The Bourne Initiative

by Robert Ludlum

  Behind them, the lithium-ion battery that powered Mala’s mobile heated up to an intolerable level, and, just as three NSA techs rushed into The Drowning Pool, it exploded in their faces.

  Alarms went off all over the place. They sprinted down corridors, the Angelmaker following Bourne’s every step. His eidetic memory had imprinted every nook and cranny of the great house. They hid in a utility closet as armed men rushed past on their way to the emergency in The Drowning Pool; they gingerly climbed an old, disused staircase with several rotten treads to gain the main floor; they escaped the confines of the house, not through any of the four doors on the main floor that led outside, which were doubtless being guarded, but by jumping out a second-floor window that overlooked a huge oak tree, down which they climbed.

  They made their way past the huge tree, left down the dirt track. Bourne made sure they skirted the site of the shootings, hurrying them along through copses of oak and poplar, until they were in sight of Arthur Lee’s small stone house.

  Lee was waiting for them in his old rattletrap of a truck.

  “Once I heard the commotion, I knew you’d either be coming through the woods or you’d be dead. One way or t’other the day had gone in another direction.” He pointed. “Who’s this lovely lady?”

  “A friend,” the Angelmaker said. “That’s all you need to know.”

  “Sassy critter, ain’tcha?” Lee grinned. “My name’s Arthur, but you, missy, can call me Artie.”

  “Arthur,” Bourne cut in.

  “Right.” Lee hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “Under the tarp back there, situate yourselves between the bales of hay.”

  When Bourne hesitated, he added, “They check coming in, not going out.”

  “But with the alarms going off—”

  “There’s a fire now in the great house, but I’m guessing you know that already.” Lee winked. “You just get covered up and leave the rest to me.”

  They climbed in the back, made themselves as comfortable as possible, being squeezed between bales, pulled the tarp over themselves, tied it down to hooks in the sides of the truck bed.

  No sooner had they done that, then, with a protesting shriek of gears the truck rocked away from Lee’s house, heading for one of the gates. Soon enough, it was clear that he was making for the eastern gate on the other side of the property, an excellent choice, since it was the one farthest away from the growing mayhem.

  By the time they reached the gate, the wail of fire engines could be heard, and the guards, distracted by the noises, addressed Lee only long enough to ask him what was going on. It seemed as if everyone near the great house was too busy to contact them.

  “Grease fire, far’s I can tell,” Lee said easily. “But, y’know, I’m not allowed inside the great house, so it’s anyone’s guess.”

  One of the guards grunted. “I’d fucking let you in,” he muttered under his breath.

  The other said, “Going for your usual evening hay run, Arthur?”

  “To the Sizemore farm. That’s about the size of it.”

  The gates opened, and he drove through, out into the darkling countryside. The sun had set, splashing vivid colors across the western sky. Crows wheeled overhead, then made for their nests in faraway trees. A dog barked, then was still. Rabbits were at play in the fields, their heads coming up, their bodies freezing as the truck trundled past.

  When they were far enough away from ground zero, Lee tooted his horn; it was a funny sound, like something you’d hear at a circus or a sideshow. Bourne and the Angelmaker scrambled out from under the fluttering tarp. Lee stopped just long enough for them to join him in the cab.

  “Where to, missy?” he asked with a crooked smile.

  “It’s his show,” she said, indicating Bourne.

  Lee’s head bobbed up and down. “Know that already; just bein’ polite.”

  “I appreciate that,” the Angelmaker said. “More than you know.”

  Seeming satisfied with the direction of the conversation, Lee put the truck in gear, and they continued their rumbling journey due east, away from Crowcroft.

  “Second star to the left,” Bourne said, “then straight on till morning.”

  “Shouldn’t that be ‘to the right’?” Lee said.

  “Only if we’re going to Never, Never Land,” Bourne replied.

  For a time, they rattled on in companionable silence. Bourne could tell Mala was depleted; she needed rest, but he had questions he needed to put to her.

  “I assume you followed me all the way from Somalia,” he said.

  “That’s right.” She had her head back, resting on the seat.

