Boris Karpov wanted to murder someone. If one of the German cops was still stalking the back alley—as they had been for the past three hours while the forensics team in the watchmaker’s shop methodically went about its business—the German would have been a dead man.
In the darkness that had descended over Munich, Boris had found his legs spasming, cramping, then, worst of all, growing weak. His head pounded with his need to urinate. He felt that if he didn’t pee soon his bladder would surely burst. And yet his mouth was as dry as a desert, his lips all but pasted together.
At last, the lights had gone out in Hermann Bolger’s shop, the flashlights of the alley cops were extinguished, and, save for a dog barking hoarsely, all fell silent. Boris made himself wait another agonizing thirty minutes. Toward the end, he’d had to bite his lip to keep from moaning.
Finally, when he judged it safe, he swung onto the downspout and shinnied down. It was tough going because his legs were all but useless. Twice he felt his hands, slippery with sweat, lose their grip and he was obliged to try to clamp the metal with his knees. This worked, but just barely.
On the ground at last, he squeezed between two garbage cans, and, crouching down, peed like a female. He let out a soft groan of relief. The pent-up water went on and on, creating a veritable lake. Getting his legs to work was a different matter. His muscles were so tight that the pain almost overwhelmed him when he stood up.
Acutely aware that he needed to put as much distance as he could between him and Bolger’s shop, he nevertheless spent the next several minutes stretching gingerly and then more vigorously. He had no choice, really; his legs wouldn’t have taken him to the end of the alley without giving out. He cursed his time as an administrator when he’d failed to keep up with his often brutal exercise routine. While he worked out, silently and without respite, he concentrated on breathing slowly and deeply.
When his legs had returned to a semblance of normalcy, he set out for the far end of the alley. He heard the soft swishing sounds of traffic and, now and again, a drunken laugh or two.
At the mouth of the alley he stopped, more cautious than ever. A slow, dull drizzle wet the streets, just like in those American spy movies. The city was filled with the throaty rumble of approaching thunder. All of a sudden the rain came down harder, bouncing off the concrete sidewalk and the asphalt street. He put up the collar of his coat and hunched his shoulders.
He looked and listened for anything anomalous. He’d been blindsided; a trap had been sprung where there should have been no trap. His security had been breached. How had it happened? There was only one person he had come into contact with since he had arrived in Munich: Wagner, the contact he had met at the Neue Pinakothek museum. And unless Karpov had been shadowed from the airport to the watchmaker’s, it was Wagner who had informed someone at the Mosque of Boris’s inquiries. Sensing a tail was more art than science, and Boris was a master at smelling a shadow—he was certain he had not been tailed.
That left Wagner, or whatever his real name was, and Karpov would be in danger until he terminated the security breach. The sensible thing to do was to call Ivan and inform his friend that Wagner was playing both sides. If anyone knew Wagner’s real name and whereabouts it would be Ivan. He pulled out his cell phone and was about to punch in the number when a sudden flash of lightning illuminated a man standing in a doorway almost directly opposite the mouth of the alley. A moment later thunder cracked and boomed.
Boris put the phone to his ear as if he were actually making a call and spoke as if in a conversation with someone. Meanwhile he forced his eyes to look left and right, down the street, ignoring the now heavily shadowed doorway dead ahead.
He pocketed the phone, then, hands deep in the pockets of his coat, emerged from the alley and headed left, hurrying through the rain. Three blocks along, he entered a biergarten. It was warm and bustling and smelled of wurst and sauerkraut and beer. An enormous skylight ran the length of the establishment, giving the illusion of being outdoors without the weather problems. Shaking off the excess wetness, he wound his way around patrons and servers and took a seat at a long table near the rear.
Abruptly famished, he ordered everything he had smelled when he came in. The beer arrived almost immediately in an enormous ceramic-and-metal stein. He took two quick gulps and set the stein down. On either side of him jolly Germans were drinking and eating, but mostly shouting, singing, and laughing, obnoxious as hyenas. It was all Karpov could do not to get up and walk out. But he was here for a reason and he wasn’t going anywhere until he ascertained whether or not the man in the doorway had followed him.
