Robert Ludlum’s™ The Bourne Dominion

by Robert Ludlum

  Entering the conference room with his satellite aides, he settled himself at the head of the table. One of his aides laid down the sheaf of folders dedicated to Samaritan and opened them for him. Hendricks stared down at the computer printouts, trying to anticipate FitzWilliams’s objections, but his mind was elsewhere.

  Jackie. Jackie in the mountains of Afghanistan. Maggie had done this to him, opened up his heart. He had kept his desires locked up tight, but now he wanted his son back. His dinner with Maggie, such a simple thing, had been a night of normalcy after years of being out of the flow of life, of immersing himself so deeply in the sinkhole of his work. He had ignored—or was it resisted?—the current urging him onward.

  FitzWilliams was late. Hendricks channeled his anger away from himself, toward the head of Indigo Ridge, so that when FitzWilliams came bustling in, all energy and bonhomie, Hendricks barked at him.

  “Sit yourself down, Roy. You’re late.”

  “Sorry about that,” FitzWilliams said, sinking into a chair like a punctured balloon. “It couldn’t be helped.”

  “Of course it could have been helped; it can always be helped,” Hendricks said. “I’m sick of hearing people use excuses instead of taking responsibility for their actions.” He flipped the pages of the Samaritan file. “No one’s fault but your own, Roy.”

  “Yessir.” FitzWilliams’s cheeks were flaming. His voice seemed caught in his throat. “Definitely my bad. Won’t happen again, I assure you.”

  Hendricks cleared his throat. “Now,” he said, “what’s your problem?”

  Five, Rue Vernet, which housed the Monition Club, was a large, vaguely medieval-looking building constructed of pale gold stone. To one side there was a sunken formal garden with curving gravel paths looping back on themselves, lined with sheared boxwood hedges. In the center was a boxwood fleur-de-lis, ancient symbol of the French royal family. There were no flowers, giving it an austere beauty all its own.

  Soraya allowed Aaron to take the lead, standing just behind and to one side of him as he rang the front doorbell. Amun stood directly behind her, so close she could feel his heat. It was odd how the three of them had become a triangle simply because Amun had willed it into being.

  As the door opened and they were led inside, she wondered whether her love for Amun was real or imagined. How could something that had seemed so real last week dissolve into a mirage? She was appalled at the thought of how easy it was to fool yourself into believing an emotion was authentic.

  They were led through the interior of the building by a young woman unremarkable in every way: medium height, medium build, dark hair pulled back in a severe bun, a detached expression that squeezed all personality from her face.

  Soft indirect light illuminated their way down corridors lined in expensive wood and small framed illuminated manuscripts, which were hung at precise intervals. Their footfalls made no sound on the plush charcoal-colored carpet into which they sank as if in a marsh.

  At length, the young woman stopped before a polished wooden door and rapped softly. She responded to an answering voice and opened the door. Stepping aside, she waved them into the suite beyond.

  The first room of the suite appeared to be a study as well as an office. It was dominated by a hardwood refectory table and floor-to-ceiling library shelves filled with oversize tomes, some of which looked very old. A number of chairs upholstered in fragrant leather were scattered around the room. To one side was a large globe showing the world as it was known in the seventeenth century. Beyond this space was another distinct room that appeared to be a living room in a residence, modern and lighter in tone and decoration than the study.

  When they entered, a man atop a low rolling stepladder twisted his torso, peering at them over a pair of old-fashioned half spectacles.

  “Ah, Inspector Lipkin-Renais, I see you have brought reinforcements.” Chuckling lightly, he came down off his perch and approached their group. “Director Donatien Marchand, at your service.”

  Amun shouldered past, interrupting before Aaron could complete introductions. “Amun Chalthoum, head of al Mokhabarat, Cairo.” His stiff, formal bow had about it a vaguely threatening aspect that caused Marchand a brief hesitation, a startle in the depths of his black eyes, before his mouth returned to its business-like smile.

  “I understand you’ve come about M. Laurent’s unfortunate demise.”

