The singsong lilt of Arabic threaded through the darkness beneath the mortuary. Karim’s men were praying, their bodies bowed toward Mecca. From the bottom of the ramp illumination spread upward like the fingers of a hand. Tyrone was wearing sneakers, but Soraya had taken off her shoes to silence her footfalls.
Moving cautiously toward the lower end of the ramp, Soraya and Tyrone peered into the basement. The first thing Soraya saw were the two vehicles they had been following: the white Chevy and the black Ford. Behind them was what looked to be a gleaming black limo. On the left side of the Ford, four men were lined up, kneeling on small prayer rugs, their foreheads to the low nap. To the right was a glass-paned door. Soraya craned her neck but could not get a good angle at which to see through the door’s glass.
They waited. At length, the prayers ended. The men rose, rolled their rugs, and stowed them away. Then the group broke up. Two of the men disappeared up a stainless-steel spiral staircase to the mortuary proper. The remaining pair snapped on latex gloves, opened the Ford’s doors, and proceeded to go over it as thoroughly and meticulously as a professional forensics team.
Soraya, curious about what lay behind the glass-paned door, signed to Tyrone to stay put and cover her, if necessary. He nodded, produced a Saturday-night special, the grips wrapped in black elecrician’s tape, and stepped back into deep shadow. Not for the first time in the last several hours, Soraya felt comforted to have him with her. He was street-savvy, knew the district in far more detail than she did.
Watching the two men examine the Ford, she waited until both their backs were turned to the mouth of the ramp, then ran silently to the door. Twisting the knob, she opened it and slipped through.
At once she was suffused with a deep chill that emanated from the cold rooms where the corpses were kept. She was confronted with a short, wide corridor off which six open doorways presented themselves. Peeking around the corner of the first one, she came upon the bodies of the two men who had attacked her at the construction site. In accordance with austere Saudi Islamic tradition, they had been placed on bare wooden slabs and were draped in the simplest cloth robes. There would be no embalming of these men.
Her heart leapt. The corpses were the first hard evidence she had that Karim was working with a cadre of Dujja terrorists inside the district. How had they all missed this Dujja sleeper cell right under their noses? State-of-the-art surveillance equipment was all well and good, but even the best electronic net couldn’t catch every human being who slipped inside America’s borders.
The second and third rooms she came to were empty, but in the fourth a dark-complected man with his back to her was bent over an embalming table. He wore latex gloves and was using a machine to pump the body laid out on the table with the ghastly pink embalming fluid. He would stop every so often, put aside the probe, then use his hands to knead the fish-white flesh in order to effect the even circulation of fluids through the corpse’s veins and arteries.
As he moved from the corpse’s right side to its left, Soraya was able to see the head, then the face of the deceased. As soon as her brain passed though its shock phase and was able to process the image, she was compelled to bite her lip in order to stop herself from screaming.
No, she thought. Fear and panic fought for dominance inside her. It can’t be.
And yet it was.
Here in the mortuary owned and operated by Dujja was the corpse of the DCI. The Old Man was dead, a bullet hole drilled through his heart.
The moment he had memorized the schematic of the facility affixed to the wall, Bourne ran out of the parking area. At once he saw a group of armed Dujja running his way. Ducking back away from their fire, he climbed into the smallest vehicle. Fortunately it, like all the others, had the key already in it; there was no need to waste time hot-wiring the ignition.
He roared into the corridor, then pressed the accelerator to the floor, shooting the vehicle ahead like a bolt released from a crossbow. It plowed into the clutch of terrorists, flinging them under it or to either side. He sped down the spine of the facility until he came to the freight elevator.
As the doors opened, he drove in, crushing four more armed men. Climbing out, he pushed the button for the lower level. He grabbed one of the semiautomatics as the oversize cab began to descend.
Reaching its destination, the elevator came to a halt, but its doors refused to open. Water was leaking in from the corridor outside. Opening the panel in the side wall, he pressed the manual release. This, too, was inoperative.
