The Bourne Sanction

by Eric Van Lustbader

  Shumenko’s boss, Yetnikova, marched toward him down the labyrinthine corridors as if she were in the forefront of the Red Army entering Warsaw. Even at this distance, he could see the scowl on her face. Unlike his Russian credentials, his Ukrainian ones were paper-thin. They’d pass a cursory test, but after any kind of checking he’d be busted.

  “I called the SBU office in Kiev. They did some digging on you, Colonel.” Yetnikova’s voice had turned from servile to hostile. “Or whoever you are.” She puffed herself up like a porcupine about to do battle. “They never heard of—”

  She gave a little squeak as he jammed one hand over her mouth while he punched her hard in the solar plexus. She collapsed into his arms like a rag doll, and he dragged her along the corridor until he came to the utility closet. Opening the door, he shoved her in, went in after her.

  Sprawled on the floor, Yetnikova slowly came to her senses. Immediately she began her bluster—cursing and promising dire consequences for the outrages perpetrated on her person. Arkadin didn’t hear her; he didn’t even see her. He attempted to block out the past, but as always the memories flattened him. They took possession of him, taking him out of himself, producing like a drug a dreamlike state that over the years had become as familiar as a twin brother.

  Kneeling over Yetnikova, he dodged her kicks, the snapping of her jaws. He withdrew a switchblade from a sheath strapped to the side of his right calf. When he snikked open its long, thin blade, fear finally twisted Yetnikova’s face. Her eyes opened wide and she gasped, raising her hands instinctively.

  “Why are you doing this?” she cried. “Why?”

  “Because of what you’ve done.”

  “What? What did I do? I don’t even know you!”

  “But I know you.” Slapping her hands aside, Arkadin went to work on her.

  When, moments later, he was done, his vision came back into focus. He took a long, shuddering breath as if shaking off the effects of an anesthetic. He stared down at the headless corpse. Then, remembering, he kicked the head into a corner filled with filthy rags. For a moment, it rocked like a ship on the ocean. The eyes seemed to him gray with age, but they were only filmed with dust, and the release he sought eluded him once again.

  Who were they?” Moira asked.

  “That’s the difficulty,” Bourne told her. “I wasn’t able to find out. It would help if you could tell me why they’re following you.”

  Moira frowned. “I have to assume it has something to do with the security on the LNG terminal.”

  They were sitting side by side in Moira’s living room, a small, cozy space in a Georgetown town house of red-brown brick on Cambridge Place, NW, near Dumbarton Oaks. A fire was crackling and licking in the brick hearth; espresso and brandy sat on the coffee table in front of them. The chenille-covered sofa was deep enough for Moira to curl up on. It had big roll arms and a neck-high back.

  “One thing I can tell you,” Bourne said, “these people are professionals.”

  “Makes sense,” she said. “Any rival of my firm would hire the best people available. That doesn’t necessarily mean I’m in any danger.”

  Nevertheless, Bourne felt another sharp pang at the loss of Marie, then carefully, almost reverently, put the feeling aside.

  “More espresso?” Moira asked.

  “Please.”

  Bourne handed her his cup. As she bent forward, the light V-neck sweater revealed the tops of her firm breasts. At that moment, she raised her gaze to his. There was a mischievous glint in her eyes.

  “What are you thinking about?”

  “Probably the same thing you are.” He rose, looked around for his coat. “I think I’d better go.”

  “Jason…”

  He paused. Lamplight gave her face a golden glow. “Don’t,” she said. “Stay. Please.”

  He shook his head. “You and I both know that’s not a good idea.”

  “Just for tonight. I don’t want to be alone, not after what you discovered.” She gave a little shiver. “I was being brave before, but I’m not you. Being followed gives me the willies.”

  She offered the cup of espresso. “If it makes you feel any better, I’d prefer you sleep out here. This sofa’s quite comfortable.”