  Aaron cocked his head. “Is that how you would characterize it?”

  “Is there another way?” Marchand meticulously dusted off his fingertips. “How may I help you?”

  He was a shortish man whom Soraya judged to be in his mid- to late fifties, but quite fit. His long hair was graying at the sides, but his widow’s peak was still pure black. It possessed the peculiar metallic gloss of a raven’s wing, spinning invisible light into an oil slick of colors.

  Aaron consulted his notes. “Laurent was run down on Place de l’Iris, at La Défense, at eleven thirty-seven in the morning.” He looked up abruptly into the director’s eyes. “What was he doing there?”

  Marchand spread his hands. “I confess I have no idea.”

  “You didn’t send him to La Défense?”

  “I was in Marseilles, Inspector.”

  Aaron’s smile was sharp as an arrow. “M. Laurent had a cell phone, Director. I assume you do, too.”

  “Of course I do,” Marchand said, “but I didn’t call him. In fact, I had no contact with Laurent for a number of days prior to my leaving for the south.”

  Soraya noticed that Amun seemed to have lost interest in the conversation. He had broken away and was studying the books that lined the director’s study.

  Aaron cleared his throat. “So what you’re claiming is that you have no knowledge of what business M. Laurent had in the Île de France Bank building two days ago.”

  Very clever, Soraya thought. Aaron waited until now to mention the Île de France Bank.

  Marchand blinked as if blinded by a very strong light. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Until M. Laurent’s murder—”

  “Murder?” Marchand blinked again.

  Now Aaron had him, Soraya thought.

  “Until his murder, M. Laurent was your assistant, is that not correct?”

  “It is.”

  “Well, then, M. Marchand. The Île de France Bank.” There was a slight edge to Aaron’s voice, and he had picked up the pace of his questioning. “What was M. Laurent doing there?”

  Marchand’s voice turned abrupt, waspish. “I have already told you, Inspector.” He seemed to be losing his temper, which was the point.

  “Yes, yes, you claim you don’t know.”

  “I don’t know.”

  Aaron consulted his notes, flipped a page, and Soraya felt a little spark of glee rise up in her. Aaron opened his mouth. Here it comes, Soraya thought.

  “Your answer interests me, Director. My research has revealed that much of the funding for this branch of the Monition Club comes from accounts in the Brive Bank.”

  Marchand shrugged. “What of it? A number of our senior members have their accounts at Brive. These men are large annual donors.”

  “I applaud their altruism,” Aaron said lightly. “However, after no little digging it has come to my attention that the Brive Bank is a subsidiary of the Netherlands Freehold Bank of the Antilles, which, in turn, is owned by, well, the list goes on and on and I don’t want to bore you. But at the end of the list is the Nymphenburg Landesbank of Munich.” Here Aaron took a breath, as if to emphasize the exhaustion brought about by the amount of digging he’d had to do.

  “Is Nymphenburg Landesbank wholly owned? Indeed it is. And for a time this stopped me in my tracks. But then I decided to turn my supposition upside down. And what do you know? Early this morning I discovered that for the past five years the Nymphenburg Landesbank of Munich has been quietly buying up pieces of…” Now he shrugged. “Need I say it, Director?”

  Marchand was standing stock-still, his hands in midair. So
raya, looking at them, had to give the man credit: His hands were rock-solid, not a tremor to be seen.

  Aaron grinned. “Nymphenburg Landesbank now owns a controlling interest in the Île de France Bank. The takeover was devilishly difficult to detect mainly because both the Landesbank and Île de France are private institutions. As such, they are not required to divulge changes in policy, key personnel, or control.”

  He stepped toward Marchand a pace and lifted a forefinger. “However, it occurred to me that there might be another reason for my difficulty in unearthing the connection.”

  The silence grew so thick that finally Marchand said through gritted teeth, “And what would that be, Inspector?”

  Aaron closed his notebook and put it away. “À bientôt, M. Marchand.” Until next time.

  With that, he turned on his heel and left. Soraya followed in his wake, but not before grabbing a handful of Amun’s jacket and dragging him away from his study of the book spines.

