Bourne 7 – The Bourne Deception jb-7

by Robert Ludlum

  — Where to? the taxi driver said over his shoulder.

  Moira realized she had no idea where to go to ground.

  — I know a place, Bamber said hesitantly, — somewhere they won‘t find us.

  — You don‘t know Noah like I do, Moira said. -By now he knows you better than your own mother does.

  — He doesn‘t know about this place, Bamber insisted. -Not even Steve knew.

  Why should I trust anyone? Bourne said.

  — Because, my friend, in this life you must learn to trust someone. Otherwise you will be consumed by paranoia and a longing for death. Hererra poured three fingers of Asombroso Anejo tequila into two glasses, handed one to Bourne. He sipped his, then said, — Me, I don‘t trust women, period. For one thing they talk too much, especially among themselves. He walked over to the wall of books and ran his fingertips over the bound spines. -Down through history there were uncountable times when men from bishops to princes were undone by a bit of discreet pillow talk. He turned. -While we fight and kill for power, that‘s how women amass theirs.

  Bourne shrugged. -Surely you don‘t blame them.

  — Of course I blame them. Hererra finished off his tequila. -The bitches are the root of all evil.

  — Which leaves you for me to trust. Bourne put aside his drink untouched.

  — The problem, Don Hererra, is that you‘ve already proved yourself untrustworthy. You‘ve lied to me once.

  — And how many times have you lied to me since you walked through my door? The Colombian crossed the room, took up Bourne‘s tequila, and drank it down in one long shot. Smacking his lips, he wiped his mouth with the back of a hand and said, — The man Wayan described, the man who tried to kill you, was hired by one of your own people.

  — The killer‘s name.

  — Boris Illyich Karpov.

  Bourne froze, unable for a moment to believe what he‘d just heard. -There must be some mistake.

  Hererra cocked his head. -You know this man?

  — Why would a colonel in FSB-2 hire himself out to an American?

  — Not just an American, the Colombian said. -Secretary of Defense Ervin Reynolds Halliday, who as we both know is among the most powerful men on the planet. And he wasn‘t hiring himself out.

  But it couldn‘t be Boris, Bourne told himself. Boris was a friend, he‘d helped Bourne in Reykjavik and then in Moscow, where he‘d surprised Bourne by showing up at a meeting with Dimitri Maslov, with whom he was clearly friendly. Were they more than friends? Was Boris a partner of Yevsen, along with Maslov? Bourne felt cold sweat break out on his back. The spider‘s web he‘d stepped into was growing exponentially with each interconnecting strand he discovered.

  — But here… Hererra had turned away for a moment, rummaging through the drawer of the escritoire. When he turned back, he had a manila folder in one hand and a micro-recorder in the other. -Take a look at these.

  Bourne opened the folder when the Colombian handed it to him and saw what were clearly surveillance photos, black and white, grainy, but clear enough to see two men talking in earnest conversation. Though the faces were in close-up the low light rendered everything slightly fuzzy.

  — They met in a Munich beer hall, Hererra said helpfully.

  Bourne recognized the shape and features of Boris‘s face. The other man, older, taller, was probably American. It was, indeed, the secretary of defense, Bud Halliday. Then he saw the electronic date-stamp, which was several days before he was shot.

  — Photoshopped, he said, handing back the photos.

  — In these times, all too possible, I admit. Hererra presented him with the micro-recorder as if it were a prize. -Perhaps this will convince you the photos are undoctored.

  When Bourne pressed the PLAY button, this is what he heard above the reduced background clamor:

  “Terminate Jason Bourne and I will use the full might of the American government to put Abdulla Khoury where he belongs.”

  “Not good enough, Mr. Smith. An eye for an eye, this is the true meaning of quid pro quo, yes?”

  “We don’t assassinate people, Colonel Karpov.”

  “Of course not. No matter, Secretary Halliday. I have no such compunctions.”

  After a slight pause, Halliday said: — Yes, of course, in the heat of the moment I forgot our protocols, Mr. Jones. Send me the entire contents of the hard drive and it will be done. Agreed?”

  “Agreed.”

  Bourne pressed STOP and looked at Hererra. -What hard drive are they talking about?

  — I have no idea, but as you can imagine I‘m trying to find out.

  — How did you come into possession of this material?

  A slow smile reemerged on the Colombian‘s face as he put a forefinger across his lips.

  — Why would Boris want to kill me?

  — Colonel Karpov didn‘t inform me when he asked for the favor. Hererra shrugged. -But as a matter of routine I ran a check on the phone he was calling from. It was a satellite phone and it was located in Khartoum.

  — In Khartoum, Bourne said. -Perhaps at Seven Seventy-nine El Gamhuria Avenue, Nikolai Yevsen‘s headquarters.

  Hererra‘s eyes opened wide. -Now, truly, I am impressed.

