Robert Ludlum’s™ The Bourne Dominion

by Robert Ludlum

  “Semid Abdul-Qahhar is a terrorist,” Rebeka said, “though he pretends to be otherwise.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I’m Jewish,” Rebeka said.

  Now her interest in the Arab who had defiled the synagogue was clear.

  He won’t find anything of interest in my locker,” Boris said.

  “Zachek will decide that.”

  “I’m somewhat surprised to see you out of your Moscow Central bunker,” Boris said.

  “Some matters are worth pursuing yourself,” Beria replied. “Otherwise, where is the satisfaction?”

  “You’re wise not to trust Zachek.”

  “You found that out the hard way.” Beria folded his arms across his chest. “You know, General, your problem is you’re too trusting. For the life of me I cannot fathom how you have persisted so long.”

  “Flourished,” Boris said. “Use the correct term.”

  Beria frowned. “You certainly evince no fear. We’ll soon fix that up.” He smiled cheerfully. “Really, General, no one believes that you would allow Cherkesov to die without him spilling his guts.”

  Boris stared up at Beria. Then he crooked his forefinger, signaling for the SVR director to come closer. Beria glanced around as if he suspected a trap, then he leaned over, putting his head close to Boris’s. He smelled of expensive cologne.

  “Stalin wore cologne, too, Beria. Did you know that?” Boris clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Men who wear cologne…” He shrugged to the extent he was allowed by the masseur’s weight on his back. “What can I say?”

  Beria produced a pained smile. “Zachek will be back in a moment and then everything will change for you. If he finds nothing—”

  “Trust me, he won’t.”

  “If he finds nothing,” Beria repeated with added emphasis on each word, “then we evacuate you to our safe house. I have men there, experts in their field.”

  “I probably know them either by name or by reputation,” Boris said.

  Beria looked at him quizzically. “I don’t understand you, General.”

  “Few do.” Boris unfurled his left hand and watched as Beria stared at the key.

  Beria plucked the key up. “Is this it?”

  “It is what Cherkesov was supposed to deliver to Semid Abdul-Qahhar.”

  Beria’s head snapped up, his black, feral eyes boring into Boris’s. “That terrorist is here?”

  “According to Cherkesov,” Boris said. “His residence is in the old synagogue in Bab Touma. Assuming I’ve been in this hammam for about an hour, the meet is set for two hours from now.”

  A flicker of suspicion momentarily crowded out Beria’s expression of triumph. “Why are you telling me this, General?”

  “I know when I’ve been outmaneuvered. And I have no wish to be evacuated to a safe house filled with sharp claws and teeth.”

  Beria sighed just as Zachek returned and threw the locker key on the floor, shaking his head. “My dear General, I do thank you for being so forthcoming,” Beria said, “but I’m afraid I can’t leave you here. You are a loose end, and I won’t have that.”

  He raised his eyes to look at the masseur, and nodded. At once the masseur trapped Boris in a fierce grip. Beria turned, no longer concerned with Boris. He held up the key and Zachek nodded. As the two walked out, Zachek shot Boris one last look that could have meant anything. Boris paid him no mind; his attention was focused fully on what he had to do now.

  The masseur was leaning over the table, his left forearm pressed down across the back of Boris’s neck, his right knee on the small of Boris’s back. Boris’s right hand found the wooden peg under the table and pulled it with the same fierce determination he’d once used when pulling the firing pin on a hand grenade.

  Without the peg’s support, the front of the table collapsed. The masseur lost his balance, and, with it, the pressure he exerted on Boris’s torso. Boris slid down the table, curled his legs, and twisted out from under the masseur’s sprawled body. As the masseur struggled to rise, Boris punched him in the side of the face. When this had little effect, he drove his knee into the same spot. The masseur collapsed as if poleaxed.

  Boris scooped up his locker key and found his way back to where his clothes still hung, careful not to run into Beria and his little prick of a lapdog. If he never saw another SVR agent in his life, he’d die a happy Russian. But he knew that was too much to hope for.

