—
“What the hell is going on?” Morgana said when Françoise met her as she entered the small, neat-as-a-pin arrivals hall, after deplaning. “Nobody told me anything.” It was clear she was equal parts incensed and frightened from her brief though surely scary incarceration. “I’m sitting on both flights biting my nails, looking over my shoulder, waiting for the NSA to drag me back to holding.”
“Forget the NSA,” Françoise said, kissing her on both cheeks, then taking the crook of her arm in hers. “At the mo-mo, they have more on their plate than they can handle.”
Morgana halted them both, and in the middle of the echoing arrivals hall, Françoise dragged out her mobile, fired up a browser, and showed Morgana the CNN site. Morgana grabbed the phone out of her hand, greedily reading and scrolling down at the same time.
“Good Christ, all hell’s broken loose.”
Françoise nodded. “MacQuerrie has vanished down the fed rabbit hole, possibly never to return.” She grinned. “Ding dong, the wizard is dead.”
Morgana looked up into her friend’s face. “This is real?”
“Uh huh.”
“Wow,” Morgana breathed. “Just…wow.”
She went back to reading the adjunct articles as Françoise steered her outside, where a hired car was waiting. She managed to get Morgana inside, then slid into the backseat beside her and closed the door. The driver glanced at her in the rearview mirror, and she nodded.
“It’s good to have you here,” she said as the car pulled out into the exit roadway. “With me.”
Morgana, finished reading, for the moment anyway, handed back the mobile. “Did you have something to do with this?” When Françoise shrugged, the grin still on her face, Morgana said, “I don’t know what to say.”
“I told you I would help you if you ever got into real trouble.”
“I know, but…” She took a deep breath, let it out slowly. Relief brought her shoulders down from either side of her neck. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
“Oh, I’ll think of something,” Françoise said with a twinkle in her eye. “But first, we take you shopping. You look like Raggedy Ann.” She took her friend’s hand, squeezed it in a reassuring manner. “Then we eat. I know a great place. The last time I was there I threw up three hours later.”
Morgana laughed. “That’s a recommendation?”
“In this case, it is.” She laughed. “Trust me.”
“Always,” Morgana said. “Always.”
—
Tick-tock… Boom!
The entire tented camp was in a frenzy, revolutionary zeal temporarily submerged under the twin necessities of putting out the fires and finding the perpetrators. Under cover of the major diversion, Bourne headed in.
Moving fast and low, he threaded his way between the tents, taking as direct a route as he was able, considering all the running troops he had to dodge. Now, with an earth-shuddering roar, the sky cracked open and the deluge commenced. That was both good news and bad news. The thick curtains of rain added to the confusion and helped mask his progress through the camp, but it also went a long way to putting out the fires prematurely.
Inside their prison tent, a dozen girls stood perfectly still. They stood on their mean pallets, legs slightly spread as if they were on a ship rolling on the high seas. They were the only immobile people in the entire camp. Not one of them thought to take advantage of the opportunity to run, not after what had happened at twilight.
Someone had lit a kerosene lamp. By the inconstant light of its flickering flame, they stared at him out of emaciated faces with overlarge eyes, their bodies pale beneath tattered clothes. Once again Bourne’s heart was rent. He wanted to save them all, but to save two he needed to leave the others behind. He’d never make it out with all of them in tow.
Stepping to Liis, he grabbed her hand, led her out of the tent, out into the deluge. Already the ground was a muddy morass. The rain was coming down so hard, even the sandy soil could not drain it away fast enough.
He endeavored not to let the girl’s stumbling gait slow him down, carrying her under one arm when he had to. Like a waft of air, she weighed next to nothing. Arriving at the rear of the tent in which Mala was being held, he used a knife to rip open the fabric. With Liis in tow, he stepped through the rent to find the older sister.
She was not alone.
Bourne had expected a guard, perhaps two. The person standing between him and Mala was Keyre.
15
And Lieutenant Goode,” Morgana said, as she sipped her dirty martini. “Ah, Lieutenant Goode.”
Françoise, her hands cupped around a vodka rocks, said, “You know this man?”
