Soraya gave Anne her flight number and arrival time. She nodded to the attendant at the head of the gate as she handed over her boarding pass.
“Thanks, Anne, I knew I could count on you.”
The Sidewinder missiles came out of nowhere.
“Our right flank!” Dorph yelled, but the alarms were shrieking through the interior of the Chinook. He saw a missile make a direct hit on the lowest-flying heli. The Chinook burst into a fireball, at once engulfed in the fierce stream of smoke rising from the ruined buildings. A second heli, in the process of taking evasive maneuvers, was struck in its tail. The entire rear section flew apart; the rest lurched over on its side and spiraled down into the raging inferno.
Dorph forgot about the remaining heli; he needed to concentrate on his own. He staggered over to the pilot just as the Chinook heeled over in the first of its evasive maneuvers.
“Incoming locked, Skip,” the pilot said. “It’s right on our tail.” As he twisted and turned the joystick, the Chinook made a series of stomach-churning loops and dives.
“Keep on it,” Dorph said. He signed to the ordnance officer. “I need you to remote-set a multi-option fuze for five seconds.”
The officer’s eyes opened. “That’s cutting it mighty close, Skip. We could be caught up in the blast.”
“That’s what I’m hoping for,” Dorph said. “Sort of.”
He glanced out the window as the officer went to work. Not a hundred meters from him another Sidewinder missile found its target, detonating amidships. The third Chinook dropped like a stone. That left only them.
“Skip, ordnance closing on us,” the pilot said. “I can’t keep this up for much longer.”
Hopefully you won’t have to, Dorph thought. He slapped the pilot on the shoulder. “On my mark, veer to the left and down, steep as you can make it. Got it?”
The pilot nodded. “Roger that, Skip.”
“Keep a firm hand,” Dorph told him. He could hear the shrill scream as the Sidewinder tore up the air in its attempt to get to them. They were running out of time.
The ordnance officer nodded to Dorph. “All set, Skip.”
“Let ’er rip,” Dorph said.
There was a small chirrup as the Hydra 70 rocket was fired. Dorph counted: “One-two.” He slapped the pilot. “Now!”
At once the heli dove sharply to its left, then down. The ground was coming up fast when the Hydra detonated. The blast threw everyone forward and to their right. Dorph could feel the heat even through the armored skin of the Chinook. That was the bait, and the Sidewinder—an air-to-air weapon guided by a heat-seeking mechanism—headed straight into the heart of it, blowing itself to smithereens.
The Chinook shuddered, hesitated as the pilot struggled to pull it out of the dive, then—swinging like a pendulum—righted itself.
“Nicely done.” Dorph squeezed the pilot’s shoulder. “Everyone okay?” He saw the nods and uptilted thumbs out of the corner of his eye. “Okay, now we go after the hostile aircraft that shot our guys down.”
After Soraya left for the airport, Bourne began to make his plans to find and interrogate Nesim Hatun, the man who had hired Yevgeny Feyodovich. According to Yevgeny, Hatun worked out of the Sultanahmet District, which was some distance from where he was now.
He was almost dead on his feet. He hadn’t let himself think about it, but the knife wound Fadi had inflicted was seriously sapping his strength. His fight with Matthew Lerner had done more damage to his body. He knew it would be foolish, possibly suicidal, to seek out Nesim Hatun in his present condition.
Therefore, he went looking for an El Achab. Strictly speaking, these traditional herbalists were centered in Morocco. However, Turkey’s many microclimates nurtured more than eleven thousand plant species, so it was hardly surprising that there should be among the many shops in Istanbul an apothecary overseen by a Moroccan expert in phytochemistry.
After forty-five minutes of wandering and asking passersby and shopkeepers, he found just such a place. It was in the middle of a bustling market, a tiny storefront with narrow, dusty windows and a certain flyblown air.
Inside, El Achab sat on a stool grinding herbs into powder with a mortar and pestle. He looked up as Bourne came toward him, his eyes watery and myopic.
The atmosphere was dense, almost suffocatingly so, with the sharp, unfamiliar odors of dried herbs, grasses, stalks, mushrooms, leaves, spoors, flower petals, and more. The walls were lined from floor to ceiling with wooden drawers and cubbyholes that held the herbalist’s vast stock. What light penetrated the dusty windows was defeated by the aromatic dust accumulated by years of grinding.
