Pulling the rear door open, he slipped through onto 7th Street. The late-model Ford was as anonymous as you could get in D.C., where all government agencies were mandated to buy American when it came to transportation. With a quick look in either direction, he opened the rear door and slid inside. The Ford began to roll.
Lerner settled back into the seat. “Frank.”
“Hello, Mr. Lerner,” the driver said. “How’s tricks?”
“Tricky,” Lerner replied drily. “As usual.”
“I hear you,” Frank nodded. He was a beefy, bullnecked man, carrying the air of one who slavishly worked out in the gym.
“How’s the secretary this PM?”
“You know.” Frank snapped his fingers. “What’s the word?”
“Angry? Pissed off? Homicidal?”
Frank gave him a glance in the rearview mirror. “Sounds about right.”
They went over the George Mason Memorial Bridge, then swung southeast onto the Washington Memorial Parkway. Everything in the district, Lerner observed, seemed to have memorial attached to it. Pork-barrel politics at its worst. Just the kind of crap to piss off the secretary.
The stretch limousine was waiting for him on the outskirts of Washington National Airport’s cargo terminal, its colossal engine purring like an aircraft about to take off. As Frank slid the Ford to a stop, Lerner got out and made the transfer, as he’d done so many times in recent years.
The interior bore no resemblance to any vehicle Lerner had ever heard of, save Air Force One, the president’s airplane. Walls of polished burlwood covered the windows when need be—as now. A walnut desk, a state-of-the-art wi-fi communications center, a plush sofa that doubled as a bed, a pair of equally plush swivel chairs, and a half-size refrigerator completed the picture.
A distinguished man pushing seventy, with a halo of close-cut silver hair sat behind the desk, his fingers roving over the keyboard of a laptop. His large, slightly bulging eyes were as alert and intense as they had been in his youth. They belied his sunken cheeks, the paleness of his flesh, the loose wattle beneath his chin.
“Secretary,” Lerner said, with a potent combination of respect and awe.
“Take a pew, Matthew.” Secretary of Defense Halliday’s clipped Texas accent marked him as a man born and raised in the urban wilds of Dallas. “I’ll be with you momentarily.”
As Lerner chose one of the chairs, the stretch started up. Bud Halliday grew anxious if he remained in one place for long. What Lerner responded to most about him was that he was a self-made man, having been raised far from the rural oil fields that had spawned many of the men Lerner had come across during his time in the district. The secretary had earned his millions the old-fashioned way, which made him his own man. He was beholden to no one, not even the president. The deals he parlayed on behalf of his constituents and himself were so shrewd and politically deft, they invariably added to his clout, while rarely putting him in any of his colleagues’ debt.
Finishing his work, Secretary Halliday looked up, tried to smile, and didn’t quite make it. The only evidence of the minor stroke he’d suffered some ten years ago was the left corner of his mouth, which didn’t always work as he wished it to.
“So far, so good, Matthew. When you came to me with the news that the DCI had proposed your transfer, I couldn’t believe my good fortune. In one backdoor way or another, I’ve been trying to get control of CI for several years. The DCI is a dinosaur, the last remaining Old Boy still in service. But he’s old now, and getting older by the minute. I’ve heard the rumors that he’s beginning to lose his grip. I want to strike now, while he’s beset on all sides. I can’t touch him publicly; there are other dinosaurs who still have plenty of muscle inside the Beltway, even though they’re retired. That’s why I hired you and Mueller. I need to be at arm’s length. Plausible deniability when the shit hits the fan.
“Still and all, bottom line, he’s got to go; his agency needs a thorough housecleaning. They’ve always taken the lead in the so-called human intelligence, which is just Beltway-speak for spying. The Pentagon, which I control, and NSA, which the Pentagon controls, have always taken a backseat. We were responsible for the recon satellites, the eavesdropping—preparing the battlefield, as Luther LaValle, my strong right arm in the Pentagon, likes to say.
“But these days we are at war, and it’s my firm belief that the Pentagon needs to take control of human intelligence as well. I want to control all of it, so that we become a more efficient machine in destroying every goddamn terrorist network and cell working both outside our borders and inside toward our destruction.”
