The Bourne Treachery

by Brian Freeman

  Vadik thought about Tati, who was only a few miles away. Right now, she would be sitting in the Painted Hall of the Naval College. Clark Cafferty would be speaking soon. To Vadik, Cafferty was as bad as Sorokin. Worse in some ways. Sorokin didn’t bother to hide the damage he did to the planet, whereas Cafferty was a profiteer pretending to support the green revolution while he made millions for himself. His time would come.

  Tati.

  She’d be sitting in the front row for Cafferty’s speech. She always sat in the front row, wherever she went. She’d be sitting up straight, a pencil behind her ear and a notepad in her lap, her glasses slipping down her nose. Every man in the hall would be salivating for her, and she wouldn’t even be aware of it. He could picture her face and body, and he could feel the softness of her skin. It pained him to think he might never see her again. His motives in seducing her had been to support the cause, but he loved her, too.

  Stop! He was losing focus. He couldn’t afford to think about anything but the task that lay ahead. Kill Sorokin.

  “Two cars,” Harry announced.

  “What?”

  “Two cars. Four men in the first, three in the second, including Sorokin.”

  “Okay,” Vadik murmured. He felt his heart rate going up. The rain mixed with his sweat. He watched the cars on the bridge, the tour buses, the boats on the river, the men and women walking by them. How much longer now? Twenty minutes? Half an hour? His whole life would never be the same.

  “Two minutes, and we close the bridges,” Harry said. “The flash mobs are ready on the sidewalks at Westminster and Lambeth. It’s time for battle. Enough with politicians making promises they don’t keep. The future of the earth is up to us.”

  Vadik squeezed his fists together. “Yes.”

  “They’re getting in the cars. They’re leaving now.”

  And then a moment later, Harry’s face dissolved into rage. “Fuck! Fuck!”

  “What is it?”

  Harry ignored him as he hissed into his radio. “Where are they going? Follow them, follow them! You bleeding idiots, don’t lose them!”

  “What’s wrong?” Vadik demanded. “What’s going on?”

  His damp face dark with fury, Harry grabbed Vadik by his collar and shoved him hard against the bridge railing. “Did you do this? Was this a trap? If I hear sirens in the next five seconds, I swear I will shoot you in the head and dump your body in the fucking river.”

  “It’s not a trap! What are you talking about?”

  Harry listened to his radio, then yanked off the receiver and crushed it under his foot.

  “We’ve been tricked, you fool! Sorokin’s not going to the WTO. He’s heading to the other side of the city. The police were waiting for us! They’re arresting everyone! We need to get the fuck out of here right now. They’re coming for us!”

  * * *

  —

  “Typically, I’m not a fan of last-minute changes in plans,” Gennady Sorokin announced from the rear of the limousine.

  In the front seat, the security guard, Nicholai, eyed the driver, who was a CIA agent with a perfect suit, perfect hair, perfect sunglasses, and teeth as white as piano keys. You could smell their arrogance.

  “There was no change in plans, sir,” the CIA man replied.

  “No? I was told the meeting would be at the Naval College.”

  “Yes, sir, sorry, but Mr. Lewis wanted a diversion. This was always the plan, but I didn’t get any of the details until now for the sake of security. By the way, Mr. Lewis also had the Brits roll up several members of an extremist cell that was planning to ambush you on the way to the WTO. They’re looking for the others now. This group knew you were at the Mandarin Oriental, sir. They’ve been staking it out for hours.”

  “Terrorists knew I was coming?” Sorokin asked.

  “Yes, sir. They’re part of a splinter environmental faction called the Gaia Crusade. You should count yourself lucky. This group has taken out oil and gas execs in the U.S. and Europe. They’re one of the bloodier sects on our radar right now.”

  Sorokin eased back into the leather seats. “Have you heard of this Gaia Crusade, Nicholai?”

  “I have, sir.”

  “But you heard nothing about them targeting me?”

  Nicholai hesitated as he considered what to say. “No, your trip was completely secret, sir. I don’t know how they found out the details of your itinerary.”

