The Bourne Deception

by Robert Ludlum

  “A client…”

  “His name.” Bourne shook the pig man like a rag doll. “I need his name.”

  “He’ll kill me.”

  Bourne bent, withdrew the knife from the downed man, and placed the blade against Wayan’s throat. “Or I can kill you now.” He moved the blade just enough so a trickle of blood ran down Wayan’s chest, staining his shirt. “Your choice.”

  “Don…” The pig man gulped. “Don Fernando Hererra… He lives in Spain, in the heart of the city of Seville.” Without further urging he provided Bourne with his client’s address.

  “How does Don Hererra make his living?”

  “International banking.”

  Bourne could not keep a smile from curling his lips. “Now, of what use would your services be to an international banker?”

  Wayan shrugged. “As I told you, the less I know about my clients the healthier it is for me.”

  “In the future, you should be more careful.” Bourne let go of him, pushed him roughly against the legs of one of the men, who was beginning to stir. “Some clients are just plain toxic.”

  The moon had been called into the underworld by the ghosts of Anubis and Thoth, leaving only a forsaken starlight in its wake.

  “Once again, I was wrong about you,” Chalthoum said, but without bitterness. “Your primary mission is this Iranian indigenous group.”

  When she said nothing, he went on. “I need you to help me.”

  “You are the state,” she said. “How could I possibly help you?”

  He looked around, possibly to make sure none of his sentries had returned. Soraya watched him closely. If he was concerned with being overheard by one of his own men, what did that tell her? Had he finally broken away from al Mokhabarat? Had he turned rogue? But no, there was another explanation.

  “There’s a mole in my division,” he said, “someone very high up.”

  “Amun, you’re the head of al Mokhabarat, who—”

  “I suspect that it’s someone higher up than me.” He puffed out his cheeks, let the stale air out of his lungs. “Your contacts, your Typhon people, I think they could find out who the mole is.”

  “Isn’t it your job to ferret out spies and traitors?”

  “Don’t you think I tried? Here’s what I got for my efforts: four agents killed in the line of duty and a severe reprimand about the growing incompetence of my agency.” The rage behind his eyes returned full force. “Believe me when I tell you that the threat to me was thinly veiled.”

  Soraya considered this. Why should she care or help him when his organization might have shot down the plane? She said, “Give me one good reason why I should help you.”

  “I know your people haven’t gotten anywhere with confirming the identity of the Iranian indigenous group—and they won’t, I promise you that. But I can.”

  At that moment a beam of light caused a swath of stars to vanish. Soraya moved several paces to her left in order to get a look at who was coming.

  Delia approached over a low rise, the beam of her flashlight playing over them for a moment. Her face was turned into a Halloween mask by the illumination from below.

  “I know the origin of the missile that hit the plane.”

  Chalthoum, with a quick warning glance at Soraya, crossed his arms over his chest. “So?”

  “So.” Delia took a deep breath, let it all out before she continued. “The missile was a ground-to-air Kowsar 3.”

  “Iranian.” Soraya felt a chill run through her. “Delia, are you certain?”

  “I found fragments of the electronic guidance system,” her friend said. “They’re Chinese, similar to those on the C-701, which is an air-to-surface missile. While the EGS is similar to that of the Sky Dragon, this one had a millimeter-wave radar seeker.”

  “Which is how it locked on so effectively to the aircraft,” Soraya said.

  Delia nodded. “That particular EGS is unique to the Kowsar.” She shot Soraya a significant look. “This baby’s got a speed of just below Mach One; the aircraft had no chance, none at all.”

  Soraya felt sick to her stomach.

  Chalthoum’s voice vibrated in genuine fury. “Yakhrab byuthium!” May their houses be destroyed! “The Iranians shot down the plane.”

  And with those words the world moved a giant step closer to war. Not one of the recent crop of regional wars like Vietnam, Afghanistan, and Iraq, which were terrible and bloody enough, but a full-blown world war. A war to end all wars.

  Book Two

  12

  I JUST GOT OFF THE PHONE with the Iranian president,” the president said. “He categorically denies any knowledge of the incident.”

  “Which precisely echoes the official response from their foreign minister,” Jaime Hernandez responded. The door opened and the intelligence czar received a stack of printouts from a slim man with dark hair, graying on the sides. He had the bland face of an accountant, but there was something hard and withholding in his eyes that belied that surface assessment.

