Robert Ludlum's (TM) the Bourne Enigma

by Eric Van Lustbader

  “To the general,” Goga said.

  “To Boris,” Bourne replied.

  They clinked glasses, downed the vodka in one gulp.

  The necessary formalities dispensed with, Goga said, “The operation has reached a critical point.”

  Now the secrecy of the false Roman coin, the odd rebus Boris had secreted inside, began to have a probable context. Bourne knew that the rest of this conversation balanced on getting information from Goga without revealing that he had no knowledge of Boris’s Cairo operation.

  “Tell me,” Bourne said. When confronted with the unknown simplicity and directness is always the best choice.

  Goga shot the two women a glance. “Outside,” he said softly.

  The two men rose, Goga put away his Makarov, and they went out onto the houseboat’s deck, kitted out in twinkling fairy lights, reflections glittering in the purling water like anemones.

  “Ivan Borz is here in Cairo. He arrived here yesterday.”

  Goga was careful to stand with his back to the interior of the houseboat. He was well schooled in security. But of course he would be, being handpicked for this assignment by Boris himself.

  “Have you found him?”

  “Yes, and no.” Goga was careful to keep his head and body still, to present an impenetrable facade to those watching from inside. “We believe he has a villa somewhere in Giza.”

  “What is he doing here?” Bourne said.

  “Besides being watched by the Israelis? He’s recruiting soldiers for ISIS and selling weapons to them. The ISIS high command has a huge amount of money, and they’re willing to spend it to get what they want.”

  “What is the source of their money?”

  “Banks they robbed in Syria.”

  “But they have more than what they stole, don’t they? Where is it coming from? Borz?”

  Goga shrugged.

  Bourne’s gaze flicked over Goga’s shoulder to where Sara stood in the flickering candlelight of Amira’s living room. “Does he know he’s being watched by Mossad?”

  “They are being more careful than usual,” Goga said. It was clear from his expression that the movement of Bourne’s eyes had not been lost on him. “And they are usually even more careful than we are.”

  “We need to capture him,” Bourne said. “I’ll direct the assault.”

  Goga’s eyes clouded over. “What about the Israelis?”

  “I’ll take care of them,” Bourne said. “Boris sent a Mossad agent with me for that very purpose.”

  Goga’s eyebrows lifted briefly. “The agent you brought?”

  “That’s right.”

  “But she’s a woman.”

  Bourne’s countenance darkened. “What’s your point?”

  Goga’s mouth opened and closed like a landed fish. He let out a loud exhale. More like a snort. “Just… Nothing. Except, the Israelis have a habit of deploying women for men’s jobs. It’s…not how we Russians would handle matters,” he ended lamely.

  When Bourne made no comment, he flicked his hand, as if to dispel his words. “I’ve heard there’d be a price on Amira’s head if it wasn’t for General Karpov. They’re afraid of him here—the lot of them. I don’t really know why, but whatever the reason I’m grateful for it.”

  “Nothing’s going to happen to Amira,” Bourne said.

  Back inside, Bourne took Sara aside. “Has Lev located Borz yet?”

  “Indications are he’s somewhere in the Giza neighborhood.”

  “Unless he hasn’t told you everything he knows.” Bourne looked at her levelly. “Is that possible?”

  “With Lev anything’s possible,” Sara said. “I’ve never trusted him.”

  “But your father does.”

  Sara was silent for some time. Then, “It occurs to me that perhaps he shares my distrust.”

  “Why do you say that? He entrusted Lev with this operation.”

  “Maybe he’s thought better of it. Now I’m rethinking the scene in my father’s office. Just after the operation dossier was delivered my father got a call and stepped out for a moment. Surely he’d know I’d take a peek at the dossier. Surely he was aware once I saw an operation mounted against Ivan Borz I’d insist on being involved.”

  “Why?”

  “Ivan Borz and I have a history.”

  “Field history, you mean.”

  Sara nodded. “I cost him the arms deal of a lifetime. I got his clients, but missed him. Eli worried that I was blown in Cairo, so he had me recalled.”

