That water! Sometimes, even now, Zina would awake, gagging, with its foul turpentine taste in her mouth.
One night her mother sat down and did not get up. She was twenty-eight but looked more than twice that age. From the constantly burning oil fires, her lungs were full of tar. When Zina’s younger brother had complained of thirst, the old woman had looked at Zina and said, “I can’t get up. Even for our water. I can’t go on….”
Zina rolled and, twisting her torso, turned off the lamp. The moon, previously unseen, filled the casement of the window. At the point where her upper torso dipped down to her narrow waist, a small pool of its cool light fell upon the bed, illuminating the tip of her breast, below which, under the deep curve, lay Hasan’s hand. Outside that pool there was only darkness.
For a long time she lay with her eyes open, listening to Hasan’s regular breathing, waiting for sleep to claim her. Who knew the meaning of fear better than Chechens? she wondered. In Hasan’s face was written the lamentable history of their people. Never mind death, never mind ruin, there was only one outcome that he could see: vindication for Chechnya. And with a heart made heavy by despair, Zina knew that the attention of the world needed to be snapped into focus. These days, there was only one way to do that. She knew Hasan was right: Death had to come in a manner heretofore unthinkable, but what price they might all pay she could not begin to imagine.
Chapter Eight
Jacques Robbinet liked to spend mornings with his wife, drinking café au lait, reading the papers and talking with her about the economy, their children and the state of their friends’ lives. They never spoke about his work.
He made it a strict rule never to come into the office before noon. Once there, he spent an hour or so scanning documents, interdepartmental memos and the like, writing e-mail responses when necessary. His phone was answered by his assistant, who logged calls and brought him messages deemed urgent by her. In this, as in all things she did for Robbinet, she was exemplary. She had been trained by him and her instincts were unerring.
Best of all, she was utterly discreet. This meant that Robbinet could tell her where he was lunching each day with his mistress—be it a quiet bistro or the mistress’s apartment in the fourth arrondissement. This was crucial, since Robbinet took long lunches, even by French standards. He rarely returned to the office before four, but he was often at his desk until well past midnight, in signals with his counterparts in America. Robbinet’s official title might be Minister of Culture, but in fact he was a spy at such a high level that he reported directly to the French president.
On this particular evening, however, he was out to dinner, the afternoon having proved so tiresomely hectic he’d had to postpone his daily tryst until late in the evening. There was a flap that concerned him greatly. A worldwide sanction had been routed to him by his American friends, and as he read it, his blood had run cold, for the target for termination was Jason Bourne.
Some years ago Robbinet had met Bourne at, of all places, a spa. Robbinet had booked a weekend at the spa just outside Paris so that he could be with his then-mistress, a tiny thing with enormous appetites. She had been a ballet dancer; Robbinet still recalled with great fondness the marvelous suppleness of her body. In any event, they had met in the steam room and they had gotten to talking. Eventually, in a most unsettling manner, he was to discover that Bourne had been there looking for a certain double agent. Having ferreted her out, he had killed her while Robbinet was getting a treatment—green mud, if memory served. Good thing, too, since the double agent was posing as Robbinet’s therapist in order to assassinate him. Is there any place where one is more vulnerable than on a therapist’s table? Robbinet wondered. What could he do after that, except take Bourne out to a lavish dinner. That night, over foie gras, veal kidneys in mustard-spiked jus and tarte Tatin, all washed down with three magnificent bottles of the finest ruby Bordeaux, having uncovered each other’s secrets, they became fast friends.
It was through Bourne that Robbinet had met Alexander Conklin and had become Conklin’s conduit to the operations of the Quai d’Orsay and Interpol.
In the end, Robbinet’s trust in his assistant was Jason Bourne’s good fortune, for it was over café and thoroughly decadent millefeuille at Chez Georges with Delphine that he received the call from her. He loved the restaurant for both its food and its location. Because it was across the street from the Bourse—the French equivalent of the New York Stock Exchange—it was frequented by brokers and businessmen, people far more discreet than the gossiping politicians with whom Robbinet was, from time to time, obliged to rub elbows.
