Bourne 4 - The Bourne Legacy

by Robert Ludlum

  Khan's nostrils dilated as if he had caught a scent of his quarry. The airport was where Bourne was going. He was certain of it because, had he been in Bourne's shoes, that was where he would be right now.

  The terrible portent of David Webb and Jason Bourne being one and the same man had been marinating in his mind ever since he had heard Lindros and his CIA brethren discussing it. The very idea that he and Bourne were in the same profession felt like an outrage to him, a violation of everything he had painstakingly built for himself. It had been he—and only he—who had drawn himself out of the mire of the jungles. That he had survived those hateful early years was a miracle in itself. But at least those early days had been his and his alone. Now to find himself sharing the stage he had committed himself to conquering with, of all people, David Webb seemed like a cruel jest as well as an intolerable injustice. It was a wrong that must be rectified, the sooner the better. Now he could not wait to confront Bourne, to tell him the truth, to see in his eyes how that revelation would destroy him from the inside out as Khan bled him of life.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Bourne stood in the glass and chrome shadows of the International Departures building. Washington National Airport was a madhouse, thronged with businessmen with laptops and carry-ons, families with multiple suitcases; children with Mickey Mouse, Power Ranger and Teddy bear backpacks; the elderly in wheelchairs; a group of proselytizing Mormons on their way to the Third World; lovers hand in hand, tickets to paradise. But despite the crowds, there was an emptiness about airports. As a result, Bourne saw nothing but empty stares, the inward look that was the human being's instinctual defense against fearful boredom.

  It was an irony not lost on him that in airports, where waiting was an institution, time seemed to stand still. Not for him. Now, every minute counted, bringing him closer to termination by the very people he used to work for.

  In the fifteen minutes he had been here he had seen a dozen suspicious plainclothesmen. Some were prowling the departure lounges, smoking, drinking from big paper cups, as if they could blend in with the civilians. But most were at or near the airline check-in counters, eyeballing the passengers as they queued up to have their bags checked and receive their boarding passes. Bourne saw almost immediately that it was going to be impossible for him to get on a commercial flight. What other choices were there for him? He had to get to Budapest as quickly as possible. He was wearing tan slacks, a cheap rain shell over a black turtleneck pullover, a pair of Sperry Top-Sider shoes in lieu of the sneakers, which he had dropped in the trash bin, along with a bundle of the other clothes he had on when he walked out of Wal-Mart. Since he had been spotted there, it was vital that he change his profile as quickly as possible. But now that he had assessed the situation at the terminal, he was not at all happy with what he had chosen.

  Avoiding the roaming agents, he went outside into a night fizzing with a fine rain, picked up a shuttle bus that would take him to the Cargo Air Terminal. He sat right behind the driver, striking up a conversation with him. His name was Ralph. Bourne had introduced himself as Joe. They shook hands briefly as the shuttle braked at a pedestrian crosswalk.

  "Hey, I'm supposed to meet my cousin at OnTime Cargo," Bourne said, "but stupid me, I lost the directions he gave me."

  "What's he do?" Ralph said, pulling ahead into the fast lane.

  "He's a pilot." Bourne shifted closer. "He was desperate to fly with American or Delta, but you know how it goes."

  Ralph nodded his head in sympathy. "The rich get richer and the poor get shafted." He had a button nose, a mop of unruly hair and dark circles under his eyes. "Tell me about it."

  "Anyway, can you direct me?"

  "I'll do better than that," Ralph said with a glance at Bourne in his long mirror. "My shift's over when I get to the cargo terminal. I'll take you there myself."

  Khan stood in the rain, the crystal lights of the airport all around him, and thought matters through. Bourne would have smelled the Agency suits even before he spotted them. Khan had counted more than fifty, which meant perhaps three times that many sniffing their way throughout other sections of the airport. Bourne would know that he could never get through them onto an overseas flight no matter how he changed his clothing. They had made him at the Wal-Mart, they knew what he looked like now, he'd heard as much in the underpass.

  He could feel Bourne close by. Having sat next to him on the park bench, having sensed the weight of him, the spread of his bones, the stretch of his muscles, the play of light over the features of his face. He knew he was here. It was Bourne's face that he had clandestinely studied in their brief moments together. He had been keenly aware of needing to memorize every contour, how each expression changed those contours. What had Khan been searching for in Bourne's expression when he had noted the other's intense interest? Confirmation? Validation? Even he did not know. He only knew that the image of Bourne's face had become part of his consciousness. For better or for worse, Bourne had a hold on him.

