The Bourne Deception

by Robert Ludlum

  As Bourne sat up, his eyes fell upon the double ikat that Moira had bought for him in Tenganan. Holding its rough texture between his fingers he saw, like a flash of lightning, the silhouette standing between him and Mount Agung, framed by the temple gates, and wondered anew who it could possibly be.

  3

  THE COCKPIT of the American passenger airliner, Flight 891 out of Cairo, Egypt, hummed contentedly. The pilot and copilot, longtime friends, joked about the flight attendant they’d both like to take to bed. They were in the final stages of negotiating the terms of a thoroughly adolescent contest that would involve her as a prize when the radar picked up a blip rapidly closing on the plane. Responding in proper fashion, the pilot got on the intercom and ordered all seat belts fastened, then took the plane out of its pre-planned route in an attempt at an evasive maneuver. But the 767 was too large and ungainly; it wasn’t built for easy maneuverability. The copilot tried to get a visual fix on the object, even as he raised the Cairo airport control tower on the radio.

  “Flight Eight-Niner-One, there are no scheduled flights that close to you,” the calm voice from the control tower said. “Can you get a visual fix?”

  “Not yet. The object is too small to be another passenger plane,” the copilot responded. “Maybe it’s a private jet.”

  “There are no flight plans posted. Repeat: There are no flight plans posted.”

  “Roger that,” the copilot said. “But it’s still closing.”

  “Eight-Niner-One, elevate to forty-five thousand feet.”

  “Roger that,” the pilot said, making the necessary adjustments on the controls. “Elevating to forty-five thou—”

  “I see it!” the copilot cut in. “It’s traveling too fast to be a private jet!”

  “What is it?” There was a sudden urgency to the voice from Cairo. “What’s happening? Eight-Niner-One, please report!”

  “Here it comes!” the copilot screamed.

  An instant later disaster struck as the mighty metal fist hit the jetliner in a blinding flare. An immense explosion disjointed the fuselage as a beast pulls its prey limb from limb, and the twisted, blackened remains plummeted to earth with breathtaking speed.

  Deep beneath the West Wing of the White House, in a spacious room made of steel-reinforced concrete eight feet thick, the president of the United States was in a high-level security meeting with Secretary of Defense Halliday; DCI Veronica Hart; Jon Mueller, head of the Department of Homeland Security; and Jaime Hernandez, the new intelligence czar, who had taken over the NSA in the wake of the illegal waterboarding scandal that brought down his predecessor.

  Halliday, a ruddy-cheeked man with dark blond hair combed straight back, a politician’s sly eyes, and a perfect Crest smile, seemed as if he were reading from a script he might have prepared for a Senate subcommittee. “After months of arduous prep work, judicious bribes, and discreet probing,” he said, “Black River has at last made first contact with a group of dissident, pro-Western Iranis.” Ever the showman, he paused, looked around the highly polished table, making eye contact with each person in turn. “This is blockbuster news,” he added unnecessarily, and, with a nod to the president, “something this administration has been searching for for years, because the only known Iranian dissident group has so far proved impotent.”

  Halliday was at his most eloquent, and Hart thought she knew why. Though his stock had risen because of the death of Jason Bourne, for which he had agitated and for which he’d taken credit, Hart knew Halliday needed another victory, one that was more wide ranging, that could be exploited by the president himself for political capital.

  “At last a group we can work with,” Halliday continued with unbridled enthusiasm as he handed around the fact sheet prepared by Black River detailing dates and places of meeting, along with transcripts of clandestinely recorded conversations between Black River operatives and leading members of the dissident group, whose names had been redacted for security reasons. All the conversations, Hart saw, underscored both their militancy and their commitment to accept aid from the West.

  “They’re unquestionably pro-Western,” the secretary of defense said, as if his audience required a verbal guide through the densely worded pages. “Moreover, they’re preparing for an armed revolution and are eager for whatever support we can supply.”

  “What are their real capabilities?” Jon Mueller asked. Mueller had that typical ex-NSA mien of a soldier with a thousand-yard stare. He looked like a man who could break a body with the same nonchalant ease he’d crack a wooden matchstick in two.