“He was the one.” Morgana took another sip, delighting in how the icy liquid turned to fire in her belly. “The one who MacQuerrie prepped to suck me in.”
“A double honey trap.” Françoise nodded. “Very clever.”
“I was an idiot.”
“We’re all idiots once in a while.” Françoise laughed. “Otherwise, how would we know we’re human?”
Aifur Song was packed to the gills, an apt analogy given the preponderance of fish and seafood on the artfully designed menu. Since they had arrived a half hour ago, the noise level had steadily risen, until now it was a dull roar, like stormy surf heard at a short remove.
Their drinks finished, the waiter brought refills without being asked. Shortly thereafter, while the two women were catching each other up in a concerted attempt to restore Morgana’s equilibrium, a young man with dark, probing eyes and straight dark hair, slicked back to reveal a window’s peak, appeared out of the crowd, wending his way to their table.
“Ah, there you are,” Françoise said, raising a hand. She made the introductions. “Morgana Roy, meet Larry London, a terrific freelance photographer.”
Smiling warmly, Rozin, newly minted head of spetsnaz, briefly took Morgana’s hand before sliding into a chair at their four-top. “Very pleased to meet you, Ms. Roy.”
“Morgana, please.”
He nodded. “Morgana. And you must call me Larry.” He laughed. “All my friends do.” His laugh was dry and easy to digest; it drew you to him without any fuss. Their waiter materialized at his elbow; Rozin pointed to Morgana’s dirty martini. “I’ll have what the lovely lady is drinking.”
“Very good, sir,” the waiter said, departing.
“Morgana,” Françoise said, “you recall the photo of the mother and daughter Afghan refugees being pulled out of the water after their boat capsized.”
“The one that won the Pulitzer? Sure. It was the centerpiece of the Global Photographics traveling exhibit a few years back. Everyone’s seen it.”
“That was Larry’s work.”
Morgana cocked her head. “Really?”
He shrugged. “Right place, right time.”
Françoise scoffed. “He has no ego, this one. That was peak performance, Larry. Everyone knows that.”
The anecdote served its purpose; the ice had been neatly broken. When Rozin’s drink was set before him, they all toasted “better days,” and swallowed the alcohol.
“And what do you do, Morgana?” Rozin asked, setting his cocktail glass down.
“Oh, no, Larry,” Françoise cut in. “You mustn’t ask her that.”
“Mustn’t I?” Rozin’s eyes sparkled. He knew very well Morgana’s specialty, having been read in by Françoise via text message while Morgana was trying on clothes. “How delightfully intriguing.”
“Intrigue is just what we seek to avoid.” Françoise picked up her menu. “Isn’t that right, Morgie?”
Rozin made a face. “Oh, don’t call her that; Morgana is such a beautiful name. One you don’t hear very often. Welsh. From the compound Morcant—a circle or bright sea.”
Morgana was impressed. “That’s more than I knew.”
“Oh, Larry’s assignments take him to every corner of the globe,” Françoise said, “where he absorbs knowledge like a six-year-old.”<
br />
“Are you two lovers?” Morgana asked, looking from one to the other.
“Lovers?” Françoise burst out laughing.
“It’s that funny?” Rozin exclaimed. It wasn’t difficult evincing wounded pride.
“Larry’s one of my messengers,” Françoise said. “Receiving and delivering vital information.” Her eyes flashed merrily. “Number one. Ichiban, as the Japanese say.”
Rozin shot her a dark look, as if with her bantering she was cleaving too close to a kernel of truth. But Morgana was too entranced by the lighthearted byplay that included her as an instant friend—part of this family, one might say—to notice. Fun was to be had here, and a secure place to rest her still-spinning head, safe and protected from the dreadful events of the last twenty-four hours. Her unwinding had begun when Françoise had taken her shopping. It continued now, at a faster pace, running downhill like water to the ocean. And, oh, it felt so good to finally let her guard down.
That was when the shakes started. She looked up helplessly at Françoise, who understood that her friend was going into delayed shock. Jumping up, Françoise took Morgana by the hand, steered her through the restaurant as quickly as she could.