  Bourne looked around at the warm chestnut walls, the dark wooden blinds, the jewel-toned accents here and there in the form of vases and bowls of flowers. An agate box with gold legs sat on a mahogany sideboard. A small brass ship’s clock ticked away beside it. The photos of the French countryside in summer and autumn made him feel both mournful and nostalgic. For precisely what, he couldn’t say. Though his mind fished for memories, none surfaced. His past was a lake of black ice. “Yes, it is.” He took the cup, sat down beside her.

  She pulled a pillow against her breast. “Shall we talk about what we’ve been avoiding saying all evening?”

  “I’m not big on talking.”

  Her wide lips curved in a smile. “Which one of you isn’t big on talking, David Webb or Jason Bourne?”

  Bourne laughed, sipped his espresso. “What if I said both of us?”

  “I’d have to call you a liar.”

  “We can’t have that, can we?”

  “It wouldn’t be my choice.” She rested one cheek on her hand, waiting. When he said nothing further, she continued. “Please, Jason. Just talk to me.”

  The old fear of getting close to someone reared its head again, but at the same time he felt a kind of melting inside him, as if his frozen heart were beginning to thaw. For some years, he’d made it an ironclad rule to keep his distance from other people. Alex Conklin had been murdered, Marie had died, Martin Lindros hadn’t made it out of Miran Shah. All gone, his only friends and first love. With a start, he realized that he hadn’t felt attracted to anyone except Marie. He hadn’t allowed himself to feel, but now he couldn’t help himself. Was that a function of the David Webb personality or of Moira herself? She was strong, self-assured. In her he recognized a kindred spirit, someone who viewed the world as he did—as an outsider.

  He looked into her face, said what was in his mind. “Everyone I get close to dies.”

  She sighed, put a hand briefly over his. “I’m not going to die.” Her dark brown eyes glimmered in the lamplight. “Anyway, it’s not your job to protect me.”

  This was another reason he was drawn to her. She was fierce, a warrior, in her own way.

  “Tell me the truth, then. Are you really happy at the university?”

  Bourne thought a moment, the conflict inside him becoming an unholy din. “I think I am.” After a slight pause, he added: “I thought I was.”

  There’d been a golden glow to his life with Marie, but Marie was gone, that life was in the past. With her gone, he was forced to confront the terrifying question: What was David Webb without her? He was no longer a family man. He’d been able to raise his children, he saw now, only with her love and help. And for the first time he realized what his retreat into the university really meant. He’d been trying to regain that golden life he’d had with Marie. It wasn’t only Professor Specter he didn’t want to disappoint, it was Marie.

  “What are you thinking?” Moira said softly.

  “Nothing,” he said. “Nothing at all.”

  She studied him for a moment. Then she nodded. “All right, then.” She rose, leaned over, kissed him on the cheek. “I’ll make up the sofa.”

  “That’s all right, just tell me where the linen closet is.”

  She pointed. “Over there.”

  He nodded.

  “Good night, Jason.”

  “See you in the morning. But early. I’ve got—”

  “I know. Breakfast with Dominic Specter.”

  Bourne lay on his back, one arm behind his head. He was tired; he was sure he’d fall asleep immediately. But an hour after he’d turned off the lights, sleep seemed a thousand miles away. Now and again, the red-and-black remnants of the fire snapped and softly fell in on themselves. He stared at the stripes of light s
eeping in through the wide wooden blinds, hoping they’d take him to far-off places, which, in his case, meant his past. In some ways he was like an amputee who still felt his arm even though it had been sawed off. The sense of memories just beyond his ability to recall was maddening, an itch he couldn’t scratch. He often wished he would remember nothing at all, which was one reason Moira’s offer was so compelling. The thought of starting fresh, without the baggage of sadness and loss, was a powerful draw. This conflict was always with him, a major part of his life, whether he was David Webb or Jason Bourne. And yet, whether he liked it or not, his past was there, waiting for him like a wolf at night, if only he could reach through the mysterious barrier his brain had raised. Not for the first time, he wondered what other terrible traumas had befallen him in the past to cause his mind to protect itself from it. The fact that the answer lurked within his own mind turned his blood cold because it represented his own personal demon.

