It was maddening. The thought would not let him be: the moment when Bourne had made the choice between staying safe behind the deadly creature McColl had become or putting himself in harm's way in order to protect Annaka. Up until that moment, he'd been trying to reconcile the notion of David Webb, college professor, being Jason Bourne, international assassin, of being in his line of work. But no assassin he could think of would have endangered himself to protect Annaka.
Who, then, was Jason Bourne?
He shook his head, annoyed at himself. This was a question, though maddening, that he needed to put aside for the time being. At last he understood why Spalko had called him while he was in Paris. He'd been given a test and, to Spalko's way of thinking, he'd failed. Spalko now thought of Khan as an imminent threat to him, just as he thought of Bourne as a threat. For Khan, Spalko had become the enemy. All his life, Khan had only one way of dealing with enemies: He eliminated them. He was very well aware of the danger; he welcomed it as a challenge. Spalko was certain he could defeat Khan. How could Spalko know that that arrogance would only make him burn all the brighter?
Khan drained his small cup and, flipping open his cell phone, punched in a number.
"I was just about to call you but I wanted to wait until I was out of the building," Ethan Hearn said. "Something's up."
Khan checked his watch. It wasn't yet five. "What, exactly?"
"About two minutes ago I saw a HAZMAT truck approaching and I got down to the basement in time to see two men and a woman bringing a man in on a stretcher."
"That woman will be Annaka Vadas," Khan said.
"She's quite the stunner."
"Listen to me, Ethan," Khan said forcefully, "if you run into her, be very careful. She's as dangerous as they come."
"Too bad," Hearn mused.
"No one saw you?" Khan wanted to get him off the subject of Annaka Vadas.
"No," Hearn said. "I was quite careful about that."
"Good." Khan thought a moment. "Can you find out where they took this man? I mean the exact location?"
"I already know. I watched the elevator when they took him up. He's somewhere on the fourth floor. That's Spalko's personal level; it's accessed only with a magnetic key."
"Can you get it?" Khan asked.
"Impossible. He keeps it on his person at all times."
"I'll have to find another way," Khan said.
"I thought magnetic keys were foolproof."
Khan laughed shortly. "Only a fool believes that. There's always a way into a locked room, Ethan, just as there's always a way out."
Khan rose, threw some money on the table, and walked out of the cafe. Right now he was loath to stay in one place for too long. "Speaking of which, I need a way into Humanistas."
"There are any number—"
"I have reason to believe Spalko is expecting me." Khan crossed the street, his eyes alert for anyone who might be watching him.
"That's a completely different story," Hearn said. There was a pause as he considered the problem, then: "Wait a minute, hang on. Let me look in my PDA. I might have something.
"Okay, I'm back." Hearn gave a little laugh. "I do have something, and I think you're going to like it.
Arsenov and Zina arrived at the house ninety minutes after the others. By that time, the cadre had changed into jeans and workshirts and had pulled the van into the large garage. While the women took charge of the bags of food Arsenov and Zina had bought, the men opened the box of hand weapons waiting for them and helped set up the spray-painters. Arsenov took out the photos Spalko had given him and they set about spray-painting the van the proper color of an official government vehicle. While the van was drying, they drove the second van into the garage. Using a stencil, they spray-painted Hafnarfjordur Fine Fruits <& Vegetables onto both sides of the vehicle. Then they went into the house, which was already perfumed by the meal the women had prepared. Before sitting down to eat, they commenced their prayers. Zina, excitement buzzing through her like an electrical current, was barely present, praying to Allah by rote while she thought of the Shaykh and her role in the triumph that was now only a day away.
