The Bourne Initiative

by Robert Ludlum

  Savasin, Moscow a blur outside his bulletproof windows, felt a welling up of disgust, not only for his own weakness in failing to find a way to deal with his brother, but for the city, the Federation itself, which was rotting beneath the soles of their expensive foreign-made shoes. The Sovereign would not countenance the truth, and everyone around him—Savasin included—was too terrified of him to clue him in. He still dreamt his dreams of a reconstituted Soviet Union without any thought of how his regime could govern such a far-flung empire when previous regimes hadn’t been able to manage it before. Moscow couldn’t even manage the Chechens, not to mention the other Muslim minorities, gorging themselves at the table of the worldwide jihad.

  The chattering of his mobile fax startled him out of his increasingly gloomy thoughts. Tearing off the single sheet, he read through the text his office had sent. He was ten minutes away. What was this that couldn’t wait until he arrived? Then he read it again. What was the Bourne Initiative?

  The intel had been siphoned off of the leak inside Dreadnaught. The fax coughed to life again, spewing out a second sheet. This one had only one paragraph of text, according to which the Bourne Initiative was the designation the now disgraced General MacQuerrie had given to his search for a supposed über cyber weapon a cadre of Russian dissidents had been working on under the supervision of—He now had to break off a moment, pressing his thumb and forefinger against his closed lids in a vain attempt to forestall that tension headache rising like a poisonous toadstool from the hellish depths of wherever it hid itself.

  His head throbbing, he took his fingers away, stared down at the four words at the end of the single paragraph: General Boris Illyich Karpov.

  Savasin’s stomach gave a great heave. Had he not been told that all of Karpov’s initiatives had been eradicated as completely as if they had never existed? Hadn’t that been guaranteed him? And yet, here was evidence that at least the Americans believed this so-called Bourne Initiative was still alive. Savasin briefly consoled himself with the possibility that this could be a masterful piece of disinformation. But that didn’t last long.

  Apart from Bourne, the Americans knew next to nothing about Karpov. Why would they? The general was a mystery even to his own people, and, really, the Americans were idiots. So rule out disinformation. Which left the worst possible scenario: that Karpov had been running a rogue cyber workshop right under their noses, and Savasin’s people had not unearthed it.

  Savasin was incensed, as well he should be. He had a brief thought of informing Konstantin, but Savasin was still smarting from the news that the spetsnaz team he had taken over was, to a man, dead. And where was Jason Bourne? God alone knew, and surely God wasn’t speaking to Savasin. Besides, using the FSB had never been the correct method of winkling out what Karpov was up to. There was a better way. More risky, yes, but, as the Americans said, no pain, no gain.

  Savasin had barely been in his office two minutes when Malachev appeared. The fact that he had entered without knocking, that the upper eyelid of his left eye was twitching to beat the band, spoke eloquently of his extreme agitation.

  Nevertheless, Savasin, whose brother had put him under a very dark cloud indeed, said, “What?”

  Instead of being taken aback by his superior’s shortness, Malachev grinned as he placed a mobile phone on Savasin’s desk. “A short video just came in from one of your agents.”

  The first minister’s ears pricked up like a hunting dog scenting game. Your agents. Like General Karpov, Savasin had his own cadre of agents in the field, each one on a specific assignment. “Is it the right agent, Igor Ivanovich?”

  Malachev gestured. “See for yourself, sir.”

  Savasin did. In fact, he watched the surveillance video three times before he lifted his head to look at his second-in-command. Their gazes met like fireworks exploding. “You know what this means, Igor Ivanovich.”

  “Indeed, I do, sir. When are you going to spring it on him?”

  “Oh, no, no, no. Nothing so straightforward.” His fingers caressed the mobile’s screen. “This calls for something…more elaborate, more byzantine.” A crafty smiled curled his lips at their edges. “Igor Ivanovich.”

  “Sir!”

  “An extra thousand in the Cypress bank account of the agent who caught this encounter on video.”