Lerner watched the secretary’s face, though such was the long and intimate nature of their relationship that he could sense what was coming. Anyone else would have been satisfied with his progress, but not Halliday. Lerner mentally braced himself, because whenever he got a compliment from the secretary, it was followed by a demand for the all but impossible. Not that Halliday gave a shit. He was made in the leathery mold of Lyndon Johnson: one tough sonovabitch.
“Mind telling me what you mean by that?”
Halliday eyed him for a moment. “Now that you’ve confirmed my suspicion that CI has become newly infested with Arabs and Muslims, your first act after we take care of the DCI is to purge them.”
“Which ones?” Lerner said. “D’you have a list?”
“List? I don’t need a fucking list,” Halliday said sharply. “When I say purge, I mean purge. I want them all gone.”
Lerner nearly winced. “That will take some time, Mr. Secretary. Like it or not, we’re living in religiously sensitive times.”
“I don’t want to hear that bullshit, Matthew. I’ve had a pain in my right buttock for close to ten years. You know what’s causing that pain?”
“Yessir. Religious sensitivity.”
“Damn right. We’re at war with the goddamn Muslims. I won’t tolerate any of ’em undermining our security agencies from the inside, got me?”
“I do indeed, sir.”
It was like a stand-up routine between them, though Lerner doubted the secretary would agree. If he had a sense of humor, it was buried as deep as a Neanderthal’s bones.
“While we’re on the subject of pains in the ass, there’s the matter of Anne Held.”
Lerner knew the real show was about to commence. All of this other stuff was part of the secretary’s preliminary dance. “What about her?”
Halliday plucked a manila folder off the desk, spun it into Lerner’s hands. Lerner opened it and leafed quickly through the sheets. Then he looked up.
Halliday nodded. “That’s right, my friend. Anne Held has started her own personal investigation into your background.”
“That bitch. I thought I had her under control.”
“She’s whip-smart, Matthew, and she’s intensely loyal to the DCI. Which means she will never tolerate your move up the CI ladder. Now she’s become a clear threat to us. QED.”
“I can’t just terminate her. Even if I made it look like a break-in or an accident—”
“Forget it. The incident would be investigated so thoroughly, it would tie you up till kingdom come.” Halliday tapped the cap of a fountain pen against his lips “That’s why I propose you find a way to sever her in a manner that will be most embarrassing and painful to her and to him. Another embarrassment in a string of others. Stripped of his loyal right hand, the DCI will be all the more vulnerable. Your star will rise even more quickly, hastening the dinosaur’s demise. I’ll see to it.”
Ten
ONCE THEY CROSSED the frozen river, heading west by southwest, the darkness of the steeply rising mountain overtook them. Bourne and Zaim were in the company of three of Kabur’s foot soldiers, who were more familiar with the terrain than Zaim.
Bourne was uneasy to be traveling in what was, for him, a large pack. His methodology depended on stealth and invisibility—both of which were made extremely difficult in the present circumstances. Still, as they moved brisk
ly along, he had to admit that Kabur’s men were silent and concentrated on their mission, which was to get him and Zaim to Fadi’s camp alive.
After rising gradually from the western bank of the river, the terrain leveled off for a time, indicating that they had mounted a forested plateau. The mountain loomed up in an ever-more-forbidding formation: an almost sheer wall that, thirty meters up, abruptly jutted out in a massive overhang.
The snow, which had begun to fall in earnest as they set out, had now abated to a gentle shower that did nothing to impede their progress. Thus they covered the first two and a half kilometers without incident. At this point, one of Kabur’s men signaled them to halt while he sent his comrade out on a scouting foray. They waited, hunkered down amid the sighing firs, as snow continued to drift down on them. A terrible silence had come down with the vanguard of the storm, which now overstretched the area as if the massive overhanging shelf had sucked all sound out of the mountainside.
The Amhara returned, signaling that all was clear ahead, and they moved out, trudging through the snow, eyes and ears alert. As they drew nearer the overhang, the plateau steadily rose, the way becoming simultaneously rockier and more densely forested. It made perfect sense to Bourne that Fadi would pitch his camp on the high ground.