  “You wanted another shot at Borz.”

  “You bet I did.” Her eyes burned brightly. “And now I will have it.”

  When Bourne did not reply, she kissed him lightly, then broke away a little. “What did Goga have to tell you?”

  “Not much,” Bourne said. “They’re still trying to pin down Borz’s whereabouts in Giza.”

  “Then we can work together.”

  “Why don’t you stay here with Amira.” It wasn’t a question. “From what Goga told me she’s safe only so long as Boris is alive.”

  “You’re making that up.”

  “Ask him.”

  Still she eyed him, but she couldn’t hide from him that a good deal of her skepticism was gone. “There’s no way you’re going to go off and leave me here with—”

  “It’s for your own good, Sara.”

  “What d’you mean?” She had her back up now, which was entirely predictable. “How do you know what’s for my own good?”

  “By your own admission when it comes to Ivan Borz you’re too close, too wrapped up in your shared history to—”

  “He toyed with me in Moscow. He stole my Star of David.” Her fingers closed around the new one she had bought. “He used it to implicate me in your friend’s murder.”

  “What you were sent to do was professional. Don’t you see, he made your relationship personal. He doesn’t want you thinking clearly.”

  “That’s bullshit. I’m thinking as clearly as ever. Nothing he can do will change that.” She was speaking to him as if in an argument with her father. “Don’t do this to me. Don’t deny me my revenge.”

  “Just take a step back for a minute and you’ll see that staying here is your best option.”

  “I won’t. I can’t. You stay here with the girl. You two have a shared history.” She threw his words back at him as if they were gunshots.

  Bourne shook his head. “Goga doesn’t know—Goga won’t accept you. For one thing you’re Israeli; for another you’re female. He’ll only work with me. Amira needs to be protected.”

  “Fuck you!” She was furious with him for trapping her, but at the same time the longer the moment went on the more her Mossad training came to the fore, the more she recognized the truth of what he said. Still, she gave it one last shot: “What about you and Borz?”

  “What about it? I’ve been following him for more than a year. I’m near to finding him. Is there more to it?”

  “You know there is!” she burst out. “After what he’s put you through.”

  “It’s all on a professional level.”

  “Maybe from your side,” she retorted. “When you do catch him ask him if what he’s done is professional or personal.”

  “Does that mean we’re in agreement?” He gave her a level look, was reassured by the high color on her neck and cheeks, the spit of her voice. He’d had to make sure that she was okay, that she had returned to the tough-as-nails Kidon fighter he knew her to be. With her armor back in place, he could leave Amira in her care without worry. “You’ll stay here with Amira. I can’t think of anyone better equipped to keep her alive. Come on, Sara. I need you to do this. If there is a price on her head, as Goga has heard, no matter where I send her she won’t be safe. Only you can keep her out of harm’s way.”

  Still angry as a threatened hornet, Sara remained silent, and her brand of silence spoke a thousand words.

  “Feyd is murdered, then Boris; Borz was in Moscow, now he’s here. No coincid
ence—none of it is. Cairo is now a hot zone. We’ve stepped into something as deep as it is dark. I want to make sure we all get out of it alive.”

  She stared at him for what seemed like an eternity but must have been less than a minute. Then she said, “Don’t worry. Nothing will happen to Amira.”

  34

  Nothing ever happens to me,” Amira said mournfully.

  “Be grateful,” Sara said.

  “It happens to everyone else,” Amira said, ignoring Sara, “and I’m left to watch from the sidelines.”

  Bourne and Goga were gone, leaving the two women eyeing each other like two boxers sizing up their opponent at the start of a fifteen-rounder.

  “Just what I need,” Amira said now. “A babysitter.”

  “Do you think I want to be here? And, anyway, why are you pissed at me?”

  All Amira did was glare at her. Then she turned on her heel, went out onto the deck.

  “Going out there’s not such a great idea,” Sara said, following her.

  “Fuck you. I don’t listen to babysitters. I don’t need a babysitter.”

  “But according to Uncle Samson you do.”