  “Jason?”

  The door to Moira’s bedroom was open. Despite the dimness, his keen eyes could make out her form moving slowly toward him on bare feet.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” she said in a throaty voice. She stopped several paces from where he lay. She was wearing a silk paisley bathrobe, belted at the waist. The lush curves of her body were unmistakable.

  For a moment, they remained in silence.

  “I lied to you before,” she said quietly. “I don’t want you to sleep out here.”

  Bourne rose on one elbow. “I lied, too. I was thinking about what I once had and how I’ve been desperate to hang on to it. But it’s gone, Moira. All gone forever.” He drew up one leg. “I don’t want to lose you.”

  She moved minutely, and a bar of light picked out the glitter of tears in her eyes. “You won’t, Jason. I promise.”

  Another silence engulfed them, this one so profound they seemed to be the only two people left in the world.

  At last, he held out his hand, and she came toward him. He rose from the sofa, took her in his arms. She smelled of lime and geranium. He ran his hands through her thick hair, grabbed it. Her face tilted up to him and their lips came together, and his heart shivered off another coating of ice. After a long time, he felt her hands at her waist and he stepped back.

  She undid the belt and the robe parted, slid off her shoulders. Her naked flesh shone a dusky gold. She had wide hips and a deep navel; there seemed nothing about her body he didn’t love. Now it was she who took his hand, leading him to her bed, where they fell upon each other like half-starved animals.

  Bourne dreamed he was standing at the window of Moira’s bedroom, peering through the wooden blinds. The streetlight fell across the sidewalk and street, casting long, oblique shadows. As he watched, one of the shadows rose up from the cobbles, walked directly toward him as if it were alive and could somehow see him through the wide wooden slats.

  Bourne opened his eyes, the demarcation between sleep and consciousness instantaneous and complete. His mind was filled with the dream; he could feel his heart working in his chest harder than it should have been at this moment.

  Moira’s arm was draped over his hip. He moved it to her side, rolled silently out of bed. Naked, he padded into the living room. Ashes lay in a cold, gray heap in the hearth. The ship’s clock ticked toward the fourth hour of the night. He went straight toward the bars of streetlight, peered out just as he had in his dream. As in his dream the light cast oblique shadows across the sidewalk and street. No traffic passed. All was quiet and still. It took a minute or two, but he found the movement, minute, fleeting, as if someone standing had begun to shift from one foot to the other, then changed his mind. He waited to see if the movement would continue. Instead a small puff of exhaled breath flared into the light, then almost immediately vanished.

  He dressed quickly. Bypassing both the front and rear doors, he slipped out of the house via a side window. It was very cold. He held his breath so it wouldn’t steam up and betray his presence, as it had the watcher.

  He stopped just before he reached the corner of the building, peered cautiously around the brick wall. He could see the curve of a shoulder, but it was at the wrong height, so low Bourne might have taken the watcher for a child. In any event, he hadn’t moved. Melting back into the shadows, he went down 30th Street, NW, turned left onto Dent Place, which paralleled Cambridge Place. When he reached the end of the block, he turned left onto Cambridge, on Moira’s block. Now he could see just where the watcher was situated, crouched between two parked cars almost directly across the street from Moira’s house.

  A gust of humid wind caused the watcher to huddle down, sink his head between his shoulders, like a turtle. Bourne seized the moment to cross the street to the watcher’s side. Without pausing, he advanced down the block swiftly and silently. The watcher became aware of him far too late. He was still turning his head when Bourne grabbed him by the back of his jacket, slammed him back across the hood of the parked car.

  This threw him into the light. Bourne saw his black face, recognized the features all in a split second. At once he hauled the young man up, hustled him back into the shadows, where he was certain they wouldn’t be seen by other prying eyes.

  “Jesus Christ, Tyrone,” he said, “what the hell are you doing here?”

  “Can’t say.” Tyrone was sullen, possibly from having been discovered.