  “Keyre’s orders.”

  “Right again.”

  “How the hell did you manage to get into Crowcroft?”

  “I didn’t.” Her eyes snapped open, but they seemed to be looking at something only she could see. “I was stupid. I made a mistake. I underestimated—”

  “And they caught you.”

  “After a fashion.”

  “After a fashion?”

  She smirked. “I got inside, didn’t I?”

  But at what cost? Bourne wondered, but said nothing, letting a brief pause mark the end of any further discussion of Mala’s presence.

  “What do you know about this third partner, Dima Orlov?”

  “Not much. He’s a shadowy figure flitting about the Moscow underworld. I never met him; no one I know has. He’s like a ghost.” She screwed up her face. “I heard once that he and General Karpov were childhood friends, they had a falling out as adolescents, but you know how deep the bonds run between childhood friends in Russia. The story goes they patched things up in adulthood.”

  Bourne wracked his memory, trying to recall if Boris had ever mentioned Dima Orlov. But his memory was unreliable, and for the ten-thousandth time he cursed it. His eyes were closing; the motion of the truck, the low rumble of its engine, was making him drowsy. All the adrenaline had drained out of him. He was almost as depleted as Mala looked. It felt so good to see the open road ahead of them, the trees a blur of green, to hear the whistle of the wind through the open windows, feel the air on his skin. Just, for once, to relax.

  But in Bourne’s world that was a kind of joke. For someone who slept with one eye open, the concept of relaxation scarcely existed, and when, like now, that rare sensation crept over him, it usually had the life span of a mayfly. And, sure enough, this moment would be no exception.

  The roaring of big honking motorcycles coming up behind them dissolved the instant’s peace like a pin in a balloon. There were four of them—German-style spiked helmets, grinning skulls emblazoned on the backs of scarred black leather vests, fringes and long, stringy hair fluttering like wounded birds. They rode new Harley V-Rod Muscle bikes, the most powerful in the line.

  They came up two on each side, muscled arms shining, as well oiled as their machines. They moved in and out, coming just close enough to rattle Arthur Lee. Lee, who had seen just about every atrocity man could perpetrate on another, didn’t seem to be the type to rattle easily. But these big guys were armed with handguns. Two had sawed-off shotguns slung diagonally across their backs. One, on the passenger’s side, had his pistol cradled in his lap.

  One of the four horsemen of the new apocalypse veered toward Arthur Lee. Before Arthur had a chance to zip up his window, the biker brandished a hunting knife with a thick serrated blade.

  “Hey, you!” he shouted. “You, boy!” He swung the blade in a shallow arc. It whistled through the air over the moaning of the wind and came within inches of Lee’s cheek. “Hey, boy, I have some boots for you to shine! I have some grits to push into your pussy face!” He swung again, Lee cringed away, and the truck careened out of its lane.

  The leader laughed. “Careful, boy! Didn’t your master teach you how to drive?” Holding his knife high, he swung in again, this time with the blade pointed directly at Lee’s carotid artery. Lee turned the wheel over hard, toward the two bikers on the other side.
r />   Bourne had had enough. He was prepared for Lee’s sharp swerve to the right. Swinging his door open, he leapt at the biker brandishing the handgun, knocking him clean off the saddle. The biker hit the ground hard, shoulder first, then his head. His helmet flew off and, as he rolled, the side of his head struck a stone outcropping.

  Grabbing control of the Harley, Bourne made a screaming U-turn, came at the second biker on his side. He was aiming his big Colt .45 at the spot right between Bourne’s eyes. An instant before he squeezed the trigger, Bourne dropped down below the level of the handlebars. The bullet whanged over his head, and he kicked out with his left boot, delivering a hard enough blow to the V-Rod to send it veering off the road. He followed it as the biker struggled to regain control. To do that he had to holster his Colt. Bourne, executing another 180, rushed at the Harley from behind. He struck the biker in the kidney, and the biker winced; Bourne snatched the .45 out of its holster and shot the biker in the back, shattering his spine. The out of control V-Rod roared to a spectacular crash against the guardrail, its gas tank splitting open. Flames sprang up, engulfing the leather saddle and the man sitting astride it, followed by a blinding flash and a red ball of confusion.

