The Bourne Initiative

by Robert Ludlum

  “No,” he said. “I’m all yours.”

  That sideways glance and a sly smile. Did she believe him, or was she as wary of him as he was of her?

  “You belong to no one, Jason. Not even the Israeli.”

  So she did know about Sara. He was angry; it felt like a violation of his private life. But he was not surprised. There had never been anything about Mala that honored privacy. All of that had been systematically stripped from her by Keyre. Lacking her own boundaries, she observed none in others.

  “Is that why you brought me here, out of jealousy?” His tone was bantering; nevertheless, his question contained a sub rosa strata of intention.

  “Would that be so bad?” She leaned against him, her skin warm, the pulse of blood beneath like a song. “But then I’m a bad girl. No one knows that better than you.”

  “The ones who knew that better than me are all dead.”

  She laughed. “Yes. I suppose that’s true.” She slid her leg against his. More warmth as the sun began to melt into the western horizon. “There is no time but time.”

  He knew what she meant by that. Time was what you made of it, how you apportioned it, what you trained yourself to remember. And to forget. Is that why he couldn’t remember any further back beyond the point when he’d been shot and pitched into the black Mediterranean? He had almost died then. Or was there an incident far worse—so dreadful that his mind had blocked it out of self-preservation? Something even worse than what Mala had been through? What if he never knew? What if it was better for him not to know? But not knowing was a purgatory in and of itself.

  “Poor Jason, a man without a history,” she said, as if reading his mind. “At least I know who my parents were.”

  “And how much has that helped you?”

  “Ouch. Right. Needling each other is not such a good idea, after all.”

  “Then why start?”

  “Because I’m the scorpion.”

  She meant the old story: a scorpion found itself on the wrong bank of a river. It asks a frog to carry it on its back across the river. The frog wisely says, But you’ll sting me. The scorpion replies with perfect logic: Why would I do that? If I sting you we’ll both die. Frogs being logical creatures, it agrees. But halfway across the river, the scorpion stings the frog. As they’re both about to drown, the frog cries piteously, Why? And the scorpion replies with perfect logic, I’m a scorpion. It’s my nature.

  Mala shrugged. “But what d’you care? You’re no frog.”

  The failing light seemed to have congealed, and, strangely, the island they were on seemed to shrink into the oncoming darkness, the night being dominated by the black sea, the high brittle dome of stars, the rising of the moon, lanternlike low in the eastern sky.

  They rose, Mala leading him up the steepening shingle and over a hummock of rock where she had stashed her hiking boots, her striped beach bag, and a midnight-blue cover-up, which she shrugged on as they began picking their way up and over the rock face.

  “Are you hungry?” she asked.

  “We could eat on the boat,” he said. “There’s a fine chef.”

  “I already made a reservation.” Which hardly seemed necessary on this isolated spot in the Aegean; Skyros was not a particularly popular tourist destination.

  A packed earth path appeared before them, wending its way over a rise and down. Soon enough paving stones heralded the advent of what passed for civilization here.

  The tavern, when they came upon it, was lit up with strings of electric lights crisscrossing its cement patio, where tables and chairs were strewn as if at random. A smiling Greek greeted them with glasses of retsina and showed them to a table at the lip of the patio. From the edge, the fall-off was steep, and they had a picture-perfect view down past the promontory on their right to the cove off which the Nym, lights ablaze, lay at anchor.

  “That’s some legacy your friend left you,” Mala commented as she settled into her chair. “He must have had many millions of petro-dollars stashed away.”

  Bourne stared at her. Was she deliberately baiting him again, or was she just making idle chatter? Either way, he didn’t care for the topic. Food came, lots of it. Presumably she had pre-ordered. Everything was sea-fresh and delicious. She did not look at him while they ate, staring out at the mysterious night as if waiting for a communication only she could hear.

  As it turned out, she was momentarily at a loss as to how to broach a subject she knew would be delicate, would raise any number of red flags for him. She waited until the plates had been cleared, coffee and more retsina served, and they were once again alone in the night.

