The Bourne Imperative

by Robert Ludlum

  Feeling only with his fingertips, he found the metal ring, painted the same color as the hull. If you didn’t know it was there, you would never have seen it. But the Recursive was, first and foremost, a smuggler’s boat; it contained all manner of tricks and traps. This particular one ran along the starboard side just above the waterline. It was meant for plastic bags of china white or heroin, but it could, in an emergency, accommodate a man. The trouble was that it wasn’t entirely watertight, not, at least, with the Aztec’s weight in it. This was why he had been reluctant to consider it. Being able to hold your breath for over nine minutes was one thing, but being trapped in a coffin-sized space while it slowly filled with seawater was quite another.

  Still, entombment was the only chance Don Tulio had now, and he took it. Twisting the ring, he opened the hatch from the top and swung himself into the space. Water splashed in with him, filling the bottom. Quickly now, he closed the door and turned the ring into the locked position from the inside so it could not be seen.

  Then, his heart beating fast, he began to pray to a god he had long since abandoned, except in name.

  Forty minutes after he reached the ER, Peter was allowed to sit up while he was hydrated with fluids via an IV. He called Hendricks, waking him up.

  “Where the hell have you been?” the secretary said grumpily.

  When Peter told him that he had infiltrated Core Energy, that its CEO had verbally implicated himself, that Dick Richards was secretly working for Tom Brick, and that he had followed leads to the thirty million aboard the Recursive, Hendricks sounded mollified. But only for a moment.

  “I hate it when both my directors are out of circulation.”

  Instantly, Peter was on the alert. “What are you talking about?”

  “Soraya’s in the hospital,” the secretary said. “She collapsed and had to have an emergency procedure.”

  In his extreme agitation, Peter nearly tore out his IV. “How is she?”

  “Stable, from the last update I got. Delia’s with her. She’s barely left Soraya’s side.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Same hospital you’re in, but you don’t sound as if you’re in any shape—”

  “I’m fine,” Peter snapped, a bit too aggressively. Even he realized that, albeit belatedly. “Sorry, sir, this whole business at the marina has got me on edge.”

  “Right. Keep me wired into that. The moment you ID the man who attacked you, I want to know, got it?”

  “Yessir.”

  There was another pause. “As for Richards, do you want to pick him up or let him run?”

  Peter considered this question, among thoughts of Soraya. “Give me a day or two to see what he’s up to. Now that I’ve flown Brick’s coop, I want to see what’s going to happen.”

  “I wish we knew who he was bringing back for you to kill.”

  “Me, too, boss. But it might have been no one. Brick is into playing games with your head. I had had enough of that, and there was this key lead to run down.”

  “I hear you. But as of this moment we have to treat Richards as a threat.”

  “Absolutely, boss. But if we can use him to gain solid evidence of what Brick is really up to, I don’t want to miss the chance.”

  “Fine.” Hendricks sounded reluctant. “But any backup you need—”

  “I’ll call ASAP.”

  “Do that. And, for the time being, I’m ordering you up protection.”

  “That’s precisely what you won’t do, sir. With all due respect, I can’t do my job with a shadow. I’m not a desk jockey. I can handle myself.”

  Silence on the other end of the line.

  “Sir?”

  “Peter, for God’s sake, take better care of yourself,” Hendricks said before he disconnected.

  You have two choices,” the mortician said, “sleep on the floor or in one of these coffins.”

  “Nice silk,” Rebeka said, sliding her hand along the rim of a coffin.

  The mortician grinned. “Soft as a cloud, too.” He was a pale, thin man with a sunken chest, a pencil mustache, and the bee-stung, ruddy lips of a woman. His hands looked as delicate as porcelain. He had lacquered nails. He told them his name was Diego de la Rivera.

  “Your choice,” he said. “Either way, I’ll notify you when it’s time.”

  “You’re sure Maceo Encarnación’s people will call you,” Bourne said.

  “More than that,” de la Rivera said, “I’m sure Maceo Encarnación himself will call me.”

