And so, as Ozer slit her skin, dipped the tip of the blade into her blood, she began. The transformation commenced deep inside herself, in the medulla of the adrenal glands. Adrenaline was, among other things, a neurotransmitter, firing the ends of sympathetic nerve fibers, stimulating and increasing the speed of nerve impulses.
Unable to close her eyes, she was forced to watch the blade score a line in her flesh.
“What shall it be, hmm?” Ozer said. “Shall I imprint you with the cross of Jesus?”
She withdrew to the part of her that was still and serene, her limbic system, the brain’s most primitive and highly defended area. A place that was always and forever her own. Once in her fortress, she gathered herself in a form of deep aggressor meditation, which seemed counterintuitive, almost oxymoronic, until her teachers had proved to her its efficacy. Venturing outward, she made her way, carefully skirting the sections of her system already taken hostage by the Rohypnol molecules. Her adrenals began their pumping. She had some difficulty pushing them into overdrive as they had already been invaded, and were sluggish. But once she got them going they responded.
“Or with the Star of David, branding you the Jewess that you are.”
Ignoring his taunts and the mounting pain, she felt the first faint glimmerings of movement in her fingertips. She blinked—her lids responding to her commands. She felt the epinephrine’s warmth seep into her bones, and then into her muscles and soft tissues. She felt the epic battle raging inside her between the epinephrine and the Rohypnol for control of her central nervous system. All at once, her lips curved up into a half smile. Ozer was too busy watching her blood run red to notice.
“Blessing for you. I would take you now by force as I’ve done with so many others. But I would not sully myself, Jewess. You’re an animal.”
She could not feel the pain; she felt only the river of heat running through her, the accelerated pulse, the galloping of her heart, seeming to ragefully hurl itself against the cage of her ribs. But it was a cool rage, one where her mind was perfectly lucid, where now one thought connected to another in a gossamer skein that lit up her mind in glittering strands.
When Ozer’s head came down the better to incise her, she reared her head up and bit him. Once her teeth had sunk into his lower lip she shook her head violently, tearing away skin, flesh, and nerves.
Ozer was so stunned that his own blood had filled his mouth before he was released from the stasis of shock. By that time, Sara had jammed a thumb into his left eye, pushing hard through the jelly, popping the eyeball, destroying the retina, her nail digging into the tender flesh behind, the membranes that separated the eyeball from the brain.
An eerie screaming arose, as of a nocturnal beast in the agony of rutting, which, in some, was a form of ecstasy. Not here, not now. Not with Radu Ozer. His agony was unadulterated as he reflexively swung the knife, but she snatched it from his grip. She could have plunged the blade in, blinded him in both eyes, but that would have defeated her purpose.
As he spasmed and tremored with the onset of real physical shock, Sara flipped him over on his back, straddled his hips. She brandished the knife still running with her blood.
“Perfect for slicing, Radu,” she said with a grim smile. “I know your history with women, I know who’s the animal here. So come here, animal. This is where I fuck you.”
Turning, she pushed the tip of the blade through his trousers’ crotch, widening the opening, then drew the blade lengthwise across his member with agonizing slowness.
Ozer howled, did his best to crawl away from her, but he was finding it difficult to move, let alone move quickly. He left a bright trail of blood behind him as he inched his way across the floor.
She watched him for a moment, as if he were a particularly loathsome insect, then she went after him. Taking a handful of his hair, wet and greasy with his sweat, she brought his excruciating slither to a halt.
“It hurts, Radu, doesn’t it?” She held his member up in front of him. “But, you know, I think with all the mayhem this has caused over the years, you’re better off without it.”
She studied the elements of his face, twisted in agony or slack in shock. “Cry havoc and loose the dogs of war.” She tossed the pink and red thing aside. “That’s what you’ve done, Radu.” Her fingers in his hair turned to a fist, and she shook his head violently. “No, no, no sleep for you.” She slapped his cheek, bringing back the color shock had drained from it. “Keep your good eye open, Radu.”
