Robert Ludlum's (TM) the Bourne Enigma

by Eric Van Lustbader

  —

  “Businessmen,” El-Amir said with contempt. “In the end, they’re all alike: soulless and greedy. You have done me a great service, softening him up for the kill. I fully agree with you that Borz got what he deserved.”

  “Radu Ozer,” Sara said, gripping the bars. “That’s his real name.”

  “So I’ve heard.” El-Amir shrugged. “Shit by any name stinks just as badly.” Eyeing her closely, he frowned. “Are you all right? You look a bit shaky? Yes? Okay, then. Onward.

  “I had been racking my brains as to how to get rid of Borz. The ISIS bombardment was what I came up with; always use someone else to do your dirty work. That’s the way we work in the TV and film biz, eh? But in retrospect the bombardment was like using a shotgun to kill a mouse: brutal but inaccurate. Now, because of your—and I must say magnificent—work, all it took from me was a bullet to the head.”

  “A hunter stalks its prey and then kills it. A coward traps his prey, and as it tries to gnaw its paw off to free itself, stands over it and puts a bullet in its head.”

  “Either way, the prey dies,” El-Amir said, the insult seeming to slide off his reptilian hide. “The prey doesn’t care which one ends its life—hunter or coward. The result is the same.”

  “But the coward knows who and what he is,” Sara said. “The result for the living—”

  “Is life,” El-Amir finished for her. “And that, my dear Rebeka, is the point.” The smile that gradually appeared on his face was dreamy, sugarplums already dancing in his head. “Allow me to enumerate what killing Borz has given my life, now that I am alive and Borz is dead. I now have command of eight battalions of troops fully committed to Allah, their numbers growing by leaps and bounds every week thanks to my many-pronged social media recruitment campaign. I have control of international arms shipments, of skids of American weapons drop-shipped to the Kurdish rebels, a flow of American dollars, along with connections to the Mexican cartels, the Albanian mafia, and the opium khans of the Golden Triangle. And oil—let’s not forget the oil fields we now control.”

  He threw his arms open wide. “All this is mine now. Because of you.”

  “You don’t want this life, El-Amir,” Sara said. “Why would you embrace this gross distortion of Allah’s teachings?”

  “I am being lectured on the precepts of Allah by an Israeli? Really?”

  “Israelis and Arabs are not so very different, El-Amir. We’re all Semites, after all.”

  “With very different views on the future of the Middle East.”

  “What will Amira say?”

  “My sister is an idiot.”

  With that flat statement, Sara understood the depths of the brainwashing El-Amir had been subjected to. She understood that wherever he was—standing out on a windy precipice—he was never coming back. What had to happen now was a catastrophe. It would surely break Amira’s heart. But it could not be helped. You cannot reason with faith—or the semblance of faith, which by definition was a stranger to reason.

  “Bourne,” she said. “He was here.”

  “He was,” El-Amir said. “I was going to broadcast his beheading all across the world.”

  Sara’s breath caught in her throat. “But you didn’t.”

  “Sadly, no. Other circumstances intervened.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Bourne? Flown away. He stole our helicopter.”

  Seeing in her mind’s eye the helo hit by the ground-to-air missile, she felt a sick feeling come over her. No, no, no, she thought. There’s still a chance… “Which way did he go? Did you see?”

  “North. Toward the border with Turkey.”

  Sara gripped the bars with white knuckles to keep herself from collapsing in despair. Jason gone. It couldn’t be, it just couldn’t. Maybe it was another helo she had seen explode, but she knew there were few of them in this area, and in her heart she knew he was piloting it when it was hit. Dear God, please save me.

  He peered in at her, mistaking the origin of her sorrow. “Rebeka, Rebeka. Did you really think I would go back with you to Cairo?”

  With a Herculean effort she gathered herself, pushed her intense grief into the background. She still had work to do here. “There was a time—only minutes ago, when I thought you were still Amira’s brother—when I hoped you would.”