  “How’s that?”

  De la Rivera’s lips twitched. “I’m married to his sister.”

  This made Bourne uneasy. “Isn’t blood thicker than water here?”

  De la Rivera’s lips curled fully into a sneer. “Maceo Encarnación is not my blood. The man is made of money, but still he treats his sister like shit.” He spat onto the floor. “And me? He likes giving me business; he thinks it demeans me. ‘All you’re interested in is my money,’ he tells me, when what I want is for him to treat us like people. But, what? He doesn’t even invite us to his home. So there’s no blood here, not for me, not for my wife. He can go fuck himself for all I care.” He waved his hand. “So whatever chaos you cause when you’re inside, I’ll fucking applaud.”

  He went out then without another word, cutting the overhead lights as he left. The lamp on his desk was left burning as, it seemed, it always was, even when he wasn’t there. All that remained was the deep, steady humming of the massive refrigeration units in the basement, rising through the concrete floor in spectral sound.

  “Do you want to lie down?” Rebeka looked from Bourne, whose expression made her laugh, to the open coffin. “Neither do I.”

  Bourne opened the detailed map of the city el Enterrador had given him, and, by the dim lamplight, began to study it. “Are we clear on what we need to do,” he said, “once we get in?”

  “Rowland first, then Maceo Encarnación.”

  Bourne shook his head. “Rowland first, then we get out.”

  “What about Encarnación?”

  Bourne glanced up. He could see the lamp reflected in her eyes, a corona of light surrounding her pupils. “Listen, I’ve been thinking,” he said softly. “I’m beginning to suspect that Jihad bis saif—”

  “It’s hiding in plain sight.”

  “Really?”

  She nodded. “It’s part of Encarnación’s empire. It must be.”

  He returned to studying the map of the labyrinthine city. “Why do you say that?”

  “We arrived here, drove through…I listened to what Constanza Camargo said, and I knew.”

  “You’re wrong,” Bourne said. “Jihad bis saif is a ghost. It doesn’t exist.”

  “But what about what I overheard in Dahr El Ahmar?”

  “Dahr El Ahmar. That’s the key, isn’t it?” Bourne looked up again. “It was Colonel Ben David you overheard. You say he thought you were still unconscious, right?”

  She nodded.

  “What if he knew you were listening?”

  She stared at him.

  “Think this through, Rebeka. Ben David knew you brought me into Dahr El Ahmar, a top secret Mossad camp in a foreign country, harboring even more top secret research on a procedure parallel to SILEX, the separation of isotopes by laser excitation, in order to quickly and efficiently enrich nuclear material to weapons grade.

  “Now, all of a sudden, he doesn’t know whether to trust you. So he sets a trap. He discusses Jihad bis saif within your hearing. Come on, why would he do that when you’re within earshot? Would he really take the chance that you were unconscious? The hell he would. No, he talked about Jihad bis saif to see what you would do. And what did you do? You cut and ran. No wonder he sent the Babylonian after you.”

  Rebeka shook her head. “No. It can’t be.”

  “But you know it is,” Bourne pressed her. “We know Ben David better than most people. I think we’ve both seen him at his worst.”

  “Then what about Rowlan
d?”

  “He was sent by Maceo Encarnación,” Bourne said. “Encarnación is the one who wants me dead. You saw how his copter came after me in Stockholm.”

  He could see her taking deep breaths, gathering herself. When she turned back to him, her eyes were glistening and a tiny tremor went through her like an arrow. “I thought I was so smart.”

  “Forget it. We all make mistakes.”

  “There was no one inside Mossad I could trust, and in the end Ben David betrayed me.”

  “I imagine he sees the betrayal from a different perspective.”

  She took another slow breath. “What really happened between you and him? Before, I mean.”

  Bourne regarded her for a long time. She became acutely aware of the open coffins, pale silk linings spectral islets in the semi-darkness. They didn’t look soft and comforting at all.

  “In the twilight of Mubarak’s reign in Egypt, his government lost control over the Sinai,” Bourne said. “But I’m sure you already know this.”

