Bourne 7 – The Bourne Deception jb-7

by Robert Ludlum

  — Of course I am. Marks turned his empty glass over when Willard tried to fill it with the bottle‘s last round of whisky. -Do you have something in mind-something, I assume, to do with Black River‘s complicity in domestic murder, especially, goddammit, the DCI‘s death?

  — The DCI is M. Errol Danziger.

  — Don‘t remind me, Marks said sourly.

  — I have to. He‘s the eight-hundred-pound gorilla in CI‘s shop, and believe me when I tell you he‘s going to beat all you fine young gentlemen into banana paste if nothing‘s done to stop him.

  — What about you?

  — I am Treadstone.

  Marks stared bleakly at the older man. Whether it was all the singlemalt he‘d consumed or having his face pushed into reality, he felt sick to his stomach. -Go on.

  — No, Willard said emphatically. -Either you‘re in or you‘re out, Peter. And before you answer, please understand that there‘s no backing out, no room for second thoughts. Once you‘re in, that‘s it, no matter the cost or the consequences.

  Marks shook his head. -What choice do I have?

  — There‘s always a choice. Willard poured himself the last of the liquor and took a deep sip. -What there isn‘t-and this goes for me as well as for you-is an opportunity to look back. From this moment on, there is no past. We move forward, only forward, into the dark.

  — Jesus. Marks felt a shiver run down his spine. -This sounds like I‘m making a deal with the devil.

  — That‘s very funny. Willard smiled and, as if on cue, produced a threepage document, which he spread on the table facing the younger man.

  — What the hell is this?

  — Also funny. Willard placed a pen on the table. -It‘s a contract with Treadstone. It‘s non-negotiable and, as you can see in clause thirteen, nonrevokable.

  Marks peered at the contract. -How is that enforceable? Will you threaten to take my soul? He laughed, but it was too brittle to hold any humor. Then he squinted, reading one paragraph after another.

  — Jesus, he said when he was finished. He looked at the pen, then at Willard. -Tell me you have a plan to get rid of M. Errol-fucking-Danziger or I‘m out of here right now.

  — Lopping off one head of the hydra will be useless because it will only grow another. Willard picked up the pen and held it out. -I will get rid of the hydra itself: Secretary of Defense Ervin Reynolds Halliday.

  — Many have tried, including the late Veronica Hart.

  — They all thought they had evidence that he was operating beyond the law, a well-trod path that Halliday knows far better than they did. I‘m taking an altogether different route.

  Marks looked deep into the other man‘s eyes, trying to judge his seriousness. At length, he took the pen and said, — I don‘t care what route we take as long as Halliday ends up being roadkill.

  — Tomorrow morning, Willard said, — you‘ll need to keep that sentiment in mind.

  — Is that a whiff of sulfur I smell? But Marks‘s laugh was distinctly uneasy.

  — I know this man. Yusef brushed the quicklime paste off the dead gunman‘s face with the tip of his boot. -His name‘s Ahmed, he‘s a freelance assassin who usually works for the Americans or the Russians. He grunted.

  — Now and again at the same time.

  Chalthoum frowned. -Has he worked for the Egyptians before?

  Yusef shook his head. -Not to my knowledge.

  — You don‘t use him, do you? Soraya was examining what was left of Ahmed‘s face. -I don‘t remember seeing his name on any of your reports.

  — I wouldn‘t trust this scum to bring me a disk of bread, Yusef said with a curl of his upper lip. -In addition to being a professional murderer, he‘s a liar and a thief, always, even when he was a small boy.

  — Remember, Chalthoum said with a grim look at Soraya, — I want at least one of them alive.

  — First things first, she said. -Let‘s just concentrate on getting out of here alive ourselves.

  He was still trying without success to brush the odors of quicklime and death off his clothes, but this business allowed Soraya to take the lead-

  which, again, was something he deplored. Ever since they‘d arrived in Khartoum something had taken possession of him, a sense of protectiveness toward Soraya that clearly made her uncomfortable. Possibly it was being away from Egypt; he was in unknown territory, after all, and he knew only too well that he was most sure of himself in his own territory.

  She heard him call softly to her but resisted the urge to turn and look at him. Instead she moved steadily forward in a semi-crouch until she came to the first courtyard. There were positions to the left and right on either wall where snipers would have an excellent field of view. She fired a shot at each spot in turn, but there was no answering fire. That was it for the shooter‘s.45, so she dropped it and took out the Glock that Yusef had given her. After double-checking that it was loaded she moved out across the expanse of the grim-looking courtyard, keeping to the shadows thrown by the walls. Not once did she look back, trusting that Amun and Yusef were not far behind her and would provide cover if she got into trouble.

  Moments later the second, central courtyard, larger and more intimidating than the first, presented itself. Again she fired shots at the likely sniper positions, again without any result.

  — There‘s only one more, Yusef said. -It‘s smaller, but because it‘s at the front there are more places to defend it.

  Soraya saw at once that he was right, and that no matter what they did they‘d never be able to reach the parapets on either wall without being shot dead.

