The Bourne Deception (16 page)

Abruptly Arkadin’s mind switched gears to more immediate concerns. The phone call from Willard was very much on his mind as he walked back to where his Black Legion recruits were waiting for him outside the tents erected on the edge of the Azerbaijani plain. He’d relied on that idiot Wayan, who had recommended Ian Bowles. Hiring Bowles clearly had been a mistake.

But now even Bowles was driven out of his mind as he addressed his troops. They were not nearly as well prepared for a coordinated raid as he’d hoped. But then these men had been trained and used in solo missions. Many of them had been waiting for the orders to strap on their C-4 vests, infiltrate a market, a police station, or a school, and press the detonator. Their minds were already halfway to Paradise, and almost immediately Arkadin understood that it was his job as well as his duty as the head of the Eastern Brotherhood, the Black Legion’s legitimate umbrella organization, to shape them into a unit, men who could rely on one another—sacrifice for one another if need be—without a second’s hesitation.

The group of men—hardy, physically and mentally fit—stood arrayed in front of him, uncomfortable because he’d ordered them to shave their heads and their beards, both of which were against both custom and their Islamic teachings. Not a one of them wasn’t wondering how on earth they were going to infiltrate anywhere in the Islamic world looking as they now did.

One man, Farid, chose to voice their concern. He did it forcefully, believing he was speaking for the other ninety-nine recruits, not just himself.

“What was that?” Arkadin’s head snapped so hard a vertebra in his neck cracked like a rifle shot. “What did you say, Farid?”

Had he known Arkadin at all, Farid would have kept his mouth shut. But he didn’t, and there was no one in the godforsaken land to teach him. So he repeated his question.

“Sir, we’re wondering why you ordered us to shave the hair that Allah dictates we must have. We’re wondering what your motive could possibly be. We demand an answer because you have shamed us.”

Without a word, Arkadin pulled out the baton from his belt, slammed it into the side of Farid’s head, driving him down. As he knelt, swaying with pain and dismay, Arkadin drew his Colt and shot Farid point-blank through his right eye. The man was driven back, his knees cracking, and there he lay in the sandy dirt, mute and inert.

Just around the corner Moira stopped and pressed herself against the wall of the office building. She raised her right elbow and, as the
NSA
agent came racing around the corner, slammed it into his chest. She’d been aiming for his throat but missed, and though he rocked back against the wall, he immediately came at her, threw a punch that she blocked.

But it was only a feint and he grabbed her left arm from the under-side and applied pressure in an attempt to break it at the elbow. Moira, pinioned, trod hard on his instep, but his grip didn’t loosen. He applied more pressure until a yelp of pain escaped her throat. Then he came in with the heel of his hand, a blow aimed at the point of her nose.

She let him commit himself completely to the blow, then dodged her head to one side. At the same time, gathering all her strength into her lower belly, she jammed her flexed right knee into his groin. His arms opened wide, his grip on her began to slip, and he went down.

Moira snatched her arm away, but he managed to grasp her wrist, bringing her down to him as he fell to his knees. His eyes were watering and he was clearly struggling not to pant, to deepen his breathing, work through the excruciating pain. But Moira wasn’t about to let him. She drove her knuckles into his throat and, as he gagged, she freed herself. Then she struck the left side of his head, slamming it against the building’s stonework. His eyes rolled up and he slid to the pavement. Quickly she took his weapon and his ID

and took off through the growing crowd of gawking people, drawn to the scuffle like dogs scenting blood, saying, “That man mugged me. Someone call the police!”

On the corner of Fort Myer Drive and 17th Street North she brought herself up short. She was breathing heavily, her pulse rate accelerated. Adrenaline was burning through her like a river of fire, but she managed to slow to a walk, moving against the tide of people who were following the sound of the sirens on the police cruisers, quickening from more than one direction. One was coming directly at her, but, no, it was an
EMS
ambulance.

Dave had arrived, not a moment too soon. The ambulance slowed and she saw Earl behind the wheel. As the vehicle came abreast of her the back doors banged open and Dave leaned out. As he grabbed her left hand to swing her aboard she gasped. When she’d navigated the metal step Dave, lunging past her, swung the doors shut and said, “Go!”