  They were bound together on the wheel of their own desires until the onset of death. Khan looked around him once more. Bourne needed to get out of the city and possibly country. But the Agency would be adding on personnel, expanding its search even as it sought to tighten its noose. If it was Khan, he'd want to get out of the country as quickly as possible, so he headed toward the International Arrivals building. Inside he stood in front of a huge color-coded map of the airport, traced out the most efficient route to the cargo terminal. With the commercial flights already under such tight security, if Bourne was going to leave from this airport, his best chance would be aboard a cargo plane. Time was a critical factor now for Bourne. It wouldn't be long before the Agency realized that Bourne wasn't going to try to board a regular flight and began to monitor the cargo shippers.

  Khan went back out into the rain. Once he determined which flights were departing in the next hour or so, all that remained would be to keep an eye out for Bourne and, should he have guessed correctly, deal with him. He had no more illusions about the difficulty of his task. Much to his shock and chagrin, Bourne had proved to be a clever, determined and resourceful antagonist. He had hurt Khan, had trapped him, slipped away from his grasp more than once. Khan knew that if he was to succeed this time, he would need a way to surprise Bourne, knowing that Bourne would be on the lookout for him. In his mind, the jungle called to him, repeating its message of death and destruction. The end of his long journey was in sight. He would outwit Jason Bourne this one last time.

  Bourne was the only passenger by the time they reached their destination. It was raining harder, an early dusk settling in on the afternoon. The sky was indistinct, a blank slate on which any future could now be written.

  "OnTime's at Cargo Five, along with FedEx, Lufthansa and Customs." Ralph pulled the bus over and turned off the ignition. They got out, half-ran across the tarmac to one in a line of huge flat-roofed ugly buildings. "Right in here." They went inside and Ralph shook rain off himself. He was a pear-shaped man, with oddly delicate hands and feet. He pointed now to their left. "You see where U.S. Customs is? Down the building, two stations past is where you'll find your cousin."

  "Thanks a lot," Bourne said.

  Ralph grinned and shrugged. "Don't mention it, Joe." He held out his hand. "Glad to help."

  As the driver ambled away, hands in his pockets, Bourne headed down toward OnTime's offices. But he had no intention of going there—not yet, anyway. He turned, following Ralph to a door that had affixed to it a sign reading no admittance—authorized personnel only. He took out a credit card as he watched Ralph feed his laminated ID card into a metal slot. The door swung open and, as Ralph disappeared inside, Bourne silently darted forward, inserted the credit card. The door shut, just as it should have, but Bourne's maneuver had prevented the lock from engaging. He counted silently to thirty in order to make certain that Ralph was no longer near the door. Then he opened it, pocketing his credit card as he went through.

  He found himself
in the maintenance locker room. The walls were of white tile; a rubber webbing had been laid on top of the concrete floor to keep the men's bare feet dry as they padded to and from the showers. Eight ranks of standard metal lockers were arrayed in front of him, most with simple combination locks on them. Off to his right was an opening to the showers and sinks. In a smaller space just beyond were the urinals and toilets.

  Bourne cautiously peered around the corner, saw Ralph padding toward one of the showers. Closer to hand, another maintenance man was lathering up, his back to both Bourne and Ralph. Bourne looked around, immediately saw Ralph's locker. The door was slightly ajar, the combination lock hanging unhinged on the door handle itself. Of course. In a secure place like this what was there to fear in leaving your locker open for the few minutes it took to shower? Bourne opened the door wider, saw Ralph's ID tag lying atop an undershirt on a metal shelf. He took it. Nearby was the other maintenance man's locker, similarly open. He exchanged the locks, securing Ralph's locker. That should keep the driver from discovering that his ID tag had been stolen for as long as Bourne hoped he'd need.