  — What now? she said to Amun.

  Before he could think of a reply, Yusef said, — I have an idea. I knew Ahmed all his life, I think I can imitate his voice. He looked from Chalthoum to Soraya. -Shall I give it a shot?

  — I don‘t see how it can hurt, Chalthoum said, but Yusef didn‘t move until Soraya nodded her assent.

  Then he brushed by ahead of her and, crouching in the shadowy mouth where the corridor debouched onto the courtyard, he raised his voice. It wasn‘t his voice, but one neither of them had heard before.

  — It‘s Ahmed-please, I‘m hurt! Nothing but echoes. He turned to Soraya.

  — Quick! he whispered. -Give me your shirt.

  — Take mine, Chalthoum said with a glower.

  — Hers will be better, Yusef said. -They‘ll see it‘s the female‘s.

  Soraya did as he asked, unbuttoning her short-sleeved shirt and handing it over.

  — I‘ve killed them! Yusef called in Ahmed‘s voice. -See here! Soraya‘s shirt fluttered onto the cobbles of the courtyard like a bird settling onto its nest.

  — If you‘ve killed them, a voice came from their left, — come out!

  — I can‘t, Yusef replied, — my leg is broken. I‘ve dragged myself this far, but I‘ve fallen and I can‘t take another step! Please, brothers, come fetch me before I bleed to death!

  For a long time nothing happened. Yusef was about to shout again when Chalthoum cautioned silence.

  — Don‘t oversell it, he whispered. -Be patient now.

  More time passed, it was difficult to say how much since in their situation time was bent like taffy, minutes seeming like an hour. At length, they discerned movement on their right. Two men could be seen making their way down to the ground. They moved cautiously, keeping their sides toward the mouth of the hallway. The third man-the one who had queried Yusef-was nowhere in sight. Clearly, he was covering them from his hidden position on the left.

  Chalthoum motioned silently to Yusef, who lay down and moved slightly so that the two men could see that one leg was drawn up under the other. Soraya and Chalthoum retreated several steps into the gloom.

  — There he is! one of the men cried to the man covering them-who was, it appeared, their leader. -I can see Ahmed! He‘s fallen, just as he said!

  — I don‘t see any other movement, the leader‘s voice floated down from the parapet. -Go get him, but make it quick!


  Running in a semi-crouch, the two men approached Yusef.

  — Hold it! their leader said, and they obediently squatted on their hams, their rifles laid across their thighs, their avid eyes on their fallen comrade.

  There was movement from the left as the leader abandoned his eyrie, clattering down stone steps to the courtyard.

  — Ahmed, one of the men whispered, — are you all right?

  — No, said Ahmed. -The pain in my leg is terrible, it‘s-

  But he‘d said enough at close range for the other man to move back a pace.

  — What is it? his companion said, aiming his rifle into the mouth of the hallway.

  — I don‘t think that‘s Ahmed.

  That was when Chalthoum and Soraya, Glocks firing, moved out on either side of Yusef. The two crouching men were struck immediately, and Chalthoum kicked their weapons away from where they lay sprawled on the ground. The leader, scurrying to find cover where there was none, fired off-balance and Chalthoum went down with a grunt.

  Soraya, running, aimed and fired at the leader, but it was Yusef, from his prone position, who shot the leader in the chest. The man spun around and fell. At once Soraya veered toward him.

  — Check Amun! she called to Yusef as she stooped, picking up the leader‘s rifle. He was writhing, bleeding from his right side, but he was breathing. The bullet hadn‘t punctured a lung.

  She knelt down beside him. -Who hired you?

  The man looked up at her and spat in her face.

  A moment later she was joined by the two men. Amun had been shot in the thigh, but the bullet had gone through and the wound, Yusef said, looked clean. He‘d tied off the area above the wound with a makeshift tourniquet made from her shirt.

  — Are you all right? she said, looking up at Chalthoum.

  He nodded in his usual dour way.

  — I‘ve asked him who hired him, she said, — but he‘s not talking. -Take Yusef and see about the other two. Chalthoum was staring intently at the fallen leader.

  Soraya knew that look of determination. -Amun…

  — Just give me five minutes.

  They needed the information, there was no question about that. Soraya nodded reluctantly and, with Yusef, walked back to where the other two men lay near the mouth of the hallway. There wasn‘t much to see. Both had taken multiple shots to the abdomen and chest. Neither was alive. As they gathered up the rifles, they heard a muffled cry that, in its inhumanity, sent shivers down their spines.

  Yusef turned to her. -This Egyptian friend of yours, he can be trusted?

  Soraya nodded, already sick at what Amun was doing with her consent. There was silence then, except for the desperate voice of the wind, keening through the abandoned rooms. After a time, Chalthoum returned to them. He was limping badly, and Yusef handed him a rifle to lean on.

  — My enemies had nothing to do with this, he said in a voice that had not been changed one iota by what he‘d just done. -These men were hired by the Americans, specifically a man known ridiculously as Triton. Mean anything to you?

  Soraya shook her head.