  “That doesn’t make me happy, Nicholai. I keep you around to prevent these kinds of incidents. Instead, I have to rely on the CIA to do your job for you?”

  “I’m sorry, sir.”

  Nicholai fumed as he watched a little grin come and go on the CIA agent’s face.

  “So,” Sorokin went on, focusing on the driver again. “Now that we’re on our way, where are we actually heading?”

  “Mr. Lewis will call me in a couple of minutes and give me further directions.”

  “He’s rather paranoid, isn’t he?”

  “These days it pays to be paranoid, sir.”

  “I have to agree.” Sorokin eased his head back against the seat and closed his eyes. “Well, since we have a few minutes, I’ll see if I can get rid of this jet lag. Wake me up when we get wherever we’re supposed to be, Nicholai. You can manage to do that, can’t you? Or do I need to ask the CIA for a wake-up call, too?”

  “I’ll make sure you’re up, sir.”

  Nicholai stared through the smoked windows of the limousine at the London streets. His mind whirled, partly with hatred for the man in the backseat, partly with terror that his own role in the conspiracy was about to be exposed. When he’d seen the police taking away the spies from the Gaia Crusade, he’d been ready to run rather than have them take him away, too.

  Everything had gone wrong.

  There was no meeting at the Naval College. No crossing at Waterloo Bridge. They’d all been fooled.

  Except for Lennon.

  The man who’d paid him to make sure Sorokin wound up dead when the terrorists attacked. The man who’d sent Nicholai the documents that proved the oligarch had been the one to destroy his brother’s business. A bankruptcy that had led to his brother’s suicide.

  Lennon had seen this coming. He’d warned Nicholai about the possibility of a change of plans. Be ready. Nothing is ever what it seems.

  It was time to go to the backup.

  Unseen by the CIA driver, Nicholai slid his hand into the pocket of his suit coat and powered on the GPS tracker that would broadcast their location.

  * * *

  —

  Yoko sat behind the wheel of a Land Rover in a small alley off Park Row, two blocks from the Naval College. She kept the motor running. When she checked her watch, she saw that it was noon. The mission was about to begin. Sorokin heading to the WTO. Cafferty giving his speech.

  And soon after, Dr. Russel Amundsen inquiring about the status of his grant proposal and bumping into Cafferty with the tip of his cane.

  When it was all over, she’d be waiting outside the security fence for Lennon to return. By nightfall, they’d be out of the country, undercover somewhere in the Baltic. She’d have him in her bed tonight, because he always wanted her after a mission was done. Then, as usual, she’d wake up alone.

  As she tapped a finger on the steering wheel, a shrill whistle on her phone made her jump. When she checked it, she saw that Nicholai’s GPS tracker had gone live. That wasn’t the plan, and immediately, her nerves were set on edge. She opened up the map and saw that the vehicle carrying Gennady Sorokin was nowhere near Waterloo.

  It was heading in the opposite direction from what they’d anticipated. West on Cromwell Road toward Hammersmith. Away from the city. Away from the WTO conference.

  Yoko swore loudly. She grabbed her phone and dialed, and on the other end, the agent known as Sean answered from inside
the Painted Hall.

  “You’re not supposed to call,” he said in a clipped voice. “You know the rules.”

  “Is Cafferty there? Has the speech begun?”

  “I’m hanging up now,” Sean said.

  “Fuck that! Has the speech begun?”

  “No. Cafferty’s late.”

  “He’s not late. He’s gone, you fool. Sorokin’s not coming to Greenwich. Get to Lennon and get him out of there right now. We have an emergency.”

  15

  Where was Cafferty?

  Bourne knew something was wrong. Noon had gone by. Now five more minutes had passed. The podium remained empty, and he saw no sign of Clark Cafferty, or Dixon Lewis, or the woman who’d accompanied them to the north end of the Painted Hall. None of them had returned.

  He climbed the steps behind the podium. A vast mural of the ascension of George I took up the entire west wall, and grayscale paintings adorned the other walls like faux sculptures. There was one set of wooden double doors on his left. The CIA agent who’d deflected him earlier stood in front of it.