“There’s someone on the line,” his assistant said in his ear. Thankfully, she monitored his after-hours calls from home. “He says it’s urgent he speak with you.”
Robbinet smiled at Delphine. His mistress was an elegant, mature beauty whose looks were diametrically opposed to those of his wife of thirty years. They had been having a most delightful conversation about Aristide Maillot, whose voluptuous nudes graced the Tuilleries, and Jules Massenet, whose opera Manon they both thought overrated. Really, he could not understand the American male obsession with girls scarcely out of their teens. The thought of taking as a mistress someone his daughter’s age seemed frightful to him, not to mention pointless. What on earth would there be to talk about over café and millefeuille? “Has he given you his name?” he said into the phone.
“Yes. Jason Bourne.”
Robbinet’s pulse started to pound. “Put him through,” he said immediately. Then, because it was inexcusable to speak on the phone for any length of time in front of one’s mistress, he excused himself, went outside into the fine mist of the Parisian evening and waited for the sound of his old friend’s voice.
“My dear Jason. How long has it been?”
Bourne’s spirits rose the moment he heard Jacques Robbinet’s voice booming through his cell phone. At last the voice of someone inside who wasn’t—he hoped!—trying to kill him. He was barreling down the Capital Beltway in another car he had stolen on his way to meet Deron.
“To tell you the truth, I don’t know.”
“It’s been years, can you believe it?” Robbinet said. “But, really, I must tell you that I’ve kept track of you through Alex.”
Bourne, who’d felt some initial trepidation, now began to relax. “Jacques, you’ve heard about Alex.”
“Yes, mon ami. The American DCI has sent out a worldwide sanction on you. But I don’t believe a word of it. You couldn’t possibly have murdered Alex. Do you know who did?”
“I’m trying to find out. All I know for certain at the moment is that someone named Khan may be involved.”
The silence at the other end of the line went on so long that Bourne was forced to say, “Jacques? Are you there?”
“Yes, mon ami. You startled me, that’s all.” Robbinet took a deep breath. “This Khan, he is known to us. He’s a professional assassin of the first rank. We ourselves know that he’s been responsible for over a dozen high-level hits worldwide.”
“Whom does he target?”
“Mainly politicians—the president of Mali, for instance—but also from time to time prominent business leaders. As far as we’ve been able to determine, he’s neither political nor an ideologue. He takes the commissions strictly for money. He believes in nothing but that.”
“The most dangerous kind of assassin.”
“Of that there can be no doubt, mon ami,” Robbinet said. “Do you suspect him of murdering Alex?”
“It’s possible,” Bourne said. “I encountered him at Alex’s estate just after I found the bodies. It might have been he who called the police because they showed up while I was still in the house.”
“A classic setup,” Robbinet concurred.
Bourne was silent for a moment, his mind filled with Khan, who could have shot him dead on campus or, later, from his vantage point in the willow. The fact that he didn’t told Bourne a great deal. This apparently wasn’t a normal comm
ission for Khan; his stalking was personal, a vendetta of some sort that must have had its origins in the jungles of Southeast Asia. The most logical assumption was that Bourne had killed Khan’s father. Now the son was out for revenge. Why else would he be obsessed with Bourne’s family? Why else would he ask about Bourne abandoning Jamie? This theory fit the circumstances perfectly.
“What else can you tell me about Khan?” Bourne said now.
“Very little,” Robbinet replied, “other than his age, which is twenty-seven.”
“He looks younger than that,” Bourne mused. “Also, he’s part Asian.”
“Rumor is he’s half-Cambodian, but you know how reliable rumors can be.”
“And the other half?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. He’s a loner, no known vices, residence unknown. He burst on the scene six years ago, killing the prime minister of Sierra Leone. Before that, it’s as if he didn’t exist.”
Bourne checked his rear-view mirror. “So he made his first official kill when he was twenty-one.”
“Some coming-out party, eh?” Robbinet said dryly. “Listen, Jason, about this man Khan, I can’t overemphasize how dangerous he is. If he’s involved in any way, you must use extreme caution.”