At dinner the conversation was spirited, a flux of tension and anticipation animating them. Arsenov, who normally frowned on such loose behavior, allowed this outlet for their nerves, but only for a contained amount of time. Leaving the women to clean up, he led the men back down to the garage, where they applied the official decals and markings to the sides and front of the van. They drove that outside, brought the third one in, spraypainted it the colors of Reykjavik Energy. Afterward they were all exhausted and ready for sleep, for they would be rising very early. Still, Arsenov made them run through their parts of the plan, insisting they speak Icelandic. He wanted to see what effect mental fatigue would have on them. Not that he doubted them. All of his nine compatriots had long ago proven themselves to him. They were physically strong, mentally tough and, perhaps most important of all, completely without remorse or compunction. However, none of them had ever been involved in an operation of this size, scope or global ramifications; without the NX 20 they'd never had the wherewithal. And so it was particularly satisfying to watch them dredge up the necessary reserves of energy and stamina to run through their roles with flawless precision.
He congratulated them and then, as if they were his blood children, said to them with great love and affection in his heart, "La illaha ill Allah."
"La illaha ill Allah," they chorused in unison with such love burning in their eyes that Arsenov was moved close to tears. In this moment, as they searched one another's faces, the enormity of the task set before them was brought home to them. For Arsenov's part, he saw them all—his family— gathered together in a strange and forbidding land, on the brink of the most glorious moment their people would ever witness. Never had his sense of the future burned so brilliantly, never had his sense of purpose— the righteousness—
of their cause been made so manifest to him. He was grateful for the presence of all of them.
As Zina was about to go upstairs, he put a hand on her arm, but as the others passed her, glancing at them, she shook her head. "I have to help them with the peroxide," she said, and he let her go.
"May Allah grant you a peaceful sleep," she said softly, mounting the stairs.
Later, Arsenov lay in bed unable, as usual, to sleep. Across from him, in the other narrow bed, Akhmed snored with the noise of a buzzsaw. A light wind ruffled the curtains of the open window; as a youth, Arsenov had grown used to the cold; now he liked it. He stared up at the ceiling, thinking as he always did in the dark hours of Khalid Murat, of his betrayal of his mentor and his friend. Despite the necessity of the assassination, his personal disloyalty continued to eat at him. And there was the wound in his leg, a pain no matter how well it was healing that acted as a goad. In the end he'd failed Khalid Murat, and nothing he could do now could change that fact. He rose, went into the hallway and padded silently down the stairs. He'd slept in his clothes, as he always did. He went out into the chill night air, extracting a cigarette and lighting it. Low on the horizon a bloated moon sailed through the star-spangled sky. There were no trees; he heard no insects.
As he walked farther away from the house, his seething mind began to clear, to calm itself. Perhaps, after he'd finished the cigarette he'd even be able to catch a few hours of sleep before the three-thirty rendezvous with Spalko's boat.
He had almost finished his cigarette and was about to turn around when he heard the whisper of low voices. Startled, he drew his gun and looked around. The voices, drifting on the night air, were coming from behind a pair of enormous boulders that rose up like the horns of a monster from the top of the cliff's face.
Dropping his cigarette and grinding its lit end into the ground, he moved toward the rock formation. Though he used caution, he was fully prepared to empty his weapon into the hearts of whoever was spying on them.
But as he peered around the curving face of the rock, it wasn't i
nfidels he saw but Zina. She was talking in low tones to another, larger figure, but from his angle Arsenov could not tell who it was. He moved slightly, drawing closer. He couldn't hear their words, but even before he noticed Zina's hand on the other's arm, he had recognized the voice she used when she was set on seducing him.
He pressed his fist to his temple as if to stop the sudden throbbing in his head. He wanted to scream as he watched the fingers of Zina's hand draw up into what looked to him like spider's legs, her nails scoring the forearm of... who was it she was trying to seduce? His jealousy goaded him to action. At the risk of being seen, he moved farther, part of him entering the moonlight, until the face of Magomet came into view. Blind rage gripped him; he was shaking all over. He thought of his mentor. What would Khalid Murat have done? he asked himself. Doubtless, he would have confronted the pair, heard their separate explanations of what they were doing and then made his judgment accordingly.
