“Ah, that’s more like it.” As Arkadin picked his way toward the statue, Idir moved closer to Bourne.
“It’s clear enough you hate each other,” he whispered. “He moves the statue and a fail-safe packet of C-Four affixed to the side of the generator is activated on a three-minute delay. Even I can’t stop it, but I can lead you out of here in plenty of time. Kill this animal so he won’t harm my son.”
Arkadin was reaching out for the statue. Bourne could sense Idir holding his breath; he was ready to run. Bourne saw this moment clearly: It was the point in time that both Suparwita and Tanirt had somehow foreseen. It was the moment when his rage to revenge Tracy’s death could be sated. The moment when his two warring personalities would finally tear him apart from the inside out, the moment of his own death. Did he believe them? Was there no clear-cut moment in his life? Was everything infused with the unknown of the life he could not remember? He could turn away from the dangers to him, or he could master them. The choice he made now would stay with him, would change him forever. Would he betray Arkadin or Idir? And then he realized that there was no choice at all, his path lay clearly before him as if illuminated by the light of the full moon.
Idir’s plea was clever, but it was irrelevant.
“Leonid, stop!” Bourne called out. “Moving the statue will set off an explosion.”
Arkadin’s outstretched arm froze, his fingertips inches from the statue. He turned his head. “That’s what this sonovabitch told you behind my back?”
“Why did you do that?” Idir’s voice was full of despair.
“Because you didn’t tell me how to turn off the generator.”
Arkadin’s gaze shifted to Bourne. “Why is that so fucking important?”
“Because,” Bourne said, “the generator controls a series of security measures that will stop us from ever leaving here.”
Arkadin stalked over to Idir and backhanded the barrel of his Magpul across the Berber’s face. Idir spat out a tooth along with a thick gout of blood.
“I’m done with you,” he said. “I’m now going to take you apart piece by piece. You’ll tell us what we want to know whether or not you want to. You aren’t afraid of death, but you have already shown me your fear. When I get out of here I’m going to throw Badis off that roof myself.”
“No, no!” Idir cried, scuttling around to the side of the generator housing. “Here, here,” he muttered to himself. At the base of the plinth he depressed a stone, which slid out of the way. He threw a switch, and the throb of the generator ceased. “See? It’s off.” He stood up. “I’ve done what you asked. My life is nothing, but I beg you to spare my son’s life.”
Arkadin, grinning, set the case on top of the plinth, unlocked it, and took out the laptop. “Now,” he said, as he fired up the computer, “the ring.”
Idir crept closer to the plinth. He managed to tap his fingernail along the top of the computer before Arkadin delivered a heavy backhand blow that swatted him back on his heels.
As Bourne was taking out the ring, Idir said, “It won’t do any good.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Arkadin snapped.
“Let him speak,” Bourne said. “Idir, what do you mean?”
“That isn’t the right laptop.”
“He’s a liar,” Arkadin said. “Look here—” He took the ring from Bourne and inserted it. “—it has the slot for the ring.”
Idir’s laughter was tinged with hysteria, or with madness.
As Arkadin slid the ring through the slot again and again, he tried in vain to bring up the ghost file on the partitioned hard drive.
“You fools!” Idir could not stop laughing. “Someone has been fucking with you. I’m telling you it’s the wrong laptop.”
With an inarticulate cry, Arkadin swung around.
“Leonid, no!”
Bourne leapt at him, too late to keep him from firing, but he ran full-tilt into Arkadin’s right shoulder. The spray of bullets went wide, but two bullets struck Idir’s chest and shoulder.
Both torches were on the floor, crackling as they burned down. They were more than half finished. Bourne and Arkadin attacked each other with hands, feet, and knees. Arkadin, the Magpul in his right hand, hammered at Bourne, who was forced to raise his hands in front of his face in order to deflect the blows. Deep contusions, then ragged cuts broke out on his wrists from the force of the Magpul’s heavy barrel pounding him. He brought his knee up into Arkadin’s stomach, but it seemed to have little or no effect. At the next blow Bourne grabbed the barrel, but it raked down his palm, slicing it open. Arkadin turned the muzzle on Bourne, and Bourne slammed the heel of his bleeding hand into Arkadin’s nose. Blood flew as Arkadin’s head snapped back, the back of it banging off the floor. He squeezed off a short burst, the noise deafening in the space. Bourne struck him again, slamming his head to the right, where a blur of movement shot toward him.