  “Your friendship with the late General Karpov has caused consternation—not to mention anger—in a number of quarters.”

  He stared at her, silent, wondering where this was going. Fireflies danced in the shrubbery, moonlight turned the rocks a metallic silver. The crash of surf against the shore was a dim rumble, running up the hill toward them.

  She smirked, reached into her beach bag, drew out an eight-by-ten blowup, which she placed before him. “You never should have accepted Karpov’s invitation to his wedding. There you are, for all the world’s clandestine organizations to see, with the general’s arm slung across your shoulders. Bosom buddies, that’s the phrase, isn’t it?” She laughed. “The Japanese would say ‘huckleberry friends.’ But they get all these odd translations from American pop songs.” She meant, in this case, “Moon River.”

  “Jason, in all seriousness, this photo has caused a hornet’s nest of angst within your own secret services. And as for the FSB, now that the general is gone, now that Timur Savasin discovered you made off with Ivan Volkin’s ill-gotten gains, the first minister is also out for your blood.”

  “Someone’s always out for my blood.”

  “And what about your Israeli inamorata?”

  Bourne briefly thought about not answering her, but then realized that might be just what she wanted. “She met Boris, several times.”

  “Enemies…or friends?”

  “Boris Illyich was not like that. If you knew him—”

  “Little late for that, isn’t it?”

  He was about to go when she put her hand over his. “Sorry.” She looked him straight in the eye. “Really.” Still he remained half-risen. She lowered her voice: “You know every wound, every scar…you know how hideous my body is.”

  Bourne sat back down. “Which is what makes me sad.”

  “You see,” she flared. “I knew it!”

  “Mala, you misunderstand me. What Keyre did to you, the rituals he performed on you. You became his. But that doesn’t have to be. You’re stronger than that.”

  “But, as you see, I’m here with you. Now. Jealous of your Israeli who, I am certain, possesses a flawless body.”

  Bourne was determined to say nothing more on this subject.

  She sighed. “I suppose I feel possessive of you. Our history. And then there’s what you’ve done for Liis.”

  “Then the two of you have spoken at least.”

  Mala shook her head. “I tried, but Liis won’t speak to me.”

  “What happened? She was hoping you’d make one of her performances.”

  “I did. I was in New York in the winter, when she performed at Lincoln Center.”

  “And you didn’t come backstage to see her?”

  “We’re not cut from the same cloth. I’m death to her. I won’t come near her.”

  Then he understood: that was when she had seen him with Sara. He frowned. “How long have you been surveilling me?”

  She pursed her lips. “I strive to know as much about you as you know about me.”

  “But you never can.”

  “It doesn’t stop me from trying.” Then she tossed her head again. “Oh, come on, I have no evil designs on your Israeli.”

  Sara. Her name is Sara, Bourne thought. He had met the Mossad agent five years ago, had saved her life in Mexico City, had worked with her on and off since then. Last y
ear, she had been falsely accused of murdering Boris. The idea of speaking her name in Mala’s presence, of hearing her say it, seemed intolerable. These were two separate areas of his life. Instinct told him that bringing them together in any form was a recipe for disaster.

  “Who do you have evil designs on?” he said, wanting to steer the conversation in another direction.

  “The people who are now out to terminate you with extreme prejudice. And I do mean extreme.”

  “It’s been tried before.”

  “I know, but this is different.”

  “How?”

  “The Americans and the Russians are coming after you simultaneously. If you’re not careful, they’ll have you in a pincer movement, west and east converging on one target.”

  He considered this for a moment. “So you brought me here to warn me?”

  She nodded. “Partly. And partly to—”

  At that instant, the Nym was consumed by a series of oily fireballs. The rolling thunder of the detonations reached them seconds after the boat was engulfed.

  And then its fractured components spewed high in the air, an infernal fountain.

  3

  Have they found anything?”

  “Nothing, sir.”

