Bourne 7 – The Bourne Deception jb-7

by Robert Ludlum

  — What? Moira said. -You have no right to do this.

  — I‘m afraid we do, Dark Suit One said as his partner positioned himself on her other side. He held aloft Jay‘s cell. -You were tampering with a crime scene.

  As she was taken away, Dave took a step toward her.

  — Out of the way! Dark Suit Number Two barked.

  His sharp tone seemed to take the paramedic aback and he stumbled against her, mumbled an apology, then backed away.

  Now Moira‘s view of the scene changed so that she was able to see the man standing behind the NSA agent. It was Noah, staring at her with a feral grin. He took Jay‘s cell and put it in his inside jacket pocket.

  As he walked away, he said, — You can‘t say you weren‘t warned.

  Astride the motorbike Dr. Firth had rented, Bourne drove up into the East Bali mountains-almost straight up at several points-until he arrived at the foot of Pura Lempuyang, the Dragon Temple complex. He parked under the watchful eye of a diminutive attendant in a canvas chair protected from the fierce sun by the dappled shade of a tree. Buying a bottle of water at one of the line of stands that served both pilgrims and curious tourists, he set off up the stiff incline, wrapped in his traditional sarong and sash.

  The priest at the Bat Cave had not seen Suparwita, though he knew of him, but when Bourne had used him as a sounding board to describe his recurring dream, the priest had instantly identified the dragon staircases as those belonging to Pura Lempuyang. Bourne had left him after getting detailed directions to the temple complex high up on Mount Lempuyang.

  It did not take him long to reach the first temple, a simple enough affair that seemed more like an anteroom to the steep steps that led up to the second temple. By the time he reached the intricately carved gateway, the ache in his chest had turned into a pain that obliged him to pause. Looking through the arched gate, he saw the three staircases, even steeper than the two he‘d just ascended. They were guarded by six enormous stone dragons whose sinuous and scaly bodies undulated up the stairway serving as banisters.

  The priest hadn‘t steered him wrong. This was the place of his dream, this was where he‘d been when he‘d seen the figure framed in the archway turn toward him. Turning around, he peered through the archway at the breathtaking view of sacred Mount Agung, rising blue and misty, now wreathed in clouds, its iconic cone shape visible in all its monumental power.

  Drawn to the dragon staircases, Bourne continued his ascent. Stopping midway, he turned to look back at the gateway. There was the volcano framed between the soaring teeth that formed the entrance. His heart skipped a beat as a figure was silhouetted against Mount Agung. Involuntarily, he took a step down, then saw the figure was that of a little girl in a red-and-yellow sarong. She turned, moving in that liquid, sinuous way of all Balinese children, and abruptly vanished, leaving only dusty sunlight in her wake.

  Resuming his climb, Bourne soon reached the upper plaza of the temple. There were a few people scattered here and there. A man knelt, praying. Bourne wandered aimlessly among the heavily carved structures, feeling somehow that he was floating, as if he had entered his dream, his past, but as a stranger returning to a place of forgotten familiarity.

  He wished this place struck a chord, but it didn‘t, which bothered him. His experience with his form of amnesia was that a name, a sight, a smell often triggered a return of his lost memory about a place or a person. Why had he been in Bali? Being here in this place he had been dreaming about for months should have released the memories from the well of his mind. But those memories were like a fluke on a sandy sea bottom-that strange creature with two eyes on one side and none on the other-either all there or not at all.

  The man at prayer was finished. He rose from his kneeling position and, as he turned around, Bourne recognized Suparwita.

  His heart beating fast, he walked over to where Suparwita stood, contemplating him.

  — You look well, Suparwita said.

  — I survived. Moira thinks it‘s because of you.

  The healer smiled, looked beyond Bourne for a moment, at the temple. -I see you‘ve found part of your past.

  Bourne turned, looked as well. -If I have, he said, — I don‘t know what it is.

  — And yet you came.