Since he had sat down almost a dozen people had entered the biergarten, none of whom had set off any alarms. Mostly they consisted of families or young couples, arm in arm. Watching them, Boris strained to remember the last time he had walked arm in arm with a woman. He doubted he was missing anything.
His food came and, just as he was tucking into his gleaming, fragrant bratwurst, a figure stepped through the front door. The hair on the backs of his hands stirred. He put the bite of wurst into his mouth and chewed meditatively.
He had expected the man from the doorway across from the alley, but this was a woman—a young one, at that. Boris watched her covertly as she shook out her umbrella, then collapsed it before taking a look around the restaurant. He was careful not to meet her gaze, concentrating on spearing a potato slippery with grease. He popped the morsel into his mouth, washed it down with some beer, and looked up. The young woman had taken a seat at the end of a table, on the side facing him. She was between him and the front door.
Karpov had had enough of this nonsense; these people were either bad at their job or amateurs. He laid his knife and fork on his plate, took the plate in one hand, his beer stein in the other, and got up.
As the hour had grown later, the biergarten had become downright raucous, more and more of the patrons transformed into red-faced drunks. Threading his way through the crowd, he decided amateurs were the worst kind of adversary. They didn’t know the rules, which made them unpredictable.
There was a small gap between the young woman and her neighbor—a thick-necked German, stuffing his face and guzzling beer. When Boris nudged him to move over, the fat German looked up, his eyes glaring.
He was about to say something, but Karpov beat him to it. “Sie haben Fett über ihr ganzes Gesicht.” You have grease all over your face.
Fatty grunted like a pig and, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, heaved his bulk over.
“Danke, mein Herr,” Karpov said, climbing into the space rather clumsily so that he deliberately jostled the young woman slightly.
“Je suis désolé, mademoiselle.”
Her head jerked around. He was gratified to see that his French had startled her. Then a door slammed shut in her eyes and she turned away, staring down at a magazine she was holding. It was in English, Boris saw, not German. Vanity Fair. She was reading a story on Lady Gaga, one of those perfectly idiotic pop stars who could exist only in America.
He returned his attention to his meal. Some time later, she lifted the magazine so a plate of Wiener schnitzel could be placed in front of her. She took a look at it, wrinkled her nose in distaste, and, pushing the plate away, resumed her reading.
Boris swallowed a chunk of bratwurst and hailed a passing server.
“Noch ein Bier, bitte.” Another beer, please. The server nodded. Just as she was turning away, Boris added, “Und eine für die junge Dame.”
The young woman turned to him and said more tartly than sweetly, “Thank you, no.”
“Bring it anyway,” Karpov shouted to the back of the disappearing server.
She had dark hair and a cream complexion, with that quintessentially pretty look only American women have: healthy, vibrant, with perfectly symmetrical faces. In other words, bland as Wonder Bread. Once, several years ago in New Jersey, he had actually eaten a couple of slices of Wonder Bread spread with Peter Pan peanut butter.
The cloying sweetness of the sandwich had dissolved into an unpalatable paste in his mouth, and he had gagged.
He turned to the young woman and said in English, “Aren’t you going to eat your schnitzel?”
“Please.” She dragged out the word: puh-leez.
Boris eyed the breaded veal cutlet. “Yeah, that’ll put a couple of pounds on you, for sure.”
This use of American slang caused her to finally look at him. “What’s your story?”
“Gosh, Midge,” he said with a plastic malt-shop accent, “I was just about to ask you the same question.”
She laughed. “ ‘Midge’! I haven’t heard that name since I stopped reading Archie comics.” She apparently made a decision, because she held out her hand. “Lana Lang.”
He took her hand in his. It was cool, the edges more callused than he had expected. Maybe not an amateur, he thought. “You’re joking, right?”
“Uh-uh.” Her smile could be wicked. “My dad was some huge Superman fan.”
“Hello, Lana Lang. Bryan Stonyfield.”
“I know who you are,” she said very softly.
Boris, who had not let go of her hand, tightened his grip. “How would that be? We’ve never met before.”