They made it into the ladies’ room just in time. Françoise held Morgana’s hair back from her face as, bent double, she vomited up the gin and terror that had been roiling inside her, clamoring to be released. Periodically, Françoise lifted her head past the electronic eye, automatically flushing the toilet over and over.
“Jesus, Françoise.” Ripping squares of toilet paper off the roll, Morgana wiped her mouth with shaky hands. “Jesus fucking Christ.” She was shaking like an addict in withdrawal. “I’m not cut out for this life.”
Françoise cradled her shoulders gently. “None of us is, darling. I’m afraid there’s a steep learning curve.”
Morgana stood up, but, still shaky, she leaned against the stall’s left partition. “Was it the same with you?”
Françoise nodded. “Of course. But, you know, it was Larry who taught me a lot.”
“Larry. Really.” Morgana allowed herself to be led out of the stall to the line of sinks.
“Uh huh,” Françoise affirmed.
Morgana washed out her mouth, splashed water on her face, toweled off. “God, I look a fright,” she said, staring into the mirror.
“Nonsense. You’re one of those women who don’t need makeup to look beautiful.” She tilted her head, handed Morgana a tube. “Maybe just a touch more color on your lips.”
As Morgana checked out the color, then applied the lipstick, Françoise said. “You know, now I think about it, maybe Larry would do the same for you.”
—
Like the tent that held the other girls, Mala’s tent was lit by a kerosene lantern—two of them, in fact, one on each side of the tent. Their light revealed a cheap tribal rug covering the rough ground, a small propane ring on which hunkered a squat iron kettle, beside which were a handleless cup and a square tin canister marked as Russian Caravan tea. Next to that was, incongruously, a wooden rolling cart with six long drawers. One of the drawers was pulled partway out. Bourne could see inside, and his blood ran cold. An array of implements, all sharply bladed or pointed, some steel, but others iron or fire-hardened bamboo, each meticulously nested in its own lined niche. In the center of the tent stretched a curious contraption made of bentwood and dowels, stained almost black in spots, a framework on which a human body could be lain giving access to both front and back. The carpet beneath the thing was black, as well. Many layers of blood, dried one over the other.
At the head—or foot, it was impossible to tell—of this strange and sinister piece of furniture, stood Mala. Keyre was pressed up against her back, holding an instrument much like a scalpel, but with a wickedly curved blade, at her carotid, which pulsed with her terror. Liis, cleaving to Bourne as if he were a rock, gave a little strangled cry.
“Kill her?” Keyre said without preamble in Somali. “No, I don’t think so.” Was he addressing Bourne or Liis? Perhaps it was both.
The instrument moved down from the side of Mala’s neck to a spot just underneath her right breast.
He caught Bourne’s eye. “But one of these will come off now.” He gestured with his head. “Unless, that is, you let go of the girl so she can be with her sister, where she belongs.”
“The girls belong as far away from here as they can get.”
“And that is why you’re here, one guesses.” He was tall but not a big man. Wiry and athletic, one muscle fitted into another without the interference of fat or excess flesh. His mahogany skin appeared to be stretched over muscle and bone with the form-fitting tightness of Lycra. His cheeks were shadowed, deeply sunken—or were they deformed by ritual scars? In the lantern light it was difficult to tell. His tightly curled hair fit like a cap high on his head, the sides and front shaven clean. His eyes radiated the fever-bright light of the fanatic. People like Keyre could not be reasoned with; they had to be dealt with on their own terms or not at all.
“Before anything gets out of hand—”
Keyre tossed his head. “It’s already out of hand. Thanks to you.”
“And yet here I am. I’ve got your attention. More than that, I have an audience alone with you.” Bourne cocked his head. “How d’you suppose I could have gotten that otherwise?”
Keyre grunted. “You speak very good Somali, for an infidel.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“Don’t take it for fucking anything.”
Bourne decided he needed to take a chance. Pushing the cowering Liis slightly away from him, he unwound her fingers from his. For a long, tense moment, Keyre did nothing. Then he lowered his instrument to his side, but kept it at the ready.