  “But you see now that could never happen.” His laugh sounded like nails on a blackboard. “I’m a true believer, Rebeka—or whatever your real name is. Tawakkaltu ‘ala Allah.” I have put my trust in Allah. “When I do return to Cairo it will be in the company of my brothers in arms who have swept away all trace of Western corruption. All will be as it was before the first invasion of infidels. We will return to Allah that which belongs to Allah. This time, the sea will not part when we drive the Israeli terrorist nation into it. You will all drown as we curse your name. La hawla wa la quwwata illah billah.” There is no strength or power except Allah.

  It was at that point that Sara’s eyes rolled up in her head, and she collapsed like a marionette whose strings have been cruelly cut.

  50

  It was the fourth and final group of glyphs that was giving Bourne fits. He knew it must be a string of numbers. Could it be SWIFT coding? SWIFT coding, used by all banks worldwide, secured money transfers across international borders.

  As he showered and shaved in the jet’s compact but lavishly equipped bathroom, he continued to dissect the problem. But he kept circling back to one inescapable fact: the glyphs made no sense as numbers. In fact, as Bourne had painstakingly translated them, he could make no sense of them at all. And now his time had run out. Abdul’s plane was descending, making ready to land at one of the two runways at tiny Yohannes IV International Airport, shared with the equally tiny Eritrean air force.

  Back in his seat, clad in an expensive suit and Italian loafers his friend had thoughtfully brought, he fastened his seat belt, closed his eyes, and allowed his mind to rest, hoping his subconscious would work out the solution as they landed, taxied along the runway, and came to a stop. Abdul, who was staying onboard, working from his mobile office, knew people at customs and immigration—as he did in nearly all countries with which he did business—and had arranged for Bourne’s swift and unimpeded passage through the arrivals terminal. After changing some money into Nakfa, the local currency, and purchasing a beautiful and costly Italian leather briefcase at the one upscale concourse shop, Bourne emerged into Asmara’s mild Steppe-like afternoon. Bronze sunlight fell over the Art Deco and Italian Modernist buildings of the old city, remnants of several wartime Italian occupations.

  On the rattling taxi ride into the city, the glyphs kept forming and re-forming in Bourne’s head. One of the words must surely be communicate or communication, which could mean anything. On the other hand, the definitive translation still eluded him. Until, that is, the taxi passed the fortresslike facade of the Caserma Commerce Bank of Eritrea, and he had the driver pull over. After paying him, he retraced the taxi’s route until he stood in front of the entrance to the Caserma Commerce Bank. The building was immense, the architectural design making it look innately heavily defended. It seemed like a place for spooks, like the headquarters of the NSA.

  He trotted up the limestone steps, went through the glass doors, into the marble-clad interior that must have been dreamed up by some Italian madman, all swirls and curlicues.

  A dark-skinned young man in an impeccably tailored suit stood up from behind a console, stepped over to where he was standing.

  “How may we assist you, sir?” he said in British-accented English.

  Bourne handed him a business card identifying him as Fyodor Ilianovich Popov, second vice president of Gazprom, the Russian state energy company. “I am seeking a word with your director. What is his name again?”

  The functionary could not help but risk a glance at the briefcase Bourne was carrying, and, being well trained, instantly assessing its worth and, thus, the worth of this prospective client, said, “Mr.
Gebre Tesfey, sir.”

  Bourne snapped his fingers. “Just the one I was told to see by First Minister Savasin.”

  That name spoken caused the functionary’s eyes to light up like a Hollywood premier. Still, he could not help inquiring, “May I ask the nature of your request?”

  “Surely,” Bourne said. “On behalf of Gazprom, I wish to establish an account of a sizable amount.”

  This answer fulfilled the incipient smile on the functionary’s face, as well as his hopes that this rather boring day would turn into a stellar one. “But of course, sir! I will contact Mr. Tesfey at once. We here at the Caserma Commerce Bank are determined to meet and exceed all your banking needs. And allow me to add to that end we have direct linkage with both Citibank and Deutsche Bank worldwide.”

  Briefly, he returned to his console, punched in a four-digit extension on his phone. A short conversation ensued, after which the functionary hung up and, raising an arm to indicate Bourne should follow him, said, “I am directed to escort you to Mr. Tesfey’s offices forthwith.”