A large rat, terrified by the noise, leapt blindly at Arkadin’s face. Arkadin swung at it and missed. He rolled away, grabbed one of the torches, and thrust it out wildly. The rat leapt away, scrambling across Idir’s slumped body. The flames caught its tail, the rat screamed, and so did Idir, whose robes were now alight and burning with an acrid stench. Staggering to his feet, he slapped wildly at the flames with his good arm, but staggered, off balance, and fell against the plinth. His head struck the statue of Baal, knocking it off the generator housing. It shattered against the floor.
Rising, Bourne ran toward Idir, but the greedy flames had already engulfed him, making it impossible to get close. The sickening stench of roasting meat, the bright burst of flames, and then an ominous ticking counting down the three minutes of life they had left.
Arkadin swung his arm around and fired, but Bourne had moved behind Idir, and the burst of gunfire went wide. The flaming torch was fast guttering. Scooping up one of the torches, Bourne ran back into the doorway to the corridor. Under cover, he drew the Beretta. He was about to fire back when he glimpsed Arkadin on his hands and knees, scrabbling about in the rubble of the shattered statue. He picked out an SDS memory card, brushed it off, and, rising, stuck it into the appropriate slot of the laptop.
“Leonid, leave it,” Bourne shouted. “The laptop is a fake.”
When there was no response, Bourne called Arkadin’s name again, this time more urgently. “We have just over two minutes to find our way out of here.”
“So Idir would have us believe.” Arkadin sounded distracted. “Why would he tell us the truth?”
“He was terrified for the life of his son.”
“In the land of the blind,” Arkadin shot back, “there is no incentive to tell the truth.”
“Leonid, come on! Let it go! You’re wasting time.”
There was no response. The moment Bourne showed his face in the pentangle, Arkadin fired at him. His torch sparking and sputtering near its end, Bourne sprinted back up the corridor the way they had come. Halfway along, the torch guttered and died. He threw it aside and kept on, his eidetic memory guiding him unerringly to the base of the spiral staircase.
Now it was a matter of outrunning the clock. By his estimation, he had less than two minutes to get out of the house before the C-4 exploded. He reached the top of the staircase, but there was no light. The door was closed.
Returning to the bottom of the stairs, he grabbed another torch, lit it, and sprinted back up to the top. Twenty seconds wasted. A minute and a half remaining. At the top of the staircase, he held the torch up to the door. It had no handle on this side. Not even a lock marred its smooth surface. But there must be a way out. Leaning in, he ran his fingertips around the edge where the door met the jamb. Nothing. On all fours he probed the lintel, found a small square that gave to the pressure of his fingertip. He jumped away as the door opened. Just over a minute left to find his way through the maze of concentric circles and out the front door.
Along the curving corridor he went, fast as he could, holding the torch high. The electric lights had been
extinguished when Idir had thrown the switch turning off the generator. Once he paused and thought he could hear footsteps echoing behind him, but he couldn’t be certain, and he pressed on, spiraling outward, ever outward toward the skin of the house.
He went through the two open doors and was in what he was sure must be the last of the corridors. Thirty seconds to go. And then the front door was ahead of him. Reaching it, he hauled on the handle. The door wouldn’t budge. He battered on it, to no avail. Cursing under his breath, he turned back, staring down the windowless, doorless corridor. “Everything in the house is an illusion,” Tanirt had told him. “This is the most important advice I can give you.”
Twenty seconds.
As he passed close to the outer wall, air stirred at the side of his head. There were no vents, so where was it coming from? He ran his hand over the wall, which, he surmised, must be the outside wall of the house itself. Using his knuckles, he rapped on the wall, listening for an anomalous sound. Solid, solid. He moved farther back down the corridor.