  “Right away, sir.”

  When Savasin was alone, he checked the directory on his second mobile, the one he used only sparingly. Then he took his Makarov from his desk drawer, checked that it was loaded, and, rising, grabbed his overcoat and headed for the door.

  Back in his Zil, he gave his driver an address in a district a mile away from where he needed to go. The Zil could wait for him there. He wanted no one, not even his driver and bodyguard, to know his destination.

  —

  When the Angelmaker entered the surgery, she sensed a change in the atmosphere. Nothing she could put a finger on, but something was definitely different. The doctor rose upon her arrival. He gave her a disapproving face when she signaled him to leave her alone with the patient. Clearly, he didn’t trust her. She couldn’t blame him.

  She stepped to the bedside, gazed down at Jason’s face in repose. He had regained much of his color but—and here she reached out, moving her fingertips gently over his cheekbone—in this place where, years ago, Keyre had fractured the bone, the skin tone was slightly different, so subtly that if you didn’t know what to look for you’d not even notice. But the Angelmaker did know, and she saw that the skin over the repaired bone was the tiniest bit paler, as if it belonged to someone else.

  “Jason,” she whispered. But all she heard in reply were the rhythmic beeps of the monitor to which he was still hooked up measuring his heart rate, oxygen level, and respiration. She watched the saline and antibiotic solution slowly drip into the vein in the crook of his elbow.

  She bent over him, put her lips to his ear. “Jason, it’s raining outside,” she whispered. “Pouring. Thunder rumbling. You have Liis by the hand, you have me under your arm. We’re both bleeding, both hurting. Behind us is the tent. Inside it’s burning; the rain hasn’t yet penetrated. Liis and I are drowning in a night of chaos. You move quickly and stealthily through the camp, avoiding the armed men. We can barely see what’s ahead of us, the rain is so thick. But you know where to go, and I say, ‘I hate you, I hate you, I hate you,’ over and over and over.”

  She took his hand in hers. I’ve thought about that moment…What did I mean by that? She squeezed his hand. I’m desperate to know, but I fear it’s a question without an answer.

  And then, to her immense relief, she felt his hand squeeze hers in return.

  She raised her head, looked into his face. “Jason, wake up.” Then she kissed him, partly open lips pressed ever so gently to his.

  Eyes opened.

  “Jason.”

  “Where?”

  His throat was dry, and she fed him several slivers of ice from a cooler at his bedside. His eyes continued to study her as he worked the ice around his mouth, helping the shards to melt. She watched him swallow. Such a small reflex, yet she found herself loving it inordinately.

  Swallowing the last of the ice water, he said, “Where am I?”

  She should have had a ready answer for him, a quick-draw explanation, but she found herself uncharacteristically tongue-tied. This frightened her, though fear was an infrequent visitor at her door.

  “Are we still on Skyros?”

  This she could answer. “No.”

  Something changed behind his eyes, a wall forming. She knew that wall, knew once it came down she’d never get past it.

  “Tell me this isn’t a CIA facility.”

  This made her laugh. It was a genuine laugh, one that made him laugh as well. When was the last time I laughed? she asked herself. At dinner with Jason overlooking the moonstruck Aegean before the Nym exploded. Time being more elastic than a rubber band, that seemed like a lifetime ago.

  “No. No guards here, Jason.” />
  “Just you and me.”

  “Not quite.”

  “No, of course, a medical staff.”

  She nodded. They were coming closer to a moment she now dreaded. “A doctor, a nurse. Yes.” Best to take baby steps now. “And, of course, the emergency team that worked on you while we were in the air.”

  His eyes regarded her, revealing nothing. She shuddered inwardly. His coldness, his complete apartness, as if he lived in another dimension she could not touch, let alone share, caused her real pain.

  “How far have we come?”

  And there it was. The question she could not dodge, and lying to him would only make matters worse. If, now, he didn’t trust her, all was surely lost.

