The Bourne Deception (45 page)

Then Bourne saw the Goya that Karpov had propped up against the tile wall. “Do you know a man named Noah Petersen, or Perlis?”

“No, why?”

“He’s a senior officer in Black River.”

“The American risk management company—also known as private contractors for your government—also known as mercenaries.”

“Right on all three counts.” Bourne led the way back out into the corridor, which stank of gunpowder and death. “Tracy was bringing the Goya to Noah, but I believe now it was actually a payment to Yevsen for services rendered. That’s the only logical explanation for Noah being here.”

“So Yevsen, Black River, and Arkadin are in something together.”

Bourne nodded. “Did you or your men encounter an American when you raided the building?”

Karpov pulled a small walkie-talkie off its Velcro patch on his vest and spoke into it. After the crackle of an answer had been received, he shook his head. “You’re the only American in the building, Jason. But there’s a Sudanese of questionable character who claims he was being interrogated by an American just before the raid began.”

Perlis must have been lured away by Bourne’s diversion with the lurker. Where had he gone? Bourne could feel himself approaching the center of the web, where the lethal spider patiently lay in wait. “And since Black River’s main client is the
NSA
, there’s a good chance it has to do with the ratcheted-up tension in Iran.”

“You think Nikolai Yevsen is arming a Black River raiding party ready to invade Iran?”

“Highly unlikely,” Bourne said. “The
NSA
can provide more than enough state-of-the-art armaments that Yevsen could never get his hands on. Besides, for that they wouldn’t need Arkadin’s help. No, the Americans have identified the missile that brought down the plane—it’s Iranian, a Kowsar 3.”

Karpov nodded. “Now it’s starting to make sense. This Goya is payment to Yevsen for supplying the Kowsar 3.”

At that moment, Karpov spotted one of his men jogging along the hallway toward him. He stared at Bourne for a moment, then handed his commander a sheet of curling thermal paper—clearly a printout from a portable printer.

“Get Lirov,” Karpov said as he scanned the document. “Tell him to bring his full kit. I want this man checked out from stem to stern.”

The soldier nodded wordlessly and sped off.

“I told you I didn’t need—”

Karpov held up a hand. “Hold on, you’ll want to hear this. My IT man was able to salvage something from Yevsen’s servers after all—apparently they weren’t completely wiped.” He handed Bourne the sheet of thermal paper. “Here are Yevsen’s last three transactions.”

Bourne did a quick scan of the information. “The Kowsar 3.”

“Right. Just as we surmised, Yevsen acquired an Iranian Kowsar 3 and sold it to Black River.”

Where are you going?” Humphry Bamber said, twisting around in his seat. “And why are you holding a gun?”

“Someone knows you’re here,” Moira said.

“Dear God.” Bamber moaned and began to get up. “Stay right there.” Moira held him down with a firm hand. She could feel the chills running through him in waves. “We know someone’s coming and we know what he wants.”

“Yeah, me dead. You don’t expect me to sit here and wait for a bullet in the back.”

“I expect you to do what you’ve done before, help me.” She looked down into his pinched face. “Can I count on you?”

He swallowed hard and nodded. “Okay, now show me the bathroom.”

Dondie Parker liked his work—almost too much, some said. Others, like his boss, Noah Perlis, appreciated the almost religious fervor with which he committed to his assignments. Parker liked Perlis. It seemed to him as if the two of them occupied the same gray space at the fringe of society, the place where both of them could make anything happen—the one with his command, the other with his hands and his weapons of choice.

After Parker got through the rear entrance to Humphry Bamber’s building, he considered his life’s work, which he privately likened to a polished wooden box filled with a collection of the most expensive and aromatic cigars. The climax of each assignment, the death of each target, lay in that box for him to revisit anytime he chose. To take out, one by one, smell, roll between his fingers, and taste. They took the place of military ribbons—

medals of valor—commemorating actions necessary, as Noah had said to him time and again, to the welfare and security of the homeland. Parker liked the word
homeland.
It was so much more powerful, more evocative, more virile than the word
nation
.

Parker removed his shoes, tied the laces together, and, slinging them over his shoulder, climbed the stairs. When he reached the second floor, he went down the hallway to the far end, where a window overlooked the fire escape. Unlatching the window, he threw it open and climbed out, making his way up floor by floor, like a fly climbing a wall.