  Bourne revved the Harley, taking off after the truck and the remaining two bikers. Some distance behind him, a cloud of dust was rising rapidly, and he wondered whether guards from Crowcroft had finally gotten their act together and come after them.

  Even so, first things first.

  One of the remaining bikers had slipped his sawed-off out of his quiverlike sheath, was aiming it into the truck’s interior while the leader came roaring back down the road directly at Bourne. A pair of legs shot out of the truck’s open window, scissored around the biker’s arm. The shotgun went off, tearing a hole in the truck’s fender right above the gas tank. Some of the buckshot must have penetrated the tank because the truck began to leak gas like a sieve. Meanwhile, The Angelmaker, having consolidated her grip on the biker, drew him off his saddle with the astonishing strength of her thighs. As she brought his face close to her, she slammed her knuckles into his windpipe, crushing the vital cricoid cartilage. She released her viselike grip and the biker slammed against the curve of the truck’s fender on his hard tumble to the tarmac.

  That left the leader. Instead of aiming his shotgun at Bourne, he swung it behind him. He was staring at Bourne, a big, fat grin on his bearded face as he squeezed off a shot right into the heart of the truck’s gas tank. Sparks flew, what was left of the ruined cap blew off, and flames shot from the open mouth. It was only a matter of time before the fire spread to the cabin, or worse, the truck exploded.

  As the leader had correctly anticipated, Bourne swung around him, making for the truck, which was yawing back and forth in ever widening arcs. Inside the cab he glimpsed the Angelmaker struggling to regain control from Arthur Lee. He hoped she was grinding the gears into neutral in preparation for turning off the ignition. She knew they had to get out of the cab before it became an inferno, trapping them inside.

  Just as Bourne passed the leader’s bike, he felt a flash of agony in the side of his head. The biker had thrown his sawed-off at Bourne, striking a direct blow. Black spots danced in front of Bourne’s eyes; his hands went slack on the handlebars. One foot slipped off the rest, and he swayed, close to taking a fall.

  The leader was coming at him, his Colt out and at the ready. He was close enough for the kill shot, but he was a careful man. Closer still, and even with the erratic motion of the Harleys, he couldn’t miss. His forefinger, tightened on the trigger, began to squeeze, and then with a deafening roar his head exploded, drenching Bourne in brains and bone. The driverless V-Rod wobbled, then jumped the road, struck the top of the guardrail, flipped like a pinwheel going over.

  Bourne didn’t get to see the end result. He heard it, though, a great booming, a grinding of hot metal and scorched tires. Then out of the chaos, Jimmy Lang’s vehicle appeared beside him. A strong arm grabbed him, settling him back on the saddle.

  “You didn’t think I was going to let you have all the fun,” Jimmy said, grinning.

  “Arthur’s truck,” Bourne said, still slightly disoriented.

  “Not to worry,” Jimmy said. “They’re both out.”

  At that moment, Arthur Lee’s truck went up like a screaming, rageful fireball.

  PART THREE

  Dima

  30

  It was an ill-omened day in her life when Françoise was obliged to seek out her brother unannounced. She spent a fruitless but necessary twenty minutes surveilling the area in and around the marina, making certain it was clean. She was sure Gora’s people had already done this, but years in the field had ingrained certain routines so deeply she performed them even when logic dictated they were redundant. Fieldwork had proved time and again that logic had little to do with being captured and either killed or put under articulated interrogation.

  So it was that forty-five minutes after dawn on the morning after Morgana’s dramatic revelation concerning Larry London, she found herself progressing down toward her brother’s boat, which lay peacefully at anchor just as it had been when he had summoned her some days ago.

  The wind plucked rigging like the strings on a double bass, tap-tap-tapping them against masts. Clouds scudded by overhead, and the new day’s sunlight slanted in, warming the back of her neck. There was something jolly and at the same time peaceful about a marina—boats rocking gently in their slips, people going about their deck work with a particular serenity. No one hurried, no one ran, no one shouted. Often, as now, it was all but deserted. And yet the marina remained alive, moving to the pulse of the tide.

