The Bourne Legacy

by Eric Van Lustbader

  He saw her now, headed he was quite sure toward a rendezvous with Jason Bourne; there was no other reason he could imagine for her to be here. He hung back, tapping the plastic square lying against the inside of his wrist as he waited for his opportunity.

  From his position inside a supply room, Bourne saw Annaka pass by. She knew precisely where he was, but to her credit she didn’t even turn her head a fraction as she passed his vantage point. His keen ears detected McColl’s tread before he even came into view. Everyone had a way of walking, a certain stride that unless they deliberately altered it became unmistakable. McColl’s was heavy and solid, ominous, without doubt the gait of a professional stalker.

  The primary issue here, Bourne knew, was timing. If he moved too quickly, McColl would see him and react, negating the element of surprise. If he waited too long, he’d be forced to take a couple of steps to catch up to him and would risk McColl hearing him. But Bourne had taken the measure of McColl’s strides and so was able to accurately anticipate when the CIA assassin would be in just the right spot. He pushed from his mind the aches and pains in his body, most especially his cracked ribs. He had no idea what a handicap they would place on him, but he had to be confident in the triple binding Dr. Ambrus had used to protect them.

  He could see Kevin McColl now, large and dangerous. Just as the agent passed the partly open door to the supply room, Bourne leaped out and delivered a massive two-handed blow to McColl’s right kidney. The agent’s body canted over toward Bourne, who grabbed him and began to drag him into the supply room.

  But McColl whirled and, with a grimace of pain, exploded a massive fist into Bourne’s chest. Pain pinwheeled and, as Bourne staggered back, McColl drew out the nylon line, lunging at Bourne’s neck. Bourne used the edge of his hand to land two fierce blows that must have caused McColl a great deal of pain. Still, he came on with reddened eyes and a grim determination. He looped the nylon line around Bourne’s neck, pulled so tight that for the first instant Bourne was lifted off his feet.

  Bourne fought for breath, which only allowed McColl to tighten the line further. Then Bourne realized his mistake. He ceased to worry about breathing, concentrating on freeing himself. His knee came up, making sharp contact with McColl’s genitals. All the breath went out of McColl, and for an instant his grip loosened enough for Bourne to get two fingers between the nylon line and the flesh of his throat.

  McColl, though, was a bull of a man, and he recovered more quickly than Bourne could’ve imagined. With a grunt of rage, he drew all his energy into his arms, jerking the nylon line more tightly than ever. But Bourne had managed to gain the advantage he needed, and his two fingers curled, twisting as the line tightened, and it snapped just as a powerful fish can exert enough torque to break the line on which it’s caught.

  Bourne used the hand that had been at his neck to strike out and up, catching McColl under the jaw. McColl’s head snapped back against the doorjamb, but as Bourne closed with him, he used his elbows, spinning Bourne into the supply room. McColl came after him, snatched up a box cutter, swung with it, slicing through the lab coat. Another swipe and, though Bourne leaped back, the blade cut into his shirt so that it hung open, revealing his bound ribs.

  A grin of triumph lit up McColl’s face. He knew a vulnerability when he saw it, and he went after it. Switching the box cutter to his left hand, he feinted with it, then lowered a massive blow toward Bourne’s rib cage. Bourne wasn’t fooled and was able to block the blow with his forearm.

  Now McColl saw his opening and swung in with the box cutter, directly toward Bourne’s exposed neck.

  Having heard the first sounds of engagement, Annaka had turned, but she’d immediately spotted two doctors coming toward the junction in the corridor beyond which Bourne and McColl were locked together. Neatly interposing herself between them and the doctors, she asked the doctors a barrage of questions, all the while moving them along until they were past the junction.

  Extricating herself as quickly as she could, she hurried back. By that time she saw that Bourne was in trouble. Remembering Stepan’s admonishment to keep Bourne alive, she rushed back down the corridor. By the time she arrived, the two combatants were already inside the supply room. She swung in through the open door just in time to see McColl’s vicious attack at Bourne’s neck.