  First Minister Timur Savasin, second only to the Sovereign himself, stood on the grounds of Boris Illyich Karpov’s dacha, in the dense woods north of Moscow, hands on hips, sucking on a cigarette stuck in the corner of his mouth. In front of him a squad of men were digging, burrowing, banging on walls and floorboards, checking for false backs in cupboards, secret niches under the stairs, in other words tearing the interior apart. Off to his left, a bulldozer sat idling, while its operator smoked a cigarette. Behind that was the huge flatbed that had transported the machine out here from Moscow.

  “No money, no log books, no lists? Not a fucking thing?” he asked in a voice made brittle by frustration.

  “No, sir.”

  He was answered by Igor Malachev, a Kremlin silovik who was his second-in-command. Karpov had muscled his way to become the head of both the FSB, the successor to the Soviet KGB, and FSB-2, the anti-narcotics organization. Never again would one man wield such power; the Sovereign had purged all of Karpov’s people from the nine FSB directorates. He had named Konstantin Ludmirovich to head the FSB. As for FSB-2, that posting was still vacant. The appointment had come as a shock to Savasin. He had not spoken to Konstantin in five years. Perhaps this was the Sovereign’s attempt at a path to a rapprochement. On the other hand, it was just as likely the Sovereign’s way of pointing out to both men who really pulled the strings in the Russian Federation. General Karpov had gotten far too powerful right under the Sovereign’s nose; clever Karpov had found a way to game the system. That kind of clandestine disobedience would never happen again, the Sovereign’s action had made that perfectly clear. Either way, having to deal with Konstantin on an almost daily basis returned to Savasin the old, ugly, and humiliating nightmares. However, with the Sovereign’s blessing, Savasin had elevated Colonel Alecks Volodarsky to head of spetsnaz, the FSB’s Special Forces.

  “All right. Go ahead and bulldoze the fucker.”

  “Really? It’s such a beautiful dacha.”

  Savasin laughed under his breath. Malachev was so transparent—one of his assets, as far as Savasin was concerned: “Keep the reins tight on your horses; feed them only oats you grow yourself,” his father had taught him; the old man might have been cruel, might have loved his vodka a bit too much, but he was no one’s fool. It was a good lesson for Malachev to learn: seeing the dacha he coveted leveled, and he himself giving the order for its destruction.

  Afterward, in the plush backseat of the armor-plated limousine transporting them back to Moscow Center, Malachev said, “Sir, what was it exactly you were looking for?”

  Savasin sat back, thinking that if it were Karpov sitting next to him, after having searched a rogue general’s dacha, he would already know the answer. But then Karpov was nobody’s lapdog, not even the Sovereign’s; that sonuvabitch did whatever the hell he pleased, including marrying a Ukrainian with dissident ties. Clever people like him had no business wielding so much power in the Federation; they were far too dangerous.

  He sighed now, staring out at the blurred landscape, which was becoming more muscular with Brutalist buildings shoulder to shoulder like staunch Russian soldiers the closer they got to the ring road that girdled the metropolis.

  “It seems that the general had any number of secret initiatives he was commanding before he died.”

  “Without the Sovereign’s knowledge?”

  Malachev seemed shocked, but was he really? Savasin asked himself. “Precisely. I am assured we’ve dismantled them all.”

  “Why do I sense the other shoe is about to drop?”

  “You’re right,” Savasin said smugly. “General Karpov’s best friend, the American Jason Bourne, was in country several times over the last year.”

  “He was at the general’s wedding, I recall.”

  The first minister nodded. “Indeed. But he returned later on, around the time that Ivan Volkin died. I have no doubt Bourne murdered him, and took with him an enormous amount of money I believe Karpov had stolen from who knows where.”

  “So Bourne is ground zero for answers,” Malachev said, finally getting with the program.

  “There is no question in my mind.” Savasin shifted from one buttock to another to ease a cramp in his calf. “Which is why I would dearly like to dispatch a Vympel spetsnaz death squad to take Bourne out—if we only knew where he was. With his termination we will finally be able to bury the last of Boris Illyich Karpov.”

