Bourne 7 – The Bourne Deception jb-7

by Robert Ludlum

  Risking a glance behind him, he saw he‘d failed to lose the Indonesian; he came roaring at them unabated, unfazed by the downed laundry. Bourne with a burst of speed lengthened the distance between him and his pursuer enough to make a sharp U-turn, reversing course to make a run past the small man and out of the village. But once again, the Indonesian seemed unsurprised, almost as if he were expecting this tactic. He pulled up, drew his gun, and fired, forcing Bourne to whirl the motorbike back the way he had been going, even as a second shot passed just wide of his left shoulder. Bourne kept going in the only direction open to him, continued on over the bumpy packed dirt and stone ramps, away from his dogged pursuer.

  Leonid Arkadin, lost in the dappled shadows of the forest, heard the roar of the engines over the measured chanting that came from inside the walls of the temple over which, from his position, he had a perfect view. He raised the Parker Hale M85 so the stock fit comfortably to his shoulder and sighted down the Schmidt amp; Bender scope.

  He was calm now, his anxiety replaced by a curious and cunning fire that burned away all thought extraneous to his purpose, leaving his mind as clear as the sky above him, as still as the forest within which he was nestled like an adder in a tree, waiting patiently for its prey. He‘d planned well, using the local Indonesian as a hunter will use a beater to stalk the prey, moving it ever closer to where the hunter has hidden himself.

  All at once a motorbike emerged into the temple clearing, and Arkadin breathed deeply as he centered Bourne in his sights. And in that moment the outline of Bourne‘s body became keenly defined, like vapor condensing into the poisoned nectar of revenge.

  Bourne and Moira broke out into a perfectly still clearing in which were set three temples-a large one in the center, two smaller ones on either side. There was no sound except the rhythmic throb of the motorbike‘s engine. Then, hearing chanting from inside the walls of the center temple, Bourne pulled up.

  In that moment Arkadin, settling himself on the nearly horizontal branch of a tree, pulled the trigger, and Bourne was blown backward off the motorbike. Moira screamed.

  Throwing aside the rifle and drawing a wicked-looking hunting knife with a serrated blade, Arkadin jumped to the ground and raced toward the kill site in order to slit Bourne‘s throat and ensure his death. But his progress was impeded by a herd of cows. Following them were women with offerings of fruit and flowers on their heads, and behind them came the town‘s children in a ceremonial procession, moving toward the temple. Arkadin tried to get around them, but one of the cows, disturbed by his frantic movements, turned in his direction. It shook its long, sharp horns and at once the procession froze as if in midstep. Heads turned and all eyes were on him, and with one last look at Bourne‘s bloody body, he vanished back into the jungle.

  The celebrants rushed toward Bourne, spilling their offerings across the sparse grass where he lay on his back in the dirt. He tried to get up, failed. Moira knelt over him, and he pulled her down so her ear was against his mouth. Blood had soaked the front of his shirt, and now trickled darkly into the earth.

  Book One

  1

  Three Months Later

  IN AN UPPER-CLASS SUBURB of Munich, two young bodyguards with gimlet eyes and holstered 9mm Glocks in their armpits flanked a thin, hyperactive man as he emerged from a house. An older man with dark skin and grave lines reaching down from either corner of his mouth, like mustaches, emerged from the shadowed refuge to briefly shake the hyperactive man‘s hand. Then the three men trotted down the stairs and entered a waiting car: one of the bodyguards riding shotgun, the other one with the hyperactive man in back. The meeting had been intense but brief, and the engine was already running, purring like a well-fed cat. His mind was filled with how he was going to structure the debriefing he would give his boss, Abdulla Khoury, on the rapidly changing face of the Turkish situation as it had just been outlined to him.