  Forthwith, Bourne thought. These people were caught in a time warp.

  As he ascended in the private elevator in the far left corner of the bank, he thought again of the fourth glyph grouping. The translation that had eluded him was neither “communicate” nor “communication.” It was “commerce.”

  —

  “What is this?” El-Amir said.

  The British SAS officer rose and, on shaky legs, went over to where Sara lay, examining her. “There’s a new puncture mark on the side of her neck.”

  “Borz shot her up with Rohypnol.”

  The officer looked up at El-Amir. “Then how was she standing on her feet, let alone talking coherently?”

  “Borz said it was witchcraft.”

  The officer grunted. “Well, whatever she’s done to herself has caught up with her.”

  Sara began to spasm, her back arching up, foam riming her half-open lips.

  “Well don’t just stand there,” the officer said. “For God’s sake help her.”

  “You’ll be dead in an hour,” El-Amir said. “What do you care?”

  “I care because I’m a human being,” the officer snapped. “What the hell are you?”

  El-Amir glared at him for a moment. “Get back,” he ordered, and the British officer crept to the rear of the cell. El-Amir opened the cell door, stood staring down at Sara, still convulsing, said, “She’s going to die. It must be only a matter of minutes now.”

  “What inhuman form of life are you?” the officer said.

  El-Amir fastidiously hitched up his trouser legs, squatted down beside Sara.

  “Good God, man!” the officer cried. “Do something, otherwise she’ll choke on her own tongue!”

  “For a Kidon agent,” El-Amir said, “that sounds appealing.”

  Sara’s eyes snapped open. She drove her stiffened fingers in under his sternum and, as he rocked back, breathless, she kicked his legs out from under him. At once, she was atop him.

  Her right arm drew back, she thought of Amira, of her promise. But then she thought of Jason, ripped away from her, she thought of this man’s heinous beliefs, the dreadful acts he had committed in the name of Allah, and, like a piston, her fist hammered directly down into his sternum, fracturing it. The second blow drove the bone fragments into his lungs.

  He stared up at her, wide-eyed. His mouth opened and closed with only a distant, strangled croak audible.

  “Drowned in your own blood,” she said. “In death as well as life, faithful as a dog, you have followed Ozer.”

  —

  “Good afternoon!” Mr. Gebre Tesfey said, coming around from behind his supersize polished wood desk. “Gospodin Popov, is it?” He spoke with the overpolished heartiness of a cruise director.

  “Fyodor Ilianovich.”

  “Indeed, indeed!” Mr. Tesfey agreed. “Thank you kindly!”

  “My pleasure.”

  The two men shook hands as if they were old school chums. Mr. Tesfey gestured to a sitting area on the other side of his football-size office. “Please.” He brought over with him a buff-colored file. The two men sat, Bourne on an ultramodern Italian leather chair, the bank director on a matching sofa. They were served coffee so dark it was almost black, and small, flat almond cakes.

  Mr. Tesfey waited until he had poured them both coffee and offered Bourne the plate of cakes before he said, with hands reverently placed on the folder that he expected would mark the beginning of a long and lucrative relationship, “It is my privilege to personally serve clients such as yourself, Fyodor Ilianovich.” He presented the cruise director’s microengineered smile. “Tell me how I can be of service to you, your company, and the Federation.”

  Bourne tapped the empty briefcase at his side. “We wish to establish an initial deposit of fifty million dollars, American.”

  With some amusement, he watched the blood drain out of Mr. Tesfey’s ascetic face, then, moments later, rush back up in profusion.

  “My dear Fyodor Ilianovich.” He opened the file on his lap. “It would be our pleasure to open an account in the name of Gazprom.” Unscrewing the cap of a Montblanc fountain pen, he began to fill in the uptake form as quickly as he could, as if he expected this fantastic windfall to vanish at any moment. “With the ruble losing value twenty straight weeks in a row it certainly makes sense for Gazprom to open a sizable account here in American dollars.”