  She nodded.

  “That’s where Ben David and I first met. A contingent of IDF was in there policing the local bedouin caravans, which were smuggling drugs, arms, and human slaves from Eritrea into Israel. Ben David was there with five of his Mossad agents, investigating a rumor that Mubarak or someone highly placed inside his government was behind the shipments, greasing the wheels with the bedouin chieftains. I was in the midst of my own investigation that peripherally involved the IDF. Suffice it to say that our goals clashed.”

  “He wouldn’t have liked that.”

  “He didn’t,” Bourne said. “In typical Ben David fashion, he concocted a story about me and sold it to the IDF commander. As a result, the IDF went after me.”

  “Which accomplished the dual goal of getting you and the IDF off his back, giving him a free field to pursue his own objective without interference. Clever.”

  “Not clever enough,” Bourne said. “I evaded the IDF by impersonating an arms dealer and joining one of the bedouin caravans. When Ben David and his unit attacked them, there I was.”

  Rebeka indicated that they should sit on the floor. “What happened?” she said, when they were settled.

  “Ben David got the surprise of his life. According to the caravan leader, the shipments originated in Pakistan, Syria, and Russia, not with the Egyptian government.”

  “You believed him?”

  Bourne nodded. “He had no reason to lie. As far as he was concerned, I was there to supervise one of my own shipments. He received his payments from Russian arms dealers, like the one I was impersonating, and from terrorist cells with connections to the Colombian and Mexican cartels.”

  His eyes glittered. “Ben David’s intel was either incorrect or deliberate disinformation. Either way, he was wasting his and the Mossad’s time in the Sinai. Trouble was, Ben David refused to believe me. He ordered me executed, and I almost was.”

  “But you escaped.”

  “With the help of my newfound bedouin friends. Ben David was infuriated, vowing to hunt me down and kill me.”

  “That’s the end of the story?”

  “Until it picked up again when we flew into Dahr El Ahmar.”

  “Shit, I wish I had known.”

  “What would you have done differently?” Bourne said. “You needed immediate medical assistance. The Mossad camp was the closest safe haven.”

  “I would have warned you.”

  Bourne grunted. “Seeing Ben David again was warning enough.”

  “He took off half a mountaintop trying to bring you down,” she said. “But then again, you scarred him for life.”

  “He got what he deserved.”

  Her eyes studied the shadowed contours of his face. “He’ll never forgive you.”

  “I don’t want his forgiveness.”

  “He’ll never stop hunting you.”

  Bourne gave the hint of a smile. “He isn’t the first. He won’t be the last.”

  “It must be…” She seemed to lose her voice, or her nerve.

  “It must be what?”

  “A difficult life you’ve chosen.”

  “I think,” he said softly, “it chose me. I’m an accidental passenger.”

  She shook her head. “You’re an agent of change.”

  “Maybe just the center of a balancing act.”

  “That’s enough…more than enough, maybe, for one man.”

  They sat silently then, their eyes locked, thinking their own thoughts, until they heard a sharp scrape. The overhead lights flickered on, revealing Diego de la Rivera.

  “The call’s come in,” he said. “It’s time.”

  19

  You’re insane.” Martha Christiana stared up at Don Fernando. “You’re telling me we’re alone on the plane?”

  “Yes.”

  “The pilot and navigator have parachuted out.”

  “Three minutes ago. It’s on autopilot.”

  “And you plan to crash the plane—”

  “Crash it, yes.” He slipped off a thick engraved gold ring with a pigeon-blood cabochon ruby in its center. “The recovery team will find this. It is unique. It will be identified as mine.”

  Martha, breathless, still had trouble believing this crazy plan. “But they’ll find no body remains.”

  “Oh yes, they will.”

  She followed him to the rear of the plane, where, when she saw stacked up three body bags, she recoiled. She stared at him. “This is a joke, right?”

  “Unzip the bags.”