  The newborn morning lay drowsing, barely awake, and utterly silent. The trees, well manicured and leafy, dappled the sidewalks in inky shade. The air was soft and cool, as yet innocent of the harsh sun that would turn the sky white in a few hours‘ time. The early hour had been deliberately chosen. As expected, there was no traffic to speak of, just a young boy at the far end of the block teaching himself to ride a bicycle. A sanitation truck lumbered around the corner at the opposite end of the block, its huge brushes beginning to spin whatever dirt there might be on the nearly immaculate street into the truck‘s belly. Again, the sight was utterly normal; the residents of this neighborhood all had pull with the municipal government, and they were proud of the fact that their streets were always the first to be cleaned each day.

  As the car gathered speed, making its way down the street, the huge truck turned so that it was sideways to the oncoming vehicle, blocking the road. Without an instant‘s hesitation the car‘s driver threw the vehicle into reverse and stepped on the gas. With a screech of tires the car shot backward, away from the truck. At the sound, the boy looked up. He was standing, straddling the bike, appearing to get his wind back. But at the last moment, as the oncoming car neared him, he reached into the bike‘s wicker basket and drew out an odd-looking weapon with an unnaturally long barrel. The rocket-launched grenade shattered the car‘s rear window and the car burst apart in an oily orange-and-black fireball. By this time the boy, hunched over the handlebars of his bike, was pedaling expertly away, a satisfied smile on his face.

  Just past noon that same day, Leonid Arkadin was sitting in a Munich beer hall surrounded by oompah music and drunken Germans when his cell phone buzzed. Recognizing the caller‘s phone number, he walked out into the street, where it was slightly less noisy, and grunted a wordless greeting.

  — Like the others, your latest attempt to destroy the Eastern Brotherhood has failed. Abdulla Khoury‘s ugly voice buzzed in his ear like an angry wasp. -You killed my finance minister this morning, that‘s all. I‘ve already appointed another.

  — You misunderstand me, I don‘t mean to destroy the Eastern Brotherhood,

  Arkadin said. -I mean to take it over.

  The response was a harsh laugh devoid of all humor, or even human emotion. -No matter how many of my associates you kill, Arkadin, this I assure you: I will always survive.

  Moira Trevor was sitting behind her sparkling new chrome-and-glass desk, in the sparkling new offices of Heartland Risk Management, LLC, her brand-new company, occupying two floors of a post-modern building in the heart of Northwest Washington, DC. She was on the phone with Steve Stevenson, one of her contacts in the Department of Defense, being briefed on a lucrative job her new company had been hired to do, one of half a dozen that had rolled in over the past five weeks, and simultaneously running through sets of daily intelligence reports on her computer terminal. Beside it was a snapshot of her and Jason Bourne, the Bali sun on their faces. In the background was Mount Agung, the island‘s sacred volcano, up whose spine they had trekked early one morning before sunlight kissed the eastern horizon. Her face was completely relaxed; she looked ten years younger. As for Bourne, he was smiling in that enigmatic way she loved. She used to trace the line of his lips when he smiled like that, as if she were a blind woman able to glean a hidden meaning with her fingertip.

  When her intercom sounded, she started, realizing she‘d been gazing at the photo, her thoughts wandering back, as they often did these days, to those golden days on Bali before Bourne was gunned down in the dirt of Tenganan. Glancing at the electronic clock on her desk, she gathered herself, finished up her call, and said — Send him in into the intercom speaker.

  A moment later Noah Perlis entered. He was her former handler at Black River, a private mercenary army used by the United States in Middle East hot spots. Moira‘s firm was now in direct competition with Black River. Noah‘s narrow face was more sallow than ever, his hair flecked with more gray. His long nose swept out like a sword-stroke above a mouth that had forgotten how to laugh or even smile. He prided himself on his keen insight into oth
er people, which was ironic considering he was so heavily defended he was cut off even from himself.

  She gestured at one of the contemporary chrome and black-strap chairs facing her desk. -Take a seat.

  He remained standing, as if he already had one foot out the door. -I‘ve come to tell you to stop raiding our personnel.