  She hurled herself at him, knocking him off stride just enough so that the box cutter blade, flashing in the light, flew by Bourne’s neck, sparking off the metal corner of a shelf stanchion. McColl, aware of her now in the periphery of his vision, whirled, his left elbow high and cocked, and he smashed it back into her throat.

  Annaka gagged, reflexively grabbed at her neck as she began to sink down onto her knees. McColl came at her with the box cutter, slashing at her coat. Bourne took the length of nylon still gripped in one hand and lashed it around McColl’s neck from behind.

  McColl arched back, but instead of grasping for his throat, he jammed an elbow into Bourne’s cracked ribs. Bourne saw stars, but still he held on, inching McColl backward, away from Annaka, hearing his heels dragging on the floor tiles as McColl flailed at his ribs with ever-increasing desperation.

  The blood pooled in McColl’s head, the cords stood out on the sides of his neck like taut ropes, and soon thereafter, his eyes began to bulge in their sockets. Blood vessels burst in his nose and cheeks and his lips pulled back from his pallid gums. His swollen tongue swirled around his gasping mouth, and still he had it in him to deliver one last blow to Bourne’s side. Bourne winced, his grip faltered slightly, and McColl began to regain his balance.

  That’s when Annaka recklessly kicked him in the stomach. McColl grabbed her raised knee and, twisting violently, brought her back against him. His left arm whipped around her neck, the heel of his right hand positioned itself against the side of her head. He was about to break her neck.

  Khan, observing all this from the vantage point of the small darkened office across and slightly down the corridor, watched Bourne, at great risk to himself, let go of the nylon cord he’d so expertly wrapped around McColl’s neck. He slammed the assassin’s head against a shelf, then drove a thumb into his eye.

  McColl, about to scream, found Bourne’s forearm between his jaws, and so the sound rattled in his lungs, dying inside him. He kicked out and flailed, refusing to die or even to go down. Bourne withdrew his ceramic gun, smashed the butt into the soft spot over McColl’s left ear. Now he was on his knees, his head shaking, his hands moving to press themselves tightly to his ruined eye. But it was only a ruse. He used his hands to trip Annaka, to bring her down to his level. His murderous hands grasped her, and Bourne, without any other recourse, pressed the muzzle of the gun against McColl’s flesh and pulled the trigger.

  There was very little noise, but the hole in McColl’s neck was impressive. Even dead, McColl wouldn’t let go of Annaka, and Bourne, putting away the gun, was obliged to pry his fingers one by one off her flesh.

  Bourne reached down, pulled her up, but Khan could see his grimace, saw one hand press against his side. Those ribs. Were they bruised, broken, or something in between? he wondered.

  Khan moved back into the shadows of the empty office. He’d caused that injury. He could remember in vivid detail the power he’d put behind the blow, the feel of his hand as it made contact, the almost electric jarring that had passed through him, as if from Bourne. But, curiously, the feeling of hot satisfaction never materialized. Instead, he was forced to admire the strength and tenacity of the man to hold on, to continue his titanic struggle with McColl, despite the beating he was taking in his most vulnerable spot.

  Why was he even thinking these thoughts? he asked himself angrily. Bourne had done nothing but reject him. In the face of mounting evidence, he adamantly refused to believe that Khan was his son. What did that say about him? For whatever reason, he’d chosen to believe that his son was dead. Didn’t that mean that he’d never wanted him in the first place?

  “The support staff arrived just a
few hours ago,” Jamie Hull said to the DCI over their secure video linkup. “We’ve familiarized them with everything. All that’s lacking is the principals.”

  “The president’s in the air even as we speak,” the DCI said as he waved Martin Lindros to a seat. “In approximately five hours, twenty minutes from now, the President of the United States will be on Icelandic soil. I hope to Christ you’re ready for him.”

  “Absolutely I am, sir. We all are.”

  “Excellent.” But his frown deepened as he glanced down at the notes on his desktop. “Give me an update on how you’re handling Comrade Karpov?”

  “Not to worry,” Hull said. “I have the Boris situation under control.”