  Bourne lapsed into a meditative silence. Could there be a connection between Boris and Nikolai Yevsen? Could they be collaborators instead of adversaries? What grand scheme could bring these two disparate men together, could cause Boris to try to kill him and, once discovering that he was still alive, hire the Torturer to finish the job?

  Something didn‘t make sense, but there was no time now to figure out what because Tracy was opening the French door to enter the room, and Hererra, smiling at her, said, — Has your principal made a decision?

  — He wants the Goya.

  — Excellent! Don Hererra rubbed his hands together. He was grinning like a cat that has caught a particularly rare and tasty morsel. -The world has no idea who Noah Petersen is, but I have a suspicion our friend here does. He lifted his eyebrows as he gazed at Bourne.

  — Not talking? He shrugged. -No matter. Mr. Petersen is Seńorita Atherton‘s principal.

  Tracy stared at Bourne. -You know Noah? How is that possible?

  — His real name is Noah Perlis. Bourne, thunderstruck, looked at both of them in turn. The spider‘s web had presented an entirely new dimension. -He works for a private American military contracting company by the name of Black River. I‘ve had some dealings with him in the past.

  — What do you know? Hererra said. -The world is filled with chameleons and, not surprisingly, they all know one another. He turned from Bourne and gave Tracy a mock bow. -Seńorita Atherton, why don‘t you tell the gentleman where you‘re to deliver the Goya? When she hesitated, he laughed goodnaturedly. -Go on, you‘ve nothing to lose. We all trust one another here, don‘t we?

  — I‘m to deliver the Goya by hand to Khartoum, Tracy said.

  Bourne could hardly catch his breath. What in the world was going on?

  — Please don‘t tell me you‘re to deliver it to Seven Seventy-nine El Gamhuria Avenue.

  Tracy‘s mouth opened wide in an O of astonishment.

  — How did he know? Hererra shook his head. -That‘s a question we‘d all like answered.

  Book Three

  21

  AMERICANS! Soraya said. -God in heaven, what madness is this?

  She half expected Amun to make an acerbic comment, but he remained mute, watching her with his large scarab eyes.

  — A cadre of American military men who just happen to be on leave here in Al Ghardaqah are given a mission that begins in Khartoum two weeks or so before an Iranian Kowsar 3 missile brings down an American passenger jet in Egyptian airspace. It‘s unthinkable. She raked a hand through her thick black hair. -For God‘s sake, Amun, say something.

  They were sitting at a seaside restaurant, eating because they knew they had to. Soraya had no appetite and, she saw, Amun apparently didn‘t have much more. Three of his men were sitting near
by, guarding Stephen, who was scarfing down a meal as if it was going to be his last. The sun was a ruddy, flattened disk near the horizon. The cloudless sky arched above them, vast and somehow desolate.

  Chalthoum pushed his food around his plate. -I still think he‘s lying to save his skin, he said sourly.

  — What if he‘s not? The dive shop owner corroborated his story. There were four Americans diving off the boat approximately two weeks ago. They dived for three days, paid cash, and left abruptly, without talking to anyone.

  — Sounds like anyone and everyone. Amun shot a poisonous glance over at the prisoner. -It does make a compelling story, doesn‘t it?

  — Amun, I don‘t think we can afford to take the chance he‘s lying. I think we should go to Khartoum.

  — And abandon the probability that Iranian terrorists were here in Egypt?

  He shook his head. -Not a chance.

  Soraya was already on her phone, punching in Veronica Hart‘s number. If she was going to go to Khartoum-with or without Amun-she had to confirm her decision with the DCI. Heading into Sudan was serious business.

  She frowned as the phone continued to ring and no voice mail intervened. At length, a male voice answered.

  — Who is this?

  — Soraya Moore. Who the hell are you?

  — It‘s Peter, Soraya. Peter Marks. Marks was the chief of CI operations, smart and reliable.

  — What are you doing answering the DCI‘s private cell?

  — Soraya, DCI Hart is dead.

  — What? The blood drained from Soraya‘s face and all at once she felt the breath rush out of her. -Dead? How could-? Her voice sounded thin, attenuated, faraway. Dimly, she realized she was in shock. -What happened?

  — There was an explosion-a car bomb, we think.

  — Oh, my God!

  — There were two individuals with her: Moira Trevor and someone by the name of Humphry Bamber, a software designer with his own boutique firm.

  — Are they alive or dead?

  — Alive, presumably, Marks said, — though that‘s pure speculation. We have no idea where they are. For all we know, they were responsible for the DCI‘s death.

  — Or they fled for their lives.

  — Another possibility, Marks conceded. -At the very least, they need to be brought in and questioned as the only witnesses to the incident. He paused for a moment. -The thing is, the Trevor woman was involved with Jason Bourne.

  Events were moving faster than Soraya could follow in her current state.

  — How is that relevant? she said curtly.

  — I don‘t know if it is, but she was also involved with Martin Lindros. Some months ago, DCI Hart was investigating the connection.