Earl stepped on the gas. Moira swung around as the ambulance hit a corner at speed. Dave put his arms around her to steady her, led her to one of the benches.

“You okay?” he asked.

She nodded, but winced as she bent her left arm.

“Let me see that,” Dave said, pushed back the sleeve of her blouse.

“Nice,” he said and started to work on the bruised and puffy joint.

At that point, Moira knew she was nearing the end of her rope. One of her operatives had stumbled on a secret so important that either Black River, the
NSA
, or both working in concert had killed him. Now they were after her. Her fledgling company had just over a hundred operatives, more than half of them recruited from Black River. Any one of them could be a traitor, because of one thing she was absolutely certain: Someone inside Heartland had tracked her
ISP
address to the Wi-Fi network at the Shade Grown Café and had given it to the
NSA
. That was the only explanation for them showing up so quickly.

Now she was out of options. She had no one to trust. Except, she thought bleakly, one person. The person she’d vowed never to see or speak to again, not after what had happened between them, which was unforgivable.

Moira closed her eyes, swaying slightly with the motion of the speeding ambulance. While now was not the time for forgiveness, maybe it was time for a truce. Who else could she call? Who else could she trust? She gave a little gasp of despair. If it weren’t so sad it would be funny, really, turning for help to the last person she’d ever accept anything from.
But that was then,
she told herself grimly,
and this is now.

With a silent curse, she used her burner to dial a local number. When the male voice answered, she took a deep breath and said, “Veronica Hart, please.”

“Who shall I say is calling?”

Oh, the hell with it,
she thought. “Moira.”

“Moira? Ma’am, she’ll need your last name.”

“No, she won’t,” Moira said. “Just tell her Moira, and be damn quick about it!”

The moon is out.” Amun Chalthoum checked his watch. “It’s time we talked.”

Soraya had been on her satellite phone with her local Typhon agents in place. They were all running down leads on the new Iranian
MIG
, but so far none of them had made any progress. It was as if the group was so far underground their contacts had come up empty. Whether this was because their contacts knew nothing or were too afraid to divulge the group’s existence was anyone’s guess. If it was the latter, she had to admire the level of their security.

She decided to agree to Amun’s suggestion, but not in the way he wanted. As he held the tent flap back for her, she said, “Leave your firearm here.”

“Is this really necessary?” he said. When she didn’t reply he narrowed his eyes for a moment to show his displeasure then, sighing, took his pistol from its polished leather holster and set it down on a field desk.

“Satisfied?”

She passed out of the relative warmth of the interior into the chill night. Some distance away the American task force was busy sifting through the wreckage for clues, but as yet Delia hadn’t given her another update, although—as Veronica had said—the downed plane wasn’t her primary mission. She shivered in the ascetic chill of the desert air. The moon was immense, lent a kind of grandeur by the eternal and seemingly endless sea of sand.

They began heading for the bare perimeter, where Chalthoum’s guards should have been posted, but she saw no one, and she stopped. Though he was a pace ahead of her, he sensed something amiss, and turned back.

“What is it?” he said.

“I won’t go another step in that direction,” she said. “I want to be in shouting distance.” She indicated the constellation of lights on the other side of the site, safely beyond the perimeter dictated by Chalthoum, the glowing encampment of the international news media, somehow alien in the ominous night, as if it were a ship that had come to ruin on the teeth of the reef of the downed plane.

“They?” he scoffed. “They can’t protect you. My people won’t let them past the perimeter.”

She gestured. “But where are your people, Amun? I don’t see them.”

“I made certain of that.” He lifted an arm. “Come, we have very little time.”

She was going to refuse but something in his voice caused her to relent. She thought again about the tension she’d first sensed in him, the leashed rage. What, really, was going on here? Now he’d piqued her curiosity. Had he done that deliberately? Was he leading her into a trap? But to what end?

Unconsciously, her hand patted her back pocket where the ceramic switchblade rested, waiting to protect her.

