The Bourne Legacy

by Robert Ludlum

  “The history of Kenya is long and bloody, Mr. President. I am a firm believer that it is in history we learn all our most important lessons.”

  Jomo nodded. “I concur, sir. And I feel compelled to reiterate that I cannot imagine what state the Republic would be in without your doctors and their vaccines.”

  “There is no vaccine against AIDS.” Spalko’s voice was gentle but firm. “Modern medicine can curtail the suffering and deaths from the disease with drug cocktails, but as for its spread, only the stringent application of contraceptives or abstinence will be effective.”

  “Of course, of course.” Jomo wiped his lips fastidiously. He detested coming hat in hand to this man who had already so generously extended his help to all Kenyans, but what choice did he have? The AIDS epidemic was decimating the Republic. His people were suffering, dying. “What we need, sir, is more of the drugs. You have done much to alleviate the level of suffering in my country. But there are thousands yet to receive your help.”

  “Mr. President.” Spalko leaned forward, and with him, Jomo as well. His head was now in the sunlight streaming in through the high windows, lending him an almost preternatural glow. The light also threw into prominence the shiny poreless skin on the left side of his face. This accentuation of his disfigurement served to provide a slight shock to Jomo, jolting him out of his predetermined pattern. “Humanistas, Ltd. is prepared to return to Kenya with twice the number of doctors, double the amount of drugs. But you—the government—must do your part.”

  It was at this point that Jomo realized that Spalko was asking of him something quite apart from promoting safe-sex lectures and distributing condoms. Abruptly, he turned, dismissing his two bodyguards from the room. When the door had closed behind them, he said, “An unfortunate necessity in these dangerous times, sir, but even so one sometimes wearies of never being alone.”

  Spalko smiled. His knowledge of Kenyan history and tribal customs made it impossible for him to take the president lightly, as others might. Jomo’s need might be great, but one never wanted to take advantage of him. The Kikuyu were prideful people, an attribute made all the more important since it was more or less the only thing of value they possessed.

  Spalko leaned over, opened a humidor, offered a Cuban Cohiba to Jomo, took one himself. They rose, lighting their cigars, walked across the carpet to stand at the window, looking out at the tranquil Danube sparkling in the sunlight.

  “A most beautiful setting,” Spalko said conversationally.

  “Indeed,” Jomo affirmed.

  “And so serene.” Spalko let go a blue cloud of aromatic smoke. “Difficult to come to terms with the amount of suffering in other parts of the world.” He turned then to Jomo. “Mr. President, I would consider it a great personal favor if you would grant me seven days’ unlimited access to Kenyan airspace.”

  “Unlimited?”

  “Coming and going, landings and such. No customs, immigration, inspections, nothing to slow us down.”

  Jomo made a show of considering. He puffed some on his Cohiba, but Spalko could tell that he was not enjoying himself. “I can grant you only three,” Jomo said at length. “Longer than that will cause tongues to wag.”

  “That will have to do, Mr. President.” Three days was all Spalko had wanted. He could have insisted on the seven days, but that would have stripped Jomo of his pride. A stupid and possibly costly mistake, considering what was to happen. In any event, he was in the business of promoting goodwill, not resentment. He held out his hand and Jomo slipped his dry, heavily calloused hand into his. Spalko liked that hand; it was a hand of a manual laborer, someone who was not afraid to get dirty.

  After Jomo and his entourage had left, it was time to give an orientation tour to Ethan Hearn, the new employee. Spalko could have delegated the orientation to any one of a number of assistants, but he prided himself on personally making sure all his new employees were settled. Hearn was a bright young spark who had previously worked at the Eurocenter Bio-I Clinic on the other side of the city. He was a highly successful fund-raiser and was well connected among the rich and elite of Europe. Spalko found him to be articulate, personable and empathetic—in short, a born humanitarian, just the sort he needed to maintain the stellar reputation of Humanistas, Ltd. Besides which, he genuinely liked Hearn. He reminded him of himself when he was young, before the incident that had burned off half the skin of his face

  He took Hearn through the seven floors of offices, comprising laboratories, departments devoted to compiling the statistics the development people used in fund-raising, the lifeblood of organizations such as Humanistas, Ltd., as well as accounting, procurement, human resources, travel, the maintenance of the company’s fleets of private jets, transport planes, ships and helicopters. The last stop was the development department, where Hearn’s new office awaited him. At the moment, the office stood empty save for a desk, swivel chair, computer and phone console.