  My head hurts.” There was a ringing in Soraya’s right ear that had nothing to do with the bandage covering half her head.

  Aaron’s face swam into view. “I know.”

  “I mean it really hurts.”

  “Be happy you’re not dead. After that little stunt—”

  “El-Arian?”

  He responded to the anxiety in her voice. “Shot dead.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Three shots to the chest and one to the head.” He smiled thinly. “Yes, I’m sure.”

  Soraya relaxed visibly and licked her lips. “I’m thirsty.”

  Aaron took a plastic cup off a tray, poked a straw into the water he poured in it. He did something to the bed so that Soraya’s head, shoulders, and torso lifted off horizontal without her having to take her head off the pillow.

  She began to suck the water up.

  “In the hospital again, I’m afraid.” Aaron’s smile turned tentative. “Not too much, we don’t want it coming right back up.” He placed the cup on the tray. When he turned back, his eyes engaged hers. “You almost got yourself killed.”

  “Almost doesn’t count.” When he failed to laugh, she said, “You’re welcome.”

  “I owe you, Soraya.”

  She looked away. “You don’t owe me anything.”

  He sighed, hooked his shoe through the rung of a chair, and brought it over so he could sit down beside her. “Why did you run away?”

  “I hate hospitals.”

  He looked relieved. “I thought you hated me.”

  “Men,” she said.

  He looked down at his hands. “I’m sorry about Chalthoum.”

  Tears began to leak from Soraya’s eyes and Aaron jumped up and used a tissue to blot the corners. Soraya jumped as if burned.

  “Get away from me!”

  He backed away, his face pale and drawn. Then he turned and stepped to the door. She waited until he pulled down the handle before saying, “Come back.”

  He hesitated, then turned. She could see in his eyes that he didn’t know what to do. Something black burned inside her, reveling in her mastery over him. Then, as quickly as the spark flamed up, it died, leaving her empty and shaking.

  “Which is it, Soraya?”

  “Aaron. Please.”

  He approached her with a cautious step and sat gingerly on the edge of the chair, as if ready at any moment to flee. She looked at him. All the fight had left her. She felt as if she had gone through a terrible trial by fire, had seen loves, wants, and needs reduced to ash, leaving her naked, but no longer vulnerable. She sensed her strength returning, but it was a different form of strength, one that would require time to explore.

  Her eyes fluttered closed for a moment.

  “Soraya?”

  She heard the anxiety in his voice and looked at him. “How am I?”

  “Better than you have any right to be.” He seemed relieved to be talking about a topic that was quantifiable. “When we brought you in here the doctors were very grave. Frankly, I don’t think they gave you much of a chance. But the wound looked worse than it was. The bullet from El-Arian’s weapon grazed your skull high enough so your vision wasn’t impaired. And we’ve been assured that your hearing will return to normal in time.”

  “Nothing paralyzed.”

  “No, but the concussion you were walking around with will need time to heal, or surely something neurologically bad will happen. No running.”

  “Or falling off staircases.”

  He smiled. “Best to get out of that habit.�
��

  “I promise.” Her fingers picked at the sheet as if she couldn’t wait to get it off her. “I suppose, then, you’ll have to take me to safer places.”

  His expression sobered. “Soraya, I promise to get you out of here as soon as I can. No more than a day or so while they finish tests, and then I’ll use Robbinet’s influence, assuming he’s still talking to me.”

  “What happened between you two?”

  “I lost you. He was ready to end my career if we didn’t find you alive and well.”

  “I’ll talk to him.”

  “Finally! I have a champion!”

  He laughed and she joined in, even though it pained her a bit. She didn’t mind. The pain reminded her that she was alive, and that felt so very fine.

  “But you have to be good,” Aaron said. “You still need plenty of bed rest.”

  “Don’t worry, I now have a healthy respect for concussions.” She grinned. “Lucky I have that hotel room, huh?”

  He nodded. “But now you have to rest.”

  “In a minute. Please give me my cell phone.”