  He grabbed a pair of maintenance overalls from the open cart meant for laundering, making sure the size was more or less right, then quickly changed. Then, with Ralph's ID

  tag around his neck, he went out, walked quickly down to U.S. Customs, where he obtained the current flight schedule. There was nothing to Budapest, but Rush Service Flight 113 to Paris was leaving from Cargo Four in eighteen minutes. Nothing else was scheduled within the next ninety minutes, but Paris was fine; it was a major hub for intraEuropean travel. Once there, he would have no trouble getting to Budapest. Bourne hurried back out to the slick tarmac. The rain was now coming down in sheets, but there was no lightning, and the thunder he had heard earlier was nowhere in evidence. That was good, as he had no desire to see Flight 113 delayed for any reason. He picked up his pace, hurrying to the next building, home to Cargo Three and Four. He was drenched by the time he arrived inside the terminal. He looked to left and right, hurried toward the Rush Service area. There were few people about, which was not good. It was always easier to blend in with a crowd than with a sparse few. He found the door marked for authorized personnel, slid his ID card into the slot. He heard the gratifying click of the lock opening; he pushed on the door and went through. As he wended his way through the cinder-block corridors, the rooms stacked high with packing crates, the smells of resinous wood, sawdust and cardboard became overpowering. There was about the place an air of impermanence, a sense of constant motion, of lives ruled by schedules and weather, the anxiety of mechanical and human error. There was nothing to sit on, no place to rest.

  He kept his eyes straight ahead, walking with the air of authority that no one would question. He soon came to another door, this one steel-clad. Through its small window, he could see planes arrayed on the tarmac, loading and unloading. It did not take him long to spot the Rush Service jet, its cargo bay door open. A fuel line ran from the plane to a tanker truck. A man in a rain slicker, its hood up over his head, was monitoring the gas flow. The pilot and co-pilot were in the cockpit going through their pre-flight instrument check.

  Just as he was about to slide Ralph's ID card into the slot, Alex's cell phone rang. It was Robbinet.

  "Jacques, it looks as if I'm about to head your way. Can you meet me at the airport in, say, seven hours or so?"

  "Mais oui, man ami. Call me when you land." He gave Bourne his cell phone number.

  "I am delighted that I will be seeing you so soon."

  Bourne knew what Robbinet was saying. He was pleased that Bourne was able to slip through from the Agency's noose. Not yet, Bourne thought. Not quite yet. But his escape was only moments away. In the meantime ...

  "Jacques, what have you discovered? Have you found out what NX 20 is?"

  "I am afraid not. No record of any such project exists." Bourne's heart sank. "What about Dr. Schiffer?"

  "Ah, there I had a bit more luck," Robbinet said. "A Dr. Felix Schiffer works for DARPA—or at least he did."

  A cold hand had wrapped around Bourne's gut. "What do you mean?" Bourne could hear a rustling of paper, could imagine his friend reading through the intel he had managed to procure from his sources in Washington. "Dr. Schiffer is no longer on DARPA's 'active' roster. He left there thirteen months ago."

  "What happened to him?"

  "I've no idea."

  "He simply dropped out of sight?" Bourne asked incredulously.

  "In this day and age, as unlikely as it seems, that's just what happened." Bourne closed his eyes for an instant. "No, no. He's around somewhere—he has to be."

  "Then what—?"

  "He's been 'disappeared'—by professionals."

  With Felix Schiffer vanished, it was more imperative than ever that he get to Budapest with all due haste. His only lead was the hotel key from the Danubius Grand Hotel. He glanced at his watch. He was cutting it close. He had to go. Now. "Jacques, thanks for sticking your neck out."

  "I'm sorry I couldn't be of more help." Robbinet hesitated. "Jason ..."

  "Yes?"

  "Bon chance."

  Bourne pocketed the cell phone, opened the stainless-steel-clad door, headed out into the heavy weather. The sky was low and dark, sheets of rain slanting down, a shimmering silver curtain in the airport's brilliant lights, running in glittering streamers over the depressions in the tarmac. He walked slightly bent over into the wind, walking purposefully, as he had before, a man who knew his job, wanted to get it done quickly and efficiently. Rounding the nose of the jet, he could see the cargo bay door ahead of him. The man fueling the jet had finished and had removed the nozzle from the tank. Out of the corner of his eye, Bourne saw movement off to his left. One of Cargo Four's doors had burst open and several airport security guards spilled out, weapons drawn. Ralph must have gotten his locker open; Bourne had run out of time. He kept moving at the same deliberate pace. He was almost at the cargo bay door when the fueler said, "Hey, buddy, got the time? My watch stopped."