Bourne climbed onto the vehicle’s roof. Bracing himself, he slammed the butt of the semiautomatic repeatedly against the small square door in the cab’s roof. Finally it gave. He shoved it out of the way and, slinging the weapon across his back, hoisted himself up. On top of the cab, he knelt down by the side of an oblong control box and opened it. Inside he found the circuit that operated the doors. He took its wires and diverted them to the lift mechanism’s power source. The doors slid open, a heavy slosh of water roiling into the elevator.
Back behind the wheel, he put the vehicle in gear, then screeched out into the waterlogged lower level. He headed toward the nuclear labs, gunning the engine as the water level rose. In a moment it would be high enough to flood the engine. Unless he kept going it would conk out altogether, and his advantage would disappear.
But a moment later, the vehicle’s use ran its course anyway. Dead ahead of him he saw Fadi standing in the center of the corridor, blocking his way. Held in front of him in the crook of Fadi’s powerful left arm was Martin Lindros. In Fadi’s right hand was a Glock 36, the muzzle pressed to Martin’s temple.
“My pursuit of you ends here, Bourne!” Fadi shouted over the roar of the incoming water and the noise of the vehicle’s engine. “Turn off the ignition! Out of the car! Now!”
Bourne did as Fadi ordered. Now, closer, he saw something in Fadi’s right ear. A wireless earpiece. He had been monitoring the communications.
“Get rid of that rifle! All your weapons! Now, keeping your hands where I can see them, walk very slowly toward me.”
Bourne sloshed through the water, his eyes on Martin’s ruined face. His one eye glared at Bourne with a fierce pride. He intuited that Lindros was going to make a move, and wanted to warn him against it; Bourne had his own plan for dealing with Fadi. But Lindros had always wanted to be a hero.
Sure enough, a scalpel appeared in Martin’s left hand. As he drove it into the meat of Fadi’s thigh, Fadi fired the Glock. He’d been aiming for Lindros’s brain, but the stab caused an involuntary spasm of shock and pain so that, instead, the bullet ran along Lindros’s jaw. Still, it was a .45. Martin’s body was launched through the doorway, into the surgery beyond.
Bourne leapt. His leading shoulder struck Fadi in the solar plexus as the terrorist was wrestling the scalpel out of his muscle. Both of them fell backward into the water, now as high as their knees. Bourne got his hand on the Glock and wrestled it upward, so that it fired harmlessly into the air. At the same time Fadi wrenched the scalpel out of his thigh and, seeking to finish what he had started, stabbed it toward Bourne’s left side.
Bourne was ready. He lifted the Glock, and Fadi’s right hand with it, so that the blade skimmed off the gun’s thick barrel. Fadi realized the gun was useless in the water, released it, and, grabbing Bourne by the shirtfront, flipped him over onto his back. Using his right elbow, he kept Bourne’s head under the water while he stabbed downward again and again with the point of the scalpel.
Twisting and writhing his torso, Bourne sought to keep the keen-edged blade away from him. At the same time he reached up so that his hands and forearms were out of the water. Marshaling all the power of his shoulders, he slammed the heels of his hands against Fadi’s ears. The terrorist arched back, his hands clutching his right ear. Bourne’s blow had driven the wireless transceiver through his eardrum, rupturing it and the canal behind it.
Fadi lost the scalpel, then his balance. Bourne, sensing this, scissor-kicked
, twisting himself onto one hip as he did so. The maneuver threw Fadi off far enough for him to rise up above the waterline.
He reached for Fadi. As he did so, he heard a ferocious roar from farther down the corridor. Fadi appeared to be trying to shake off the effects of his ruptured eardrum, blood leaking out of his right ear. Bourne reached for him, felt the bite of Fadi’s serpent-bladed knife as it drew blood along the back of his hand.
Tearing off his belt, Bourne wrapped it around and around his knuckles, using the layers of leather to fend off Fadi’s knife thrusts. Inevitably, however, the struck leather began to come apart. A moment more and he would be defenseless.
The roaring increased to a howl. What was coming? Fadi, seeing his advantage, stepped up his attack with precise swipes, lent unnatural power by his desperation. Bourne was forced back toward the surgery.
