The Bourne Deception (44 page)

“How are you coming?” Moira asked as she turned back into the room.

Bamber, concentrating as intensely as the artist across the street, needed a bit of prompting to answer. “A few more minutes and I’ll know,” he mumbled at last.

Moira nodded. She was about to continue her anxious perambulation when a sudden movement brought her attention back to the street. A car had drawn up near the end of the block and a man had emerged. Something about the way he moved set off alarm bells in her head. He had a way of turning his head in minute increments, as if he was looking at everything and nothing, that made the hair stir at the nape of her neck. When he reached Bamber’s building, he stopped. Keeping close to the rear door, he took out a set of picks and inserted one, then another in the lock, until he found the right one to simulate the hills and valleys of the key.

Reaching down, Moira drew her Lady Hawk out of its thigh holster.

“Almost done!” There was a defiant note of triumph in Bamber’s voice.

The door opened and the man entered the building.

Noah Perlis seems to be the nexus of this crisis,” Peter Marks said. “He engineered Jay Weston’s death, he pulled the rug out from under the Metro police, and he’s infiltrated Moira’s new organization and got her on the run.”

“Noah is Black River,” Willard said. “And as secretive and powerful as that band of mercenaries is, I very much doubt that even they have the muscle to accomplish all that without questions being asked.”

“You don’t think Perlis is behind this?”

“I didn’t say that.” Willard rubbed the stubble on his cheek. “But in this case I have to believe that Black River had major help.”

The two men were facing each other in a brown tufted Naugahyde booth in a late-night bar, listening to a mournful Tammy Wynette song on the jukebox and the insistent growl of garbage trucks rumbling past. A couple of skinny whores were dancing together, having given up on the night. An old man with a shock of unruly white hair was on a stool, bent over his drink; another, who’d put the dollar in the juke, was dueting with Tammy in a passable Irish tenor, tears in his eyes. The smell of old booze and older despair clung to every bit of run-down furniture in the place. The bartender, one foot on the inside rail, was peering over his belly to read a newspaper with all the enthusiasm of a stoned student cracking open a textbook.

“From what I’ve gleaned,” Willard continued, “Black River’s major client now is the
NSA
, in the person of the secretary of defense, who has been championing them to the president.”

Marks fairly goggled. “How d’you know all this?”

Willard smiled as he rolled his shot glass between his fingers. “Let’s just say that being a mole inside the
NSA
safe house for all these years gives me a couple of legs up—even on the likes of you, Peter.” He slid out of the banquette, went past the two whores, who both blew him a kiss. The juke was now playing Don Henley’s “The Boys of Summer,” which appeared to make the Irish tenor weep all the harder as he sang along.

When Willard returned to the banquette it was with a bottle of singlemalt. He filled his shot glass and topped off Marks’s. “Before we go any further,” he said, “I’m wondering why you haven’t reported our startling information regarding Noah Perlis and Black River to the Arab.”

“M. Errol Danziger is the new
DCI
,” Marks said thoughtfully, “but I’m not sure I want to report anything to him, especially if the
NSA
is involved. He’s Secretary Halliday’s man through and through.”

Willard took a sip of his single-malt. “So what are you going to do?

Quit?”

Marks shook his head. “I love CI too much. It’s my life.” He inclined his head. “I’d ask the same of you: Are you going to quit?”

“Indeed not.” Willard threw down some more whisky. “But I do plan to go my own way.”

Marks shook his head. “I’m not following you.”

Something had surfaced on Willard’s face, a certain contemplative air, or perhaps his innate secretiveness was battling with an urge to recruit, because he said, “Did you know Alex Conklin?”

“No one knew Conklin—not really.”

“I did. I don’t say that as a boast, just hard fact. Alex and I worked together. I knew what he was building with Treadstone. I’m not certain I approved then, but I was much younger. I hadn’t experienced the things Alex had. In any case, he confided all of Treadstone’s secrets to me.”

“I thought the Treadstone files were destroyed.”

Willard nodded. “The ones the Old Man didn’t shred, Alex did. Or that was his story, anyway.”

Marks considered this for a moment. “Are you saying the Tread-stone files still exist?”

“Alex, being Alex, had prepared a duplicate set of files. Only two people know where the files are stored, and one of them is dead.”

Marks downed his single-malt then sat back, regarding Willard with care.

“You want to reboot Treadstone?”