“Yes?” El Achab said in Moroccan-inflected Turkish. “How may I help?”
By way of reply, Bourne stripped to the waist, revealing his bandaged wounds, his livid bruises, his cuts etched in dried blood.
El Achab crooked a long forefinger. He was a small man, thin to the point of emaciation, with the dark, leathery skin of a desert dweller. “Closer, please.”
Bourne did as he asked.
The herbalist’s watery eyes blinked heavily. “What do you require?”
“To keep going,” Bourne said in Moroccan Arabic.
El Achab rose, went to a drawer, and took out what looked like a handful of goat hair. “Huperzia serrata. A rare moss found in northern China.” He sat down at his stool, set aside his mortar and pestle, began to tear the dried moss into small bits. “Believe it or not, everything you need is in here. The moss will counteract the inflammation that is draining your body of energy. At the same time, it will vastly heighten your mental acuity.”
He turned, took a kettle off a hot plate, poured some water just under the boiling point into a copper teapot. Then he dropped the tufts of moss into the pot, poured more water in, set the lid on the teapot, and placed the kettle beside the mortar and pestle.
Bourne, rebuttoning his shirt, sat on a wooden stool.
They waited in companionable silence for the herbal “tea” to steep. El Achab’s eyes might have been watery and myopic, but they nevertheless took in every feature of Bourne’s face. “Who are you?”
Bourne replied, “I don’t know.”
“Perhaps one day you will.”
The steeping was done. El Achab used his long fingers to pour a precise amount into a glass. It was thick, dark, impenetrable, and from it issued the odor of a bog.
“Now drink.” He held out the glass. “All of it. At once, please.”
The taste was unspeakable. Nevertheless, Bourne swallowed every last drop.
“Within an hour your body will feel stronger, your mind more vibrant,” El Achab said. “The process will continue for several days.”
Bourne rose, thanking the man as he paid. Back outside in the market, he went first into a clothing store and bought himself a traditional Turkish outfit, right down to the thin soled shoes. The proprietor directed him back to Istiklal Caddesi, across the Golden Horn from Sultanahmet. There he entered a theatrical supply shop where he chose a beard, along with a small metal can of spirit gum. In front of the shop’s mirror, he affixed the beard.
He then rummaged through the shop’s other offerings, buying what he needed, stuffing everything into a small, battered secondhand leather satchel. All the while he shopped, he was filled with an implacable rage. He couldn’t get out of his mind what Veintrop and Fadi had done to him. His enemy had insinuated himself inside his head, subtly influencing Bourne’s thoughts, destabilizing his decisions. How had Fadi planted Veintrop in the real Sunderland’s office?
Taking out his cell, he scrolled down to Sunderland’s number and punched in the overseas codes, then the eleven-digit number. The office wasn’t open at this hour, but a recorded voice asked if he wanted to make an appointment, wanted Dr. Sunderland’s office hours, wanted directions from Washington, Maryland, or Virginia. He wanted the second option, definitely. The recorded voice told him the doctor’s hours were from 10 AM to 6 PM Monday, and Wednesday through Friday
. The office was closed on Tuesday. Tuesday was the day he’d seen Sunderland. Who had made the appointment for him?
Sweat broke out along his hairline as his heart beat faster. How had Fadi’s people known that he was taking Fadi out of the cage? Soraya had made the call to Tim Hytner, which was why Bourne had suspected him of being the mole. But Hytner wasn’t. Who had access to CI-net cell calls? Who could possibly be eavesdropping except the mole? That would be the same person who had made his appointment with Sunderland on the day the doctor wouldn’t be at his office.
Anne Held!
Oh, Christ, he thought. The Old Man’s right hand. It couldn’t be. And yet it was the only explanation that made sense of the recent history. Who better for Fadi, for anyone wanting to know what took place in the center of the CI web?
His fingers worked his cell phone. He needed to warn Soraya before she boarded the plane. But her voice mail picked up immediately, which meant her phone was already off. She’d boarded, was on her way to D.C., to disaster.