  — I‘ve been dreaming about this place ever since I got here.

  — I‘ve been waiting for you, and the powerful entity who guides and protects you brought you.

  Bourne turned back. -Shiva? Shiva is the god of destruction.

  — And of transformation. Suparwita raised an arm, indicating that they should walk. -Tell me about your dream.

  Bourne looked around. -I‘m here, looking back at Mount Agung through the entryway. Suddenly, there‘s a figure silhouetted there. It turns to look at me.

  — And then?

  — And then I wake up.

  Suparwita nodded slowly, as if he half expected this answer. They had walked the entire circumference of the temple plaza, and now had reached the area just in front of the entryway. The angle of light was just as it was in his dream, and Bourne gave a little shiver.

  — You were seeing the person you were here with, Suparwita said. -A woman named Holly Marie Moreau.

  The name sounded vaguely familiar, but Bourne couldn‘t place it. -Where is she now?

  — I‘m afraid she‘s dead. Suparwita pointed to the space between the two heavily carved teeth of the gateway. -She was there, just as you remember in your dream, and then she was gone.

  — Gone?

  — She fell. Suparwita turned to him. -Or was pushed.

  7

  GOD IN HEAVEN, it‘s hotter than Hades in there, even without these clean suits. Delia wiped the sweat off her face. -Good news. We‘ve recovered the black box.

  Soraya, standing with Amun Chalthoum inside one of the tents his people had erected adjacent to the crash site, was grateful for the interruption. Being with Amun in such close quarters had put her nerves on overload. That there were so many layers to their relationship-professional, personal, ethnic-was difficult enough, but they were also frenemies, ostensibly on the same side but underneath fierce competitors for intel, bound to governments with vastly different agendas. So their dance was complex, often dizzyingly so.

  — What does it tell you? Chalthoum said.

  Delia gave him one of her Sphinx-like looks. -We‘ve just begun analyzing the instrument data from the aircraft‘s last moments, but from the cockpit conversation it‘s perfectly clear the crew didn‘t see an aircraft of any kind. However, the copilot saw something at the very last minute. It was small, coming at them very fast.

  — A missile, Soraya said while looking into Amun‘s face. She wondered whether he already knew this. He would if al Mokhabarat had been complicit in the incident. But Chalthoum‘s dark face remained impassive.

  Delia was nodding. -A ground-to-air missile seems the likeliest scenario at this stage.

  — So, Chalthoum said in his native tongue even before Delia had left the tent, — it seems as if the United States isn‘t protecting us from extremists, after all.

  — I think it would better serve both of us to start figuring out who was responsible, she said, — rather than pointing fingers, don‘t you?

  Chalthoum watched her carefully for a moment, then nodded, and they retreated to opposite sides of the tent to update their superiors. Using the Typhon satellite phone she‘d brought with her, Soraya called Veronica Hart.

  — This is bad news, Hart said from halfway around the world. -The very worst.

  — I can only imagine how Halliday is going to run with it. While Soraya spoke, she assumed Chalthoum was briefing the Egyptian president with the same information Delia had provided. -Why do good things happen to bad people?

  — Because life is chaos, and chaos can‘t distinguish between good and evil. There was a slight pause before Hart continued. -Any news on the MIG?

  She meant the Iranian militant indigenous group.

  — Not yet. We�
��ve had our hands full with the crash. The scene is horrific and the conditions are next to intolerable. Besides, I haven‘t had three minutes to myself.

  — This can‘t wait, Hart said firmly. -Finding out about the Iranian indigenous group is your primary mission.

  The two of you came to me, Suparwita said. -Holly was extremely agitated, but she wouldn‘t tell you why.

  Bourne stared at the spot where the body must have ended up, where his new beginning lay shattered. Why had he been so foolish to think that his past was dead and buried when, even here in a remote corner of the world, it existed like an egg waiting to hatch? Another piece of his past, another death. Why was he always entwined with loss of life?