  “We’re in the Horn of Africa.”

  Again his eyes changed, and she felt a bit of life drain out of her.

  “Somalia.”

  Her lips scarcely moved, her voice so low his head lifted off the pillow in order to hear her. “Yes.”

  18

  I don’t like it.”

  “Which part?” Hornden asked. “I mean it can’t be the neighborhood.” He gestured at the nighttime street. “We’re in Dupont Circle.” He grinned. “It can’t be this beautiful Georgian townhome we’re about to enter. You’d be hard pressed to find a tonier address in all of the District.”

  Fulmer glanced back at the line of Cadillac Escalades and more prosaic limos lined up at the curb, their drivers reading the paper, drinking coffee out of paper cups, or resting their heads against the seatbacks, catching a few winks.

  “None of the drivers are on their mobile phones,” Fulmer said.

  “A strict policy of the establishment their distinguished guests are only too happy to oblige.”

  A man of no small stature at sentry duty just inside the front door nodded to Hornden—he was very conspicuously known here—and they passed through the small vestibule, pushing through another door into the two-story entrance hall proper. A huge crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling threw discreet lights every which way. Directly below it was an inlaid fruitwood table, polished to a glassy finish, on which stood a cut-crystal vase bursting with a professionally arranged profusion of long-stemmed flowers that looked like a fireworks display caught in mid-burst. Behind all of this was a grand staircase, curling upward to the second floor.

  As far as Fulmer could tell, all the activity was on the ground floor. To their right was a grand salon, furnished with silk divans and love seats. The warmly lit room was devoid of chairs or proper sofas. To their left was a small salon, a library, in fact, with floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with books, no doubt all erotic classics, Fulmer thought acidly, for he had noted immediately that every single woman in both rooms was young, shapely, gorgeously dressed, magnificently jeweled, and coiffed to a fare-thee-well, confirming his suspicions about what sort of gathering he’d been brought to.

  “I think I’ll take a pass. My wife and kids are waiting for me, and tomorrow is Sunday; we always go to early worship.”

  But as he turned, Hornden caught him by the elbow, swung him back around. “No need to be alarmed. You won’t be tainted here. On any given night half of the most influential men inside the Beltway unwind with appointments here.”

  And, indeed, it was true. As Fulmer’s gaze moved from the female pulchritude so brazenly on display, it alighted on one representative and senator after another. There were a couple of men from DoD, another from the Pentagon, along with a handful of ex–administration appointees who had maintained or, in some cases, increased, their standing among the District’s power brokers.

  “You see?” Hornden said, “nothing to be concerned about.”

  Fulmer put his back to the crowd. “I don’t want them to see me here.”

  As if he hadn’t heard Fulmer, Hornden’s smile broadened. “And here she comes.”

  Fulmer turned around to see a willowy woman in a simple black cocktail dress and exceptionally high heels approaching them. She matched Hornden’s smile, revealing small, white, even teeth. Unlike the other women in the rooms, she wore only a modicum of greasepaint, as Fulmer called makeup. Her skin was flawless, clear and dewy as a child’s. He was rocked by a sudden, unbidden thought: She has the face of an angel and the eyes of a devil. Those devilish tawny eyes regarded him with a straightforward interest, mixed with a certain curiosity. They were so light they gave her skin a burnished glow.

  “National security advisor Marshall Fulmer, meet Gwyneth Donnelly. She’s the genius behind this place.”

  “Stop it, Harry,” she said as she held out a perfectly manicured hand. As Fulmer took it, she said, “Call me Gwen.” She cocked her head. “And what shall I call you? Mr. Fulmer? No, too formal. Marsh?” Her laugh was like the tinkling of small bells. “No. I think not, judging by the horrified look on your face.”

  Fulmer cleared his throat. He felt a bit dizzy. Was it overly warm in here? “Mr. Fulmer will do quite nicely.”