  “Excellent question, Jon. If you turn to page thirty-eight, you’ll see Black River’s detailed assessment of the training preparedness and arms expertise of this particular group, which both rate eight out of ten on their proprietary rating scale.”

  “You seem to be relying a great deal on Black River, Mr. Secretary,” Hart said drily.

  Halliday didn’t even look at her; it was her people—Soraya Moore and Tyrone Elkins—who had brought his man, Luther LaValle, down. He hated her guts, but Hart knew he was too canny a politician to let his animosity show in front of the president, who now held her in high esteem.

  Halliday nodded sagely, his voice carefully neutral. “I wish it were otherwise, Director. It’s no secret that our own resources are already at their limits due to the ongoing conflicts in Afghanistan and Iraq, and now that Iran is on our radar as a clear and present danger, we’re obliged to outsource more and more of our far-flung intelligence gathering.”

  “You mean the NSA is. CI created Typhon last year specifically to handle more of the Middle East field intelligence,” Hart pointed out. “Every Typhon field agent is fluent in the various dialects of Arabic and Farsi. Tell me, Mr. Secretary, how many NSA agents are similarly trained?”

  Hart could see the color rising up Halliday’s throat into his cheeks, and she leaned forward, further inflaming an intemperate outburst from him. Unluckily for her, the meeting was interrupted by the burr of the blue telephone at the president’s right elbow. The entire room fell into a tense silence so absolute that the discreet sound had the resonance of a pneumatic jackhammer. The blue telephone brought bad news, they all knew that.

  With a grim expression, the president pressed the receiver to his ear, listened to the voice of General Leland over at the Pentagon who briefed him, even while he told his commander in chief that a more detailed document would be on its way to the White House by special courier within the hour.

  The president took all this in with his usual equanimity. He was not a man to panic or to take precipitous action. As he cradled the receiver, he said, “There has been an air disaster. American Flight Eight-Nine-One, outward bound from Cairo, was taken out of the sky by an explosion.”

  “A bomb?” Jaime Hernandez, the new intelligence czar, said. He was slim and handsome, with calculating eyes as dark as his thick hair. He looked like the kind of individual who counted the wontons in his soup to make sure he wasn’t being shortchanged.

  “Are there any survivors?” Hart asked.

  “We don’t know the answer to either question,” the president said. “What we do know is that there were one hundred eighty-one souls on that flight.”

  “Good God.” Hart shook her head.

  There was a moment of stunned silence while they all contemplated both the enormity of the calamity and the terrible repercussions that might very well ensue. No matter what the cause, a great many American civilians were dead, and if the worst-case scenario were to come true, if those American civilians proved to be the victims of a terrorist attack…

  “Sir, I think we should send a joint NSA-DHS forensics team to the crash site,” Halliday said in a bid to take charge.

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Hart countered. Halliday’s words had energized them out of their initial shock. “This isn’t Iraq. We’ll need the permission of the Egyptian government to send our troops in.”

  “Those are American citizens�
��our people blown out of the sky,” Halliday said. “Fuck the Egyptians. What’ve they done for us lately?”

  Before the argument could escalate, the president held up his hand. “First things first. Veronica is right.” He stood up. “We’ll reconvene this discussion in an hour after I’ve spoken to the Egyptian president.”

  Precisely sixty minutes later, the president reentered the room, nodded to those present, and sat down before addressing them. “All right, it’s settled. Hernandez, Mueller, assemble a joint task force of your best people and get them on a plane to Cairo ASAP. First: survivors; second: identify casualties; third: for the love of God ascertain the cause of the explosion.”

  “Sir, if I may,” Hart interjected, “I suggest adding Soraya Moore, the director of Typhon, to the team. She’s half Egyptian. Her intimate knowledge of Arabic and the local customs will prove invaluable particularly in liaising with the Egyptian authorities.”

  Halliday shook his head, said emphatically, “This matter is already complicated enough without a third agency becoming involved. The NSA and the DHS have all the tools at their disposal to handle the situation.”