  Two of Gora’s men stood guard at the head of the metal gangway. One, who was new and therefore didn’t know her, barred her way. But the other, Sigi, was an old hand, and he waved her aboard. She found Gora below, in the galley, in a silk robe. He was frying eggs and the kind of bacon you could only purchase in America. An aromatic waft of coffee came to her, making her mouth water.

  A young blond woman, naked to the waist, was seated at the built-in table, a sheet twisted around her loins. She turned, startled at Françoise’s abrupt appearance, but she made no attempt to hide her nakedness.

  “Who’s she?” she asked in Swedish-accented English.

  “Get dressed,” Gora said to her, turning the strips of bacon. “And get out of here.”

  The blonde pouted. “What about the breakfast you promised me?”

  Gora threw a fistful of bills on the table, and said, “Go on. Beat it.”

  When she reached for them, he swept them onto the floor.

  Françoise took a step toward the woman. “Gora, there’s no need—”

  “Keep still,” he said in Russian.

  The blonde, trembling, crouched to gather them up.

  Brother and sister confronted each other warily. Not a word was exchanged until the woman hastily dressed, hopping on one high heel while trying desperately to slip on the other, and crossed the cabin. She shot Françoise a glare as full of hatred as it was of jealousy before flouncing out onto the deck, where Sigi took her in hand.

  “Breakfast?” Gora said then, as if the woman had never existed. “It’s one hundred percent American.”

  “So I see.”

  “Go ahead, sis. Pour yourself some coffee.” He eyed her. “You look like you need it.”

  He lifted the bacon strips out of their own fat, laid them carefully on a sheet of paper towel; about some things he was meticulous. When she had a mug in her hands and had taken the first sip, he said, “I assume it’s important.”

  “Urgent, more like.”

  His eyebrows rose like a pair of ravens lifting off a tree branch. Using a spatula, he transferred the fried eggs, two at a time, onto plates. Then he meted out the bacon in identical portions. Crossing to the table, which was already laid with two places, he set down the plates. No toast; he hated toast.

  They both sat at the same time, facing each other, a
nd began to eat with the same quick motions, as if they were identical twins.

  After he had finished precisely half his breakfast, he looked up at her. “Tell me.”

  So she did. She told him everything that Morgana had related regarding the messages from Unit 309 to Larry London, or, as they knew him, Nikolay Ivanovich Rozin. “Now she knows Niki is a Russian spy. Now she knows she’s been working for the Russians, and she’s terrified. I had to talk her down from fleeing the country immediately.” She tried unsuccessfully to interpret Gora’s flat gaze. “How could spetsnaz be so careless?”

  “Spetsnaz,” her brother said, “and specifically Unit 309, have no knowledge of this girl you’ve brought to us.”

  “Morgana’s a fucking cyber genius,” Françoise spit out. “She’s going to save you—”

  “Maybe she is,” he said, chewing on a bit of bacon. “Maybe she isn’t.” Grease lacquered his full lips. There was a spot of it on his chin. He picked up his last strip of bacon. “The point is, we are now saddled with a liability.”

  Françoise reacted instantly. “Oh, no. You’re not going to harm a hair on her head.”

  “Alyoshka, did I say anything about doing her harm?”

  “You said she’s a liability.”

  Gora shook his head. “No, Alyoshka. I said we are saddled with a liability. My exact words.” He looked over at her plate. “Finished?”

  She made a contemptuous gesture. “Go ahead.”

  Picking up her plate, he set it down on top of his own. Then he drove the tines of his fork into the last remaining egg. The yolk ran every which way across the plate; he mopped it up with two of her bacon strips, cramming them in his mouth. He chewed reflectively for what seemed a long while. Times like these, he disgusted her. She wondered how it could be that they shared any amount of DNA. But she waited for him to continue; there was no use prodding him.

  “What about you?” he said at length.