  He continued to stare down the three steep staircases with the undulating dragon banisters. He tried to remember that day: if he‘d rushed to this spot, if the woman was already a bloody heap far away as he flew down the steps. He strained to recall anything about the incident, but his mind was enclosed by a gray fog, thick as the stone dragons, fierce and implacable guardians of the temple. Was the fog protecting him from the terrible event here?

  The pain in his chest, his constant companion in the aftermath of the shooting, accelerated, spreading out into his entire torso.

  His face must have gone gray because Suparwita said, — This way.

  They made their way from the lintel, from the chasm of the past, and walked back onto the temple plaza and into the cool shade of a towering wall into which was carved an army of demons being opposed by the local dragon spirits.

  Bourne sat and drank water. The healer stood, hands folded together, waiting patiently. Bourne was reminded of what he liked so much about Moira-

  no fussing, no coddling, just nononsense responses.

  At length, Suparwita said, — You came because of Holly. She‘d heard about me, I suppose.

  As he breathed into the pain, taking long, deep, controlled breaths, he said, — Tell me what happened.

  — There was a shadow over her, as if she‘d brought something horrible with her. Suparwita‘s liquid eyes rested gently on Bourne‘s face. -She‘d always been placid, she said. No, that‘s the wrong word-lacking in affect, that‘s better. But now she was terrified. She was up at night, she started at loud noises, she bit her nails to the quick. She told me that she never sat near windows. When you went to a restaurant she‘d insist on a table in the rear, where she could look out at the rest of the room. Then you said that even in the shadows, you could see that her hands shook. She‘d tried to hide it by holding her glass in a death grip, but you would see it when she reached for a fork or pushed her plate away.

  The soft thrum of an airplane engine could be heard briefly interrupting the bird chatter. Then all was still again. On an adjacent mountainside, thin streamers of smoke rose from the burn-off fires at the periphery of the rice paddies.

  Bourne gathered himself. -Perhaps she had somehow come un-hinged.

  The healer nodded uncertainly. -Possibly. But I can tell you that her terror came from a real source. I think you knew that, too, because you weren‘t humoring her, you were trying your best to help her.

  — So she could have been running from something or someone. What happened next?

  — I cleansed her, Suparwita said. -She was entangled with demons.

  — Yet she died.

  — And so did you-almost.

  Bourne thought about Moira‘s insistence that they see the healer; he thought about Suparwita saying, “All this has happened before, and it will happen again.” Death following on the heels of life. -Are you saying that the two incidents are somehow connected?

  — That wouldn‘t be credible. Suparwita sat beside him. -But Shiva was here then, and Shiva is here now. We ignore these signs at our peril.

  He was the last patient Benjamin Firth was scheduled to see that day. He was a tall, cadaverously thin New Zealander, with yellow skin and feverish eyes. He wasn‘t from Manggis or any of the surrounding villages-a small enough area-because Firth knew them all. Yet he seemed familiar and when he gave his name as Ian Bowles, Firth recalled him coming in twice or three times over the past several months with massive migraines. Today he complained of stomach and bowel problems, so Firth had him lie down on the examining table.

  As he took his vitals, he said, — How‘re your migraines?

  — Fine, Bowles said absently, and then in a more focused tone, — Better.

  After palpating his stomach and abdomen, Firth said, — I can‘t find anything wrong with you. I‘ll just do a blood workup and in a couple of days-

  — I require information, Bowles said softly.

  Firth stood very still. -I beg your pardon.

  Bowles stared up at the ceiling as if deciphering the shifting patterns of light. -Forget the vampire tactics, I‘m right as rain.

  The doctor shook his head. -I don‘t understand.

  Bowles sighed. Then sat up so abruptly, he startled Firth. He grabbed Firth‘s wrist with a horribly fierce grip. -Who‘s the patient you‘ve had here for the last three months?

  — What patient?