  “The rest of your furniture,” Spalko told him, “will be arriving in a few days.”

  “No problem, sir. A computer and phones are all I really need.”

  “A warning,” Spalko added. “We keep long hours here, and there will be times you’ll be expected to work through the night. But we’re not inhuman. The sofa we provide folds out into a bed.”

  Hearn smiled. “Not to worry, Mr. Spalko. I’m quite used to those hours.”

  “Call me Stepan.” Spalko gripped the younger man’s hand. “Everyone else does.”

  The Director of Central Intelligence was soldering the arm on a painted tin soldier—a British redcoat from the Revolutionary War—when the call came. At first he considered ignoring it, perversely letting the phone ring even though he knew who would be on the other end of the line. Perhaps, he thought, this was because he did not want to hear what the Deputy Director would have to say. Lindros believed the DCI had dispatched him to the crime scene because of the importance of the dead men to the Agency. This was true, as far as it went. The real reason, however, was that the DCI couldn’t bear to go himself. The thought of seeing Alex Conklin’s dead face was too much for him.

  He was sitting on a stool in his basement workshop, a tiny, enclosed, perfectly ordered environment of stacked drawers, aligned cubbyholes, a world unto itself, a place his wife—and his children when they had lived at home—were forbidden to enter.

  His wife, Madeleine, poked her head through the open door to the cellar. “Kurt, the phone,” she said needlessly.

  He took an arm out of the wooden bin of soldier parts, studied it. He was a large-headed man, but a mane of white hair combed back from his wide, domed forehead lent him the aspect of a wiseman, if not a prophet. His cool blue eyes were still as calculating as ever, but the lines at the corners of his mouth had deepened, pulling them down into something of a perpetual pout.

  “Kurt, do you hear me?”

  “I am not deaf.” The fingers at the end of the arm were slightly cupped as if the hand was preparing to reach out for something unnameable and unknown.

  “Well, are you going to answer it?” Madeleine called down.

  “Whether I answer it or not is none of your goddamn business!” he shouted with vehemence. “Will you go to bed now.” A moment later he heard the satisfying whisper of the basement door closing. Why couldn’t she leave him alone at a time like this? he fumed. Thirty years married, you’d think she’d know better.

  He returned to his work, fitting the arm with the cupped hand to the shoulder of the torso, red to red, deciding on the final position. This was how the DCI dealt with situations over which he had no control. He played god with his miniature soldiers, buying them, cutting them to pieces, then, later, reconstructing them, molding them into the positions that suited him. Here, in the world he himself had created, he controlled everyone and everything.

  The phone continued to ring in its mechanical, monotonous fashion and the DCI gritted his teeth, as if the sound was abrasive. What marvelous deeds had been accomplished in the da
ys when he and Alex had been young! The mission inside Russia when they had almost landed in the Lubyanka, running the Berlin Wall, extracting secrets from the Staasi, vetting the defector from the KGB in the Vienna safe house, discovering that he was a double. The killing of Bernd, their longtime contact, the compassion with which they had told his wife that they would take care of Bernd’s son Dieter, take him back to America, put him through college. They had done precisely that and had been rewarded for their generosity. Dieter had never returned to his mother. Instead, he had joined the Agency, had for many years been the director of the Science & Technology Directorate until the fatal motorcycle accident.

  Where had that life gone? Laid to rest in Bernd’s grave, and Dieter’s—now Alex’s. How had it been reduced so quickly to flashpoints in his memory? Time and responsibilities had crippled him, no question. He was an old man now, in some respects with more power, yes, but the daring deeds of yesterday, the elan with which he and Alex had bestrode the secret world, changing the fate of nations, had burned to ash, never to return.

  The DCI’s fist hammered the tin soldier into a cripple. Then and only then did he pick up the phone.

  “Yes, Martin.”