  He gave her a stern look but did as she asked, rummaging in the shallow closet. When he brought it to her, she turned it on and saw she had four messages from Hendricks, but none from Peter. She looked up at Aaron. “Okay, now scram.”

  His brow furrowed. “What does this mean?”

  “Leave me alone.”

  He nodded. “I’ll be right outside.”

  “Don’t you have anywhere else to be?”

  “I do.” He crossed to the door and opened it. He grinned. “But I’m learning to delegate.”

  In all the noise of the restaurant Bourne almost didn’t hear his cell phone. He was in the middle of finessing more information out of Rebeka on the building plan of the synagogue, and for a moment considered ignoring the call. Then he saw it was from Soraya and answered. But he couldn’t hear a word she said, so, excusing himself, he went outside onto the street, walking several hundred feet away down a narrow alley, pressing himself against a crumbling building chained with a padlock.

  “Where are you?” Her voice sounded tight and strained.

  “Damascus.” Bourne kept his eyes on the passing crowds. Between Boris and Corellos, he needed to be wary of death squads and lone assassins. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes. Fine. I’m in Paris. I tried to call Peter but he isn’t answering his cell, which is very odd. No one has seen or heard from him.”

  “Contact Tyrone. If he hasn’t heard something, then he’ll find a way.”

  “Good idea.” She told him everything she had learned about the Monition Club, the Arab terrorist connection, and the fiduciary trail that led back to the Nymphenburg Landesbank of Munich. She did not mention Amun; she did not want to speak his name, let alone hear any expression of sympathy, however sincere. She concluded with Benjamin El-Arian’s death, but omitted her injuries.

  Bourne’s mind was processing the information as fast as it was received. “What interests me is that the Domna’s finances are handled through a Munich bank and Semid Abdul-Qahhar, the head of the Mosque in Munich, is also here in the same city where Severus Domna has its headquarters and staging area.”

  “Staging area for what?”

  “Not sure, but I think it’s an imminent attack on US soil.”

  “Target?”

  “I don’t—” Bourne broke off the conversation. He had seen someone, a flash of a face among the bobbing heads. Slamming his phone shut, he took off after the figure. As he drew closer, he was able to identify the familiar gait. Even without a clear look at the man’s face, he knew it was Boris.

  Bourne shouldered his way through the crowds as people squeezed together along the narrow streets. After several minutes he had a sense that Boris was headed toward the synagogue. What was he up to? Surely if he had followed Bourne here, he had lost the scent. But Boris did not give the impression of someone who was lost. On the contrary, his concentration was fierce; he was a man on a mission.

  The entrance to the synagogue was down a narrow, unprepossessing alley, which gave out on a cobbled courtyard with an olive tree planted in its center. When he reached a spot where he could keep an eye on the alley, Boris melted back into shadow. He crossed his arms in front of him like an Egyptian mummy and stood absolutely still, waiting.

  Bourne waited. Nothing happened. No one entered or left the alley leading to the synagogue. The sliver of sky visible was a carnival set, the night tinged a gaudy, electric blue from the lights atop the minarets.

  Bourne took out his cell and dialed Boris’s number. In the shadows, Boris started and grabbed for his phone. As he did so, Bourne stepped into the shadows beside him.

  “Hello, Boris,” he said. “I understand you’ve been sent to kill me.”

  31

  JASON, WHAT IN hell are you doing here?”

  “I could ask you the same question, Boris.” Bourne studied his friend in the darkness. “The question is whether either of us will tell the truth.”

  “When have we ever lied to each other?”

  “Who can say, Boris? You know far more about our relationship than I do. Right now, as far as I can see, nothing is what it seems.”

  “I couldn’t agree more. I’ve been shafted by so many people these last couple of days my head is spinning.”

  “Friendship is a matter of trust.”

  “Once again, I couldn’t agree more, but if you have to think about it, trust doesn’t exist.”

  A bitterness in Boris’s voice disturbed Bourne. “What’s at the heart of this issue, Boris?”