  Bourne turned. At the same moment he recognized the Asian features of the face inside the hood; Khan shot a burst of aviation fuel into his face. Bourne's hands came up and he choked, completely blinded.

  Khan rushed him, pushing him back against the slick metal skin of the fuselage. He delivered two vicious blows, one to Bourne's solar plexus, one to the side of his head. As Bourne's knees collapsed, Khan shoved him into the cargo hold.

  Turning, Khan saw a cargo handler heading toward him. He lifted an arm. "It's okay, I'll lock up," he said. Luck was with him, as the rain made it difficult for anyone to see his face or his uniform. The cargo handler, grateful to get out of the rain and wind, returned a salute of thanks. Khan slammed the cargo door shut, locked it. Then he sprinted to the fuel truck, drove it far enough away from the plane so that it would not look suspicious.

  The security police that Bourne had spotted before were making their way down the row of jets. They signaled to the pilot. Khan put the jet between himself and the oncoming police. He reached up, unlocked the cargo bay door, swung himself inside. Bourne was on his hands and knees, his head hanging down. Khan, surprised at his recuperative powers, kicked him hard in the ribs. With a grunt, Bourne fell over on his side, his arms wrapped around his waist.

  Khan took out a length of cord. He pressed Bourne face-first onto the cargo bay deck, took his arms behind his back and wrapped the wire around his crossed wrists. Over the sound of the rain, he could hear the security police shouting to the pilot and co-pilot for their IDs. Leaving Bourne incapacitated, Khan walked over and quietly pulled the bay door closed.

  For a few minutes Khan sat cross-legged in the darkness of the cargo bay. The pinging of the rain on the skin of the fuselage set up an arrhythmic percussion that reminded him of the drums in the jungle. He had been quite ill when he had heard those drums. To his fever-stricken mind, they had sounded like the roaring of aircraft engines, the frantic beating of the air about the outflow v
ents just before it begins a steep dive. The sound had frightened him because of the memories it brought up, memories he had fought long and hard to keep at the very bottom of his consciousness. Because of the fever, all his senses were heightened to an almost painful pitch. He was aware that the jungle had come alive, that shapes were coming warily toward him in an ominous wedgelike formation. His one conscious action was to bury the small carved stone Buddha he wore around his neck under leaves in a shallow hurriedly dug grave beneath where he lay. He could hear voices, and after a while he became aware that the shapes were asking him questions. He squinted through the fever-sweat to make them out in the emerald twilight, but one of them covered his eyes with a blindfold. Not that it was needed. When they lifted him off the bed of leaves and detritus he had made for himself, he passed out. Waking two days later, he found himself inside a Khmer Rouge encampment. As soon as he was deemed fit by a cadaverous man with sunken cheeks and one watery eye, the interrogation began. They had thrown him into a pit with writhing creatures which to this day he could not identify. He was cast into a darkness more complete, more profound than any he had ever known before. And it was this darkness, enveloping, constricting, pressing against his temples like a weight growing in baleful proportion to the hours that passed, that terrified him the most.

  A darkness not unlike this one, in the belly of Rush Service Flight 113.

  ... Then Jonah prayed unto the Lord his God out of the fish's belly. And said, I cried by reason of mine affliction unto the Lord, and he heard me; out of the belly of hell cried I, and thou heardest my voice. For thou hadst cast me into the deep, in the midst of the seas; and the floods compassed me about: all thy billows and thy waves passed over me . .. He still remembered that section from the frayed and stained copy of the Bible the missionary had made him memorize. Horrible! Horrible! Because Khan, in the midst of the hostile and murderous Khmer Rouge, had been cast quite literally into the belly of hell, and he had prayed—or what passed for prayer in his still unformed mind—for deliverance. This was before the Bible had been pushed on him, before he had understood the teachings of the Buddha, for he had descended into formless chaos at a very early age. The Lord had heard Jonah cry out from the belly of the whale, but no one had heard Khan. He had been utterly alone in the darkness and then, when they felt that they had softened him up sufficiently, they pulled him out and slowly, expertly, with a cold passion it would take him years to acquire began to bleed him.