  Outside, the sun was shining and the birds were chirping, flitting from tree to tree.

  “How about some lunch?” Aaron said. “My treat.”

  “I’m not hungry. I’d rather get back to our hotel room,” Amun replied.

  “Well, I’m hungry enough for two,” Soraya said, avoiding Amun’s dark glare.

  Aaron clapped his hands. “Splendid! I know just the place. Follow me.”

  Soraya sensed that Amun didn’t want to follow Aaron anywhere, but unless he could find a taxi station, he had no choice.

  “Why didn’t you tell me what you had discovered?” Soraya said as she came up alongside Aaron.

  “There wasn’t time.”

  Soraya suspected this was only partially true. But she held her tongue because she sensed that Aaron hadn’t wanted her to say anything to Amun.

  They returned to the Citroën and when they were all settled in, Soraya next to Aaron up front and Amun in back with his carry-on bag, Aaron fired the ignition. But before he could put the Citroën in gear, Amun leaned forward and put a hand on his arm.

  “Just a moment,” he said.

  Soraya, acutely attuned to both these men, felt immediate alarm. If Amun was going to start a fight she had to find a way to head it off.

  “Amun, let’s just go,” she said in as even a voice as she could muster. She had been witness to Amun’s temper; she did not ever wish to be on the receiving end of it.

  “I said wait,” he said in that tone of voice that turned lesser human beings to stone.

  Aaron took his hand off the gearshift and half turned in his seat. To his credit, he was content to be patient.

  “That was a good piece of work in there.” Amun stared straight into Aaron’s eyes. “I admired the technique.”

  Aaron nodded. “Thank you.”

  It was clear he had no idea where this was going. Neither did Soraya.

  “You hit a nerve with Marchand and you left him wondering and frightened,” Amun continued. “It’s too bad you didn’t plant a bug in his office. Then we could have found out who he’s calling right now.”

  Aaron appeared slightly put out by Amun’s denseness. “This isn’t Egypt. I’m not allowed to bug people’s offices or homes without proper authorization.”

  “No, you aren’t.” Amun unzipped his bag and pulled out a dull black box about the size of a first-generation iPod. It had a grille on the top. “But I can.”

  He flipped a hidden switch and at once they heard Donatien Marchand’s voice caught in midsentence. They were able to listen to the rest of the phone conversation.

  “—God alone knows.”

  …

  “Not really, no, it’s not the first time I’ve had an inquiry from the Quai d’Orsay.”

  …

  “Certainly, but I tell you this one feels different.”

  …

  “No, I don’t know why.”

  An unusually long silence.

  “It’s the Egyptian. Having the head of al Mokhabarat—”

  …

  “Bullshit, you wouldn’t like it, either. The guy gave me the creeps.”

  …

  “Now I don’t know what—”

  …

  “You try that, then. You didn’t look these people in the eye.”

  …

  “Really? I haven’t even mentioned the woman—Soraya Moore.”

  …

  “Well, you may know her, but I don’t. She worries me most of all.”

  …

  “Because she says nothing and sees everything. Her eyes are like X-ray machines. I’ve had the misfortune of meeting several people like her. Inevitably, it’s gotten messy—very messy. And with this Laurent business, messy is the last thing we need.”

  …

  “Oh, you do, do you? And who would that be?”

  There ensued what seemed to be a shocked silence before Donatien Marchand’s voice started up again.

  “You can’t be serious. Not him. I mean to say, there’s got to be another alternative.”

  …

  “I see.”

  Marchand sighed in what sounded like resignation.

  “When?”

  …

  “And it has to be me?”

  …

  “All right then.” Marchand managed to inject a girder of steel into his voice. “I’ll give him his orders immediately. The usual price?”

  A moment later the connection was broken. The three eavesdroppers sat in silence, their bodies very still. The atmosphere was suddenly stifling, the musk of men and woman mingling into a thick stew. Soraya felt the slow, heavy beat of her heart. It was one thing listening in on a conversation, quite another when a key part of that conversation concerned you.