  “What d’you mean, you can’t say?”

  “I signed a confidentiality agreement is why.”

  Bourne frowned. “Deron wouldn’t make you sign something like that.” Deron was the art forger Bourne used for all his documents and, sometimes, unique new technologies or weapons Deron was experimenting with.

  “Doan work fo Deron no more.”

  “Who made you sign the agreement, Tyrone?” Bourne grabbed him by his jacket front. “Who are you working for? I don’t have time to play games with you. Answer me!”

  “Can’t.” Tyrone could be damn stubborn when he wanted to be, a by-product of growing up on the streets of the northeast Washington slums. “But, okay, I guess I can take yo where yo can see fo yoself.”

  He led Bourne around to the unnamed alley behind Moira’s house, stopped at an anonymous-looking black Chevy. Leaving Bourne, he used his knuckle to knock on the driver’s window. The window lowered. As he bent down to speak to whoever was inside, Bourne came up, pulled him aside so he could look in. What he saw astonished even him. The person sitting behind the wheel was Soraya Moore.

  Five

  WE’VE BEEN SURVEILLING her for close to ten days now,” Soraya said.

  “CI?” Bourne said. “Why?”

  They were sitting in the Chevy. Soraya had turned on the engine to get some heat up. She’d sent Tyrone home, even though it was clear he wanted to be her protector. According to Soraya, he was now working for her in a strictly off-the-record capacity—a kind of personal black-ops unit of one.

  “You know I can’t tell you that.”

  “No, Tyrone can’t tell me. You can.”

  Bourne had worked with Soraya when he’d put together his mission to rescue Martin Lindros, the founder and director of Typhon. She was one of the few people with whom he’d worked in the field, both times in Odessa.

  “I suppose I could,” Soraya admitted, “but I won’t, because it appears that you and Moira Trevor are intimate.”

  She sat staring out the window at the blank sheen of the street. Her large, deep blue eyes and her aggressive nose were the centerpieces of a bold Arabian face the color of cinnamon.

  When she turned back, Bourne could see that she wasn’t happy at being forced to reveal CI intel.

  “There’s a new sheriff in town,” Soraya said. “Her name is Veronica Hart.”

  “You ever hear of her?”

  “No, and neither have any of the others.” She shrugged. “I’m quite sure that was the point. She comes from the private sector: Black River. The president decided on a new broom to sweep out the hash we’d all made of the events leading up to
the Old Man’s murder.”

  “What’s she like?”

  “Too soon to tell, but one thing I’m willing to bet on: She’s going to be a whole helluva lot better than the alternative.”

  “Which is?”

  “Secretary of Defense Halliday has been trying to expand his domain for years now. He’s moving through Luther LaValle, the Pentagon’s intel czar. Rumor has it that LaValle tried to pry away the DCI job from Veronica Hart.”

  “And she won.” Bourne nodded. “That says something about her.”

  Soraya produced a packet of Lambert & Butler cigarettes, knocked one out, lit up.

  “When did that begin?” Bourne said.

  Soraya rolled down her window partway, blew the smoke into the waning night. “The day I was promoted to director of Typhon.”

  “Congratulations.” He sat back, impressed. “But now we have even more of a mystery. Why is the director of Typhon on a surveillance team at four in the morning? I would’ve thought that would be a job for someone farther down the CI food chain.”

  “It would be, in other circumstances.” Soraya inhaled, blew smoke out the window again. What was left of the cigarette followed. Then she turned her body toward Bourne. “My new boss told me to handle this myself. That’s what I’m doing.”

  “What does all this clandestine work have to do with Moira? She’s a civilian.”

  “Maybe she is,” Soraya said, “and maybe she isn’t.” Her large eyes studied Bourne’s for a reaction. “I’ve been digging through the masses of interoffice e-mails and cell phone records going back over the last two years. I came upon some irregularities and handed them over to the new DCI.” She paused for a moment, as if unsure whether to continue. “The thing is, the irregularities concern Martin’s private communications with Moira.”