Fifteen seconds.
And then the sound changed. Hollow. Standing back, he slammed the heel of his shoe into the wall. It went through. Again. Ten seconds. Not enough time. Thrusting the torch into the ragged hole, he set it afire. The flames ate up the paint and the board behind it. Dropping the torch, he covered his head with his arms and dived through.
Glass shattered outward, and then he was rolling in the street, picking himself up and running, running. Behind him, the night seemed to catch fire. The house ballooned outward, the shock wave of the explosion lifting him off his feet, hurling him against the wall of the building across the street.
At first he was struck deaf. He picked himself up, staggered against the wall, and shook his head. He heard screaming. Someone was screaming his name. He recognized Soraya’s voice, then saw her running toward him. Badis was nowhere to be seen.
“Jason! Jason!” She ran up to him. “Are you all right?”
He nodded but, examining him, she was already shrugging off her coat. Ripping off a sleeve of her shirt, she bound his bleeding hands.
“Badis?”
“I let him go when the house blew.” She looked up at him. “The father?”
Bourne shook his head.
“And Arkadin? I made a circuit of the building and didn’t see him.”
Bourne looked back at the fierce blaze. “He refused to leave the notebook and the ring.”
Soraya finished bandaging his hands, then they both watched what was left of the house being consumed by the fire. The street was deserted. There must have been hundreds of eyes watching the scene, but none of them was visible. No Severus Domna soldier appeared. Bourne saw why. Tanirt was standing at the other end of the street, a Mona Lisa smile on her lips.
Soraya nodded. “I guess Arkadin finally got what he wanted.”
Bourne thought that must, after all, be true.
31
DIDN’T I TELL YOU,” Peter Marks said crossly, “that I didn’t want to see anyone.”
It was a rebuke, not a question. Nevertheless, Elisa, the nurse who had been looking after him ever since he’d admitted himself to Walter Reed Army Medical Center, appeared unfazed. Marks lay in bed, his wounded leg bandaged and hurting like poison. He had refused all painkillers, which was his prerogative, but much to his annoyance his stoicism hadn’t endeared him to Elisa. This was a pity, Marks thought, because she was a looker as well as being whip-smart.
“I think you might want to make an exception for this one.”
“Unless it’s Shakira or Keira Knightley I’m not interested.”
“Just because you’re privileged enough to wind up here doesn’t give you the right to act like a petulant child.”
Marks cocked his head. “Yeah, why don’t you come over here and see what it’s like from my point of view?”
“Only if you promise not to molest me,” she said with a sly smile.
Marks laughed. “Okay, so who is it?” She had a gift of excavating him out of even his darkest mood.
She came over and plumped up his pillow before elevating the top half of the bed. “I want you to sit up for me.”
“Shall I beg, too?”
“Now, that would be nice.” Her smile deepened. “Just make sure you don’t drool on me.”
“I have so few pleasures here, don’t take that away from me.” He grimaced as he pushed himself farther up the bed. “Christ, my ass is sore.”
She made a show of biting her lip. “You make it so easy for me I can’t bring myself to humiliate you even more.” She came over and, taking a brush from a side table, neatened his hair.
“Who is it, for Christ’s sake?” Marks said. “The fucking president?”
“Close.” Elisa went to the door. “It’s the defense secretary.”
Good God, Marks thought. What can Bud Halliday want with me?
But it was Chris Hendricks who walked through the door. Marks fairly goggled. “Where’s Halliday?”
“Good morning to you, too, Mr. Marks.” Hendricks shook his hand, pulled over a chair, and without taking off his overcoat sat down beside the bed.
“Sorry, sir, good morning,” Marks stammered. “I don’t… Congratulations are in order.”
“That’s the spirit.” Hendricks smiled. “So, how are you feeling?”
“I’ll be up and about in no time,” Marks said. “I’m getting the best of care.”