Willard refilled their glasses from the bottle. “It’s already rebooted, Peter. I want to know whether you want to become part of Treadstone.”

They’ve been here no more than forty-eight hours, possibly as little as twenty-four.” Yusef, Soraya’s agent in place in Khartoum, was a small man with skin the color of thoroughly cured leather. He had large, liquid eyes and very small ears, but he heard everything. He was one of Typhon’s top agents because he was clever and resourceful enough to make use of the youth underground that had energized the city through its connection to the Internet. “It’s the quicklime, you see. Whoever dumped them wanted them completely destroyed in a way that even fire couldn’t accomplish, because the quicklime will eat away everything, including bone and teeth, that could be used to ID the remains.”

Soraya had made contact with Yusef on the way in from the airport and, at Amun Chalthoum’s urging, had set up a meet with him, despite the men following them—actually because of them. “These men have been sent by my enemies,” Amun had said to her in the car. “I want them close enough so we can grab them.”

Yusef had heard about the dead men from a young boy who’d come across the grave while he and some friends were exploring the Ansar forts near Sabaloga Gorge; the forts had once been used to attack the troopships on their way to relieve the British General Gordon and his exhausted men in 1885. The young boy and his friend lived in the adjacent village, but a network of kids in Khartoum soon learned of the discovery of the bodies in their Internet chat room.

After handing them a pair of Glocks and extra ammunition, Yusef had led the way about fifty miles north, through the desert with its harsh winds and brutal sun. They used two four-wheel-drive vehicles, as Yusef had advised, because the rough roads and the unreliability of Sudanese vehicles made traveling in just one foolhardy.

“You see how much of the men is left,” Yusef said now, as they stared into the shallow pit that had been hastily dug in the packed-earth floor inside one of the old crumbling forts, “despite the quicklime.”

Soraya waved away a cloud of flies as she crouched down. “Enough to see they’ve all been shot in the back of the head.” Her nose wrinkled. At least the quicklime had taken care of the stench of rotting bodies.

“Execution, military-style,” Chalthoum said. “But are we certain these four men are the ones we’re after?”

“They’re the ones, all right,” Soraya said. “The decomposition is still minimal. I recognize beef-fed men from the heartland of America when I see them.” She looked up at Amun. “There’s only one reason for Americans being executed military-style in Khartoum and brought here.”

Chalthoum nodded. “To sew up a major loose end.”

At that moment Yusef, responding to the vibrating ring of his cell, put the phone to his ear, then snapped it shut. “My lookout says your company’s here,” he told them.

Bourne looked up as a familiar figure filled the doorway. The man with the dark, forbidding caterpillar eyebrows was holding an AK-47 and wearing a Kevlar vest. He stared at the figure of Bat-man sprawled on the floor.

“Nikolai, you cocksucker,” he said in guttural Russian, “who the fuck killed you before I could bring you back to Mother Russia? Now I have been deprived of the pleasure of making you sing your head off.”

Then, seeing Bourne, he stopped dead in his tracks.

“Jason!” Colonel Boris Karpov bellowed like a Russian ox. “I should have known you’d be at the heart of this bloody maze.”

His gaze moved downward, taking in the blood-soaked form of the young woman cradled in Bourne’s arms. At once, he yelled for a medic.

“It’s too late for her, Boris,” Bourne said in a deadened voice.

Karpov came across the room and knelt beside Bourne. His blunt fingers moved delicately over the shards of glass embedded in Tracy’s back.

“What a terrible way to die.”

“They’re all terrible, Boris.”

Karpov handed Bourne a hip flask. “Too true.”

The medic from Boris’s assault team, also in riot gear, showed up out of breath. He went to Tracy, tried to find a pulse, and shook his head sadly.

“Casualties?” Karpov asked, without taking his eyes off Bourne.

“One dead, two wounded, not seriously.”

“Who died?”

“Milinkov.”

Karpov nodded. “Tragic, but the building is secured.”

Bourne felt the fire of the slivovitz all the way down to his stomach. The growing warmth felt good, as if he’d regained solid footing.

“Boris,” he said softly, “have your man take Tracy. I don’t want to leave her.”