  There was a weariness in his voice Lindros picked up on immediately. “Are you all right, sir?”

  “No, I fucking well am not all right!” This was what the DCI had wanted. Another opportunity to vent his anger and frustration. “How could I be all right given the circumstances?”

  “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “No, you’re not,” the DCI said waspishly. “You couldn’t be. You have no idea.” He stared at the soldier he had crushed, his mind hounded by past glories. “What is it you want?”

  “You asked for an update, sir.”

  “Did I?” The DCI rested his head in his hand. “Yes, I suppose I did. What have you found?”

  “The third car in Conklin’s driveway belongs to David Webb.”

  The DCI’s keen ear responded to a tone in Lindros’ voice. “But?”

  “But there’s no sign of Webb.”

  “Of course there isn’t.”

  “He was definitely there, though. We gave the dogs a sniff at the interior of his car. They found his scent on the property and followed it into the woods but lost it at a stream.”

  The DCI closed his eyes. Alexander Conklin and Morris Panov shot to death, Jason Bourne MIA and on the loose five days before the terrorism summit, the most important international meeting of the century. He shuddered. He abhorred loose ends, but not nearly as much as Roberta Alonzo-Ortiz, the National Security Advisor, and these days she was running the show. “Ballistics? Forensics?”

  “Tomorrow morning,” Lindros said. “That was as much as I could push them.”

  “As far as the FBI and other law-enforcement agencies—”

  “I’ve already neutralized them. We have a clear field.”

  The DCI sighed. He appreciated the DDCI’s initiative, but he despised being interrupted. “Get back to work,” he said gruffly, and cradled the receiver.

  For a long time afterward, he stared into the wooden bin, listening to the house breathing. It sounded like an old man. Boards creaked, familiar as an old friend’s voice. Madeleine must be making herself a cup of hot chocolate, her traditional sleep aid. He heard the neighbor’s corgi bark, and for some reason he could not fathom, it seemed a mournful sound, full of sorrow and failed hope. At length, he reached into the bin, picked out a torso in Civil War gray, a new tin soldier to create.

  Chapter Four

  “Must’ve been some accident, by the look of you,” Jack Kerry said.

  “Not really, just a flat,” Bourne replied easily. “But I didn’t have a spare, and then I tripped on something—a tree root, I think. I took quite a tumble into the stream.” He made a deprecating gesture. “I’m not exactly well coordinated.”

  “Join the crew,” Kerry said. He was a large, rawboned man with a double chin and too much fat around his middle. He had picked Bourne up a mile back. “One time my wife asked me to run the dishwasher, I filled it up with Tide. Jesus, you should’ve seen the mess!” He laughed good-naturedly.

  The night was pitch-dark, no moon or stars. A soft drizzle had begun and Kerry put on the windshield wipers. Bourne shivered a little in his damp clothes. He knew he had to focus, but every time he closed his eyes he saw images of Alex and Mo; he saw blood seeping, bits of skull and brain. His fingers curled, hands tightening into fists.

  “So what is it you do, Mr. Little?”

  Bourne had given his name as Dan Little when Kerry introduced himself. Kerry, it appeared, was an old-style gentleman who put great store in the niceties of convention.

  “I’m an accountant.”

  “I design nuclear waste facilities, myself. Travel far and wide, yessir.” Kerry gave him a sideways glance, light spinning off his glasses. “Hell, you don’t look like an accountant, you don’t mind me saying.”

  Bourne forced himself to laugh. “Everyone says that. I played football in college.”

  “Haven’t let yourself go to seed like many ex-athletes,” Kerry observed. He patted his rotund abdomen. “Not like me. Except I never was an athlete. I tried once. Never knew which way to run. Got screamed at by the coach. And then I got tackled good.” He shook his head. “That was enough for me. I’m a lover, not a fighter.” He glanced at Bourne again. “You got a family, Mr. Little?”

  Bourne hesitated a moment. “A wife and two children.”

  “Happy, are ya?”

  A wedge of black trees hurried by, a telephone pole leaning into the wind, a shack abandoned, draped with thorny creeper, returned to the wild. Bourne closed his eyes. “Very happy.”