  — You mean you‘ve been sent like a common messenger. Moira looked up, smiled with a warmth she didn‘t feel. Her uptilted brown eyes, wide apart and inquiring, betrayed none of her feelings. Her face was uncommonly strong or intimidating, depending on your point of view. Nevertheless, she possessed a serenity that served her well in stressful situations such as this one.

  Bourne had warned her even before she set up Heartland almost three months ago that this moment was going to come. Something inside her had been looking forward to it. Noah had come to personify Black River, and she‘d been under his boot heel for too long.

  Taking several steps toward her, he plucked the framed photograph off her desk, then turned it to gaze down at the image.

  — Too bad about your boyfriend, he said. -Got gunned down in a stinking village in the middle of nowhere. You must have been broken up.

  Moira had no intention of allowing him to upset her. -It‘s nice to see you, Noah.

  He sneered as he replaced the photo. — Nice is a word people use when they politely lie.

  Her face held its innocent expression, a form of armor against his slings and arrows. -Why shouldn‘t we continue to be polite to each other?

  Noah returned to stand with his fingers curled hard into his palms. His knuckles were white with the force he used to make his fists, and Moira couldn‘t help but wonder whether he wished he had his hands around her neck rather than hanging at his sides.

  — I‘m very fucking serious, Moira. His eyes engaged hers. Noah could be a scary individual when he put his mind to it. -There‘s no turning back for you, but as for going forward in the way you have… He shook his head in warning.

  Moira shrugged. -No problem. The fact is, you have no people left who meet my ethical requirements.

  Her words had the effect of relaxing him enough to say in an entirely different tone, — Why are you doing this?

  — Why are you asking me a question to which you already know the answer?

  He stared at her, keeping silent, until she continued, — There needs to be a legitimate alternative to Black River, one whose members don‘t skate at the edge of legality, then regularly cross over.

  — This is a dirty business. You of all people know that.

  — Of course I know it. That‘s why I started this company. She rose, leaned across her desk. -Iran is now on everyone‘s radar. I‘m not going to sit back and let the same thing happen there that‘s happened in Afghanistan and Iraq.

  Noah turned on his heel and crossed to the door. With his hand on the knob he looked back at her with a cold intensity, an old trick of his. -You know you can‘t hold back the flood of filthy water. Don‘t be a hypocrite, Moira. You want to wade in the muck like the rest of us because it‘s all about the money. His eyes glittered darkly. -Billions of dollars to be made off a war in a new theater of operations.

  2

  LYING IN THE DIRT of Tenganan, Bourne whispers into Moira‘s ear. — Tell them…

  She is bent low over him in the dust and the running blood. She is listening to him with one ear while pressing her cell phone to the other.

  — Just lie still, Jason. I’m calling for help.

  — Tell them I’m dead, Bourne says just before losing consciousness…

  Jason Bourne awoke from his recurring dream, sweating like a pig through the bedsheets. The warm tropical night was clouded by the mosquito netting tented around him. Somewhere high in the mountains it was raining. He heard the thunder like hoofbeats, felt the sluggish, wet wind on his chest, bare where the wound was in the latter stages of healing.

  It had been three months since the bullet struck him, three months since Moira followed his orders to the letter. Now virtually everyone who knew him believed him to be dead. Only three people other than him knew the truth: Moira; Benjamin Firth, the Australian surgeon whom Moira brought him to in the village of Manggis; and Frederick Willard, the last remaining member of Treadstone, who had revealed Leonid Arkadin‘s Treadstone training to Bourne. It was Willard, contacted by Moira at Bourne‘s behest, who had begun reconditioning Bourne as soon as Dr. Firth allowed it.

  — You‘re damn lucky to be alive, mate, Firth said when Bourne had regained consciousness after the first of two operations. Moira was there, having just returned from making very public arrangements for Bourne‘s — body

  to be shipped back to the States. -In fact, if it weren‘t for a congenital abnormality in the shape of your heart, the bullet would have killed you almost instantly. Whoever shot you knew what he was doing.