When they had gone another half a kilometer, Kabur’s commander called another halt and once again sent a comrade to scout ahead. He was gone for longer this time, and when he returned he huddled with his superior in a heated conference. Kabur’s man broke away and approached Bourne and Zaim.
“We have confirmation of the enemy up ahead. There are two of them to the east of us.”
“We must be close to their camp now,” Bourne said.
“These aren’t guards. They’re actively searching the forest, and they’re coming this way.” The commander frowned. “I’m wondering if they somehow know we’re coming.”
“There’s no way to know,” Zaim said. “In any case, we need to kill them.”
The commander’s frown deepened. “These are Fadi’s men. There will be consequences.”
“Forget it,” Bourne said brusquely. “Zaim and I will go on alone.”
“Do you take me for a coward?” The commander shook his head. “Our mission is to get you to Fadi’s camp. This we will do.”
He signaled to his men, who set out heading due east. “The three of us will keep to our original course. Let my brothers do their work.”
They were climbing in earnest, the mountain reaching upward as if trying to touch the massive overhang. It had stopped snowing for the moment, and now the sun broke out behind a rent in the streaming clouds.
All at once a flurry of gunshots echoed and reechoed. The three of them stopped, crouching down within the trees. A second flurry came on its heels, then all was silent again.
“We must hurry now,” the commander said, and they rose, resuming their course west-southwest.
Within moments, they heard a bird trill. Soon thereafter, the commander’s two soldiers rejoined them. One was wounded, but not badly. They continued on grimly, a tight-knit unit, with the scout in the lead.
Almost immediately the rising ground began to level out, the trees becoming sparser. When the scout went to his knees it seemed as if he’d stumbled over a rock or a tree root. Then blood spattered the snow as the second soldier was shot through the head. The rest of the group took cover. They’d been unprepared, Bourne thought, because the shots had come from the west. The two-man scouting party coming from the east was a feint, part of a hidden pincer movement from both east and west. Bourne now learned something else about Fadi. He had accepted the risk of losing two men in order to ambush the entire party.
More shots were being fired, a veritable fusillade, so that it was impossible to determine how many of Fadi’s men opposed them. Bourne broke away from Zaim and the commander, both of whom were firing back from behind whatever makeshift cover they could find. Heading off to his right, he scrambled up a steep slope, rough enough for him to find hand- and footholds through the snow. He knew it had been a mistake to allow Kabur’s men to come—he didn’t even want Zaim’s assistance—but the culture made it impossible to refuse these gifts.
Reaching a high point, he crawled to the far edge where the wave of rock fell sharply away. From the vantage point he saw four men, carrying rifles and handguns. Even at this distance it was impossible to mistake them for Amhara. They had to be part of Fadi’s terrorist cadre.
The problem now was one of logistics. Armed only with handguns, Bourne was at a distinct disadvantage opposing an enemy with rifles. The only way to negate that was to move into close quarters. This plan had its own dangers, but there was no help for it.
Circling, Bourne came at them from the rear. Very soon he realized that a simple rear assault was out of the question. The terrorists had posted a man to watch their backs. The guard sat on a rock he’d cleared of snow, holding a German-made sniper rifle—a Mauser SP66. It used 7.62 × 51mm ammo and was equipped with a precision Zeiss Diavari telescopic sight. All of this detail was vital to Bourne’s next move. Though the Mauser was an excellent weapon for bringing down a long-range target, it was heavy-barreled and manually bolt-operated. It was a poor weapon if you needed to fire it in a hurry.
He crept within fifteen meters of the man, drew out the curved knife he’d taken off the Amhara soldier. Breaking cover, he stood in full view of the terrorist, who jumped up off the rock, providing Bourne with a maximum target. He was still trying to aim the Mauser when Bourne sent the knife whistling through the air. It struck the man just below the sternum, burying itself to the hilt. The curved blade sliced through tissue and organ alike. Even before the terrorist hit the snow, he was drowning in his own blood.