  “That’s a relief. Relations between the president and his Russian counterpart are strained as it is. You’ve no idea what blood, sweat and tears it took to persuade Aleksandr Yevtushenko to come to the table. Can you imagine the blowup if he hears you and his top security man are ready to slit each other’s throats?”

  “It’ll never happen, sir.”

  “Damned straight,” the DCI growled. “Keep me informed 24-7.”

  “Will do, sir,” Hull said, signing off.

  The DCI swiveled around, ran his hand through his shock of white hair. “We’re in the final stretch, Martin. Does it pain you as much as it pains me to be stuck here behind a desk while Hull is taking care of business in the field?”

  “It does, indeed, sir.” Lindros, keeping his secret close to the vest for all this time, almost lost his nerve then, but duty won out over compassion. He didn’t want to wound the Old Man, no matter how badly he’d been treated recently.

  He cleared his throat. “Sir, I’ve just come from seeing Randy Driver.”

  “And?”

  Lindros took a deep breath and told the Old Man what Driver had confessed, that Conklin had brought Dr. Felix Schiffer over to the Agency from DARPA for his own dark and unknown reasons, that he had deliberately “disappeared” Schiffer and that now that Conklin was dead no one knew where Schiffer was.

  The Old Man’s fist slammed down on his desk. “Sweet Christ, to have one of our directorate scientists gone missing with the summit about to start is a catastrophe of the first rank. If the bitch-woman should get wind of this, it’ll be my ass in a sling, no ifs, ands or buts.”

  For a moment nothing stirred in the vast corner office. The photos of world leaders past and present looked back at the two men with mute rebuke.

  At last the DCI stirred. “Are you saying that Alex Conklin stole a scientist out from under DOD’s nose and stashed him with us so he could whisk him away to God knows where and for what unknown purpose?”

  Lindros, folding his hands in his lap, said nothing, but he knew better than to move his gaze away from the Old Man’s.

  “Well, that’s…I mean to say, we don’t do that in the Agency, and most especially Alexander Conklin wouldn’t do that. He would be breaking every rule in the playbook.”

  Lindros stirred, thinking of his research in the top-secret Four-Zero Archives. “He did it often enough in the field, sir. You know that.”

  Indeed, the DCI did, only too well. “This is different,” he protested. “This happened here at home. It’s a personal affront to the Agency, and to me.” The Old Man shook his craggy head. “I refuse to believe it, Martin. Goddammit, there must be another explanation!”

  Lindros held firm. “You know there isn’t. I’m truly sorry to have been the one to bring you this news, sir.”

  At that moment the Old Man’s secretary entered the room, handed him a slip of paper, and went out. The DCI unfolded the note.

  “Your wife would like to speak with you,” he read. “She says it’s important.”

  He crumpled the note, then looked up. “Of course there’s another explanation. Jason Bourne.”

  “Sir?”

  The DCI looked straight at Lindros and said bleakly, “This is Bourne’s doing, not Alex’s. It’s the only explanation that makes sense.”

  “For the record, I think you’re wrong, sir,” Lindros said, gathering himself for the uphill battle. “With all due respect, I think you’ve allowed your personal friendship with Alex Conklin to cloud your judgment. After studying the Four-Zero files, I believe that no one alive was closer to Conklin than Jason Bourne, even you.”

  A Cheshire cat smile spread across the DCI’s face. “Oh, you’re right about that one, Martin. And it’s because Bourne knew Alex so well that he was able to capitalize on Alex’s involvement with this Dr. Schiffer. Believe me, Bourne smelled something and he went after it.”

  “There’s no proof—”

  “Ah, but there is.” The DCI shifted in his chair. “As it happens, I know where Bourne is.”

  “Sir?” Lindros fairly goggled at him.

  “106–108 Fo utca,” the DCI read off a slip of paper. “That’s in Budapest.” The DCI threw his deputy a hard look. “Didn’t you tell me that the gun used to murder Alex and Mo Panov was paid for out of an account in Budapest?”

  Lindros’ heart contracted. “Yes, sir.”