  Then he‘d gripped Bourne‘s forearm and flashed a bony smile. -Not to worry, mate. We‘ll have you right as rain in a month or two.

  A month or two. Bourne, listening to the torrential rain come closer, reached out to touch the double ikat cloth that hung beside his bed, and felt calmer. He remembered the long weeks he‘d been forced to remain in the doctor‘s surgery on Bali, both for health and for security reasons. For a number of weeks after the second operation it was all he could do just to sit up. During that syrupy time Bourne discovered Firth‘s secret: He was an inveterate alcoholic. The only time he could be counted on to be stone-cold sober was when he had a patient on the operating table. He proved himself to be a brilliant cutter; any other time, he reeked of arak, the fermented Balinese palm liquor. It was so strong, he used it to wipe down his operating theater when he occasionally forgot to refill his order of pure alcohol. In this way, Bourne unlocked the mystery of what the doctor was doing hidden far away from everything: He‘d been canned from every hospital in Western Australia.

  All at once Bourne‘s attention turned outward as the doctor entered the room across the compound from the surgery.

  — Firth, he said, sitting up. -What are you doing up at this time of night?

  The doctor moved over to the rattan chair by the wall. He had a noticeable limp; one leg was shorter than the other. -I don‘t like thunder and lightning, he said as he sat down heavily.

  — You‘re like a child.

  — In many ways, yes. Firth nodded. -But unlike many blokes I met back in the bad old days, I can admit it.

  Bourne switched on the bedside lamp, and a cone of cool light spread over the bed and lapped at the floor. As the thunder rumbled closer, Firth leaned into the light, as if for protection. He was carrying a bottle of arak by its neck.

  — Your faithful companion, Bourne said.

  The doctor winced. -Tonight, no amount of liquor will help.

  Bourne held out his hand, and Firth handed him the bottle. He waited for Bourne to take a swig, then took possession of it. Though he sat back in the chair, he was far from relaxed. Thunder cracked overhead and all at once the downpour hit the thatch roof with the bang of a shotgun. Firth winced again, but he didn‘t take more arak. It appeared that even he had a limit.

  — I‘m hoping I can convince you to throttle back your physical training.

  — Why would I do that? Bourne said.

  — Because Willard pushes you too hard. Firth licked his lips, as if his body was dying for another drink.

  — That‘s his job.

  — Maybe so, but he‘s not your doctor. He hasn‘t taken you apart and stitched you back together. He finally put the bottle down between his legs.

  — Besides, he scares the bejesus out of me.

  — Everything scares you, Bourne said, not unkindly.

  — Not everything, no. The doctor waited while a crack of thunder shuddered overhead. -Not torn-up bodies.

  — A torn-up body can‘t talk back, Bourne pointed out.

  Firth smiled ruefully. -You haven‘t had my nightmares.

  — That‘s all right. Bourne once
again saw himself in the dirt and the blood of Tenganan. -I have my own.

  For a time nothing more was said. Then Bourne asked a question, but when the only answer forthcoming was a brief snore, he lay back in the bed, closed his eyes, and willed himself to sleep. Before the soft morning light woke him, he had returned, unwillingly, to Tenganan, where the heat of Moira‘s cinnamon musk mingled with the odor of his own blood.

  Do you like it? Moira held up the cloth woven in the colors of the gods Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva: blue, red, and yellow. The intricate pattern was of interlocking flowers, frangipani, perhaps. Since the dyes used were all natural, some water-based, others oil-based, the threads took eighteen months to two years to finish. The yellow-the personification of Shiva, the destroyer-would take another five years to slowly oxidize and reveal its final hue. In double ikats the pattern was dyed into both the warp and weft threads so that when it was woven all the colors would be pure, unlike the more common single ikat weaving in which the pattern was only in one set of threads, the other being a background color such as black. The double ikat was part of every Balinese home, where it hung on a wall in a place of honor and respect.