The Bourne Deception (37 page)

“It figures. Dick Symes was the logical front-runner.”

“Symes is out, too.”

Marks’s acceptance turned to consternation. “How do you know that?”

“Because I know who did get the post and, fuck us all, it isn’t anyone from inside CI.”

“But that makes no sense.”

“On the contrary, it makes perfect sense,” Willard said, “if your name happens to be Bud Halliday.”

Marks turned toward the older man. “What’s happened, Willard? Come on, man, out with it!”

“Halliday has used Veronica Hart’s sudden death to his advantage. He’s proposed his own man, M. Errol Danziger, and after meeting with Danziger the president’s agreed.”

“Danziger, the NSA’s current deputy director of signals intelligence for analysis and production?”

“That’s the one.”

“But he knows nothing about CI!” Marks cried.

“I believe,” Willard said with some asperity, “that’s precisely the point.”

The doors opened and the two men stepped out into the marble-and-glass reception area, as chilly as it was vast.

“Under the circumstances, I think we need to talk,” Willard said. “But not here.”

“Certainly not.” Marks was about to propose a meeting for later, but then changed his mind. Who better than this mysterious veteran with a thousand and one sources, who knew all of Alex Conklin’s back-channel intelligence secrets, to help him find the missing cops? “I’m off on an investigation in the field. Care to join me?”

A smile creased Willard’s face. “Ah, me, it’ll be just like I’ve dreamed!”

When Arkadin approached Joškar, she spat at him, then turned her face away. All her four children—the three girls and the dead son—were clustered around her like foam surrounding a basalt outcropping rising from the sea. They, the living, little ones, rose up as he approached as if to protect her from an assault or an unwanted intrusion.

Tearing off one shirtsleeve, Arkadin leaned in and dabbed the blood off her face. It was when he touched the point of her chin to turn her face back toward him that he saw the deep bruises on her face, the welts on her neck. Rage at Oserov flared anew inside him, but then he noticed that the welts and bruises weren’t recent—he was certain they hadn’t been made in the last several days. If Oserov hadn’t caused them then, in all likelihood, her husband, Lev Antonin, had.

Her eyes met his for a moment, and in them he saw a bleak reflection of the bedroom upstairs, filled with both her intimate scent and her abject solitude.

“Joškar,” he said, “do you know who I am?”

“My son,” she said, hugging him to her breast. “My son.”

“We’re going to get you out of here, Joškar, you and your children. You don’t have to be afraid of Lev Antonin anymore.”

She stared at him, as dumbfounded as if he’d told her she was getting her lost youth back. The crying of her youngest girl brought her around. She looked at Tarkanian who, with her car keys in one hand, had slung Oserov over his shoulder.

“He’s coming with us? The man who killed my Yasha?”

Arkadin said nothing, because the answer was clear.

When she turned back to him, a light had gone out in her eyes. “Then my Yasha comes, too.”

Tarkanian, bent over like a coal miner, was already carrying his heavy load to the front door. “Leonid Danilovich, come on. The dead have no place among the living.”

But when Arkadin took Joškar’s arm, she snatched it away.

“What about that piece of filth? The moment he killed my Yasha he died, too.”

With a grunt, Tarkanian opened the door. “We don’t have time for negotiation,” he said brusquely.

“I agree.” Arkadin took Yasha into his arms. “The boy comes with us.”

He said it in such a tone that Tarkanian gave him another of his penetrating looks. Then the Muscovite shrugged. “She’s your responsibility, my friend. All of them are your responsibility now.”

They trooped out to the car, Joškar herding her three confused and shivering daughters. Tarkanian placed Oserov in the trunk and tied the lid to the bumper with a length of twine he’d found in a kitchen drawer so that his compatriot would have fresh air. Then he opened the two doors on the near side, and went around to slide behind the wheel.

“I want to hold my son,” Joškar said as she urged her daughters into the backseat.

“Better that I take him up front,” Arkadin said. “The three girls need your undivided attention.” When she hesitated, pushed the hair back from her son’s forehead, he said, “I’ll take good care of him, Joškar. Don’t worry. Yasha will be right here with me.”