Then out of the corner of his eye he saw a blurred movement. Someone had darted from the doorway to the surgery. A woman: Katya. Tears were streaming down her face. Her hands were red with blood—Martin’s blood. It was she who had attempted to escape with Martin. But then Fadi had found them. Why hadn’t Martin led her to shelter as Bourne had warned him to do? Too late now.
“Look what they’ve done to him!” Katya wailed.
Bourne saw something metallic gleaming in her hand.
Wading out into the corridor, Katya came toward him. At that moment the roar reached a fever pitch. Katya turned her head to stare down along the corridor. Bourne, following her gaze, saw a wall of water filling the corridor from floor to ceiling, heading toward them.
Fadi’s knife blade swept across his makeshift shield one last time. All the layers fell away, baring his bloody knuckles.
“Get back!” he shouted to Katya. “Take shelter!”
Instead she continued to wade toward him. But now the water was waist-deep, the rush of it so powerful that she could no longer make headway. Fadi tried for a killing stab, but Bourne kicked out through the rushing water, throwing him off balance. The blade turned; Bourne’s bruised defensive forearm struck the flat of it, sending it up and away.
Katya, realizing she was stymied, tossed the metallic object toward Bourne.
He reached out, caught the metallic implement at its midsection—a Collins twenty-two-centimeter amputating knife. In one smooth motion he reversed it, plunged the wicked blade into the soft spot at the base of Fadi’s throat, then drove it downward through his collarbone, into his chest.
Fadi stared at him, openmouthed. At the moment of his death, he was paralyzed, helpless, without thought. Frozen in time. His eyes, in the process of glazing over, revealed that he was trying to understand something. In this, too, he failed.
The roiling wall of water was almost upon them. There was nothing else Bourne could do except clamber up Fadi’s split upper torso. He locked his curled fingers through the holes in the HVAC vent in the ceiling, levered himself up. Then he reached back for Katya. Afterward, he never knew whether she could have made it to him. She stood there, staring at nothing while he shouted to her.
He was about to go after her when the water struck him with the fury of a giant’s fist, knocking all the breath out of him. Howling like the demon that lived atop Ras Dejen, it ripped Fadi’s corpse from under him and swept Katya into its furious heart. It roared and foamed through the Dujja facility like Noah’s flood, drowning all in its wake, scouring everything clean.
Thirty-seven
THERE WAS in Feyd al-Saoud’s brave heart a rising conviction that one day—not soon, perhaps not even in his lifetime—the war against the tribespeople intent on setting the world on fire in order to destroy his country would be won. It would take great sacrifice, stern conviction, an iron will, as well as unconventional alliances with infidels like Jason Bourne, who had caught a glimpse of the Arab mind and understood what they had witnessed. Most of all, it would take patience and perseverance during the inevitable setbacks. But the reward would be days such as this one.
Having used a second set of C-4 charges to divert the underground river, his men entered the Dujja facility via the blast hole. He stood on the edge of the camouflaged helipad, which looked like the bed of a flat-bottomed well. Above him the opening in the rock widened as it neared the top, which had over it the specially designed camouflage material that made it indistinguishable from the rock around it.
The waters had receded, swallowed at last by the huge drains built into the facility’s lower level.
Directly in front of Feyd al-Saoud, on a raised platform undamaged by the flood, squatted the helicopter meant, he was certain, to take Fadi to his rendezvous with the nuclear device. Another of his men held the pilot under guard.
Though he very much wanted to know how Bourne had made out, he was understandably reluctant to leave the device to anyone else’s care. Besides, the fact that he was standing here, rather than watching the copter lifting off as Fadi made his escape, spoke eloquently of Bourne’s victory. Still, he’d sent his men in to find his friend. He very much wanted to share this moment with him.
However, the individual they brought back was an older man with a high, wide forehead, prominent nose, and steel-rimmed glasses, one lens of which was cracked.
“I ask you for Jason Bourne and you bring me this.” Feyd al-Saoud’s annoyance masked his alarm. Where was Jason? Was he lying injured somewhere in the washed-out bowels of this hellhole? Was he still alive?
“The man says his name is Costin Veintrop,” the team leader said.