  Bowles clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. -Hey, Doc, I didn‘t come here for my health. He grinned. -You‘ve got a patient stashed away here and I want to know about him.

  — Why? What do you care?

  The New Zealander jerked even harder on Firth‘s wrist, pulling the doctor closer to him. -You operate here without interference, but all good things come to an end. His voice lowered significantly. -Now listen up, you idiot. You‘re wanted for negligent homicide by the Perth police.

  — I was drunk, Firth whispered. -I didn‘t know what I was doing.

  — You operated on a patient while under the influence, Doc, and he died. That‘s it in a nutshell. He shook Firth violently. -Isn‘t it?

  The doctor closed his eyes and whispered, — Yes.

  — So?

  — I have nothing to tell you.

  Bowles moved to slide off the table. -Then off we go to the cops, bud. Your life is toast.

  Firth, trying to squirm away, said, — I don‘t know anything.

  — Never gave you a name, did he?

  — Adam, Firth said. -Adam Stone.

  — That‘s what he said? Adam Stone.

  Firth nodded. -I confirmed it when I saw his passport.

  Bowles dug in a pocket, produced a cell phone. -Doc, here‘s all you have to do in order to stay out of jail for life. He held out the cell. -Get me a picture of this Adam Stone. A good, clear one of his face.

  Firth licked his lips. His mouth was so dry he could scarcely speak. -And if I do this you‘ll leave me alone?

  Bowles winked. -Bank on it, Doc.

  Firth took the cell with a hollow feeling in his chest. What else was he to do? He had no expertise with these kinds of people. He tried to comfort himself with the knowledge that at least he hadn‘t divulged Jason Bourne‘s real name, but that gesture would become meaningless the moment he gave this man Bourne‘s photo.

  Bowles jumped off the table, but he still hadn‘t let go of Firth‘s wrist.

  — Don‘t get any stupid ideas, Doc. You tell anyone about our little arrangement and sure as I‘m standing here someone will put a bullet in the back of your head, follow?

  Firth nodded mechanically. A numbness had spread through him, rooting him to the spot.

  Bowles let him go at last. -Glad you could make room for me, Doc, he said in a louder voice for anyone who might be around. -Tomorrow, same time. You‘ll have the test results by then, isn‘t that right?

  8

  NAGORNO-KARABAKH was in the west of Azerbaijan, a hotly contested area of the country ever since Joseph Stalin tried to ethnically cleanse this part of the former Soviet Union of Armenians. The advantage for Arkadin of staging a strike force in Azerbaijan was that it bordered on the northwestern edge of Iran. The advantage of choosing this particular area was threefold: It was rugged terrain, identical to that of Iran; it was sparsely populated; and the peopl
e here knew him because he‘d made more than a dozen runs for Dimitri Maslov and then Semion Icoupov, trading semi-automatic rifles, grenades, rocket launchers, and so forth to the Armenian tribal leaders who were waging a continuous guerrilla war against the Azerbaijani regime, just as they had against the Soviets until the fall of the Soviet empire. In exchange, Arkadin received packets of brownish morphine bricks of exceedingly high quality, which he transported overland to the port city of Baku, where they were loaded onto a merchant ship that would take them due north across the Caspian Sea to Russia.

  All in all, Nagorno-Karabakh was as secure a place as Arkadin could possibly find. He and his men would be left alone, and the tribesmen would protect him with their lives. Without the weapons provided by him and the people he worked for they would have been beaten into the dry red dirt of their homeland, exterminated like vermin. Armenians had settled here, between the Kura and Araxes rivers, during Roman times and had remained here ever since. Arkadin understood their fierce homeland pride, which was why he‘d decided that Nagorno-Karabakh was the place to commence trading. It was a politically savvy move as well. Since the weapons sold to the Armenian tribesmen helped destabilize the country and thus gave it a rude shove back toward Moscow‘s orbit, the Kremlin was all too happy to turn a blind eye to the trades.