  Kerry manhandled the car around a sweeping curve. One thing you could say about him—he was an excellent driver. “Me, I’m divorced. That was a bad one. My wife left me with my three-year-old in tow. That was ten years ago.” He frowned. “Or is it eleven? Anyway, I haven’t seen or heard from either her or the boy since.”

  Bourne’s eyes snapped open. “You haven’t been in touch with your son?”

  “It’s not that I haven’t tried.” There was a querulous note to Kerry’s voice as he turned defensive. “For a while, I called every week, sent him letters, money, you know, for things he might like, a bike and such. Never heard a word back.”

  “Why didn’t you go to see him?”

  Kerry shrugged. “I finally got the message—he didn’t want to see me.”

  “That was your wife’s message,” Bourne said. “Your son’s only a child. He doesn’t know what he wants. How can he? He hardly knows you.”

  Kerry grunted. “Easy for you to say, Mr. Little. You’ve got a warm hearth, a happy family to go home to every night.”

  “It’s precisely because I have children that I know how precious they are,” Bourne said. “If it was my son, I’d fight tooth and nail to know him and to get him back into my life.”

  They were coming to a more populated area now, and Bourne saw a motel, a strip of closed stores. In the distance, he could see a red flash, then another. There was a roadblock up ahead and, by the look of it, a major one. He counted eight cars in all, in two ranks of four each, turned at forty-five degrees to the highway in order to afford their occupants the greatest protection while allowing the cars to quickly close ranks if need be. Bourne knew he couldn’t allow himself to get anywhere near the roadblock, not, at least, sitting in plain view. He would have to find some other way to get through it.

  All at once, the neon sign of an all-night convenience store loomed out of the darkness.

  “I think this is as far as I’ll go.”

  “You sure, Mr. Little? It’s still pretty desolate out here.”

  “Don’t worry about me. I’ll just have my wife come and pick me up. We don’t live far from here.”

  “Then I should take you all the way home.”

  “I’ll be fine here. Really.”

  Kerry pulled over and slowed to a s
top just past the convenience store. Bourne got out.

  “Thanks for the lift.”

  “Any time.” Kerry smiled. “And, Mr. Little, thanks for the advice. I’ll think on what you said.”

  Bourne watched Kerry drive off, then he turned and walked into the convenience store. The ultra-bright fluorescent lights made his eyes burn. The attendant, a pimply-faced young man with long hair and bloodshot eyes, was smoking a cigarette and reading a paperback book. He looked up briefly as Bourne entered, nodded disinterestedly and went back to his reading. Somewhere a radio was on; someone was singing “Yesterday’s Gone,” in a world-weary, melancholy voice. She might have been singing it for Bourne.

  One look at the shelves reminded him that he hadn’t eaten since lunch. He grabbed a plastic jar of peanut butter, a box of crackers, some beef jerky, orange juice and water. Protein and vitamins were what he needed. He also purchased a T-shirt, a long-sleeved striped shirt, razor and shaving cream, other items he knew from long experience he would need.

  Bourne approached the counter, and the attendant put down the dog-eared book he had been reading. Dhalgren by Samuel R. Delany. Bourne remembered reading it just after he returned from Nam, a book as hallucinatory as the war. Fragments of his life came hurtling back—the blood, the death, the rage, the reckless killing, all to blot out the excruciating, never-ending pain of what had happened in the river just outside his house in Phnom Penh. “You’ve got a warm hearth, a happy family to go home to every night,” Kerry had said. If only he knew.

  “Anything else?” the pimply-faced young man said.

  Bourne blinked, returning to the present. “Do you have an electrical charger for a cell phone?”

  “Sorry, bud, all out.”

  Bourne paid for his purchases in cash, took possession of the brown paper bag and left. Ten minutes later he walked onto the motel grounds. There were few cars. A tractor-trailer was parked at one end of the motel, a refrigerated truck, by the look of the compressor squatting on its top. Inside the office a spindly man with the gray face of an undertaker shuffled out from behind a desk in the rear, where he’d been watching an ancient portable black-and-white TV. Bourne checked in using another assumed name, paying for the room in cash. He was left with precisely sixty-seven dollars.