He left a message, telling her that Anne Held must be the mole inside CI.
Twenty-five
COME IN, Martin.” The DCI waved to Karim, who stood in the doorway to his inner sanctum. “I’m glad Anne caught you.”
Karim took the long walk to the chair in front of the DCI’s immense desk. The walk reminded him of the gauntlet of rock throwers a Bedouin traitor was forced to tread. If he made it to the end alive, he received a swift, merciful death. If not, he was left in the desert for the vultures to feed on.
Sounds came to him. Throughout the building, a strange atmosphere of celebration and mourning had gripped CI following the news that the Dujja nuclear facility in South Yemen had been obliterated, though men were killed in the raid. The DCI had been in contact with Commander Dorph. He and his complement of Skorpions and marines had been the only ones to survive the attack. There had been many casualties—three Chinooks filled with marines and CI Skorpions. The facility had been heavily protected by two Soviet MiGs armed with Sidewinder missiles. Dorph’s heli had taken them both down following the destruction of the target.
Karim sat. His nerves were always on edge when he sat in this chair. “Sir, I know we paid a heavy price, but you seem peculiarly gloomy given the success of our mission against Dujja.”
“I’ve done my grieving for my people, Martin.” The Old Man grunted as if in pain. “It’s not that I don’t feel relief—and no little vindication after the grilling I got in the War Room.” His heavy brows knitted together. “But between you and me, something doesn’t feel right.”
Karim felt a jolt of anxiety travel down his spine. Unconsciously, he moved to the edge of the chair. “I don’t follow, sir. Dorph confirmed that the facility suffered four direct hits, all from different angles. There’s no doubt that it was completely destroyed, as were the two hostile jet fighters defending it.”
“True enough.” The DCI nodded. “Still…”
Karim’s mind was racing, extrapolating possibilities. The DCI’s instincts were well known. He hadn’t kept his job for so long solely because he’d learned to be a good politician, and Karim knew it would be unwise simply to placate him. “If you could be more specific…”
The Old Man shook his head. “I wish I could be.”
“Our intel was right on the money, sir.”
The DCI sat back, rubbed at his chin. “Here’s what sticks in my craw. Why did the MiGs wait to launch the missiles until after the facility was destroyed?”
“Perhaps they were late in scrambling.” Karim was on delicate ground, and he knew it. “You heard Dorph—there was radiation fog.”
“The fog was low to the ground. The MiGs came in from above; the RF wouldn’t have affected them. What if they deliberately waited until the facility had been destroyed?”
Karim tried to ignore the buzzing in his ears. “Sir, that makes no sense.”
“It would if the facility was a dummy,” the Old Man said.
This line of inquiry was one that Karim could not allow the DCI—or anyone in CI—to pursue. “You may be right, sir, now that I think of it.” He stood. “I’ll look into it right away.”
The Old Man’s keen eyes peered up at him from beneath heavy brows. “Sit down, Martin.”
Silence engulfed the office. Even the dim sounds of celebration had faded as the CI personnel got back to their grim work.
“What if Dujja wanted us to believe we’d destroyed their nuclear facility?”
Of course that was exactly what had happened. Karim struggled to keep his heart rate under control.
“I know I sold Secretary Halliday on Tim Hytner being the mole,” the DCI went on doggedly. “That doesn’t mean I believe it. If my hunch on the signal disinformation proves correct, here’s another set of theories: Either Hytner was framed by the real mole, or he wasn’t the only rotten apple in our barrel.”
“Those are all big ifs, sir.”
“Then eliminate them, Martin. Make it a priority. Use all necessary resources.”
The Old Man put his hands on his desk, levered himself up. His face was pale and pasty looking. “Christ on a crutch, Martin, if Dujja’s misdirected us, it means we haven’t stopped them. To the contrary, they’re close to launching their attack.”
Muta ibn Aziz arrived in Istanbul just after noon and went immediately to see Nesim Hatun. Hatun ran the Miraj Hammam, a Turkish bath, in the Sultanahmet District. It was in an old building, large and rambling, on a side street not five blocks from the Hagia Sophia, the great church created by Justinian in AD 532. As such, the hammam was always well attended, its prices higher than those in less touristed sections of the city. It had been a hammam for many years—since well before Hatun had been born, in fact.