They walked on in silence. The desert seemed to whisper around them, restlessly shifting, filtering between clothes and skin. The sheen of civilization ground down until only a hard nub was left, rough and primitive. Chalthoum reveled in his element. He was larger than life, which was of course why he’d taken her out here years ago, why they were here now. The farther they moved away from the others the more he seemed to grow both in stature and in power, until he towered over her. Turning, his eyes glittered, reflecting the blue-white moonlight.

“I need your help,” he said with his usual bluntness.

She almost laughed. “You need
my
help?”

He looked away for a moment. “You’re about the last person I’d think of asking for help.”

And with that one statement she understood how dire his circumstances must be. “What if I refuse?”

He pointed to the satellite phone in her hand. “Do you think I don’t know who you were calling with that?” The whites of his eyes looked eerily blue in the monochrome light. “Do you think I don’t know why you’re really here? It isn’t about this air disaster; it’s about this new Iranian
MIG
.”

WILLARD
, standing in the center of Dr. Firth’s compound, waited anxiously for Bourne to return. He had thought briefly of going out after him, but rejected the idea. As often happened when he thought of Bourne, his thoughts turned to his own son Oren. He hadn’t seen or heard from Oren in fifteen years, and as for his wife, she was dead and buried. He’d often assumed that his breach with Oren had come at the funeral, when he’d stood dry-eyed and mute as the casket containing the mortal remains of his wife was lowered into the ground.

“Don’t you feel anything?” Oren had confronted him with an anger that had apparently been building for years. “Anything at all?”

“I’m relieved that it’s over,” Willard had said.

It was only much later that he realized telling his son the truth had been a grievous mistake. That was a time, however brief, when he’d grown tired of lies. He never made that error again. Human beings, it became clear to him, thrived on lies; they needed them in order to survive, to be happy, even. Because the truth was often unpleasant, and people didn’t care for that. Furthermore, it didn’t suit many of them. They’d much rather lie to themselves, have those around them lie to them to preserve the illusion of beauty. Reality wasn’t pretty,
that
was the truth.

But now, here in Bali, he wondered whether he was like all the others, weaving a prison of lies around himself to blot out the truth. For years, he’d tunneled his way into
NSA
like a mole, arriving at last at the safe house in Virginia, where all the lies were housed. For years, he’d told himself it was his duty. Other people, even his own son, seemed like ghosts to him, part of someone else’s life. What else did he have? he asked himself over and over as he toiled away as an
NSA
steward. It was duty, only duty he could connect with.

The
NSA
mission had been fulfilled. By necessity his cover had been blown with them, and he was free. No one inside CI had yet figured out what to do with him. In fact, so far as the new
DCI
was concerned, he was on a longoverdue vacation.

Now, free of the servile persona of Willard, the
NSA
steward, he’d come to realize that being a steward was only a role he’d been playing; a role that wasn’t him at all. When Alex Conklin had begun to train him, Willard had had visions of perilous derring-do in far-off corners of the world. He’d read all the James Bond novels countless times; he itched for the adrenaline rush of covert battles. As he became more and more accomplished, as he excelled at his teacher’s increasingly difficult exercises, Conklin had begun to confide in him. Then the fatal mistake: As he began to learn Treadstone’s secrets, he’d allowed himself the fantasy of becoming Conklin’s successor: the master manipulator. But reality had sent him crashing to earth. The Old Man had called, wanting Willard for the role in which he’d already cast him. Willard was sent underground, into
NSA
, into prison with, it seemed, no chance for a reprieve.

He’d done whatever had been asked of him, had done it well, masterfully, even. That’s what everyone had told him. But what had he gotten out of it?

Truth, the truth: nothing, not a damn thing.

Now, at last, he had the freedom to fulfill his dream of becoming a master manipulator, of outdoing his old teacher. Because, in the end, Conklin had failed. He’d allowed Leonid Arkadin to slip away, and then, instead of going after Arkadin and bringing him back, he’d forgotten about the Russian and had tried to better him with Jason Bourne. But you can’t turn your back on a creation like Arkadin. Willard knew every decision Conklin had taken with Treadstone, he was aware of every misstep. He wouldn’t repeat the last one, which was to allow Leonid Arkadin to escape. He’d do better, much better. He’d fulfill Treadstone’s final goal. He’d succeed in creating the ultimate fighting machine.