“Speak, then.”
Bourne produced the deep sigh of a businessman who finds himself at the short end of the stick. “You’re right, I did come here for the girls.”
“Their father.”
Bourne nodded.
“Their father’s a shit. He sold them to people, who sold them to me.”
It was easy to believe Keyre was an inveterate liar; the talent went with the territory. But this time Bourne felt certain he was telling the truth. “Nevertheless, I’d like to take them away.”
“Impossible,” Keyre said. “The process is in its final stages.”
Ripping off her stained cloth shift, he pushed Mala forward with his chest and knees so that she came fully into the light. Liis’s cry was like that of a baby bird witnessing her mother being crushed. Mala’s skin down her torso and limbs was a reddened webwork of open cuts, angry wounds, and livid scars. She had been systematically tortured. This was Bourne’s initial reaction, not yet understanding the maiming wasn’t disfigurement at all—at least, not in Keyre’s eyes—but a series of Yibir magical glyphs, whose lineage stretched all the way back to the ancient Ajuran Empire of the 1300s.
“Once it has begun,” Keyre said in a frighteningly reasonable tone, “this process cannot be interrupted.” He gestured with his chin. “Take the little sister if you must. I will name a price, you will pay it, here, now, and you will depart, never to return.”
Bourne had been moving, ostensibly to gain a better look at the extent of the damage Keyre had inflicted on Mala. He stared into her eyes, which looked like depthless pools, dead at their bottoms, and he thought, She’s already lost. But then the punishment he had witnessed, meted out at twilight to the little girl, returned to him with all the force of a hammer blow. An innocent caught up, like so many innocents, in the tribal warfare between fanatic religious factions. These days, jihadists came in every color of the rainbow, shedding blood and brothers over territory more than two thousand years old.
“Those are your terms,” Bourne said, still evincing the businessman’s attitude.
“They are.”
“Let’s see if we can—”
“Final terms,” Keyre said flatly, and the instrument returned to the soft
flesh beneath Mala’s right breast. “Rejoice that I have given you any terms at all.”
“Oh, I am,” Bourne said. “Rejoicing, that is.” And with that, he kicked over the lantern closest to him, which was why he had moved in the first place.
Kerosene spilled out of the uncapped reservoir and with a great whoosh of heat and light caught fire. The fibers of the rug were dry, perfect fuel for such a conflagration. Bourne pushed Liis backward through the rent with one hand, then, in almost the same motion, stepped through the flames, emerging on the other side like some avenging deity, a god of death.
16
The new, improved, and far more powerful national security advisor Marshall Fulmer bestrode the D.C. Beltway like a colossus. As the person who had uncovered MacQuerrie’s illegal incarceration of Morgana Roy and, by extension, the existence of Meme LLC, a black off-site cyber operation seemingly devoted exclusively to furthering the general’s astonishingly far-flung interests, which might or might not sync up with Russian Federation business interests—even before LeakAGE released the slurry of MacQuerrie files—Fulmer received an unprecedented quantity of air time, photo ops, and interviews with the most prestigious of TV’s talking heads. He was invited to the White House to meet with the president and his security staff, who solicited his opinion on how to ensure they would not miss even one of MacQuerrie’s well-hidden tentacular organizations.
Since MacQuerrie had shut up like a giant clam, they also wanted to know just what the hell the general was up to. Was it simply greed? Or was there a more sinister purpose at work here?
At no time during these intense sessions did Fulmer mention the Bourne Initiative. Further, he felt confident that MacQuerrie would never, ever divulge the initiative’s existence, let alone his almost obsessive interest in it. For Fulmer, since the time when he’d conceived of his plot to overthrow the general, was convinced that MacQuerrie had engaged Meme LLC to uncover where in the cyber-world General Boris Illyich Karpov had stashed the code to build the ultimate cyber weapon, one capable of punching through any firewall in its path and penetrating to the heart of America’s final defense: the nuclear launch codes.
The Bourne Initiative Page 13