  “I just came from Munich. One of my oldest friends tried to have me killed there. As a matter of fact, you know him. Ivan Volkin never retired. He’s been working for Severus Domna for years.”

  “My condolences.”

  “You don’t seem surprised.”

  “The only surprise was that you two were friends.”

  “Well, we aren’t.” Boris turned his head away, peering down the street. “It seems we never were.”

  Bourne let a moment pass, in honor of Boris’s sorrow. “Are you here to say your special form of hello to me,” he said finally, “or to Semid Abdul-Qahhar?”

  “No secrets from you, are there? Why am I not surprised.” Boris laughed humorlessly. “Let me tell you something, my friend, several hours ago the man who forced me to make a decision between killing you and keeping my career was on the other end of my special form of hello.”

  “So you have removed the need to kill me.”

  “There was never any need, Jason. If I did what Viktor Cherkesov ordered me to do, there wouldn’t be enough of me left to have a career.” He grunted. “And by the way, how do you know that that prime dick Semid Abdul-Qahhar lives here?”

  “How do you?”

  The two men laughed together.

  Boris slapped Bourne on the back. “Dammit, Jason, it’s good to see you! We must have a toast to our reunion, but first I’m expecting Konstantin Beria, the head of SVR, and his little prick, Zachek, to show up here.”

  “How is that?”

  Boris told him about the key that Cherkesov was tasked by the Domna to bring to Semid Abdul-Qahhar.

  “You let Beria have it?” Bourne said.

  Boris laughed. “For all the good it will do him. It’s not a real key, it doesn’t open anything. It’s modeled after the keys in a Flash video game.” Seeing the look on Bourne’s face, he added, “Hard to believe, but someone inside the Domna has a sense of humor.”

  “What’s hard to believe is that you know anything about video games.”

  “I need to keep up with the times, Jason, otherwise I’ll get run over by the young technocrats coming to power. They use video games to keep their skills sharp and the smell of blood in their nostrils.”

  “You and I use the field.”

  “They’re useless in the field, the young ones. They’re always looking for shortcuts.”

  “For keys to un
lock the next level.”

  “That’s right. They don’t think for themselves.”

  A cooling wind snaked down the street, bringing with it the scent of spices. The muezzins started up, the amplified calls to prayer drowning out all other noise. The street drained of people.

  “The key was a test,” Bourne said.

  Boris nodded. “To see if Cherkesov was trustworthy and obedient.”

  “He failed.”

  “Miserably. But Semid Abdul-Qahhar doesn’t know that yet. And Beria doesn’t know I’m waiting for him.” Boris put an arm across Bourne’s chest. “Hold on. They’re coming.”

  Bourne saw two men approaching. They wore long coats that reached down to the tops of their shoes, a clear indication that they were carrying long-barreled weapons. The older man was short and feral looking, the other younger and taller, with a face that looked like it had been put through a meat grinder. Bourne smiled as he thought of Boris’s fists making vicious contact with the technocrat.

  “I want these cocksuckers,” Boris said. “They tried to kill me.”

  “It looks like they’re carrying some heavy weapons,” Bourne said.

  “So I see.”

  Bourne was preparing himself when, from the corner of his eye, he saw a figure in a black robe and hijab come stealthily down the street from the other end. It was Rebeka.

  The security for Indigo Ridge once more set, Hendricks did precisely what Skara had asked him not to do: He went looking for her. First, he tried her cell phone, but got a Chinese man who told him to go to hell in Mandarin. Next, he had a private conversation with Jonathan Brey, the head of the FBI. He and Brey went back a long time; they exchanged favors regularly.

  “Anything you want, Chris,” Brey said, “it’s yours.”

  “I’m looking for someone who’s dropped out of sight,” Hendricks said, consumed with shame, humiliation, and the singular anguish of a jilted lover. “She may have already left the country.” He paused. “She entered as Margaret Penrod, which was an alias, but I have no doubt she’s now under another assumed name.”

  “Any idea what that might be?”