Hearing his name amid the blur of fast-paced Arabic, the newcomer said, “Doctor Veintrop.”
He followed this up with something in such poor Arabic as to be incomprehensible.
“Speak English, please,” Feyd al-Saoud said in his impeccably accented British.
Looking visibly relieved, Veintrop said: “Thank God you’re here. My wife and I have been held prisoner.”
Feyd al-Saoud stared at him, mute as the Sphinx.
Veintrop cleared his throat. “Please let me go. I need to find my wife.”
“You tell me you’re Dr. Costin Veintrop. You tell me that you and your wife were being held prisoner here.” Feyd al-Saoud’s growing anxiety as to his friend’s fate was making him ever more testy. “I know who was being held prisoner here, and it wasn’t you.”
Veintrop, properly cowed, turned to the man who’d brought him here. “My wife, Katya, is in the facility. Can you tell me if you’ve found her?”
The group leader, taking his cue from his chief, stared at Veintrop in stony silence.
“Ah, God,” Veintrop moaned, lapsing in shock and worry into his native Romanian. “My God in heaven.”
Completely unmoved, Feyd al-Saoud gave him a look of disdain before turning at the sound of movement behind him.
“Jason!”
At the sight of his friend, he rushed to the entrance of the helipad. With Bourne was another of Feyd al-Saoud’s detachment. They were supporting between them a tall, well-built man whose face and head looked as if they had been put through a meat grinder.
“Allah!” Feyd al-Saoud cried. “Is Fadi dead or alive?”
“Dead,” Bourne said.
“Who is this, Jason?”
“My friend Martin Lindros,” Bourne said.
“Ah, no!” At once, the security chief called for his group surgeon. “Jason, the nuclear device is in the heli. Incredibly, it’s contained within a slim black briefcase. How did Fadi manage that?”
Bourne stared at Veintrop balefully for a moment. “Hello, Dr. Sunderland—or should I say Costin Veintrop.”
Veintrop winced.
Feyd al-Saoud raised his eyebrows. “You know this man?”
“We’ve met once before,” Bourne said. “The doctor is an extremely talented scientist with a number of specialities. Including miniaturization.”
“So he was the one who built the circuits that allowed the nuke to fit into the briefcase.” Feyd al-Saoud’s expression was dark, indeed. “He claimed that h
e and his wife were prisoners.”
“I was a prisoner,” Veintrop insisted. “You don’t understand, I—”
“Now you know about him.” Bourne talked over his response. “As for his wife—”
“Where is she?” Veintrop gasped. “Do you know? I want my Katya!”
“Katya is dead.” Bourne said this bluntly, almost brutally. He had no sympathy to spend on the man who had connived with Fadi and Karim to destroy him from the inside out. “She saved me. I tried to save her, but the wall of water took her.”
“That’s a lie!” Veintrop, white-faced, fairly shouted. “You have her! You have her!”
Bourne grabbed him and took him into the chamber from which he’d first come. In the aftermath of the deluge, the Saudi team was lining up the corpses they’d found. Next to Fadi’s was Katya’s. Her head lay at an unnatural angle.
Veintrop gave out a low moan that seemed almost inhuman. Bourne, watching him sink to his knees, felt a pang for the beautiful young woman who had sacrificed herself so that he could kill Fadi. She had wanted Fadi’s death, it seemed, as much as he did.
His gaze slid over to Fadi. The eyes, still open, seemed to stare at Bourne with a hateful fury. Bourne took out his cell. Crouched down, he took several shots of Fadi’s face. When he was finished, he rose and dragged Veintrop back to the helipad.
Bourne addressed Feyd al-Saoud. “Is the pilot inside the heli?”
The security chief nodded. “He’s under guard.” He pointed. “And here is the case.”
“Are you certain that is the device?” Veintrop said.
Feyd al-Saoud looked to his expert, who nodded. “I’ve opened the case. It’s a nuclear bomb, all right.”
“Well, then,” Veintrop said with an oddly vibrant note to his voice, “I’d open it again if I were you. Perhaps you haven’t seen everything inside.”
The Bourne Betrayal Page 47