Hatun was proud of the fact that he’d bribed the right people so that his business was well written up in all the best guidebooks. The hammam made him a good living, especially by Turkish standards. But what had made him a millionaire many times over was his work for Fadi.
Hatun, a man of immense appetites, had a roly-poly body and the cruel face of a vulture. Looking into his black eyes, it was clear there was venom in his soul—a venom that Fadi had identified, coaxed out, and lovingly fed. Hatun had had many wives, all of them either dead or exiled to the countryside. On the other hand, his twelve children, whom he loved and trusted, happily ran the hammam for him. Hatun, his heart like a closed fist, preferred it that way. So did Fadi.
“Merhaba, habibi!” Hatun said by way of greeting when Muta ibn Aziz crossed his threshold. He kissed his guest on both cheeks and led him through the heavily mosaiced public rooms of the hammam into the rear section, which surrounded a small garden in the center of which grew Hatun’s prized date palm. He’d brought it all the way from a caravanserai in the Sahara, though at the time it was only a seedling, hardly bigger than his forefinger. He lavished more attention on that one tree than he had on any of his wives.
They sat on cool stone benches in filtered sunlight while they were served sweet tea and tiny cakes by two of Hatun’s daughters. Afterward, one of them brought an ornate nargilah—a traditional water pipe—which the two men shared.
These rituals and the time it took to perform them were a necessary part of life in the East. They served to cement friendship by showing the proper politeness and respect as observed by civilized people. Even today there were men like Nesim Hatun who observed the old ways, dedicated as they were to keeping the lamp of tradition burning through the neon glare of the electronic age.
At length, Hatun pushed the nargilah away. “You have come a long way, my friend.”
“Sometimes, as you know only too well, the oldest forms of communication are the most secure.”
“I understand completely.” Hatun nodded. “I myself use a new cell phone each day, and then speak only in the most general terms.”
“We have heard nothing from Yevgeny Feyodovich.”
Hatun’s eyebrows knit together. “Bourne survived Odessa?”
Hatun spread his hands. They were surprisingly small, the fingers delicate as a girl’s. “As am I. Please be assured that I will see to Yevgeny Feyodovich myself.”
Muta ibn Aziz nodded his acceptance. “In the meantime, we must assume that he has been compromised.”
Nesim Hatun considered for a moment. “This man Bourne, they say that he is like a chameleon. If he is still alive, if he does find his way here, how will I know?”
“Fadi knifed him in the left side. Badly. His body will be battered. If he does come, it will be shortly, possibly even later today.”
Nesim Hatun sensed the messenger’s nervousness. The fruition of Fadi’s plan must be terribly close, he surmised.
They rose, passed through the private rooms, silent, lush as the garden outside.
“I will stay here for the remainder of the day and night. If, by then Bourne hasn’t shown, he won’t. And even if he does, it will be too late.”
Hatun nodded. He was right, then. Fadi’s attack against the United States was imminent.
Muta ibn Aziz pointed. “There is a screen at the far end of the garden, just there. This is where I will wait. If it happens that Bourne comes, he will want to see you. That you will allow, but in the middle of the interview I will send one of your sons to fetch you, and you and I will have a conversation.”
“So Bourne can overhear it. I understand.”
Muta ibn Aziz took a step closer, his voice reduced to a papery whisper. “I want Bourne to know who I am. I want him to know that I am returning to Fadi.”
Nesim Hatun nodded. “He will follow you.”
“Precisely.”
Right from the outset, Jon Mueller could see where Lerner’s man, Overton, had gotten himself into trouble. Shadowing Anne Held, he discovered her surveillance without too much difficulty. There was a difference between surveillance and shadowing: He was looking not to follow Held but to unearth the people who were protecting her from outside surveillance. As such, he was far back and high up. In the beginning, he used his own eyes rather than binoculars because he needed to see Held’s immediate environment in the widest range possible. Binoculars would home in on only narrow sections of it. They were useful, however, once he had IDed the man surveilling her.
The Bourne Betrayal Page 36