“I’m Wagner’s daughter.” She slipped her hand from his and put more than enough euros on the table to cover both their meals. “Now you must come with me, no questions asked.”
“Wait a minute,” Karpov said, bristling. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“But you must,” Lana said. “You’re in mortal danger. Without me, you’ll be dead before dawn.”
14
THEY MADE THE trip down the mountain without difficulty. Bourne had been correct in trusting to Vegas’s local knowledge. His shortcut bypassed all the federal military roadblocks, as well as any of Suarez’s FARC patrols looking for their commander.
Bourne reconnoitered the airport and its environs, looking for hostiles and finding none.
“You can’t go into the terminal looking like that,” Rosie said as she got out of Vegas’s jeep.
Bourne looked at himself in the rearview mirror. There were smears of blood all over him, and his clothes were ripped.
Rosie dug into her bag and came out with a handful of money. “Stay here,” she said.
Bourne was about to protest but the look in her eye stayed him. He watched her head into the terminal and counted off the minutes. At fifteen, he resolved to go in after her.
Vegas leaned against his jeep, smoking. “Don’t worry, hombre. She can take care of herself.”
As it turned out, Vegas’s trust in her was well placed. Rosie emerged from the terminal swinging a white paper shopping bag. She had bought Bourne a shirt and a pair of jeans, along with underwear and socks. As he stripped off his bloody and shredded shirt, she climbed in beside him.
“Ah, good,” she said when she eyed the bottle of disinfectant and the roll of gauze he had taken from the bathroom in Vegas’s house.
She worked expertly on his naked torso, dabbing at all the cuts, scrapes, and abrasions he had collected in his fall from the pine tree. All the while, Vegas smoked his cigarette and grinned hard at Bourne.
“¿Ella es una maravilla, verdad?” She’s a wonder, isn’t she? “¡Tú debe verla en la cama!” You should see her in bed!
“¡Estevan, basta!” But she was laughing, somehow pleased, just the same.
She got out of the jeep then and turned her back so Bourne could strip off the rest of his clothes and pull on the ones she had bought for him.
Two hours after their rendezvous on the road, Bourne limped over to the Perales airport check-in counter. The limp was false, as was his London accent. To his surprise, there were not one or two, but three open tickets waiting for him under the code name Mr. Zed. He was pleased to discover that Essai had paid for everything in cash; there were no credit card numbers on the ticket or voucher receipts. He asked for a wheelchair when the time came to pre-board his flight. He booked his ticket under the name of Lloyd Childress, a British national, according to one of the two remaining passports he carried. He had ditched the third before he had left Thailand because the Domna had found him under that identity.
Afterward, in a secluded part of the modest departures terminal, Bourne told the pair what he had discovered.
“Essai left tickets for all three of us to Bogotá with a connecting flight to Seville, via a stop in Madrid,” Bourne said quietly. “There’s also a rental car voucher for when we arrive in Seville. Essai says final instructions will be with the rental car agreement.” He looked from one to the other. “You have your passports?”
Rosie held up her satchel. “Packed days ago.”
“Good.” Bourne was relieved. He did not want to call Deron, his contact in DC, for forged passports because of the delay it would cause. Besides the Domna, he had to assume both FARC and the federales would at some point be after them. The fire in the tunnel and now the conflagration at Vegas’s house were signs that even the somnolent Colombian military could not ignore. On the other hand, they could not know whether Vegas and Rosie were alive or dead—the same for him, for that matter.
He checked the time. They had almost two hours before their flight left and then, in Bogotá, ninety minutes more until the departure of their overseas flight at 8:10 PM. He was certain they would make their plane here, but Bogotá might be a different story. He needed a plan.
He excused himself. Perales was a small, regional airport. He knew he would have better luck finding what he needed in Bogotá, but if the airport in the capital was being surveilled that would be too late. It was here or nowhere.
There were four shops in the departures terminal: a drugstore, a clothing store, a newsstand that also sold sundries aimed at travelers’ needs, and a souvenir shop, the bright yellow, blue, and red horizontal strips of Colombia’s flag in evidence on everything from T-shirts to bandannas to pennants. They weren’t ideal, but then nothing ever was.