Bourne retrieved the knife as he stepped over the corpse, wiped the blade in the snow, slipped it into its sheath. Then he took up the Mauser and went in search of a place of concealment.
He heard shots being fired in short and long bursts, like Morse code spelling out the deaths of the combatants. He began to run toward the terrorists’ position, but they had begun to move. He threw down the Mauser, drew out the Makarov.
Breaking out along the high ridge, he saw just below him the commander sprawled in the snow amid a cloud of blood. Then, as he inched forward, two terrorists came into view. He shot one in the heart from the back. The second turned and fired back. Bourne dove behind a rock.
More shots were being fired, ragged bursts, a peppering of sound taken up by the overhang, rocketed back into Bourne’s ears. Bourne rose to his knees and three shots spanged off a nearby rock, sending sparks into the air.
He made a show of moving to his right, drawing fire, then slithered on his belly to his left until one shoulder of the terrorist came into view. Bourne fired twice, heard a grunt of pain. He made a show of rising up, coming forward, and when the terrorist popped up, Makarov aimed directly at him, Bourne shot the man cleanly between the eyes.
Moving on, Bourne searched for the third terrorist. He found him writhing in the snow, one hand clutching his stomach. His eyes flashed as he saw Bourne and, curiously, the ghost of a smile crossed his face. Then, in a final spasm, blood erupted from his mouth and his eyes clouded over.
Bourne ran on, then. Not more than thirty meters along he found Zaim. The Amhara was on his knees. He’d been shot twice in the chest. His eyes were crossed in pain. Nevertheless, as Bourne came to him, he said, “No, leave me. I’m finished.”
“Zaim—”
“Go on. Find your friend. Bring him home.”
“I can’t leave you.”
Zaim arranged his lips in a smile. “You still don’t understand. I have no regrets. Because of you my son will be buried. This is all I ask.”
With a long, rattling sigh, he fell sideways and did not move again.
Bourne approached him at last and, kneeling down, closed his companion’s eyes. Then he went on toward Fadi’s camp. Fifteen minutes later, after wending his way through thickeni
ng stands of firs, he saw it: a military array of tents pitched on a patch of flat ground that had been cleared some time ago, judging by the healed-over tree stumps.
Hunkered down beside the bole of a tree, he studied the camp: nine tents, three cook fires, a latrine. The trouble was that he could see no one. The camp appeared deserted.
He rose, then, and began to make his surveillance circuit around the camp’s periphery. The moment he left the sanctuary of the fir’s low-hanging branches, bullets kicked up snow all around him. He glimpsed at least half a dozen men.
Bourne began to run.
Up here! This way! Quickly!”
Bourne, looking up, saw Alem lying prone on a shelf of snow-laden rock. He found a foothold, vaulted up onto the ledge. Alem slithered back from the edge beside Bourne, who was on his belly, watching Fadi’s men fan out to search for him.
Following Alem’s lead, Bourne pushed himself farther back onto the ledge. When they were far enough to gain their feet, Alem said: “They’ve moved your friend. There are caves beneath the overhang. This is where they’ve taken him.”
“What are you doing here?” Bourne said as they began to climb upward.
“Where is my father? Why isn’t he with you?”
“I’m sorry, Alem. He was shot to death.”
Bourne reached out to the boy, but Alem flinched away. The boy hung off the rock, his gaze turned inward.
“He gave as good as he got, if that makes a difference.” Bourne crouched next to Alem. “He was at peace at the end. I promised to bury your brother.”
“You can do that?”
Bourne nodded. “I think so. Yes.”
Alem’s dark eyes roved over Bourne’s face. Then he nodded and, silently, they resumed their ascent. It had begun to snow again—a heavy white curtain coming down, putting them at a remove from the rest of the world. It also muffled all sound, which was both good for them and bad. While it would hide the sounds of their movement, it would do the same for their pursuers.
Nevertheless, Alem led them on fearlessly. He was using a channel that ran diagonally across the bulge of the overhang. He was sure-footed, didn’t miss a step. Within fifteen minutes, they had gained the top.
The Bourne Betrayal Page 16