  Gwyneth nodded. “As you wish.” She lifted a well-toned arm. “This way, gentlemen.”

  She led them through the library, where their passage went totally unremarked. One of the hallmarks of the place was that every one of the clients kept his eyes on the women. Each to his own, self to self, could have been the business’s motto.

  Thus heartened, Fulmer crossed to the far side of the library. They looked to be heading toward a wall full of books, until Gwyneth released a hidden latch and a door-size section of the wall swung inward. The three of them went through.

  Down a wood-paneled corridor, lined on either side by Audubon lithographs of tropical birds, at the end of which was a door Gwyneth opened. The room was capacious, decorated not as an office but as a den. Lamplight only, turned low, gave the place a nestlike aspect. Oversize easy chairs covered in tobacco-colored leather, an abstract pattern rug under their feet, a glass coffee table, a small sofa upholstered in the same material as the chairs, between them a low cocktail table with a shiny, mirrored top. The papered walls were hung with Currier & Ives prints. In all, it felt like stepping back in time, into a men’s club from the nineteenth century.

  “Please make yourselves comfortable,” Gwyneth said as she crossed to a sideboard holding a dozen or so bottles of liquor. “Mr. Fulmer?” she said over her shoulder.

  “It’s late. Nothing for me.”

  “Harry? Your usual?”

  “Perfect.”

  Gwyneth brought two glasses, handed one to Hornden, sipped at the other as she settled herself in a chair directly opposite Fulmer.

  Is it my imagination, Fulmer asked himself, or did she take an extra few seconds crossing her legs? Either way, he glimpsed more of her than he had before. He liked what he saw, but was loathe to admit it to himself. Instead, he stiffened his spine, like a good soldier preparing for inspection.

  “Harry,” Gwyneth said, a small smile playing about her lips, “be so kind as to remind me why we’re here?” She was looking directly at Fulmer, which she had done since she sat down.

  “The national security advisor would like you to answer a question,” Hornden said.

  “Just one?” That smile, less enigmatic, more playful now. “Oh, dear.”

  Hornden cleared his throat. “Fulmer would like a bit of clarity as to who told you that he was responsible for the latest LeakAGE debacle that brought down General MacQuerrie.”

  Before Gwyneth could answer, a repeating noise sounded, growing louder, like an approaching police car, causing Fulmer to start, only to relax as Hornden drew out his mobile. Gwyneth’s brows knit together.

  “Dammit to hell, Harry, how many times do I have to tell you—”

  “Sorry, Gwyneth. Mr. Fulmer.” He rose. “I have to take this.” And he exited the room without another word.

  “Honestly,” Gwyneth said, clearly irritated, “I don’t know why I continue to tolerate that man.”

  “Perhaps because he’s a good source of income,” Fulmer said, feeling more in control than he had since he’d steppe
d foot inside the townhome.

  Gwyneth seemed to consider this for a moment while regarding Fulmer over the rim of her glass. That tinkling laugh rose again. “A pity you’re not a drinker.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  She graced him with a sly curve to her lips. “You know, late at night, when most of the city is asleep, is the best time to drink, the best time for conversation, the best time for reviewing what went before and planning what is to come.”

  “For that, I require a clear head.”

  She drained her glass. “Liquor clears my head.”

  “Then I salute you.”

  Leaning forward, she put her glass down on the mirrored table, and Fulmer was treated to the sight of her full, creamy breasts. He was startled to realize she wasn’t wearing a bra. Didn’t every woman wear one?

  “Harry warned me that you were no fun,” Gwyneth said, straightening up, but none too quickly.

  It took more effort than he would have liked to keep his eyes from bugging out. “Harry knows very little about me.”

  That smile again, returning to the enigmatic. When did enigmatic become so erotic? Fulmer asked himself.

  “Don’t you ever let your hair down, Marshall?”

  He was about to correct her, then decided to let it go. He liked her calling him by his Christian name. “I can’t afford to.”