“You sound frightened, Jacques.”
“I am, mon ami. Where Khan is concerned, there’s no shame in it. You should be, too. A healthy dose of fear makes one cautious, and believe me, now is a time for caution.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Bourne said. He maneuvered through traffic, looking for the right exit. “Alex was working on something, and I think he was killed because of it. You don’t know anything about what he was involved with, do you?”
“I saw Alex here in Paris perhaps six months ago. We had dinner. My impression was that he was terribly preoccupied. But you know Alex, always secretive as the tomb.” Robbinet sighed. “His death is a terrible loss for all of us.”
Bourne turned off the Beltway at the Route 123 exit, drove to Tysons Corner. “Does ‘NX 20’ mean anything to you?”
“That’s all you have? NX 20?”
He drove to the Tysons Corner center parking terrace C. “More or less. Look up a name: Dr. Felix Schiffer.” He spelled it out. “He works for DARPA.”
“Ah, now you have given me something useful. Let me see what I can do.”
Bourne gave him his cell phone number as he exited the car. “Listen, Jacques, I’m on my way to Budapest but I’m just about out of cash.”
“No problem,” Robbinet said. “Shall we use our same arrangement?”
Bourne had no idea what that was. He had no choice but to agree.
“Bon. How much?”
He went up the escalator, past Aviary Court. “A hundred thousand should do it. I’ll be staying at the Danubius Grand Hotel under Alex’s name. Mark the packet ‘Hold for Arrival.’”
“Mais oui, Jason. It will be done just as you wish. Is there any other assistance I can provide?”
“Not at the moment.” Bourne saw Deron up ahead, standing outside a store called Dry Ice. “Thanks for everything, Jacques.”
“Remember caution, mon ami,” Robbinet said before signing off. “With Khan in the field, anything can happen.”
Deron had spotted Bourne and began walking at a slower pace so Bourne could catch up to him. He was a slight man with skin the color of cocoa, a chiseled, high-cheekboned face and eyes that flashed his keen intelligence. With his lightweight coat, smartly tailored suit and gleaming leather attaché case, he looked every inch the businessman. He smiled as they walked side by side through the mall.
“It’s good to see you, Jason.”
“Too bad the circumstances are so dire.”
Deron laughed. “Hell, when disaster strikes is the only time I see you!”
While they spoke, Bourne was gauging sight lines, assessing escape routes, checking faces.
Deron unlocked his briefcase, handed Bourne a slim packet. “Passport and contacts.”
“Thanks.” Bourne put the packet away. “I’ll get payment to you within the week.”
“Whenever.” Deron waved a long-fingered artist’s hand. “Your credit is good with me.” He handed Bourne another item. “Dire situations require extreme measures.”
Bourne held the gun in his hand. “What is this made of? It’s so light.”
“Ceramic and plastic. Something I’ve been working on for a couple of months now,” Deron said with no little pride. “Not useful for distance but spot-on at close range.”
“Plus, it won’t be picked up at the airport,” Bourne said.
Deron nodded. “Ammo, as well.” He handed Bourne a small cardboard box. “Plastic-tipped ceramic, makes up for the small caliber. Another plus, look here, see these vents on the barrel—they dissipate the noise of percussion. The firing makes almost no sound.”
Bourne frowned. “Doesn’t that cut down on the stopping power?”
Deron laughed. “Old school ballistics, m’man. Believe me, you take someone down with this, they stay down.”
“Deron, you’re a man of unusual talents.”
“Hey, I gotta be me.” The forger sighed deeply. “Copying the Old Masters has its charm, I suppose. You cannot believe how much I’ve learned studying their techniques. On the other hand, the world you opened up to me—a world no one else here in this entire mall but us knows exists—now that is what I call excitement.” A wind had come up, a damp harbinger of change, and he raised the collar of his coat against it. “I admit I once harbored a secret desire to market some of my more unusual products to people like you.” He shook his head. “But no more. What I do now on the side, I do for fun.”