  They were both on the deck, Amira staring into the Monet reflections on the water. For her part, Sara was quartering the immediate environment, searching for glints of traveling lights off rifle barrels or binocular lenses.

  “Do you feel confident ignoring him, Amira?” Sara shook her head. “I don’t think you do. I know how you feel about him.”

  Amira’s head snapped up, her dark eyes probing through the glittering darkness. “What do you mean?”

  “It’s just us women here,” Sara said.

  Amira looked away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I don’t believe you.” Sara took a step forward, leaned against the railing. Her eyes were still looking up and down the river for any anomalies, anything that did not belong or was lurking, patient, waiting, because now that Boris was gone those who had placed a price on Amira’s head would feel free to collect the bounty. “You’re too smart not to know what I’m talking about.”

  Amira’s only response was to twitch her shoulders, as if shrugging off Sara’s words.

  “You don’t like me simply because Jason brought me here. You see how we are with each other. You see me as a rival.”

  “Don’t be stupid!” Amira snorted, but she kept her face averted.

  Sara changed the pitch of her voice, softened it, made it more intimate, as she peered over the side. “Is that your motorboat?”

  “It belongs to my neighbors.”

  “Which neighbors?” Sara asked, interested in the people surrounding Amira.

  Amira pointed to the houseboat on their right. “Over there. I hate them.” The houseboat was a mess. “They’ve gutted and are rebuilding from the water up.”

  A red flag waved in Sara’s mind. “I bet there are a lot of workmen over there during the day.”

  “Crawling.” A shy smile. “Sometimes I make them lunch the way I did for my father.”

  “You must miss him—your father.”

  Immediately, the smile was wiped off Amira’s face. “I made him lunch and dinner because that’s what he expected of me.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “From his point of view there was nothing else.”

  “And your mother?”

  “Gone, a long time ago.”

  “I’m sorry, is she dead?”

  Amira shrugged her slender shoulders. “She left to be with cousins in the Gaza Strip. That was the last we heard of her.”

  “Why did she leave?”

  Amira shrugged again. “My father.”

  “Why didn’t she take you with her?”

  Amira glared at her. “You know why. He said he’d kill her if she tried to abduct me. That’s what he called it, even though I told him I wanted to go. I was severely punished for having an opinion.”

  Sara glanced over at the houseboat under repair, but she could make out no movement. Short of going over there with a flashlight—which, under the circumstances, was out of the question—she couldn’t be sure it was deserted. The motorboat bobbed down below them. There were no small craft anywhere in the vicinity. She turned back to Amira.

  “Look, it’s really not safe out here.”

  Amira turned abruptly. “Is there really a price on my head?”

  She’s putting up a good front, Sara thought, but she’s frightened. On the other hand, she could see no upside in lying to her. “Boris’s influence was protecting you. Now that he’s gone…” She shrugged. “I promised Jason I’d keep you safe.” Smiling, she gestured to the open slider. “You don’t want to make a liar out of me, do you?”

  Amira hesitated for a moment, then stepped quickly back into her living room. Then turned to face Sara as she followed her. “If I’m to believe you, I’m not safe here—or maybe anywhere in Cairo.”

  “You’re safe with me,” Sara said.

  At that moment, a hail of semiautomatic fire shredded the middle of the front door. In a blur of indistinct movement, the door burst open.

  —

  Aleksandr Volkin, he of so many aliases, had picked up Goga’s trail with little difficulty. His grandfather had told him where General Karpov was headquartering his rogue Cairo unit. Now, as he sat in his rental car, waiting to see who emerged from the houseboat he knew had belonged to Karpov’s man, Feyd, he could not halt his thoughts from marching backward, could not stop himself from feeling Irina’s breath in his ear, her whispered voice sending electric shocks through his thighs and groin. He knew psychology as well as anyone, he knew how susceptible teenagers were to outside influence, and how sexual tendencies are imprinted so deeply on their psyches at that vulnerable age they never stray from them. Because of their teenage intimacies he could never get over Irina; he had never wanted to. She was all he wanted—always and forever.