  “That’s Volodarsky’s bailiwick,” Malachev pointed out. “I’ve warned you about him.”

  “Stop.” Savasin had taken out his mobile. “Volodarsky has assured me he’s close to pinning Bourne’s location down.” He began to text as they arrived at their destination. “But just in case, Igor, I wish you to make your own inquiries. Discreetly, of course.”

  “Always,” Malachev said, letting himself out.

  Savasin did not miss the wolfish smile on his second-in-command’s face.

  Françoise Sevigne heard the knock on the hotel room door and, with one last emoji, sent her last text before dropping her mobile into her oversize handbag. Françoise came away from the window overlooking the marina in Kalmar, Sweden. Kalmar was in the southeast of the country, with easy access to the Baltic, via the Kalmar Strait, a narrow body of water separating the Swedish mainland from its largest island.

  She opened the door for Justin Farreng, a slim, sandy-haired man with a perpetually harried expression. He slipped into the room, and she closed the door after him, double locking it. He was on her in an instant, his need overwhelming. She welcomed it as a mother welcomes the need of her child, as a totality, as something only she can assuage.

  He took her up against the wall, as he often did, a breathless time when they made love like war, their clothes rucked, the fabrics rubbing skin to red welts, their voices rising and falling like a tide. The second time was in bed, naked, comfortable and comforting, slower but also fierce, in the way they threw each other around, like wrestlers grappling. Then rest. Perhaps twenty minutes of deep sleep for him, a letting go of the anxieties he carried around as a salesman clutches his samples case. The third time was languid, warm water cascading down on them from the showerhead. He lifted her as easily as he would lift a child, hands cupped against her buttocks, their heat rebuilding itself from glowing embers, heating the water as well as themselves. Steam enveloped them.

  Later, reclining on the bed, propped up on one elbow, she watched while he dressed. “You’re leaving early.”

  “I have a tight schedule.”

  She laughed softly, scrambled over the bed, sat at the foot, legs spread, thrilling to how instantly his gaze was magnetized.

  “Stay,” she said.

  “I can’t. I’m meeting—”

  She spread her thighs further
. Their insides were still wet. “A man like you…”

  Half dressed, he came toward her, close enough for her to unzip his trousers. She pulled him down on top of her, guided him into her.

  She stared up into his eyes but saw nothing of interest. Weeks ago, she had realized there was nothing but shiny surface frosting. What lay beneath was nothing—nothing at all. Justin had been born into poverty. His father took six weeks to die from a factory accident that took his leg and part of his hip. No one could be bothered to reduce his pain, let alone try to save his life. As a consequence, Justin had one holy mother of an axe to grind with the world at large. He was a very determined man; this made him incautious, even reckless. Foolish, in other words, though there could be no doubt that in matters of getting his revenge he was smart as a whip.

  When they were done, she rolled him off her. Stretching full length, she reached under a pillow. Farreng had good reason to feel harried; he was wanted in a number of countries for publishing damning documents hacked off government, corporate, and institutional servers. These leaks had already caused consternation and chaos across the world—hence Farreng’s status as a wanted man. LeakAGE, Farreng’s organization, was proudly reliant on third-party whistleblowers, whose identity it protected with the ferocity of a lioness with its cubs. The trouble came in vetting the LeakAGE sources, of which Françoise Sevigne was one. He’d never give her up, she knew that even before the first time she had slipped her arms around him and pressed her body against his, felt his instant arousal. That was six months ago, and nothing had changed. His ardor for her burned just as bright.

  Smiling, she handed him a thumb drive filled with files painstakingly manufactured expressly for him by agents of First Minister Timur Savasin.

  4

  They reached the runabout at breakneck speed. Neither of them had said a word following the Nym’s violent demise. Mala climbed into the runabout first, began to bring up the anchor. Bourne took the helm, started the engines. As soon as the anchor cleared the water, Bourne went full throttle. If Mala hadn’t been braced she would’ve been tossed head over heels.