  “Interpretation?” Aaron said a bit breathlessly.

  “It sounds as if Marchand has been ordered to contact a hit man.”

  Aaron nodded. “That was my take, as well.” He turned his head. “Amun?”

  The Egyptian was staring out the Citroën’s window and didn’t bother to answer. “Here he comes,” he said, pointing to Marchand, whom they could see emerging from the Monition Club. He got into a black BMW and took off.

  As Aaron put the Citroën in gear and pulled out after him, Amun said, “I assume you’ve both lost your appetite.”

  The federales were looking for Bourne, all right. At least the identity Bourne had used to enter Colombia. Of course, that identity no longer existed. Neither did the man in the blurry wire photo the cops were passing around the international departures terminal in Bogotá.

  “Don’t worry,” Bourne said from his seat in the wheelchair, “it’s me the federales have an interest in, not you or Rosie.”

  “But the Domna has connections—”

  “In this case,” Bourne cut in, “I very much doubt they’d want the federales involved. Too many questions would be asked.”

  Nevertheless, as Vegas pushed Bourne across the concourse, he exuded nervous energy the way the sun generates heat. This was a problem—of what magnitude Bourne could not yet determine—for cops could smell fear from a thousand yards away.

  Directing them to the business-class lounge, Bourne presented their tickets to one of the attendants, a slim, deeply tanned young woman, who personally showed them the best place to park the wheelchair, then went to get a server for them. There were definitely perks to being perceived as disabled, Bourne thought, but right now the most important one was throwing the federales off his trail.

  When the server appeared, Bourne ordered a stiff drink for Vegas to calm him down. Rosie ordered her own; Bourne wanted nothing.

  “I’ll be fine once I see Don Fernando again,” Vegas said.

  “Stop looking around,” Bourne said. “Concentrate on me.” He turned to Rosie. “Hold his hand and don’t let go, no matter what.”

  Rosie hadn’t said a word since they disembarked their regional flight from Perales, but Bourne sensed little fear in her. Her innate trust that Vegas would protect her come wha
t may appeared to insulate her from their precarious situation.

  The moment she gripped Vegas’s hand, he relaxed visibly, which was lucky since, at that moment, a pair of federales stepped into the lounge and started querying the receptionists. Both of them shook their heads when they looked at the photo of Bourne. Nevertheless, the two cops decided to make a circuit of the lounge.

  Vegas had not yet seen them, but Rosie had. Her eyes locked on Bourne. He grinned at her, he laughed as if she had made a joke. Understanding, she laughed back.

  “What’s going on?” Vegas said. “What the hell is so damn funny?”

  “In a minute or two, a pair of federales will pass by here.” Bourne saw the fear bloom anew in the older man’s face. He was a country fellow, unused to the confines of the big city, and here in the lounge there was nowhere to run.

  He had already consumed more than half his drink. His face was pale. Bourne could see the bones of his skull clearly beneath the suddenly waxy skin; dead men looked better. Seeking to distract him, Bourne asked him about the oil fields—his early days, when he was learning the trade, when the danger was the most acute. He became animated, as Bourne had hoped. Clearly, he loved his work and was adept at its every nuance. All the while, Rosie listened as attentively as if she were a geological engineer.

  The federales were fast approaching their area, strutting with their chests out, their hands on the butts of their sidearms. Tension ratcheted up. Even Rosie was not immune, Bourne saw.

  “I saw the tamarind tree out back,” Bourne said, “and the cross that marked the grave.”

  “We do not speak of this,” Vegas said, shaking.

  “Mi amor, cálmate.” Rosie kissed him on the cheek. “He couldn’t know.”

  “I had no intention—”

  Rosie lifted a hand to stop him. “You couldn’t know,” she said grimly. She offered Vegas a wan smile that guttered like a candle in the wind. She turned back to Bourne. “Our son, nine days old and already he held the entire world in his eyes.” A tear slid down her cheek, which she immediately wiped away with the back of her hand. “This is how it is with children, before they are corrupted by the adult world.”