She inched closer to him. He tried to slither away, but she held him fast. “Your good eye needs to fix on me, Radu. I am the dog of war your actions have loosed. You see me and you see your own end.”
Holding up the knife, she said, “Now it’s your blood running down its edge, and there will be more before I’m finished with you.”
His lips twisted in a horrific parody of a smile that was more a grimace of escalating pain, now that the pain-inhibiting endorphins released at the trauma site were fading. “You’re going to interrogate me?” He tried to laugh, almost choked on a clot of blood before he managed to spit it out. It lay on the floor between them, a symbol of the end of days.
Sara rose, brought the knife down, piercing his boot and instep to the hilt, pinning him securely to the floor.
She buttoned her shirt as she strode toward one of the video cameras. Her chest was sore and blood streaked. Dark imprints were beginning to sprout on the fabric, shadows pushing aside the sunlight.
Positioning herself behind the center camera, she switched it on. She watched through the viewfinder as what was left of Ozer tried and failed to wrench the blade out of his foot. He was impaled, sure enough, an insect in an entomologist’s lab.
Satisfied, she started recording. Then she went behind the plastic barrier to the control room. Twenty seconds of scanning the equipment gave her full access to the control boards. She had seen them before, even worked them when she was a teenager.
She hit the Live Feed button. From this moment on, whatever Ozer said or did would be streamed out to the YouTube stations this facility was connected to. Then she went back to the stage, bringing a chair with her, sat just out of the range of the live video camera, but in range of the boom mic, which she positioned midway between where she sat and where Ozer lay.
“Welcome, viewers. Here lies Ivan Borz—the real Ivan Borz, not one of his fakes. He has admitted to his real name: Radu Ozer, but who really knows. A liar falls so deeply in love with his lies they become the truth. Human beings are experts at self-delusion; they rarely do anything better.”
She was about to continue, but a tall, slender man appeared in the doorway, “Subhanallah, I finally convinced ISIS to stop the shelling, but I—”
He stopped in midsentence as he took in the bloodily macabre scene. He advanced into the studio section, killing the On-Air switch on the camera. “What is going on here?”
“El-Amir,” Ozer said, but then could not find the strength to go on.
Sara rose, turned to El-Amir. “As-salamu Alaykum.”
“Wa alaykum as-salam.” He nodded curtly. “What have you done to Ivan?”
Sara smiled, holding her ground. “You’re Amira’s brother, aren’t you?”
“And who are you?”
“Rebeka.”
“She’s the worst of Mossad,” Ozer managed. “Kidon.”
El-Amir’s eyebrows lifted. “Is this true?”
“What I am,” Sara said seriously, “is a woman the man you call Ivan Borz tried to kill.”
“Don’t listen to her,” Ozer said. “She’s insane. She has me confused with someone else.”
El-Amir hesitated, clearly caught on the horns of a dilemma.
“Who to trust, El-Amir? The predator or the prey?” She turned so he could see the needle mark on the side of her neck. “He injected me with Rohypnol.”
“Then how are you standing? How are you talking?” His arm swept out. “How did you do—that—to him?”
�
�She’s a witch, that’s how.” Too late, Ozer realized he’d given the game away.
El-Amir turned. He had a sidearm Sara had not seen before, and she tensed. He removed the Walther PPK, stepped up onto the stage, and shot Ozer in the head at close range.
Then he beckoned to Sara. “Walk with me.”
He led her out of the studio and into the first building she had explored. Too hastily, it turned out. He threw back the corner of a threadbare carpet, revealing a trapdoor.
“How is Amira?” El-Amir asked. “She must be having a difficult time without Father.”
Sara was unsure at this point whether to tell him that his sister was injured. “She told me the monthly money you send makes a difference.”
“Good, good.” He nodded. “I’m pleased.” Then he frowned. “But you’re bleeding through your shirt.”
“It’s nothing.”
“Here, let me.” He carefully unbuttoned her shirt. “Allah, this isn’t nothing. Stay there a moment.” He crossed to a line of shelves, took down several items. With them, he disinfected the cuts, slathered on some antibacterial cream, then bandaged the area.