Bourne saw a man in a trench coat stop in front of a store window to light up a cigarette. He was still standing there, seemingly gazing at the shoes on display. The trouble was, they were women’s shoes. Bourne gave a hand signal and they both turned to their left, walking away from the shoe store. In a moment Bourne used the available reflective surfaces to glance behind them. The man in the trench coat was nowhere to be seen.
Bourne hefted the gun, which seemed light as air. “How much?” he said.
Deron shrugged. “It’s a prototype. Let’s say this, you name the price based on its use to you. I trust you’ll be fair.”
When Ethan Hearn had first come to Budapest, it had taken him some time to get used to the fact that Hungarians were as literal as they were deliberate. Accordingly, the bar Underground was situated in Pest at 30 Teréz Körúta, in a cellar beneath a cinema. Being below a movie theater also adhered to the Hungarian idiosyncrasy, for Underground was an homage to the well-known Hungarian film by Emir Kusticura of the same name. As far as Hearn was concerned, the bar was postmodern in the ugliest sense of the word. Steel beams were visible across the ceiling, interspersed with a line of gigantic factory fans that blew the smoke-thickened air down around the drinking and dancing denizens. But what Hearn liked least about Underground was the music—a loud and cacophonous mixture of aggrieved garage rock and sweaty funk.
Oddly, László Molnar did not seem to mind. In fact, he appeared to want to stay out among the hip-swaying crowd, as if reluctant to return home. There was something brittle about his manner, Hearn thought, in his quick abrasive laugh, the way his eyes roamed the room, never alighting on anything or anyone for long, as if he carried a dark and corrosive secret close under his skin. Hearn’s occupation caused him to run up against a great deal of money. He wondered, not for the first time, whether so much wealth could have a ruinous effect on the human psyche. Perhaps this was the reason he had never aspired to riches.
Molnar insisted on ordering for both of them, a nastily sweet cocktail called a Causeway Spray that involved whiskey, ginger ale, Triple Sec and lemon. They found a table in a corner where Hearn could barely see the small menu and continued their discussion of opera, which, given the venue, seemed absurd.
It was after his second drink that Hearn spotted Spalko, standing in the haze at th
e rear of the club. His boss caught his eye, and Hearn excused himself. Two men were loitering near Spalko. They did not look as if they belonged at Underground, but then, Hearn told himself, neither did he or László Molnar. Spalko led him down a dim corridor lit with pin lights like stars. He opened a narrow door into what Hearn imagined was the manager’s office. No one was inside.
“Good evening, Ethan.” Spalko smiled as he closed the door behind them. “It appears you have lived up to your billing. Well done!”
“Thank you, sir.”
“And now,” Spalko said with great bonhomie, “it is time for me to take over.”
Hearn could hear the bone-jarring thump of the electronic bass through the walls. “Don’t you think I ought to stay around long enough to introduce you?”
“Not necessary, I assure you. Time for you to get some rest.” He looked at his watch. “In fact, given the late hour, why don’t you take tomorrow off.”
Hearn bridled. “Sir, I couldn’t—”
Spalko laughed. “You can, Ethan, and you will.”
“But you told me in no uncertain terms—”
“Ethan, I have the power to make policy and I have the power to make exceptions to it. When your sleeper-sofa arrives, you can do what you want, but tomorrow you have off.”
“Yes, sir.” The young man ducked his head, grinning sheepishly. He hadn’t had a day off in three years. A morning in bed with nothing to do but read the paper, spread orange marmalade on his toast, sounded like heaven to him. “Thank you. I am most grateful.”
“Go on, then. By the time you’re back in the office, I’ll have read and made suggestions on your pitch letter.” He guided Hearn out of the overheated office. When he saw the young man mount the steps to the front door, he nodded to the two men flanking him and they set off through the frenetic hubbub of the bar.
László Molnar had begun peering through the fog of smoke and colored lights for his new friend. When Hearn had gotten up, he had been engrossed in the gyrating backside of a young girl in a short skirt, but he’d finally noticed that Hearn had been gone longer than expected. Molnar was taken aback when instead of Hearn the two men sat down on either side of him.
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