Arsenov stood up to his full height and, advancing on the pair, held his right arm out straight in front of him. Magomet, who was more or less turned facing him, saw him and abruptly stepped back, severing the hold Zina had on him. His mouth opened wide, but in his shock and terror, nothing came out.
"Magomet, what is it?" Zina said and, turning, saw Arsenov advancing on them.
"Hasan, no!" she cried just as Arsenov pulled the trigger. The bullet entered Magomet's open mouth and blew the back of his head off. He was thrown backward in a welter of blood and brains.
Arsenov turned the gun on Zina. Yes, he thought, Khalid Murat would surely have handled the situation differently, but Khalid Murat was dead and he, Hasan Arsenov, the architect of Murat's demise, was alive and in charge, and this was why. It was a new world.
"Now you," he said.
Staring into his black eyes, she knew that he wanted her to grovel, to get down on her knees and beg him for mercy. He could care less about any explanation she might give him. She knew that he was beyond reason; at this moment he wouldn't know the truth from a clever concoction. She also knew that giving him what he wanted at the moment he wanted it was a trap, a slippery slope once embarked upon impossible to get off. There was only one way to stop him in his tracks.
Her eyes blazed. "Stop it!" she ordered. "Right now!" Reaching out, she closed her fingers around the barrel of the gun, drew it upward so that it was no longer pointed at her head. She risked a quick glance at the dead Magomet. That was a mistake she wouldn't make twice.
"What's come over you?" she said. "So close to our shared goal, have you lost your mind?"
She was clever to have reminded Arsenov of their reason for being in Reykjavik For the moment, his devotion to her had blinded him to the larger goal. All he'd reacted to was her voice and her hand on Magomet's arm.
With a ragged motion, he put the gun away.
"Now what will we do?" she said. "Who'll take over Magomet's responsibilities?"
"You caused this," he said with disgust. "You figure it out."
"Hasan." She knew better than to try to touch him at this moment or even to come closer than she already was. "You are our leader. It's your decision and yours alone." He looked around, as if just coming out of a trance. "I suspect our neighbors will assume the report of the gunshot was merely a truck backfiring." He stared at her. "Why were you out here with him?"
"I was trying to dissuade him from the path he'd chosen," Zina said carefully.
"Something happened to him when I shaved his beard on the plane. He made overtures." Arsenov's eyes blazed anew. "And what was your response?"
"What d'you imagine it was, Hasan?" she said, her hard voice matching his. "Are you saying that you don't trust me?"
"I saw your hand on him, your fingers...." He could not go on.
"Hasan, look at me." She reached out. "Please look at me." He turned slowly, reluctantly, and elation rose inside her. She had him; despite her error in judgment, she still had him.
Breathing an inaudible sigh of relief, she said, "The situation required some delicacy. Surely you can understand that. If I turned him down flat, if I was cold to him, if I angered him, I was afraid of a reprisal. I was afraid his anger would impair his use to us." Her eyes held his. "Hasan, I was thinking of the reason we're here. That's my only focus now, as it should be yours."
He stood immobile for long moments, absorbing her words. The hiss and suck of the waves spending themselves against the cliffs far below seemed unnaturally loud. Then, abruptly, he nodded and the incident was swept away. That was his way.
"All that remains is to dispose of Magomet."
"We'll wrap him up and take him with us to the rendezvous. The boat crew can dispose of him in deep water."
Arsenov laughed. "Zina, really, you're the most pragmatic female I know."
Bourne awoke to find himself strapped into what appeared to be a dentist's chair. He looked around the black concrete room, saw the large drain in the center of the white tile floor, the hose coiled on the wall, the tiered cart beside the chair on which were arrayed ranks of gleaming stainless-steel implements, all, it seemed, designed to inflict agonizing damage to the human body, and was not reassured. He tried to move his wrists and ankles, but the wide leather straps were secured, he noted, with the same buckles used on straitjackets.