  “I need to see Dixon Lewis,” Bourne told him.

  “He’s not here.”

  “Then get me to Cafferty. Or Holly Schultz.”

  “That won’t be possible.”

  “You let a stranger back here with Cafferty. She wasn’t on the delegate list. How do you know she’s secure?”

  The agent stared at him eye to eye. “This doesn’t concern you, Cain. Your job’s done.”

  “My job’s done?”

  “That’s right. Why don’t you go see the Crown Jewels or something?”

  Christ! It was just like Tallinn.

  Jason returned to the steps that looked down on the expanse of the Painted Hall. He checked his watch again. Ten past noon. “Nova, what the hell is going on?”

  “According to the schedule, Cafferty should be speaking right now, but we can’t locate him.”

  Bourne studied the packed crowd. Everyone was in their seats except the security guards stationed around the hall, but he saw a growing restlessness and confusion. Then, from outside the building, he heard the sputtering thunder of an engine. He ran down the steps and went to the window, where he saw a black helicopter rise from the courtyard behind the old naval hospital. Still low, it zoomed overhead with a deafening throb that made the windows of the Painted Hall vibrate, and then it was gone.

  He knew who was in that helicopter. Clark Cafferty.

  “Bait,” Jason said into his radio.

  “What?”

  “We were bait. Bait for Lennon. A diversion. Cafferty never planned to meet Sorokin at the WTO. That was all a ruse. That’s what they wanted Lennon to think. If he saw me, he’d assume the meeting was here, and he’d be here, too.”

  Suddenly, Bourne spun away from the window. He studied the lineup of chairs in the Painted Hall, and his stare went to the aisle seat in the tenth row.

  The chair was empty.

  “He’s gone.”

  “Who?”

  “The Norwegian scientist. Russel Amundsen. He’s gone.”

  Bourne realized he should have listened to his instincts. Nothing about the man was suspicious; he’d been perfect, convincing, authentic. Even so, Jason’s brain had sent a message through the fog. I know you!

  He found the nearest security guard and walked up to the man with a casual smile. “Say, I wonder if you can help me. I can’t find my friend, Dr. Amundsen. He had the aisle seat there, and now he’s gone. We were supposed to get together after the event. Did you happen to see him leave?”

  The guard checked Bourne’s name tag and then nodded. “Yes, he got a message of some kind. I saw one of the other guards stop by and talk to him. The two of them left a couple of minutes ago.”

  “Thank you.”

  Bourne headed for the vestibule. “Did you hear that?”

  “I did.”

  “Check the cameras. Find out where they went.”

  “I’m on it.”

  Jason descended into the courtyard and found himself in the midst of a light drizzle. The stone plaza was damp, and the columns of the hospital building on the other side of the lawn were streaked with rain. No one was outside. He smelled smoke and heard the drumbeat of protests from the streets of Greenwich.

  “Nova?”

  “The chapel. He headed into the chapel. From there, he can take an exit out the back. He only got in there a few seconds ago, but he wasn’t alone, Jason. A twentysomething man in a dark suit was with him. Tall, thin, dark hair.”

  Bourne ran to the twin building on the other side of the courtyard. The entrance to the Chapel of St. Peter and St. Paul was marked by a chambered round window over double doors. He pushed inside and heard the echo of his footsteps on marble. The interior was cool and quiet. At the top of a handful of steps, one of the oversized doors leading into the chapel itself was open. He crept through the door and stopped with his back against the wall. Half a dozen Corinthian columns rose on either side of him. Wooden pews lined the aisle leading to the altar, which was situated below a huge, arched mural. Second-story balconies ran the length of the chapel on both sides. He eyed the overhead space for movement but saw nothing.

  He took a few steps forward. Then he realized that he wasn’t alone.

  A man sat in the farthest pew, his back to Jason.

  “Lennon!” he called, hearing the hollow sound of his voice under the high ceiling.

  Dr. Russel Amundsen stood up and faced him. He kept up the pretense of a Norwegian scientist as he strolled down the middle of the aisle, but Jason recognized the familiar grace in that walk, the distinctive way his shoulders moved over rigid hips. It was the same man he’d seen in the video near Russell Square. It was the same man he knew from somewhere in his past.

