Robert Ludlum's the Bourne Imperative (48 page)

“SILEX stands for the separation of isotopes by laser excitation,” Li said. “It’s a true game-changer when it comes to quickly creating enriched fuel for nuclear reactors.”

“Now I remember,” Ann said. “The process was bought by GE, who formed a partnership with Hitachi. They said they could envision a SILEX plant that could enrich enough uranium per year to service sixty reactors. That would be enough to power a third of the United States.”

“Then the government got involved,” Li said.

“We were worried about the proliferation of weapons-grade uranium if the SILEX formula was stolen.”

Li nodded. “My sole interest was in receiving up-to-the-minute reports on how SILEX was progressing.”

Ann frowned. “Why is the Chinese government interested in our progress on SILEX?”

“I can’t tell you,” Li said, “because I don’t know.” That was the truth; Minister Ouyang had not confided in him. As never before, Li could appreciate the wisdom of such compartmentalization.

Following a short silence that to Li didn’t seem short at all, Ann nodded.

“Okay, how can I help you?”

I’m getting nowhere fast,” Soraya said.

“Going the long way around won’t work,” Peter said. “We don’t have the time to contact every Treadstone asset in the field by secure satphone.”

“I know. I’ve been trying to access our remote server in Gibraltar.”

Soraya watched the screen of the laptop that had been sent over from Treadstone HQ. The IT team assigned to her and Peter during their stay at the hospital had hooked her up to a speedy wideband connection. They had Bluetoothed her mobile into the connection as well.

“So far, no luck.”

“I hope to God not,” Peter said. “That server is supposed to be unhackable, even if someone outside Treadstone knew of its existence.” “Well, don’t worry,” she said glumly. “It is.”

“What worries me...”

“Peter.” Her head came up. “What is it?”

“Nothing.” He looked away.

“Don’t tell me ‘nothing.’” Setting her laptop aside, she crossed the small space between their beds. The hospital had moved them to a large, bright room that they could share, along with the electronic equipment the Treadstone IT team had installed.

Settling herself on the edge of his bed, she took his hand. “What is it?”

“I...” His eyes came back to hers. “My legs hurt. Phantom pain.” 

“How do you know it’s not real?”

“The doctors—”

“Fuck the doctors, Peter. They don’t know everything.” 

“I have no nerve response, Soraya. My legs are dead.” She squeezed his hand. 

“Don’t say that!”

There were dark circles under his eyes that had never been there before, no matter how hard he worked or how tired he’d been. Soraya’s heart broke.

Perhaps Peter, knowing her so well, intuited something of what she was feeling. “The sooner I get used to the fact,” he said, “the better.” 

She leaned in toward him. “We’re not giving up.”

“No one’s giving up, I promise.” He produced a watery smile.

“What else have you been up to on that laptop of yours?”

 “Trying to Skype Jason. I thought maybe he might know why Core Energy shut down our intelligence network.”

“And?

“He isn’t online. I’ve left him messages on his mobile’s voicemail.” 

“Why don’t we concentrate on what we can control, like how in hell Brick managed to get Richards past our vetting process.” 

“Maybe he got to him after he came to work for us.”

Peter shook his head. “No way. Remember, I was with both of them in Brick’s Virginia house. Theirs was a longer-standing relationship

than that.”

“Which means he was providing Brick with intel from NSA, possibly from the president himself.”

“We’ll have to interrogate Brick,” Peter said, “as soon as Sam brings him in.”

“You’re joking, right?” She gestured. “Look at us, Peter. We’re going to have him brought here? For interrogation? In our condition?” 

She shook her head. “No. Sam is going to have to stand in for us. We can patch into the closed-circuit TV network at the office. We’ll be in constant touch with Sam via wireless earbuds. Any questions occur to us, we can tell Sam. Okay? Peter?”

He nodded, clearly reluctant. The sunlight seemed to have gone out of him, leaving him gray and bereft. She had reminded him of his condition. She was sorry about that, but there was no alternative. To make matters worse, it was going to happen again and again in the weeks and months to come. 

She watched him steadily for some time. “You know, my child is going to need a male presence, a father figure.”

Peter barked a brittle laugh. “Right! I’m just the one—” 

“But you
are
, Peter.” Her eyes were bright as she willed him to engage with her. “Who else would I want my baby to know so well?”