  “I doubt that—”

  “I needn’t remind you, Director Hart, that the press will be all over this incident like flies on shit,” Halliday overran her. “We’ve got to get our people over there, make our findings and take appropriate measures as quickly as possible, otherwise we risk turning this into a worldwide media circus.” He turned to the president. “Which is something the administration doesn’t need right now. The last thing you want, sir, is to look weak and ineffectual.”

  “The real problem,” the president said, “is that the Egyptian national secret police—what are they called?”

  “Al Mokhabarat,” Hart said, feeling like she was a contestant on Jeopardy!

  “Yes, thank you, Veronica.” The president made a note on his scratch pad. He’d never forget al Mokhabarat’s name again. “The problem,” he began again, “is that a contingent of this al Mokhabarat will be accompanying the team.”

  The secretary of defense groaned. “Sir, if I may say so, the Egyptian secret police are corrupt, vicious, and notorious for their sadistic human rights violations. I submit that we cut them out of the equation entirely.”

  “Nothing would please me more, believe me,” the president said with some distaste, “but I’m afraid that’s the quid pro quo the Egyptian president insisted on in exchange for letting us help in the investigation.”

  “Our help? What a joke!” Halliday gave a humorless laugh. “The damn Egyptians couldn’t find a mummy in a tomb.”

  “That’s as may be, but they’re our allies,” the president said sternly. “I expect everyone to keep that in mind in the difficult days and weeks ahead.”

  When he looked around the room the DCI seized her chance. “Sir, may I remind you that Egyptian is Director Moore’s native language.”

  “Precisely why she should be stricken from the list,” Halliday said at once. “She’s a Muslim, for God’s sake.”

  “Secretary, that’s just the kind of ignorant remark we don’t need right now. Besides, how many men on that team are fluent in Egyptian Arabic?”

  Halliday bristled. “The Egyptians speak damn fine English, thank you very much.”

  “Not among themselves.” As the defense secretary had before her, Hart turned to address the president directly. “Sir, it’s important—no, vital—that at this juncture the team has as much information about the Egyptians—especially the members of al Mokhabarat, because Secretary Halliday is correct about them—as is possible. That knowledge may well prove critical.”

  The president pondered for no more than a moment. Then he nodded. “Director, your proposal makes sense, let’s run with it. Get Director Moore up to speed.”

  Hart smiled. Time to press her advantage. “She may have some people—”

  The president nodded at once. “Whatever she needs. This is no time for half measures.”

  Hart was looking at Halliday, who was directing a poisoned glare in her direction, to which she smiled sweetly as the meeting adjourned.

  She exited the West Wing quickly to avoid another vitriolic confrontation with the defense secretary, and took the short ride back to CI headquarters, where she summoned Soraya Moore to her office.

  Abdulla Khoury was on his way from the Starnberger See to the headquarters of the Eastern Brotherhood less than ten miles away. Behind him, the snowcapped Alps and the icy blue water of the lake—the fourth largest in Germany—sparkled in the sun. Brightly colored sails rose above sleek boats, and yachts plied the lake. There was no room for such frivolous recreation as sailing in Khoury’s life, even before he became head of the Eastern Brotherhood. His life had taken a serious turn when, at the age of seven, he had discovered his calling as Allah’s earthly messenger. It was a calling he had kept to himself for a long time, intuiting that no one would believe him, least of all his father, who treated his children even worse than he did his wife.

  Khoury was born with the patience of a tortoise. Even when he was a child he had no difficulty waiting for the opportune moment to take advantage of a situation. Not surprisingly, his preternatural serenity was misinterpreted as a form of idiocy by his father, and all of his instructors save one, who saw in the boy the holy spark Allah had placed there at the moment of his conception. From that moment on, Khoury’s life changed. He began to frequent this instructor’s house after hours for advanced lessons. The man lived alone and welcomed Khoury as his acolyte and protégé.