  — But these might. She saw four small rectangular metal objects swinging from a length of cord. -I found these around the leader‘s neck.

  She examined them when he handed them over. -They look like dog tags.

  Amun nodded. -He said they came from the four Americans who were executed back there. These bastards murdered them.

  But she had to admit the tags weren‘t like any she had ever seen. Instead of carrying name, rank, and serial number, they were laser-engraved with what looked like-

  — They‘re enciphered, she said, her heart beating fast. -These might be the key to proving who launched the Kowsar 3, and why.

  Book Four

  31

  LEONID DANILOVICH ARKADIN roamed the passenger area of the Air Afrika flight that had been sent for him and his cadre in Nagorno-Karabakh. He knew their destination was Iran. Noah Perlis was certain that Arkadin didn‘t know the specific site, but Noah was wrong. Like many Americans in his position, Noah believed himself smarter than those who weren‘t American and able to manipulate them. Where Americans got that idea was something of a mystery, but having spent time in DC, Arkadin had some ideas. America‘s smug sense of isolation might have been shaken by the events in 2001, but not its sense of privilege and entitlement. When he‘d been there, he‘d sat in district restaurants, eavesdropping on conversations as part of his Treadstone training. But at the same time he‘d listen to the neocons- men of power, substance, and influence who were convinced that they had the keys to how the world worked. For them, everything was childishly simple, as if there were only two immutable variables in life: action and reaction, both of which they understood completely, and for which they planned. And when the reactions were not what their brain trust had anticipated- when their plans blew up in their faces-instead of admitting their error, in a tide of amnesia they redoubled their efforts. To him, it was madness that turned these people deaf and blind to real events as they unfolded.

  Perhaps, he thought now, as he checked and rechecked the readiness of his men and their equipment, Noah was one of the last of his kind, a dinosaur unaware that his age was ending, that the glacier that had been forming on the horizon was about to plow him under.

  Just like Dimitri Ilyinovich Maslov.

  She has to go back, Dimitri Ilyinovich Maslov said, — she and the three girls. Otherwise there will be no peace with Lev Antonin.

  — Since when does a shit-kicker like Antonin dictate to you, Arkadin said, — the head of the Kazanskaya grupperovka?

  Arkadin had the sensation that Tarkanian, who stood by his side, had winced. The three men were surrounded by sound, amplified to an earsplitting level. In the Pasha Room of Propaganda, an elitny club in downtown Moscow, there were only two other men-both Maslov‘s muscle. All the other attendees- of which there were more than a dozen- were young, long-legged, blond, busty, gorgeous, and sexually desirable, which pretty much defined them: tyolkas all. They were clothed- or, more accurately, semi-clothed- in provocative outfits, whether miniskirts, bikinis, see-through tops, plunging necklines, or completely backless dresses. They wore high heels, even the ones in bathing suits, and plenty of makeup. Some reluctantly returned to their high school classes each day.

  Maslov stared hard at Arkadin, assuming that like everyone else he confronted, he could intimidate him just by a look. Maslov was wrong, and he didn‘t like being wrong. Ever.

  He took one step toward Arkadin, which was an aggressive step, though not a threatening one, and his nose wrinkled. -What‘s that fire smoke I smell on you, Arkadin, are you a fucking woodsman on top of everything else?

  Five miles from the Orthodox cathedral, Arkadin had taken Joškar into the dense pine forest. She was cradling Yasha in her arms and he was holding an ax he‘d drawn out of the trunk of her car. Her three daughters, sobbing hysterically, trailed along behind the adults in single file.

  When they‘d left the parked car, Tarkanian had yelled after them, — Half an hour, after that I‘m getting the fuck out of here!

  — Will he really leave us here? she asked.

  — Do you care?

  — Not as long as you‘re with me.

  At least, that‘s what he thought she‘d said. She‘d spoken so softly that the wind had taken her words almost as soon as they were out of her mouth. Wings fluttered by overhead as they tramped beneath the swaying pine branches. Once they crunched through the thin crust, the snow was soft as down. Overhead, the sky was as woolly as Joškar‘s coat.

  In a small clearing she set her son down on a bed of snowy pine needles.

  — He always loved the forest, she said. -He used to beg me to take him to play in the mountains.

  As he set about finding felled trees, deadwood, and chopping it up into foot-long logs, Arkadin remembered his own all-too-infrequent trips to the mountains around Nizhny Tagil, the only place where he could take a deep breath without the oppres
sive weight of his parents and his birthplace withering his heart and sickening his spirit.

  Within twenty minutes he had a bonfire going. The girls had stopped their sobbing, their tears freezing like tiny diamonds on their ruddy cheeks. As they stared, fascinated, into the building flames, the frozen tears melted, dripping from their rounded chins.

  Joškar delivered Yasha into his arms while she said the prayers in her native language. She held her daughters close to her as she intoned the words, which gradually became a song, her strong voice lifted through the pine boughs, echoing into the thick clouds. Arkadin wondered if the fairies, elves, gods, and demi-gods she had invoked in her stories were somewhere close, watching the ceremony with sorrowful eyes.