  He said this with such utter calmness that she felt a chill run down her spine. This was a side of him he had not revealed until now. Brushing past him, she leaned over the top body bag and, with a convulsive gesture, unzipped it. She found herself staring into the blank white face of a corpse.

  “Three men,” Don Fernando said. “The pilot, the navigator, and me. That is the way it will be reported.”

  She whirled on him. “And you’ll just what? Disappear from running Aguardiente Bancorp?”

  “It’s a leap of faith,” he said, turning away. “Come now. Our time has run out.” He broke out a pair of parachutes and handed one to her. “Or do you want to die in the crash?”

  “I can’t believe this is happening.”

  “But it is.” He shrugged into his harness, tightening the bands across his chest. As if noticing her hesitation for the first time, he frowned. “Are you having second thoughts?”

  “I don’t understand…”

  “Then kill me now and have done with it. You’re running out of time. Fulfill Maceo Encarnación’s commission. I doubt I can stop you.”

  Her frown deepened. “He said you wanted to take everything away from him.”

  “How much do you know about his empire?”

  She shook her head.

  “Well then, there is no reason for his comment to affect you.”

  She thought about her meeting with Maceo Encarnación at the Place de la Concorde, encircled by constant traffic, the shouts and laughter of unknowing tourists. In the shadow of the guillotine and the Reign of Terror. “But it did.”

  “And so…” He spread his hands wide. When she didn’t answer, he stepped toward her, taking the parachute out of her hands and manipulating the straps over her shoulders. But when he began to cinch the wide strap across her waist, she gripped him.

  “Wait.”

  Their eyes met.

  “Last chance, Martha,” he said. “You must decide now. Stay with Maceo Encarnación or take the first step into that new beginning you spoke about in Gibraltar.”

  He removed her hands and cinched the waist strap tight. “It seems to me that your past has been defined by following a series of men.” He led her to the door, put his hand on the huge metal bar that would unlock it. “Continue or change, Martha. Your choice is as simple as that.”

  “You call this a simple choice?”

  “Call it what you will, it’s yours to make.” His voice softened. “No one can hel
p you with this decision, Martha. I wouldn’t even try.”

  She took a breath. She thought about the lighthouse, her father’s grave, her mother lost in a world where Martha was still a child, still a part of her life. She stared into Don Fernando’s eyes, wanting to read something there, but he was true to his word: he wasn’t going to try to influence her. And all at once, she realized that he was the first man in her life who hadn’t sought to manipulate her.

  She nodded then and replaced his hand on the door’s locking bar. “Let me,” she said.

  He laughed and kissed her on both cheeks with great affection. “Best I show you something first.”

  “You said we were out of time.”

  He guided her back up the aisle to the front of the plane, opened the door to the cockpit, and showed her the pilot and navigator alive and well in their seats.

  “Better strap in, boss,” the pilot said. “We’ll be landing in five minutes.”

  Charles Thorne turned, restless in bed. The truth of the matter was he hated and feared Li Wan, yet the two men were bound together by the stream of secrets they passed back and forth as if through a delicate membrane. They were conduits; they needed each other. Thorne turned again, trying and failing to get comfortable.

  Worse, by far, was that he envied Li Wan. He had been in love with Natasha Illion, the Israeli supermodel, Li’s inamorata. And he could swear that Li knew. Each time they were together, Li presented Natasha as if she were bathed in a follow spot, or so it seemed to him. And Natasha, perhaps being in on Li’s little running joke, always wore the most provocative designer outfits—necklines down to her navel or mesh tops through which Thorne stole clandestine peeks at her small but perfect breasts, the nipples like cherry buds. Thorne moaned, imagining his mouth enclosing them.

  He was certain that Li, and possibly Natasha as well, were laughing at him on their nights out, as if he were an animal they constantly taunted through the bars of his cage.

  The light of the bedside clock penetrated his eyelids. Barely an hour since he had returned from his 4 AM rendezvous with Li at the restaurant in Chinatown. The General Tso’s chicken lay in his stomach like a ball of wax, unmoving and indigestible.