thus is born what Nietzsche called his ‘superman.’”

“And you believe that’s the case here.”

“I do.”

“That this man does not exist.”

“I didn’t say that.” The president swiveled his chair around, put his forearms on his gleaming desk, steepled his fingers judicially. “What I don’t believe are these rumors of what he has done—what he’s capable of doing. No, as of this moment I don’t believe those things.”

A small silence descended over them. Outside the Oval Office, the sound of a leaf blower was briefly heard, just inside the wall of reinforced concrete barriers at the perimeter of the sacred grounds. Looking out, Hendricks could see no leaves. But then, all work in and around the White House was inherently secretive.

Hendricks cleared his throat. “Nevertheless, sir, it’s my unwavering belief that he is a significant threat to this country.”

The American flag stood curled by the right side of the 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 president has his doubts about us.”

Eventually, Soraya and Peter tackled the twin traumas the two of them had suffered four months ago. It took a long time for her to get around to saying anything about Amun. Not surprisingly, Peter showed infinite patience with her; he had faith that she would tell him when she was ready.

They had just gotten a call from Hendricks, calling for a crash briefing an hour from now, so, while they had the time, the two of them by silent mutual consent grabbed their coats.

“Field assessment meeting in forty minutes,” the chubby blonde named Tricia said to Peter as they pushed out the door. Peter grunted, his mind elsewhere.

They left the offices, went out of the building and across the street where, at the edge of a park, they bought coffees and cinnamon buns from their favorite cart and, with hunched shoulders, strolled beneath the inconstant shelter of the bare-branched trees. They kept their backs to the Treadstone building.

“The really cruel thing,” she said, “is that Richards is a sharp cookie. We could use his expertise.”

“If only we could trust him.”

Soraya took a sip of her coffee, warming her insides. “We could try to turn him.”

“We’d be going up against the president.”

She shrugged. “So what else is new?”

He laughed and hugged her. “I missed you.”

She frowned as she ripped off a hunk of cinnamon bun and chewed it reflectively. “I stayed in Paris a long time.”

“Hardly surprising. It’s a city that’s hard to get out of your system.”

“It was a shock losing Amun.”

Peter had the grace to keep his own counsel. They walked for a while in silence. A child stood with his father, paying out the string on a kite in the shape of the Bat-Signal. They laughed together. The father put his arm around the boy’s shoulder. The kite rose higher.

Soraya stared at them, her gaze rising to watch the kite’s flight. At length, she said, “While I was recovering, I thought,
What am I doing? Is this how I want to spend the rest of my life, losing friends and—?
” For a moment, she couldn’t go on. She had had strong, though conflicting, feelings for Amun. For a time, she had even thought she loved him but, in the end, she had been wrong. That revelation had only exacerbated her guilt. If she hadn’t asked him, if he hadn’t loved her, Amun would never have come to Paris. He’d be alive now.

Having lost her taste for food, she handed her coffee and the rest of her bun to a homeless man on a bench, who looked up, slightly stunned, and thanked her with a nod. When they were out of his earshot, she said softly, “Peter, I can’t stand myself.”

“You’re only human.”

“Oh, please.”

“You’ve never made a mistake before?”

“Only human, yes,” she echoed him, her head down. “But this was a grievous error in judgment that I am determined never to make again.”

The silence went on so long that Peter became alarmed. “You’re not thinking of quitting.”

“I’m considering returning to Paris.”

“Seriously?”

She nodded.

A sudden change came over Peter’s face. “You’ve met someone.”

“Possibly.”

“Not a Frenchman. Please don’t tell me it’s a Frenchman.”

Silent, she stared at the kite, rising higher and higher.

He laughed. “Go,” he said. “Don’t go. Please.”

“It’s not only that,” she said. “Over there, in Paris, I realized there’s more to life than clinging to the shadows like a spider to its web.”

Peter shook his head. “I wish I knew what to—”

All at once one leg buckled under her. She staggered and would have fallen had Peter not dropped his food, the coffee spilling like oil at their feet, and grabbed her under the arm to steady her. Concerned, he led her over to a bench, where she sat, bent over, her head in her hands.

“Breathe,” he said with one hand on her back. “Breathe.”

She nodded, did as he said.

“Soraya, what’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

“Don’t bullshit a bullshitter.”

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I don’t know. Ever since I got out of the hospital I’ve been getting these dizzy spells.”

“Have you seen a doctor?”

“There was no need. They were getting less and less frequent. I haven’t had one for over two weeks.”

“And now this.” He moved his hand in a circular motion on her back in an attempt to soothe her. “I want you to make an appointment—”