When Jacques Robbinet, the French minister of culture, received the call from Jason Bourne, he was sitting in the back of his armorplated Renault. In the front seat were his driver and his longtime bodyguard. It was precisely 9:32 pm. Robbinet was on his way to dinner with his mistress, which was why he almost didn’t take the call. On the other hand, the Renault was stuck in traffic, and he had become antsy and bored in equal measure.

“Jason,” he said with genuine heartiness, “where are you?” 

“On the stairs of the Right Bank river wall directly opposite the Pont des Invalides.”

Instantly, Robbinet, whose title of minister of culture masked his real job as head of the Quai d’Orsay, the French equivalent of Central Intelligence, clicked into gear. “Was that you involved in the incident on the Pont Alexandre III?” Robbinet had received the report twenty minutes ago and had dispatched a pair of his agents to assist the police in their investigation. It wasn’t every evening that a car crashed over the side of a Paris bridge, and with the heightened security in place, he wasn’t one to leave any stone unturned.

“There was an abduction and murder attempt,” Bourne said to his old friend. “We swam downriver.”

“‘We’?”

“I’m with a friend. Don Fernando Hererra.”

“Good Lord.”

“You know Don Fernando?”

Robbinet leaned forward, tapping his driver on the shoulder and telling him of the change in destination. “Indeed I do, Jason.” Robbinet told his driver to switch on the siren, bypass the traffic jam, use the sidewalk, if necessary, just step on it. “Stay right where you are. I’ll be with you in minutes.”

“Listen, Jacques, I need a jet.”

Robbinet laughed in a quick moment of disbelief. “Is that all?”

“I’ve got to get to Lebanon as quickly as possible.”

Robbinet well knew that tone of voice. “The situation is that serious?”

“Deadly. We were abducted to keep me from getting there.”

“All right. Let’s get you two out of the water and into dry clothes.” Robbinet’s mind was working at lightning speed. “By that time, I’ll have a jet ready and waiting.” He knew enough to take Bourne at his word. “A military jet. I want the plane armed, just to be on the safe side.”

“Thanks, Jacques.”

“You can thank me,” Robbinet said dryly, “by not getting yourself killed.”

THE WHOLE THING was a scam?”

“From beginning to end.” Bourne could hear the incredulity in Soraya’s voice. He couldn’t blame her. “Maceo Encarnación went to extraordinary lengths to ensnare me.”

Bourne shifted his satphone from one ear to the other; it was significantly heavier than his mobile. He was riding up in the cockpit.

The Mirage fighter jet Jacques Robbinet had procured for him wasn’t comfortable, but then it wasn’t meant to be. It had been built for war. “From the moment Constanza Camargo was pushed into the baggage claim area by airline personnel, I was their target.”

“But how the hell did she know you’d be there?”

“Maceo Encarnación.”

“And how did she manage to get through security to be at the security area in the first place?”

“Having been to Mexico City and survived,” Bourne said slowly, “I can appreciate fully the complete grip Maceo Encarnación has on the capital.”

Soraya paused for a moment. “And the story Constanza told you about her husband?”

“Well, the husband was real, I checked that,” Bourne said. “Also, the manner of his death.”

“Huh! The best liars sprinkle in as much truth as they can.” 

“If I knew the real relationship between Constanza Camargo and Maceo Encarnación,” Bourne said, “I feel like I’d know everything.”

He stared through the cockpit glass. The Mirage hurtled through the aether like a weapon of revenge. Bourne had scores to settle, not only with Maceo Encarnación, but with Colonel Ben David as well. 

“Everything is related, that’s what you’re telling me,” Soraya said. “Maceo Encarnación, Nicodemo, Core Energy, and the Mossad commander at the Israeli research station outside Dahr El Ahmar.” 

“There’s another element involved,” Bourne said, “an element only hinted at because of its extreme importance.”

“Do you know who or what?”

“The Chinese. Specifically someone named Ouyang.” 

“Hold on,” Soraya said. She was back in a flash. “According to my information, Ouyang Jidan is minister of the State Administration of

Grain.”

“CSP, more like it,” Bourne said.

“I don’t doubt it. What’s he doing nosing around Dahr El Ahmar?” 

When Bourne told her about the Israeli SILEX project, she nearly exploded. “What are we going to do? With Ben David implicated, we can’t trust anyone in Mossad.”