“I have no doubt.” Hendricks placed one hand over the other in his lap. “Mr. Marks, time is short so I’ll cut right to the point. While you were overseas Bud Halliday tendered his resignation. Oliver Liss is incarcerated and, frankly, I don’t see him getting out anytime soon. Your immediate boss, Frederick Willard, is dead.”
“Dead? My God, how?”
“A topic for another day. Suffice it to say that with all this sudden upheaval, a power vacuum has formed at the top of the pyramid, or one of them, anyway.” Hendricks cleared his throat. “Like nature, the clandestine services abhor a vacuum. I have been following the systematic dismantling of CI, your old bailiwick, with something of a jaundiced eye. I like what your colleague did with Typhon. In this day and age, a black-ops organization manned by Muslims focused on the extremist Muslim world seems a rather elegant solution to our most pressing ongoing problem.
“Unfortunately, Typhon belongs to CI. God alone knows how long it will take to right that ship and I don’t want to waste time.” He hunched forward. “Therefore, I’d like you to head up a revitalized Treadstone, which will take up Typhon’s mission. You will report directly to me and to the president.”
Marks frowned deeply.
“Is something the matter, Mr. Marks?”
“Everything’s the matter. First off, how on earth did you hear about Treadstone? And second, if you’re as enamored of Typhon as you claim, why haven’t you contacted Soraya Moore, Typhon’s former director?”
“Who said I haven’t?”
“Did she turn you down?”
“The relevant question,” Hendricks said, “is whether you’re interested.”
“Of course I’m interested, but I want to know about Soraya.”
“Mr. Marks, I trust you’re as impatient to get out of here as you are with your questions.” Hendricks rose, crossed to the door, and opened it. He nodded, and in walked Soraya.
“Mr. Marks,” Secretary Hendricks said, “it’s my pleasure to introduce you to your co-director.” As Soraya approached the bed, he added, “I’m quite certain the two of you have many matters, organizational and otherwise, to discuss, so if you’ll excuse me.”
Neither Marks nor Soraya paid him the least bit of attention as he stepped out of the room, closing the door softly behind him.
Well, look who the wind blew in!” Deron stepped out of his doorway as Bourne came in. As soon as Bourne was inside, Deron gave him a huge hug. “Dammit, man, you’re worse than a will-o’-the-wisp, first I see you, then I don’t.”
“That’s the
idea, isn’t it?”
Then he glanced down at Bourne’s bandaged hands. “What the fuck?”
“I had a run-in with something that tried to eat me.”
Deron laughed. “Well, you must be okay then. Come on in.” He led Bourne into his house in Northeast Washington. He was a tall, slim, handsome man with skin the color of light cocoa. He had a clipped British accent. “How about a drink or, better yet, something to eat?”
“Sorry, old friend, no time. I’m flying out to London tonight.”
“Well, then, I’ve got just the passport for you.”
Bourne laughed. “Not this time. I’m here to pick up the package.”
Deron turned and looked at him. “Ah, after all this time.”
Bourne smiled. “I’ve finally found the proper home for it.”
“Excellent. The homeless make me sad.” Deron took Bourne through the rambling house and into his enormous studio, fumey with oil paint and turpentine. There was a canvas on a wooden easel. “Take a look at my newest child,” he said before disappearing into another room.
Bourne came around and took a look at the painting. It was almost finished—enough, anyway, to take his breath away. A woman in white, carrying a parasol against a burning sun, walked in high grass, while a young boy, possibly her son, looked on longingly. The depiction of the light was simply extraordinary. Bourne stepped in, peering closely at the brushstrokes, which matched perfectly those of Claude Monet, who had painted the original La Promenade in 1875.
“What do you think?”
Bourne turned. Deron had returned with a hard-sided attaché case. “Magnificent. Even better than the original.”
Deron laughed. “Good God, man, I hope not!” He handed Bourne the case. “Here you are, safe and sound.”
“Thanks, Deron.”
“Hey, it was a challenge. I forge paintings and, for you, passports, visas, and the like. But a computer? To tell you the truth the composite housing was a bitch. I wasn’t sure I’d gotten it quite right.”
“You did a great job.”
“Another satisfied customer,” he said with a laugh.
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