  “The account won’t be in the company name,” Bourne said.

  Mr. Tesfey’s writing hand paused, pen coming off the form as he looked up. “I beg your pardon. In the name of what entity shall we open the account?”

  “The entity, as you put it, Mr. Tesfey, is not a what—it’s a who.”

  “What?” Mr. Tesfey swallowed. “Please forgive me, but your desire is for an individual to open an account here in the amount of fifty million American dollars?”

  “Now you have it,” Bourne said with a wide smile, as if he were pleased with the director’s quickness.

  The director nodded. “I assume this person is you, Fyodor Ilianovich.”

  “Hardly. You will open the account in the name of Llewellyn Beers.”

  Mr. Tesfey scarcely seemed to be breathing. “And who might this gentleman be? Is he perhaps still downstairs?”

  “I wouldn’t think so,” Bourne said. “Llewellyn Beers does not exist.”

  The director sat back, frowning. Bourne could see the fear in his eyes that the windfall so recently his was beginning to slip through his fingers.

  “Fyodor Ilianovich, I confess I do not understand your rather, ah, unorthodox request.”

  “Unorthodox it may be,” Bourne said, “but surely it isn’t unprecedented.”

  “I don’t—” Mr. Tesfey’s frown deepened. “I’m not sure I understand your meaning.”

  “Let’s stop beating around the bush, Mr. Tesfey. I know I’m not the first Russian national who has opened—how shall I put it?—a black account.”

  “But you are. I have been director of this bank for more than seven years, Fyodor Ilianovich, and I can assure you without fear of contradiction you are the first and only individual of any nationality who has made this request.”

  Bourne, who had the director’s number from the moment they sat down, knew he wasn’t lying. This wasn’t the cutout bank the Sovereign was using. How had Boris’s rebus steered him wrong? Either his deciphering of the Sumerian glyphs had failed, which was unlikely since he had been accurate with the first three groups, or he had incorrectly interpreted the rebus. Either way, he was at the wrong place at the wrong time.

  Dead end with less than twenty-eight hours left until Russia invaded Ukraine.

  51

  You don’t look good, if you don’t mind me saying so,” Lieutenant Jock Southern said.

  “That’s a good one.” Sara laughed heartily just before she passed out on top of El-Amir’s corpse.

  Ignoring his all-body pain, Southern went to her, h
is knees cracking as he knelt. Two fingers on her carotid confirmed she was still alive. Her pulse was slow but strong enough. But he had no strength to lift her up. Rolling her off the corpse, he tried to drag her back to the wooden slab on which he had tried to sleep for four nights. Too soon he was out of breath, and for a moment he hunkered down, trying to gather himself both physically and mentally. One step at a time and first things first, as his mum used to say.

  Stepping over the bodies, he exited the cell, went up the stairs, into the house proper. Bars of sunlight slanting in through glassless windows and the huge rent in one wall made him half-close his eyes. He felt a headache start up like a faulty engine. Foraging in the kitchen, he found water and a tin of tea. He brewed himself a cup and, while it was steeping, removed food from the refrigerator. Then he sat at the oval table, spooned a lot of sugar into his tea, drank it while he ate a bit of cold couscous and congealed bastilla. He did so slowly and sparingly. Apart from some water with a fistful of dead mosquitoes floating on its surface, he hadn’t had much in the way of sustenance in more than four days by his possibly inaccurate accounting, and his stomach must be seriously shrunken.

  When he felt energy flooding back into his system, he drank some more, took some sweets in his mouth, letting them dissolve. Then he rose and returned to the basement cell. Sara was still unconscious, but her breathing was steady. Bending, he picked her up off the floor and, carrying her in his arms, slowly and painfully brought her up out of the subterranean cavern and into the half-ruined building. He found a piece of furniture to lay her down on, then took pillows off the floor, shaking them free of glass shards, and propped her head up on them. Overcome with a wave of vertigo, he perched himself on the edge of the cushion. His heartbeat was elevated; he needed to slow his system down. He did this by staring at her face, concentrating on each feature one at a time, describing them to himself in the most detailed terms.