“Leave it to me,” Bourne said. “I’ll be at Dahr within hours.” 

“Have you considered that Dahr El Ahmar might be a trap?” 

“Yes.”

Soraya waited for him to provide further explanation, but when nothing was forthcoming, she went on. “Any logistics we can provide—” 

“Got it.”

“What still puzzles me,” she said, “is the thirty million in counterfeit dollars Peter found. I don’t know, maybe it’s just the Aztec trying to rip off his boss. People will do just about anything to get their hands on that much money.”

“True enough.”

“The thing is, the counterfeiting on the bills Peter found isn’t all that good. It’s nowhere near the level we’ve found in the bills created by the Chinese, which, sad to say, are virtual masterpieces of the counterfeiting art.” She paused a moment. “To be honest, that’s the reason I figured the money was unrelated. What if Maceo Encarnación suspected someone in his organization was skimming? It happens all the time. So he sets up this scenario so even if the perp manages to get away with it, he’s left with nothing.”

“It makes sense,” Bourne said. “Why don’t you follow up on that premise?”

“I already have. Seems as if the Aztec’s prime lieutenant got his head handed to him, literally.”

“That seals it then.”

She wanted to tell him about herself and about Peter’s condition, but she bit her tongue. He had more than enough on his mind. Time enough when this was over to let him know. Perhaps he’d even come back to Washington to see her. She’d like that.

She cleared her throat. “Okay, then. I guess that’s it for now. Keep in touch.”

She said this last with such intensity that Bourne might have queried her had she not already severed the connection. He settled back in his seat, closed his eyes, and thought about his last conversation with Don Fernando.

Robbinet had his driver take them to a small but very luxe boutique hotel in the thirteenth arrondissement, where, in a top-floor suite, an elegant woman looking no more than forty was waiting for them. This magnificent creature, whose name was Stephanie, was clad in a little black dress from Dior and was Robbinet’s current mistress. She already had clothes laid out for both Bourne and Don Fernando, as if she were a genie or a magician. When Robbinet had phoned her, Bourne couldn’t say, but he was immensely grateful nonetheless. While Don Fernando showered, Bourne filled Robbinet in on the scenario that had brought him and Don Fernando to Paris from Mexico City. “The identity of the body your divers will pull out of the Seine is Nicodemo,” he concluded. “His real name, however, is a matter of conjecture.”

“Dead is dead. I’ll take it,” Robbinet said, in his usual matterof-fact fashion. “I’m just grateful no harm has come to you or Don Fernando.” He grunted. “This has been quite a day, what with the abduction attempt and Don Fernando risen from the grave twice now, it seems. I was instrumental in doctoring the report of the crash of his private jet outside Paris.” He regarded Bourne attentively. “It seems the two of you are made for each other.”

Bourne turned to Stephanie. “Apologies for spoiling your evening.” 

“With Jacques, I’m used to such interruptions.” Her smile was dazzling. When she stepped across the carpet to the minibar, her hips swayed ever so slightly. “It can’t be helped. Besides, Jacques and I have all night.”

Bourne and Robbinet conferred about the upcoming flight. Using Google Earth, Robbinet brought up the area around Dahr El Ahmar on his iPad. “I can’t see this Israeli encampment.”

“It’s all camouflaged,” Bourne said. “Plus, as you can see, the Lebanese have blocked out parts of the area so the Google cameras can’t see them in detail. Try looking at the White House and its grounds using the program—you can’t see a thing.”

Robbinet nodded. “For security purposes, we do that in certain parts of Paris.” His forefinger tapped the screen. “There’s an airstrip in Rachaiya, here.” His forefinger stabbed out. “It has the advantage of being both secluded and less than two miles from Dahr. There will be a driver and vehicle waiting for you when you land.”

“I don’t need them,” Bourne said.

“This man, Fadi, has intimate knowledge of the area,” Robbinet said. “My advice is to use him.”

By that time Don Fernando had exited the bathroom, resplendent in the outfit Stephanie had purchased for him.

“A perfect fit,” Robbinet said, admiring Don Fernando. “It’s a good thing I know you both so well.”

Bourne had spent the next twenty minutes scrubbing the grit, grime, and smell of the Seine off himself. Discovering a cache of disposable razors, he shaved, and by the time he climbed into his new clothes he felt reborn.