  Lennon stopped halfway down the aisle. Bourne’s eyes shot around to the pews on either side, expecting a threat.

  “You’re correct, I’m not alone,” Lennon acknowledged with a confident smile. “Sean’s here, too. One of my agents. Unfortunately, you won’t see him until he attacks. He’s rather catlike in that regard.”

  Bourne took another quick look around the chapel, but he didn’t see anyone. Was it a trick?

  “Cafferty’s gone,” Bourne said.

  “Yes, I know. He fooled us both, didn’t he? Which means I have to hurry. As much as I’d love to stay and reminisce about old times, Jason.”

  The man’s voice changed, and the Norwegian accent disappeared. He sounded younger again, not Russian. American?

  He sounded familiar.

  “I know you.”

  Lennon smiled again. “And I know you. David Webb. Cain. Now you call yourself Jason Bourne. You’ve gone by a lot of names in your life. It’s a shame that you don’t remember any of it. People don’t understand the pain of traumatic memory loss, do they? You get headaches. Flashbacks. Nightmares.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Don’t you know? I created the Soviet Union. Also a group called the Beatles. I died in 1924. Or was it 1980? These things all blend together. And since you’re wondering, yes, I’m still pissed off about Paul.”

  Jason didn’t know if the man in front of him was insane, or whether Gunnar was right and Lennon simply loved playing games. Maybe it was both.

  “Get on your knees,” Bourne said.

  “Sorry, but Yoko’s waiting for me. She really doesn’t like you, by the way. I’d stay away from her.”

  “On your knees!”

  “That’s very dramatic, but I’m walking out of here. I’m pretty sure Nova will be coming through that door very soon, and I’d rather be gone. I’ll be honest with you, that bitch scares me. All those tattoos? Yikes.”

  Bourne took another step forward.

  As he did, a crushing weight slammed into his back. From the balcony
over his head where the chapel’s organ was housed, the operative named Sean jumped with the stealth of a panther and took Jason to the floor. The impact shuddered through Bourne’s body and drove the air from his chest. He didn’t have time to swell his lungs again before Sean wrapped a silk tie around his neck and pulled it tight. A knee sank into the hollow of Jason’s spine, and he felt his entire torso jerked backward.

  Jason’s lungs screamed. He bucked to dislodge the man on his back, but Sean held on and wrapped another loop of the tie around Jason’s neck. Desperately, Jason shot a hand backward and grabbed one of the man’s wrists. He jerked hard enough to elicit a grunt of pain, but Sean didn’t let go. The length of silk continued to bite into his throat, choking him. Jason found the man’s fingers, then his thumb. Digging in with his nails, he pried the man’s thumb backward until it snapped with a sharp, sickening crack. Sean grunted in agony. The man’s hand let go, the tie loosened, and Jason felt sweet air rush back into his lungs as he inhaled.

  Sean was still on top of him. With his uninjured hand, the man drove Jason’s forehead hard against the stone floor and filled his eyes with bright yellow light and a searing pain. Jason tasted blood in his mouth. Sean wrapped his forearm around Jason’s neck and wrenched backward again, trying to snap the bones. With the man’s face right behind him, Jason clawed with his fingers, first ripping away part of the man’s ear and then jabbing the point of one nail deep into Sean’s eye.

  This time the man let go with a shriek. Jason threw him sideways, and they both scrambled to their feet. Jason charged, carrying Sean backward until the man’s body landed hard against the stone column behind them. Sean brought up one knee sharply between Bourne’s legs, dislodging him with another shiver of pain. Then the man landed a punch across Jason’s jaw. Dizzied, Jason took a step backward, feinted, and landed a hard kick into Sean’s stomach. As the man doubled over, Bourne grabbed Sean’s skull with the back of his hand and rammed the man’s face downward.

  The sharp wooden corner of the nearest pew drove like a spike through Sean’s forehead and deep into his brain. The man gurgled and went limp as he died, his head still stuck on the pew.