Noah Perlis had found Dondie Parker in one of the local ghetto gyms. Parker was part of a boxing club, the leading contender in the regional welterweight division. He was an exceptional boxer because he learned fast, had tons of stamina, and had found a way to channel his murderous aggression. On the other hand, he wasn’t crazy about concussions and fractured ribs, so when Noah showed up and expressed an interest in him, Parker was only too happy to listen to his proposition.

To say that Dondie Parker owed Noah everything would not be overstating the case, a fact that was ever on Parker’s mind, never more so than when, as now, he was carrying out an assignment that came directly from Noah. Noah reported to only one man, Oliver Liss, who was so far up the Black River food chain he seemed to be in another universe altogether. Parker was so accomplished that every now and then Oliver Liss would call him in and give him a personal assignment, which Parker carried out immediately and without telling anyone, including Noah. If Noah knew about these extracurricular assignments, he never said anything to Parker, and Parker was happy to leave those horrific sleeping dogs lie.

He’d reached the floor of Humphry Bamber’s office. And now, after one more recheck of the building layout Noah had sent to his cell, he crept down to the other end of the fire escape, where he peered in a window. He saw all manner of electronic equipment, most of it up and running, so he knew Bamber had to be there. He untied his laces and slipped on his shoes. Then, taking out his jimmy-picks, he forced open the window with minimal difficulty. Drawing his custom
SIG
Sauer, he climbed through.

He turned as he heard the sound of someone urinating. Grinning to himself, he made his way toward the sound of urine striking porcelain. The only thing better would be to drill Bamber while he was on the throne.

The door was ajar and, peering in, he could see a wedge of light, Bamber spread-legged in front of the toilet. He could just make out a corner of the sink and, against the rear wall, the bathtub with a shower curtain of gaily dancing fish so cute he had to resist the urge to puke.

He peered into the space between the door and the jamb created by the hinges. Seeing no one hiding behind the door, he nudged it open with his free hand while he leveled the
SIG
at Bamber’s head.

“Hey, pussycat.” His chuckle came from deep in his throat. “Noah says hello and good-bye.”

Bamber flinched, just like Parker was expecting him to, but instead of turning to face him, he collapsed as if poleaxed. As Parker was goggling at him, the gaily dancing fish folded up like an accordion. Parker had a splitsecond look at a woman staring at him. He just had time to think,
Who the
fuck is this? Noah didn’t tell me—
when the eye of her Lady Hawk spit flame and he spun around in an ungainly pirouette from the bullet fracturing his cheekbone.

He screamed, not in pain or fear, but in rage. He emptied his gun, squeezing off shot after shot, but there was blood in his eyes. He didn’t feel a thing—the burst of adrenaline and other endorphins made him for the moment immune to the pain. Ignoring Bamber, curled up in a fetal position under the toilet, he leapt at the woman—a woman, for chrissakes!—swinging the butt of his
SIG
at the curve of her chin. She retreated, only to slam against the tiled wall and slip on the treacherous curve of porcelain, falling to one knee.

Parker took another vicious swing at her with the
SIG
. She ducked away, but not before the front sight laid a gash across the bridge of her nose. He saw the glazed look come into her eyes and he knew he had her. He was just about to plant the thick sole of his shoe in her solar plexus when the eye of her Lady Hawk spat fire again.

Parker never felt a thing. The bullet exploded through his right eye and took off the back of his head.

YOU
REALIZE
,” Bourne said, brandishing the sheet of thermal paper as he and Boris Karpov clattered down the stairs at 779 Gamhuria Avenue, “that this information could have been left for you to find.”

“Of course. Yevsen could have left it,” Karpov said.

“I was thinking of Arkadin.”

“But Black River is his partner.”

“So was Yevsen.”

The medic had done his best to patch up Bourne’s face before Bourne shooed him away—at least he’d stopped the bleeding and administered a shot to prevent any possibility of infection.

“One thing about Arkadin, he’s consistent,” Bourne said. “What I’ve learned about the way he sets up operations is that he makes sure he has a stalking horse, a diversionary target whom he directs his enemies toward.” He slapped the printout. “Black River could be his new stalking horse, the people he wants you to go after rather than finding him.”

“The other possibility,” Boris said, “is that he’s knocking off his partners one by one.”

They had passed through the lobby and out into the scalding afternoon sun, where traffic was at a standstill and passersby were gathering as each minute passed, gaping at Boris’s heavily armed contingent.

“That brings up another question,” Karpov said as they climbed into the minibus he’d commandeered and which had become his mobile headquarters. “How the hell does Arkadin fit into this puzzle? Why would Black River need him?”