  After checking over the papers, Hernandez nodded and introduced the slim man as Errol Danziger, the NSA’s deputy director of signals intelligence. “As you can see,” Hernandez said while he handed out the printouts, “we’re leaving nothing to chance. This material is strictly senior staff, Eyes Only.”

  With that, Danziger nodded to them and departed as silently as he’d entered.

  Five people ranged around the table in one of the Pentagon’s vast electronic war rooms, three levels below the basement. Each had before him identical printouts, which comprised the latest findings from the joint forensics team sent to Cairo as well as up-to-the-minute intelligence assessments of the rapidly morphing situation. Paper shredders stood guard beside each of the leather-backed chairs.

  As if Hernandez’s pause was a cue, Secretary of Defense Halliday said, “Of course they categorically deny their involvement, but the provocation is serious and they’re behind it.”

  “They can’t refute the evidence we delivered to them,” said Jon Mueller, the head of the Department of Homeland Security.

  “And yet they have.” The president sighed deeply. “That very issue occupied a good part of my contentious phone conversation. Their claim is that our forensics team rigged the ‘so-called evidence’—their president’s exact phrase.”

  “Why would he give the order to shoot down one of our planes?” Veronica Hart asked.

  At which Halliday shot her a withering look. “He’s tired of taking heat for their nuclear program. We’ve been pushing them, now they’re pushing back.”

  “The way I see it, this provocation actually serves two purposes,” Hernandez offered. “As Bud accurately points out, it redirects the international spotlight away from their nuclear program while at the same time serving as a warning to us—and the rest of the world, for that matter—to back off.”

  “Let me get this straight.” Hart leaned forward. “You’re saying they’ve decided to go beyond their long-standing threats to close off the Straits of Hormuz to oil traffic.”

  Mueller nodded. “That’s right.”

  “But surely they must know that’s suicidal.”

  Halliday watched this exchange much as a hawk follows two rabbits racing across a field. Now he pounced. “We’ve all suspected that the Iranian president is mentally unbalanced.”

  “A mad hatter,” Hernandez affirmed.

  Halliday agreed. “But far more dangerous.” He looked around the room, his face eerily lit by reflections from the large flat-panel computer monitors ranged along the walls. “Now we have incontrovertible proof.”

  Hernandez gathered up the printouts, aligning their corners. “I think we should take our findings public. Share them with the media, not just our allies.”

  Halliday looked to the president. “I concur, sir. And then we convene a special session of the UN Security Council that you address personally. We need to formally give attribution to this cowardly act of terrorism.”

  “We nee
d to charge and condemn Iran,” Mueller added. “They’ve committed nothing short of an act of war.”

  “Right.” Hernandez hunched his shoulders like a prizefighter in the ring. “Bottom line, we’ve got to move against them militarily.”

  “Now, that would be suicidal,” Hart said emphatically.

  “I agree with the DCI,” Halliday said.

  This response was so unexpected that Hart goggled at him for a moment. Then he continued and everything was made clear to her.

  “Going to war with Iran would be a mistake. Just as we’re on the verge of winning the war in Iraq, we’re obliged to redeploy our troops back to Afghanistan. No, a frontal assault on Iran would, in my estimation, be a grave misstep. Not only would it stretch our already overtaxed military personnel, but the consequences for other countries in the region, especially Israel, could be catastrophic. However, if we could destroy the current Iranian regime from within—now, that would be a worthy goal.”

  “To do that we would need a proxy,” Hernandez said, as if on cue. “A destabilizing influence.”

  Halliday nodded. “Which, by dint of hard work, we now have in the form of this new indigenous revolutionary group inside Iran. I say we hit Iran on two fronts: diplomatically through the United Nations and militarily by backing this MIG in every way possible: money, arms, strategic advisers, the works.”

  “I agree,” Mueller said. “However, to implement the MIG initiative we’ll need a black budget.”

  “And we’ll have to have it yesterday,” Hernandez added, “which means keeping Congress in the dark.”

  Halliday laughed, but there was an altogether serious look on his face. “So what else is new? The only thing those people are interested in is getting reelected. As for what’s good for the country, they haven’t got a clue.”

  The president placed his elbows on the polished table, his fists against his mouth in a pose of deep meditation that was emblematic of him. As he processed the decisions, their implications, and their possible consequences, his eyes flicked from one of his advisers to the next. At length, his gaze returned to the DCI. “Veronica, we haven’t heard from you. What’s your opinion of this scenario?”