He got into the front passenger’s seat and, with the boy cradled in one arm, closed the door. He noted that they had almost a full tank of gas. Tarkanian fired the ignition, let out the clutch, and put the car in gear. They took off.

“Get that thing off me,” Tarkanian said as they took a corner at speed and Yasha’s head brushed against his arm.

“Show some fucking respect,” Arkadin snapped. “The boy can’t hurt you.”

“You’re as loony as a
tyolka
in heat,” Tarkanian retorted.

“Who’s got a friend locked in the trunk?”

Tarkanian honked the horn mightily at a truck lumbering in front of him. Maneuvering around, he braved oncoming traffic to pass the huge vehicle, ignoring the angry blare of horns and the near misses as cars coming the other way scrambled to get out of his way.

When they were back on their side of the road, Tarkanian glanced over at Arkadin. “You’ve got a soft spot for this kid, huh.”

Arkadin did not respond. Though he was staring straight ahead, his gaze had turned inward. He was acutely aware of Yasha’s weight, even more his presence, which had opened a door into his own childhood. When he looked down at Yasha’s face it was as if he were looking at himself, carrying his own death with him like a familiar companion. He wasn’t frightened of this boy, as Tarkanian clearly was. On the contrary, it seemed important for him to hold Yasha, as if he could keep safe whatever remained of a human being, especially such a young and innocent one, after death. Why did he feel that way? And then a murmuring from the backseat compelled him to lean over to peer at the reflections in the rearview mirror. He saw Joškar with her three young daughters gathered around her, her arms encompassing them, sheltering them from further harm, fear, and indignities. She was telling them a story filled with bright fairies, talking foxes, and clever elves. The love and devotion in her voice was like an alien communication from a distant, unexplored galaxy.

All of a sudden a profound wave of sorrow swept through him, so that he bent his head over Yasha’s thin blue eyelids, as if in prayer. In that moment, the boy’s death and the part of his childhood his mother had torn from his breast merged, became one, indistinguishable both in his febrile mind and his damaged soul.

Humphry Bamber was waiting anxiously for Moira when she returned to Lamontierre’s brownstone.

“So, how did it go?” he said, as he ushered her into the living room.

“Where’s the laptop?”

When she handed him the wrecked disk, he turned it over and over. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

“I wish I was,” Moira said wearily.

She sat heavily on the sofa while he went to fetch her a drink. When he returned, he sat opposite her. His face looked haggard and drawn, the first signs of constant anxiety.

“These disks are utterly useless,” he said, “you realize that?”

She nodded and sipped at her drink. “Just like the cell I got off the guy who pulled the hard drive from my laptop. It was a burner.”

“A what?”

“A disposable cell phone you can buy in practically any drug-or convenience store. It has a set number of pre-paid minutes. Criminals use them and discard them daily; that way their conversations can’t be tapped and their whereabouts can’t be traced.”

She waved her own words away. “Not that it matters now. Where tapping into Noah’s computer is concerned, we’re essentially screwed.”

“Not necessarily.” Bamber hunched forward. “At first, when you left I thought I’d go out of my mind. I kept replaying you pulling me out of the Buick, seeing Hart behind the wheel, and then the whole thing exploded to hell.” His eyes slid away. “My stomach rebelled. Maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing because while I was splashing cold water on my face I got the idea.”

Moira put her empty glass down beside the wreck of the hard drive disks.

“What idea?”

“Okay, it occurred to me that each time I deliver a new iteration of Bardem, Noah insists that I download it directly to his laptop.”

“Security reasons, I’m sure. So?”

“Well, in order for the program to install correctly, he’s got to shut down all other programs.”

Moira shook her head. “I’m still not following.”

Bamber drummed his fingers for a moment as he thought of a suitable example to illustrate his point. “Okay, you know how when you install some programs, the install shield asks you to shut down all programs including your virus protection?” When she nodded, he went on. “That’s to ensure they load properly. It’s the same with Bardem, only to the nth degree. It’s so complex and so sensitive that it needs a completely clear field, as it were, to install properly. So here’s my thought. I could contact Noah and tell him I found a bug in his current version of Bardem, that I need to send him an update. Usually, the new version overwrites the previous one, but with a bit of work I think I can upload his version while I download the new one.”