  As a young adult, he had joined the Eastern Brotherhood, patiently moving up in the hierarchy. He did this in his characteristic manner, by winnowing out the wheat from the chaff. In his case the wheat was represented by those in the organization who shared his strict views of Islam. It was he who brought them the notion of fighting for change from within. His was a naturally subversive nature; he was superb at undermining the current order to make way for his own. This he accomplished slowly and carefully, always flying under the twin radars of Semion Icoupov and Asher Sever, because these were not men to be taken lightly or to engage as antagonists without every form of advantage imaginable. He was still amassing his arsenal of such advantages when they were both killed, leaving a vast and intimidating power vacuum.

  Not for Abdulla Khoury. Seizing his moment while the Eastern Brotherhood was still in shock, he took control of the organization. Ripping a page from Icoupov’s strategic manual, he quickly installed his compatriots in all key positions within the Eastern Brotherhood, thereby ensuring both the short- and the long-term success of his coup.

  The motorcade came to a halt at the first of his three stops before he returned to his headquarters. There were lieutenants responsible for two areas of the Middle East and one for Africa whom he needed to brief on the latest developments inside Iran.

  As the motorcade took him from one briefing to another, he couldn’t help but reflect on the recent interference from Leonid Arkadin. He’d dealt with men like Arkadin before, people who believed that all situations could be settled with the flaming barrel of a gun, weaponized men without faith to guide them, for what use was a weapon if it wasn’t in the service of Allah and Islam? He knew something of Leonid Danilovich Arkadin’s background: He had come to be a killer of killers through hiring himself out to various Moscow grupperovka. It was said he was close with Dimitri Maslov, the head of the Kazanskaya, but not as close as he had been with his mentor, Semion Icoupov, before he’d turned on Icoupov and killed him. Perhaps not surprising, since Arkadin had been born and raised in Nizhny Tagil, a hell on earth that could only exist in Russia—an industrial slimepit that manufactured tanks for the military, ringed by high-security prisons whose occupants, when they were released, stayed in Nizhny Tagil to prey upon its citizens. It was a minor miracle that Arkadin had been lucky enough to escape.

  This sordid, bloody background was why Khoury knew in his heart that Arkadin was nothing more than a man who had l
ost his soul, condemned to walk among the living, the best part of him already dead and buried.

  And it was for the same reason that Khoury had taken extra precautions. He was well protected by two bodyguards in his car, wallowing along beneath the weight of its armor-plated sides and bulletproof glass, as well as sharpshooters with hunting rifles in cars in front and back. He seriously doubted whether the man would be foolish enough to go after him. But since one couldn’t read the mind of one’s enemy it was prudent to act as if he himself were under attack, rather than the Eastern Brotherhood.

  Within fifteen minutes the motorcade pulled into the Eastern Brotherhood’s private parking area and the men in the cars surrounding Khoury’s leapt out, making a thorough search of the area. Only then did one of them communicate to the bodyguards traveling with Khoury through a wireless network that it was safe to exit.

  The elevator took him and four bodyguards directly up to the top floor of the private building owned by the Eastern Brotherhood. Two of the bodyguards stepped off the elevator first, secured the floor, and checked the faces of their boss’s personal staff to make sure they were all known. Then they stepped aside and Khoury hurried across the reception area to his office. When his secretary turned toward him, his face pinched and ashen beneath the burnished color of his skin, Khoury realized something was wrong.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” he said. “There was nothing any of us could do.”

  Then Khoury looked beyond him to the three strangers, and immediately the primitive part of his brain, the fight-or-flight center, understood. Nevertheless, the civilized part of him was shocked, rooting him to the spot.

  “What is this?” he said.

  As if sleepwalking, he went across the magnificent jewel-tone carpet, a present from the president of Iran, staring with stupefaction at the three men in tailored suits ranged behind his desk. The men on the left and right stood with their arms hanging loosely at their sides and produced laminated badges identifying them as agents of the US Department of Defense. The one in the middle with hair the color of iron filings and a hard, angular face said, “Good afternoon, Mr. Khoury. My name is Reiniger.” A Bundespolizei ID card was attached to a black cord around his neck. It said Reiniger was a high-ranking officer in GSG 9, the elite counterterrorism unit. “I’m here to take you into custody.”