He spent the next fifteen minutes limping from shop to shop buying what he thought he would need. He paid cash for all of his purchases.
When he returned to where the couple were sitting, he divvied up the purchases. Then they all went off to the restrooms.
“Is this really necessary?” Vegas said as he set out the shaving paraphernalia on the stainless-steel ledge above the line of sinks.
“Get on with it,” Bourne said.
Shrugging, Vegas splashed his face with hot water, applied shaving cream, and began to take off his beard and mustache.
“I haven’t seen this part of my face in maybe thirty years,” he said as he rinsed off the disposable razor. “I won’t recognize myself.”
“No one else will, either,” Bourne said.
He took the buzzer he had bought and began to give himself a “high-and-tight,” the military haircut preferred by marines. Then he opened up the various pots of cosmetics he had purchased and started applying color to darken the lower half of Vegas’s newly shorn face to match the rest of it. He made his own lips ruddy, his cheeks hollow and sunken. By the time he was finished, Vegas had emerged from a stall in the new outfit Bourne had picked out for him: shorts, flip-flops, a straw porkpie hat with a yellow, blue, and red band, and a T-shirt with MEMBER: COLOMBIAN CARTEL emblazoned across the chest.
“Hombre, what have you done to me?” he complained. “I look like a fool.”
Bourne had to stifle a laugh. “All anyone will notice is the T-shirt,” he said.
Taking up a pair of scissors, he slit the left leg of his new jeans. He threw a new roll of gauze at Vegas and said, “Bind up my leg from just below the knee to the bottom of my calf.”
Vegas did as he asked.
Bourne put on the pair of magnifying glasses he had bought and said, “Let’s go see how Rosie looks.”
“I can’t wait,” Vegas said with an exaggerated grimace.
At the last moment, he pulled Bourne away from the door and said in a low voice, �
�Hombre, escuchamé. If anything should happen to me—”
“Nothing’s going to happen to you. We’re all going to talk to Don Fernando together.”
His grip on Bourne’s elbow tightened. “You’ll take care of Rosie.”
“Estevan—”
“What happens to me is of no concern. You’ll protect her no matter what. Promise me, amigo.”
The intensity in Vegas’s voice struck Bourne hard. He nodded. “You have my word.”
Vegas withdrew his grip. “Bueno. Estoy satisfecho.”
Bourne opened the door and they stepped out into the terminal, Bourne limping noticeably.
Rosie was waiting for them. The clothes Bourne had bought for her fit her perfectly—maybe too perfectly, as Vegas’s eyes seemed about to pop out of his head when he saw her standing there, hands on shapely hips.
The clothes clung to her curves like a second skin, the low-cut shirt showing off the tops of her breasts to electrifying effect. The skirt was short enough that more than half her powerful thighs were revealed.
“¡Madre de Dios!” Vegas exclaimed. “With that display even dead men will get an erection.”
Rosie gave him what looked like a Marilyn Monroe moue before breaking out into giggles. “Now I’m ready, sugar,” she said to Vegas. “I feel as strong as Xena, the Warrior Princess.”
“That’s the spirit.” Bourne looked around. “Now all we need is the wheelchair.”
Hendricks, on his way to the conference room a floor below his office, was possessed with the desire to call his son, Jackie. Instead, he was stuck in his meeting with Roy FitzWilliams, the head of Indigo Ridge, who it seemed already had some problems with the details of Samaritan.
Last night, after dropping Maggie off, he had spent an hour tracking Jackie down. Good thing he was secretary of defense, otherwise he would have gotten nowhere with the Pentagon concerning his son’s deployment. Jackie, as it turned out, was in Afghanistan. Even worse, he was heading up black-ops patrols scouring the cave-riddled mountains between Afghanistan and western Pakistan, which were inhabited by both Taliban tribal chieftains and the elite al-Qaeda cadres guarding bin Laden. Hendricks had lain awake the rest of the night thinking alternately about Jackie and Maggie.
Robert Ludlum’sTM The Bourne Dominion Page 16