"You can't get out," Annaka said, coming around from behind him. "It's useless to try." Bourne stared at her for a moment, as if he was struggling to bring her into focus. She was dressed in white leather pants and a black sleeveless silk blouse with a plunging neckline, an outfit she never would have worn while she was playing the role of the innocent classical pianist and devoted daughter. He cursed himself for being gulled by her initial antipathy toward him. He should've known better. She was too available, too conveniently knowledgeable about Molnar's building. Hindsight was useless, however, and he put aside his disappointment in himself and applied himself to the difficult situation at hand.
"What an actress you turned out to be," he said.
A slow smile broadened her lips, and when she parted them slightly, he could see her white, even teeth. "Not only with you but with Khan." She drew up the single chair in the room and sat down close beside him. "You see, I know him well, your son. Oh, yes, I know, Jason. I know more than you think, much more than you do." She gave a little laugh, a tinkling, bell-like sound of pure delight as she drank in the expression on Bourne's face. "For a long time Khan didn't know whether you were alive or dead. Indeed, he made a number of attempts to find you, always unsuccessful—your CIA had done an excellent job of hiding you—until Stepan helped him. But even before he knew you were, in fact, alive, he'd spent all his idle hours concocting elaborate ways in which he'd seek his revenge on you." She nodded. "Yes, Jason, his hatred for you was all-encompassing." Putting her elbows on her knees, she leaned toward him. "How does that make you feel?"
"I applaud your performances." Despite the potent emotions she had dredged from him, he was determined not to rise outwardly to her bait.
Annaka made a moue. "I'm a woman of many talents."
"And as many loyalties, it seems." He shook his head. "Did our saving each other's lives mean nothing to you?"
She sat back up, her manner brisk now, almost businesslike. "You and I can agree on these things, at least. Often life and death are the only things that matter."
"Then free me," he said.
"Yes, I've fallen head over heels for you, Jason." She laughed. "That's not the way things work in real life. I saved you for one reason only: Stepan." His brow was furrowed in concentration. "How can you let this happen?"
"How can I not? I have a history with Stepan. For a time he was the only friend my mother had."
Bourne was surprised. "Spalko and your mother knew each other?" Annaka nodded. Now that he was bound and presented no danger to her, she seemed to want to talk. Bourne was rightfully suspicious of this.
"He met her after my father had her sent away," Annaka continued.
"Sent away where?" Bourne
was intrigued despite himself. She could charm the venom out of a snake.
"To a sanatorium." Annaka's eyes darkened, revealing in a flash a trace of genuine feeling. "He had her committed. It wasn't difficult; she was physically frail, unable to fight him. In those days ... yes, it was still possible."
"Why would he do such a thing? I don't believe you," Bourne said flatly.
"I don't care whether you believe me or not." She contemplated him for a moment with the disturbing aspect of a reptile. Then, possibly because she needed to, she went on.
"She'd become an inconvenience. His mistress demanded it of him; in this he was abominably weak." The outpouring of naked hatred had transformed her face into an ugly mask, and Bourne understood that, at last, she had unleashed the truth about her past. "He never knew that I'd discovered the truth, and I never let on. Never'' She tossed her head.
"Anyway, Stepan was visiting the same asylum. In those days, he went to see his brother ... the brother who'd tried to kill him."
Bourne stared at her, dumbfounded. He realized that he had no idea whether she was lying or telling the truth. He had been correct about one aspect of her, at least—she was at war. The parts she played so masterfully were her offensives, her raiding parties into enemy territory. He looked into her implacable eyes and knew that there was something monstrous about the way she chose to manipulate those she had drawn close to her. She leaned in, took his chin between her thumb and fingers. "You haven't seen Stepan, have you? He's had extensive plastic surgery on the right side of his face and neck. What he tells people about it varies, but the truth is, his brother threw gasoline on him and then put a lighter to his face."
Bourne couldn't help but react. "My God. Why?"
Bourne 4 - The Bourne Legacy Page 40