“Thank you,” Sara said, rebuttoning her blouse.
Waving away her thanks, he lifted the trapdoor by pulling on a heavy iron ring, led her down a short flight of wooden stairs, into a basement of sorts.
“She misses you terribly,” Sara said. “She wishes you would return home to Cairo.”
“Ah, one day,” El-Amir said with a wistful smile. “And, if Allah wills it, may that day be soon.”
“You’ll make her very happy.”
“Little Amira. She deserves that.”
A tamped-down dirt floor was almost a quarter sand, shifting under her feet as she followed El-Amir across the space to a prison cage.
“I need your help here, Rebeka. A woman’s touch, yes?”
Inside she saw a man, hunched over, emaciated, his tangled hair and beard overgrown. He was filthy and he stank, but the uniform he wore was still recognizable.
“British SAS,” Sara said.
“A liaison officer.” El-Amir nodded as he opened the cell door. “The planned next in a long line of televised beheadings.” He lifted an arm. “See what you can do for him.”
“You first.”
El-Amir shrugged, stepped inside. Sara followed him warily. The prisoner’s head came up, his rheumy eyes focused.
“No,” he said in a cracked voice.
The hairs along Sara’s forearms stirred uneasily, and she turned too late. El-Amir struck her a dizzying blow to the side of the head, knocking her down.
A moment later, El-Amir was outside and the self-locking cell door slammed shut in her face.
49
The first part of the flight out of the Turkish air base was exceedingly difficult. A great deal of expert maneuvering by Abdul’s private pilot was required to ensure their continued safe travel. They were shot at, tracked by hostile radar, and even, once, made the target of a missile launch, which failed, killing the two men at the launch site when the warhead exploded in the launcher.
Bourne was impressed by both the pilot’s skill and his nerve under fire, and did not hesitate to tell him so. Following the first forty or so hairy minutes, the flight proceeded without incident, giving Bourne time to fill Abdul Aziz in on the increasingly dire situation: In thirty hours the Sovereign of the Russian Federation would order the full-scale invasion of Ukraine, possibly provoking a third World War. Boris had discovered the plan, which featured the secret arming of ISIS as a distraction for the Western powers, to keep their military eye away from Ukraine. Further, the Sovereign had been utilizing the criminal monies amassed by Ivan Borz to clandestinely fund ISIS. Which meant that Borz and the Sovereign had formed some sort of relationship. And why not? The Sovereign could hardly entrust the recruiting for ISIS to anyone in FSB—particularly Boris, who would have flat-out refused. How many others might have done the same? Far better to go outside the Federation political structure altogether. Who better than Ivan Borz, who doubtless had been arming ISIS for a fat fee? Following that logic path, Borz would already have a secure relationship with ISIS’s upper echelon. They would trust him. But what had the Sovereign offered Borz that would attract him? Money? The Sovereign didn’t have any to offer. What else would Borz find attractive? Something more valuable than money? But, of course, the promise to allow him free reign in his other dealings, even when they entailed Russian armaments. And all the while the Sovereign was slipping millions out of Borz’s pocket via Mik. Bourne’s lips curled into a smile.
Abdul was in shock, as well he might be. At length, he said, “It’s interesting that the Sovereign would resort to skimming money, rather than using the Kremlin oil dollars,” he said. “It must mean that the Kremlin’s cash hoard has been compromised more severely than is publicly thought.”
“True,” Bourne replied. “The Sovereign is out of money. He had no other choice. The Federation is skating on thin fiscal ice, the expansion into Ukraine and, from there, the Baltic States is a desperate attempt to refill those coffers, to put the Federation on stable financial footing.”
Abdul nodded. “Makes sense. For a decade or more the Sovereign has milked the oil trade and raked in billions. Now that’s all slipping away at breathtaking speed.”
“Now that the price of oil has plummeted by almost more than fifty percent, something drastic had to be done. Money had to be extracted from all the dirty crevasses the Sovereign had heretofore ignored.”