  The DCI nodded. “That’s why I gave this address to Kevin McColl.”

  Lindros’ face went white. “Oh, Christ. I want to talk to McColl.”

  “I feel your pain, Martin, really I do.” The DCI nodded toward the phone. “Call him if you like, but you know McColl’s record for efficiency. Chances are Bourne is already dead.”

  Bourne kicked the door to the supply room closed, stripped off the bloody lab coat. He was about to drop it over the corpse of Kevin McColl when he noticed a small LED light blinking at McColl’s hip. His cell phone. Squatting down, he picked it out of its plastic holster, opened it up. He saw the number and knew who was calling. Rage filled his heart.

  Opening the connection, he said to the DCI, “Keep this up and you’ll be paying the undertakers overtime.”

  “Bourne!” Lindros cried. “Wait!”

  But he didn’t wait. Instead, he threw the cell phone so hard against the wall it split open like an oyster.

  Annaka watched him carefully. “An old enemy?”

  “An old fool,” Bourne growled, retrieving his leather jacket. He grunted involuntarily as the pain struck him a hammer blow.

  “It appears that McColl gave you quite a beating,” Annaka said.

  Bourne slipped on his jacket with its white visitor’s ID tag in order to cover his slit shirt. His mind was completely focused on finding Dr. Sido. “And what about you? How badly did McColl hurt you?”

  She refused to rub the red welt at her throat. “Don’t worry about me.”

  “We won’t worry about each other, then,” Bourne said as he took a bottle of cleaner from the shelf and, using a rag, wiped the blood stains off her coat as best he could. “We’ve got to get to Dr. Sido as quickly as possible. Dr. Morintz is bound to be missed sooner or later.”

  “Where’s Sido?”

  “In the Epidemiological Wing.” He gestured. “Come on.”

  He peered around the doorjamb, checking to make sure no one was around. As they emerged into the corridor, he registered that an office door across the way was partially open. He took a step toward it but heard voices approaching from that direction and he hurried them away. He needed a moment to reorient himself, then he took them through a set of swinging doors into the Epidemiological Wing.

  “Sido’s in 902,” he said, scanning the numbers on the doors they passed.

  The wing was in actuality a square with an open space in its center. Doors to labs and offices were set at intervals along the four walls, the only exception being a barred metal exit door, locked from the outside which was in the center of the far wall. Obviously the Epidemiological Wing was at the back of the clinic because it was clear from the markings on the small storerooms to either side that the door was used to remove hazardous medical waste.

  “There’s his lab,” Bourne said, hurrying ahead.

  Annaka, just behind him, saw the fire alarm box on the wall ahe
ad of her, precisely where Stepan said it would be. As she came abreast of it, she lifted the glass. Bourne was knocking on the door to Sido’s lab. Receiving no answer, he opened the door. Just as he stepped into Dr. Sido’s lab, Annaka pulled down the handle and the fire alarm went off.

  The wing was suddenly filled with people. Three members of the clinic’s security force appeared; it was obvious that these were extremely efficient people. Bourne, desperate now, looked around Sido’s empty office. He noticed a mug half-filled with coffee, the computer screen lit with a screen saver. He pressed the “Escape” key, and the upper part of the screen filled with a complex chemical equation. The lower half had the following legend: “Product must be kept at–32 degrees Celsius as it is extremely fragile. Heat of any kind renders it instantly inert.” Through the mounting chaos, Bourne was thinking furiously. Though Dr. Sido wasn’t here, he had been here not long ago. All evidence pointed to him having left in a hurry.

  At that moment Annaka rushed in and pulled at him. “Jason, the clinic’s security is asking questions, checking everyone’s ID. We’ve got to get out of here now.” She led him to the doorway. “If we can make it to the rear exit, we can escape that way.”

  Out in the open space of the wing, chaos reigned. The alarm had triggered sprays of water. As there was a great deal of flammable material in the labs, including oxygen tanks, the staff was understandably panicking. Security, trying to get a grip on who was present, was having to deal with calming the clinic’s personnel.