  — I was part of that investigation, Soraya said. -There was nothing to it. Moira Trevor and Martin were friends, period.

  — And yet, both Lindros and Bourne are now dead. Marks cleared his throat. -Did you know Ms. Trevor was with Bourne when he was killed?

  A tremor of premonition chilled her. -I didn‘t, no.

  — I‘ve done some digging. It turns out that Ms. Trevor used to work at Black River.

  Soraya‘s mind was reeling. -So did DCI Hart.

  — Interesting, no? There‘s more: Ms. Trevor and Bamber were admitted to the ER at George Washington University Hospital less than twenty minutes after the blast. No one saw them leave, but-and here‘s the really good part-a man who flashed a government ID asked for them by name less than five minutes after they began treatment.

  — Someone followed them.

  — I would say so, Marks said.

  — What was the man‘s name and what department of the government is he with?

  — The billion-dollar question. No one could remember, the place was a madhouse. So I checked myself. Either no one is owning up to this agent or he wasn‘t government. On the other hand, it wouldn‘t surprise me to learn that the DoD has secretly authorized some Black River ops to carry government IDs.

  Soraya took several deep breaths both to calm herself and to allow her mind to start making connections. -Peter, the DCI sent me to Egypt to try to find out about the indigenous Iranian freedom fighters Black River made contact with, but in my most recent conversation with her she agreed to let me explore a theory that the Iranian terrorists who shot down our jet had help transshipping the missile, possibly from the Saudis.

  — Jesus, and…?

  — The reason I was calling her now is that there‘s a possibility that the Iranians weren‘t involved at all.

  — What? Marks exploded. -You‘ve got to be kidding.

  — I wish I were. Two weeks ago, four American military men on leave were suddenly sent on a mission that began in Khartoum.

  — So?

  — Amun Chalthoum and I have been operating under the supposition that the Saudis helped the Iranian terrorists transport the Kowsar 3 missile through Iraq and across the Red Sea, to someplace along the east coast of Egypt. His people have been swarming the coast all day with nothing to show for it, so we‘ve been searching for alternatives. The only other access into Egypt is from the south.

  She heard Marks‘s sharp intake of breath. -That would be Sudan.

  — And Khartoum would be the logical staging area, the place where the Kowsar 3 could be flown in under everyone‘s radar.

  — I don‘t understand. What‘s the connection between our military and Iranian terrorists?

  — That‘s just the point, there isn‘t any, Soraya said. -We‘re looking at a scenario that doesn‘t involve either Iranians or Saudis.

  Marks laughed uneasily. -What are you implying, that we shot down our own jet?

  — The government wouldn‘t, she said perfectly serious. -But Black River might.

  — That theory is almost as crazy, he said.

  — What if the terrible incidents back home are connected to what‘s happened over here?

  — That‘s something of a stretch, even for you.

  — Listen to me carefully, Peter. DCI Hart was concerned about the current relationship between the NSA-specifically Secretary Halliday-and Black River. Now she‘s the victim of a car bomb. She allowed that pronouncement to hang in the air for a moment before continuing. -The only way to get to the bottom of the mystery is eyes on the ground. I need to go to Khartoum.

  — Soraya, Sudan is far too dangerous for a director to-

  — Typhon has an agent in place in Khartoum.

  — Good, let him investigate.

  — This is too big, Peter, the ramifications too grave. Besides, after all that‘s happened, I don‘t trust anyone.

  — What about this Chalthoum character? He‘s the head of al Mokhabarat, for chrissakes.

  — Believe me, he has as much to lose from this situation as we do.

  — It‘s incumbent on me to point out that your agent in Khartoum can‘t guarantee your safety.

  By his tone, she knew he‘d acquiesced. -No one can, Peter. Keep DCI Hart‘s phone with you. I‘ll keep you apprised.

  — Okay, but-

  As Soraya severed the connection, she looked at Amun. -The director of Central Intelligence was just killed in Washington by a car bomb. This situation stinks, Amun. We‘re not up against Iranian terrorists, I know it. Will you come with me to Khartoum?

  Amun rolled his eyes, then threw his hands into the air. — Azizti, what choice have you left me?

  After Moira and Humphry Bamber exited the taxi in Foggy Bottom, he led her west across the bridge and into Georgetown. He was nervous, walking so quickly that several times she had to take him by the arm to slow him down because he was too terrified to listen to her. Along the way she checked plate-glass windows and cars‘ side-mirrors for any signs of a tail, both vehicular and pedestrian. At least twice she had them walk around the block or enter a shop as a double blind, to make certain they were absolutely clean. Only then would she allow Bamber to take her to their destination.

  This turned out to be on R Street: a redbrick Federal-style town
house with a copper mansard roof and four dormer windows where fat-breasted pigeons sat, cooing drowsily. They climbed the slate steps, and Bamber used the brass knocker on the polished wooden door. In a moment it swung inward to reveal a slender man with longish brown hair, green eyes, and angular cheekbones.