“He stole and stole big from one of his main moneymen.” Abdul tapped his forefinger against his armrest. “That would mean the involvement of Bank Rossiya. Do you know of it?”
Bourne shrugged.
“You’re in the majority there, Jason, almost no one does. I know a bit—just the tip of the iceberg because I dealt with one of the Sovereign’s cronies. I was paid through Bank Rossiya. It happens to be the Sovereign’s personal bank, that’s all I know. That’s all anyone outside that tight circle knows.”
“Maybe not. You have a sat phone?”
“Of course.” Abdul reached into the side pocket of his seat, handed over the phone. “Should I go up front?”
Bourne waved away his words as he punched in a number.
“It’s Bourne,” he said when Volkin answered.
“Not now, Jason. I’m on my way to Sheremetyevo to pick up Aleksandr’s body.”
“My sincere condolence, Ivan, but I need your help and time is of the essence.”
Bourne could hear the sigh even through the sketchy sat phone connection. “All right then.”
“I need information on Bank Rossiya.”
“You’re speaking of the Sovereign’s personal bank as well as that of his despicable Kremlin inner circle.” Just like Volkin not to ask questions he knew Bourne wasn’t going to answer. “It was built during the Sovereign’s early days in St. Petersburg, when he was KGB. Even then he had friends and cronies in high places. I know; I was there. I saw it all unfold. I saw how they were gaming the system. No, no, they were rewriting the system itself. That was the genesis of my life in the underworld.” He made a noise that sounding like spitting. “In any event, this cabal built Bank Rossiya, and they run it currently.”
“Where is it? St. Petersburg?”
“This I don’t know. No one does outside of the Sovereign and his circle.”
“Come on, Ivan. A bank—a bank with international ties—can’t be hidden.”
“This one is.” Volkin sighed again, more deeply this time. “You know, it’s Russia, Jason. Anything’s possible, especially when it comes to the secretion of money.”
“Thanks, Ivan. Now go take possession of your grandson.”
“One other thing, Jason. It’s just a rumor, so take it… Well, you know what rumors are like here.”
“Tell me anyway, Ivan.”
“The rumor says that Bank Rossiya is low on capital.”
“How low?”
He could almo
st hear Volkin shrug. “Who can say? And, anyway, maybe the rumor’s false.”
“Anything?” Abdul asked as Bourne gave him back the phone.
“Not much,” Bourne said. He told his friend what little Ivan Volkin knew about Bank Rossiya.
“No help. If we can’t find it…” He let the sentence peter out. No use saying the obvious. Taking a judicious look at his friend, he rose, said, “I’m going to congratulate the pilot. His wife just had a baby boy.”
Bourne nodded absently as Abdul went up the aisle to the front of the jet. He was thinking about what Volkin had let slip. If the rumors were true, if Bank Rossiya was low on capital, then they were barking up the wrong bank. With that possibility in mind, he sank back into the quiet space where he could once again concentrate on Boris’s rebus.
The Sovereign had put an end to Ivan Borz’s luck. Bourne could do the same to the Sovereign’s, if he could decipher the entire rebus. Follow the money. There was only one way to stop the invasion: Turn off the money spigot at the source. Find the bank, access the account. Bourne was certain he knew where the bank was. Now to decipher the fourth and final group of cuneiform glyphs, which must be a number combination that gave access to the account itself.
The bank the Sovereign was using to fund his dirty asymmetric war couldn’t be Bank Rossiya itself—that would be too direct. Plus, if the rumor Ivan had passed on was true, the Sovereign wouldn’t want it to be associated with these particular monies. The more Bourne considered the situation as the Sovereign might have done, the more certain he became that the absolute secrecy of the plan required a secure cutout bank. It needed to be an obscure one, with an appetite for the Sovereign’s business. It also needed to be located in an obscure place where no one would think to look. And there was Tewahedo, the third glyph of Boris’s rebus. The High Eritrean Orthodox Tewahedo Church in Asmara, the capital of Eritrea. The perfect obscure place.
The Bourne Enigma Page 29