  Now she was gone. Now the void inside him, the lethal blackness, was expanding, taking control. Without her was life worth living? He had asked himself that question innumerable times since his grandfather had confirmed his twin’s premonition.

  The worst thing was waiting. No, the very worst thing was remaining still. His mind, his body buzzed as if he had plugged himself into a power grid. Too much of him was being pushed to the outer edges by the void’s ghastly expansion, doubling and redoubling.

  At one point he thought he saw movement in the houseboat under construction to the right of his target area. The movement, caught like a gnat in the periphery of his vision, flickered and was gone so quickly he was unsure he had seen it at all.

  He returned to his surveillance of Feyd’s houseboat and, long moments later, was rewarded by Goga emerging, crossing to his vehicle. Then Aleksandr went rigid. His chest barely moved as his breathing virtually ceased for the amount of time it took Jason Bourne to step to Goga’s car and get in.

  35

  Amira shot the first man who came through the door. Her aim was very good; someone—possibly Bourne—had taught her how to shoot. But they came so fast, and used the man she had shot as a shield, she missed the other two men who had burst through.

  By that time, Sara had upended the table. Now she pulled Amira down behind it as a hail of bullets were fired at them. They struck the table, making it shudder and jump, as if alive. She poked her CZ 75 SP-01 9mm around the side, squeezed off two impeccable shots that stopped the remaining intruders in their tracks.

  She expected more men, a second salvo, more withering this time, but when none came she stuck her head around the side. Three men dead; no sign of more.

  “We scared them away!” Amira said from over her shoulder as she surveyed the scene. “They’re gone.”

  They were gone. Now why would that be? Sara wondered. Then as Amira stood up, the short hairs at the nape of her neck stirred, and she knew.

  “Come on!” she shouted, grabbing Amira by the hand.

  “What? What are you—?”
>
  Sara pushed her urgently through the slider, out onto the deck, bringing them both to the railing where the fairy lights still winked on and off in their gay semaphore.

  “Now jump!”

  “What?”

  Clutching her, Sara lifted her over the rail, let go. As Amira landed on the aft section of the motorboat, she threw herself over the side.

  “Keys?”

  Amira reached under the console. Sara grabbed the key out of Amira’s outstretched hand, started the engine—and thank God it was gassed up and ready to go. In the meantime Amira untied the boat. Sara slammed the engine full out, heading into the center of the river.

  “Get down!” she shouted an instant before the houseboat exploded into an vicious fireball, oily black smoke rising from the flames that engulfed what moments before had been Amira’s home.

  The boat bucked and rocked; the violent thrashing almost dislodged them. Water sloshed over the sides as Sara struggled to keep the boat on course, away from the wreckage. She thought of her times on board her father’s sailboat, helping him when a sudden squall overtook them, the sky as black with angry clouds as it was now with choking smoke. The first lesson her father taught her was not to panic, the second to go about securing the boat—keeping the storm directly aft so the boat wouldn’t be broadsided as he reefed the sails. Those lessons were key now, because blind instinct would have caused her to steer the boat in a broad arc, and they would have been broadsided by the aftermath. Instead, she put the explosion site directly aft and put the engine full out.

  Debris fell like sleet. She felt an intense burning in the center of her back. Then Amira was beating the flames out with her bare hands, scrubbing her palms around in a circle, then ripping away the blackened material so she could stamp out the last embers with the sole of her shoe.

  “Amira,” Sara said, “are you okay?”

  “Physically fine,” Amira said breathlessly. “As for the rest, ask me tomorrow or the next day.”

  Something in her voice caused Sara to turn. That was when she saw the blood.

  —

  The Cairo area west of the Nile is actually Giza. It includes Imbaba, the upscale Mohandiseen, Agouza, and Dokki. Historically, it was centered around Memphis, Egypt’s ancient capital, when the Giza area was maintained as sacred pharaonic burial grounds. Nasser’s great urban achievement in Giza was to turn the west bank of the Nile into a modern hell of brutish concrete tower blocks, multilane flyovers, and massive shopping centers.