Moira, suddenly galvanized, sat up straight. “Then we’ll have everything that’s in his program, including the scenarios he’s been running. We’ll know precisely what he’s planning, and where!”

She jumped up and kissed Bamber on the cheek. “That’s brilliant!”

“Plus, I could embed a tracer in the new version that would let us track what he’s inputting in real time.”

She knew just how clever—and paranoid—Noah was. “Could he find out about the tracer?”

“Anything’s possible,” Bamber said, “but it’s highly unlikely.”

“Then let’s not get too cute.”

He gave her a slightly embarrassed nod. “Anyway, it’s all pie in the sky,” he said. “I’ve got to get to my office and find a way to reassure Noah that everything’s okay with me.”

Moira’s mind was already spinning out possible scenarios. “Don’t worry about that. You concentrate on the nuts and bolts of the two-way transfer. I’ll take care of Noah.”

After reading everything he could about the rapidly escalating Iran situation in the
International Herald Tribune
he’d picked up in the lounge in Madrid, Bourne sat brooding all during the flight to Khartoum. Once or twice, he became aware that Tracy was trying to engage him in conversation, but he didn’t care to answer. He was wondering why the possibility of Arkadin surviving his trial at sea hadn’t occurred to him; after all, the precise same thing had happened to him off Marseilles, when he’d been pulled half dead out of the water by the crew of a fishing boat. He’d been nursed back to health by a local doctor, as inveterate a drunk as Dr. Firth, only to discover that the trauma he’d suffered had caused amnesia. His memories of his life had been wiped out. Once in a while something familiar would trigger a shard of memory, but when it did surface, it most often arrived in incomplete fits and starts. Since then he’d struggled to find out who he was, and though many years had passed he seemed no closer to the truth—the identities of Jason Bourne and, to a limited extent, David Webb were all he could remember. It had seemed to him that the path that would lead him to himself lay through his memories on Bali.

But first, there was the matter of Leonid Arkadin to consider. That Arkadin wanted him dead was beyond doubt, but he also intuited that more was going on here than a simple case of revenge. Though he’d learned that nothing with Arkadin was simple, there was an overarching plan to this particular web in which he found himself that transcended even Arkadin, who seemed to be one strand among many that was leading Bourne to Khartoum.

Whether or not Don Fernando Hererra was in league with Arkadin—and it seemed a sure bet that Arkadin had sent him the photos and audio

“incriminating” Boris—was for the moment beside the point. Now that he knew Arkadin was behind the attempt on his life, he had to assume that a trap was being laid for him at 779 El Gamhuria Avenue. Whether that trap was Arkadin’s alone, or whether it included Nikolai Yevsen, the arms dealer, and Noah Perlis, he didn’t yet know. But it was interesting to speculate on what business Noah had with Yevsen. Was it personal or on behalf of Black River?

Either way, the two constituted a sinister team, one that he needed to know more about.

And what was Tracy’s role in all this? She had taken possession of the fantastic Goya only after she had electronically transferred the required sum to Don Hererra’s bank account and he had ordered his banker to deposit the funds into a second account, the number of which was unknown to her. That way, Hererra had said with a sly smile, he was assured that the money had actually been delivered and would remain his. His years in the oil fields had turned the Colombian into a sly old fox who considered every angle and planned for every contingency. Bourne thought it ironic that he held a peculiar affection for Hererra even though clearly the Colombian and Arkadin were in some sense allies. He hoped he’d run into Hererra again one day, but in the meantime he needed to deal with Arkadin and Noah Perlis.

The dying sun, red as a fireball, was moving ponderously downward to the earth when Soraya and Amun Chalthoum reached Chysis Military Airdrome. Chalthoum showed his credentials and was directed to a small parking lot. After passing through another security check, they were striding across the tarmac toward the plane Chalthoum had ordered to be fueled and ready to take off when Soraya saw two people walking on a tangent course toward a waiting Air Afrika jet. The woman was thin, blond, and quite striking. She was closer to Soraya so, for a moment, her male companion was blocked from her view. Then the vectors changed as they neared one another. Soraya caught a glimpse of the man’s face and, stricken, felt her knees grow momentarily weak.

Chalthoum, at once noticing her faltering stride, turned back to her.