“Here’s a possibility,” Bourne said. “Arkadin’s in Nagorno-Karabakh, a remote area of Azerbaijan that, as you said, is dominated by tribal chieftains, all fanatic Muslims—just like the Black Legion terrorists.”

“How would the terrorists be involved?”

“That’s something we’ll have to ask Arkadin himself,” Bourne said. “To do that we’ll have to fly to Azerbaijan.”

Karpov ordered his IT man to bring up real-time satellite pictures of the Nagorno-Karabakh region in order to figure the best route to the specific area Yevsen used.

The IT man was zooming in on the area when he said, “Hold on a second.”

His fingers blurred over the keys, shifting the images on the screen.

“What is it?” Karpov said with some impatience.

“A plane just took off from the target area.” The IT man swiveled to another laptop and keyed into a different site. “It’s an Air Afrika jet, Colonel.”

“Arkadin!” Bourne said. “Where’s the flight headed?”

“Hold on.” The IT man switched to the third computer, bringing up an image similar to those on an air controller’s screen. “Just let me extrapolate from the jet’s current heading.” His fingers danced some more over the keyboard. Then he swiveled back to the first laptop and an area of landmass filled the screen. The image pulled back until the IT man pointed at a place in the lower right-hand quadrant of the screen.

“Right there,” he said. “Shahrake Nasiri-Astara, just off the Caspian Sea, in northwest Iran.”

“What in the name of all that’s unholy is there?” Karpov said.

The IT man, moving to the second laptop, plugged in the name of the area, hit the
ENTER
key, and scrolled through the resulting news stories. There were precious few, but one of them provided the answer. He looked up into his commander’s face and said, “Three whopping huge oil fields and the beginnings of a transnational pipeline.”

I want you out of here.” Amun Chalthoum’s eyes sparked in the semi-darkness of the old fort. “Instantly.”

Soraya was so taken aback that it was a moment before she said, “Amun, I think you’re confusing me with someone else.”

He took her by the elbow. “This is no joke. Go. Now.”

She extricated herself from his grip. “What am I, your daughter? I’m not going anywhere.”

“I won’t risk the life of the woman I love,” he said. “Not in a situation like this.”

“I don’t know whether to be flattered or offended. Maybe I’m both.” She shook her head. “Nevertheless, we came here
because
of me, or have you forgotten?”

“I don’t forget anything.” Chalthoum was about to continue when Yusef cut him off.

“I thought you’d planned for these people to catch up to you.”

“I did,” Chalthoum said impatiently, “but I didn’t count on getting trapped in here.”

“Too late for regrets now,” Yusef whispered. “The enemy has entered the fort.”

Chalthoum held up four fingers, to let Yusef know how many men had been following them. Yusef gave a curt nod and gestured for them to follow him. While the men moved out, Soraya bent and, ripping off a piece of one of the men’s shirts, scooped some quicklime into the makeshift sling.

As they reached the doorway, she said very clearly, “We should stay here.”

They turned, and Amun looked at her as if she were insane. “We’ll be trapped like rats.”

“We’re already trapped like rats.” She swung the sling back and forth.

“At least here we have the high ground.” She gestured with her chin. “They’ve already dispersed themselves. They’ll pick us off one by one before we can get to even one of them.”

“You’re right, Director,” Yusef said, and Chalthoum looked like he wanted to swat him across the face.

She appealed to Chalthoum directly. “Amun, get used to it. This is how it is.”

Three of the four men, having found shadowed nests for themselves, lay in wait, sighting down the long barrels of their rifles. The fourth man—the beater—moved cautiously from desolate room to ruined room, across abandoned sand-piled spaces without roofs. Always the wind was in his ears, and the grit of the desert in his nose and throat. Granules, shot by the wind, insinuated themselves inside his clothes and formed a familiar layer as they clung to his sweaty skin. His job was to find the targets and drive them into the crisscrossing lines of fire set up by his comrades. He was cautious, but not apprehensive; he’d done this work before and he’d do it again many times before old age made this life impossible. But he knew by then he’d have more than enough money for his family and even his children’s families. The American paid well—the American, it seemed, never ran out of money, just as the fool never bargained down his price. The Russians, now—they knew how to drive a hard bargain. He’d sweated through many a negotiation with the Russians, who claimed they didn’t have money, or, anyway, enough to pay him what he asked. He would settle on a price that made them all happy and then he went about the business of killing. It’s what he did best, after all—the only thing he was trained for.