“Of course.” Karpov signaled to the medic, who lifted Tracy from Bourne’s lap. Bourne watched her as she was carried out of the conference room. He felt her loss, her struggle to come to terms with her duplicitous life and her sense of isolation, living half in the shadows of a world most people were unaware of, let alone able to understand. Her struggle was his struggle, and the pain she felt because of her life was one with which he was all too familiar. He didn’t want to see her go, didn’t want to let go of her, as if a part of him, suddenly found, had been ripped away just as abruptly.

“What is this?” Boris said, holding up the painting.

“It’s a Goya, a previously unknown work of the famous Black Paintings series, which makes it virtually priceless.”

Boris grinned. “I hope you don’t covet this, Jason.”

“To the victor belong the spoils, Boris. So Yevsen was your mission in Khartoum.”

Karpov nodded. “I’ve been working in North Africa for months now, trying to track down Nikolai Yevsen’s arms-smuggling suppliers, clients, and pipeline. And you?”

“I spoke to Ivan Volkin—”

“Yes, he told me. That old man has a soft spot for you.”

“When Arkadin discovered that his attempt on my life had failed, he came up with another plan, which was to get me here. Why, I don’t know.”

With a quick glance over to the corpse lying on the other side of the room, Karpov said, “It’s a mystery, one of many here. We were hoping to find both Yevsen’s supplier and client list, but the hard drives on his remote servers appear to have been wiped clean.”

“It wasn’t Yevsen who did it,” Bourne said. He rose, and Boris with him.

“He was here with Tracy, he had no idea about your raid.”

Boris scratched his head. “Why would Arkadin send you here, especially in the company of that beautiful young woman?”

“Pity we can’t ask Yevsen,” Bourne said. “Which begs the question: Who wiped Yevsen’s servers clean? Someone made off with his entire network. It had to have been one of Yevsen’s own men—someone high up who had the access codes to the servers.”

“Anyone who ever dared move against Nikolai Yevsen wound up disappeared.”

“As long as he was alive.” Bourne, whose mind finally had identified enough of the silken strands to make sense of the spider’s web, tilted his head and beckoned Karpov to walk with him. “But look at him now, he isn’t a danger to anyone, including Arkadin.”

Boris’s countenance grew dark. “Arkadin?”

Together they walked down the corridor, manned now by Boris’s military cadre, to the men’s room.

“I’ll have my medic check you out.”

Bourne waved away his words. “I’m fine, Boris.” He was marveling at the scope of Arkadin’s demonic genius.

Inside, Bourne went to the line of sinks and began to wash the blood and bits of glass off himself. As he did so, Karpov handed him a roll of paper towels.

“Think about it, Boris, why would Arkadin trick me into coming here—

especially, as you said, with a beautiful young woman?” It pained Bourne to talk about Tracy, but as much as she was still on his mind, he had a mystery to unravel—and a deadly enemy to confront.

A light suddenly came on behind Karpov’s eyes. “Arkadin was banking on you killing Yevsen?”

Bourne splashed tepid water over his face, feeling the small cuts and bruises stinging like nettles. “Or Yevsen killing me. Either way, he’d win.”

Karpov shook himself like a dog coming out of the rain. “If what you theorize is true, he might have known of my raid. He wouldn’t want Yevsen singing about him or anyone else. Dammit, I’ve seriously underestimated that man.”

Bourne turned his blood-streaked face toward the colonel. “He’s more than a man, Boris. Like me, he’s a graduate of Treadstone. Alex Conklin trained Arkadin, just like he trained me, to become the ultimate undercover killing machine, carrying out covert operations impossible for anyone else to accomplish.”

“And just where is this devilish graduate now?” Boris asked.

Bourne wiped his face down with a fistful of paper towels. They came away pink. “Tracy told me before she died. Yevsen said he was in Nagorno-Karabakh, Azerbaijan.”

“Mountain country, I know it well,” Boris said. “I discovered the area was one of Yevsen’s prime stopovers for the Air Afrika flights transshipping his illegal arms throughout this continent. It’s home to a number of indigenous tribes—all of them fanatic Muslims.”

“That makes sense.” Bourne regarded his face in the mirror, taking stock of the damage, which was superficial but extensive. Whose reflection stared back at him? Tracy surely would have empathized with that question, no doubt having many times asked it of herself. “Ivan told me that Arkadin has taken over the Eastern Brotherhood, which means he’s also the leader of their Black Legion terrorists. Maybe he’s trying to branch out into Yevsen’s multibillion-dollar business.”