  Hart considered for a moment; her response was too important to rush it. She was aware of Halliday’s eyes on her, glittering and avid. “There’s no question that the missile that killed our citizens was an Iranian Kowsar 3 so I agree with the diplomatic response, and the sooner the better because gathering a worldwide consensus is crucial.”

  “You can forget about China and Russia,” Halliday said. “They’re too tightly allied with Iran economically to take our side no matter the evidence, which is why we need the third column to foment revolution from the inside out.”

  Now we come to the crux of it, Hart thought. “My problem with the military part is that we’ve tried the third-column option many times in many places, including Afghanistan, and what did it get us? The rise to power of the Taliban, an indigenous revolutionary group, and Osama bin Laden, among other very nasty extremist groups turned terrorists.”

  “This time it’s different,” Halliday insisted. “We have assurances from the leaders of this group. Its philosophy is moderate, democratic, in short, Western-oriented.”

  The president tapped his fingers on the table. “It’s settled then. We go forward with this two-pronged attack. I’ll set the diplomatic wheels in motion. In the meantime, Bud, draw up a preliminary budget for your MIG. The sooner you have it, the sooner we can get rolling, but I don’t want it anywhere near my desk or the White House, for that matter. In fact, I was never at this meeting.” He looked at his advisers as he rose. “Let’s make this work, people. We owe it to the hundred and eighty-one innocent Americans who lost their lives in this missile attack.”

  Veronica Hart watched Moira Trevor walk into her office, as cool, as elegant as always. And yet she recognized something dark and squirmy behind her former colleague’s eyes that sent a shiver down her spine.

  “Take a seat,” Veronica said from behind her desk, still not believing this was happening. When she had left Black River she’d been certain she’d never have to see, let alone deal with, Moira Trevor again. And yet here the woman was, skirt rustling drily as she sat facing her, one knee crossed over the other, back as straight as any military officer.

  “I imagine you’re as surprised as I am,” Moira said.

  Hart said nothing; instead she continued to stare into Moira’s brown eyes, trying to read the reason for her visit. But after a moment, she abandoned the effort. It was useless to try to peer behind that stony facade, she knew that all too well.

  She processed what she could get, though: Moira’s swollen and bandaged left arm, the minor cuts and scrapes on her face and the backs of her hands. She could not help saying: “What the hell happened to you?”

  “That’s what I came here to tell you,” Moira said.

  “No, you came here for help.” Hart leaned forward, elbows on the desk. “It’s damn difficult being on the outside, isn’t it?”

  “Jesus, Ronnie.”

  “What? The past is lying in wait for both of us like a serpent in the grass.”

  Moira nodded. “I suppose it is.”

  “You suppose?” Hart cocked her head. “Pardon me if I don’t wax sentimental. You were the one who made the threat. What were your actual words?” She pursed her lips. “Oh, yes, ‘Ronnie, I will fuck you up for this, I’ll rain down a shitstorm on you like no other.’ ” Hart sat back. “Did I leave out anything?” She felt her pulse accelerating. “And now here you are.”

  Moira stared at her in stony silence.

  Hart turned to a sideboard, poured out a tall glass of ice water, pushed it across the desk. For a moment, Moira did nothing. Perhaps, Hart thought, she didn’t know whether taking it would be a sign of trust or of capitulation.

  Moira reached out then, very deliberately swung the back of her hand against the glass, pitching it hard against the wall, where it smashed, water and tiny glass shards sparkling in the air like a burst from a cannon. By this time Moira was on her feet, her arms rigid, her fists on the desktop.

  Immediately two men entered the office, their guns drawn.

  “Back off, Moira.” Hart’s voice was at once low and steely.

  Moira, refusing to sit back down, turned her back on Hart and stalked across the carpet to the other side of the office.

  The DCI waved at the two men, who holstered their sidearms and backed out. When the door had shut behind them, she steepled her fingers and waited for Moira to cool off. After a time, she said, “Now why don’t you tell me what the hell is going on?”

  When Moira turned around, she had, indeed, gathered herself. “You’ve got it all wrong, Ronnie. I’m the one who’s going to help you.”

  While his men were burying Farid, Arkadin sat on a rock outcropping in the sapphire Azerbaijani twilight. Even without the rhythmic sound of pickaxes and the sight of the corpse sprawled in the dirt, the atmosphere would have been suffused with melancholy. The wind blew fitfully, like the panting of a dog; the tribesmen of the region had turned their faces to Mecca, on their knees in prayer, their submachine guns beside them. Beyond the dun-colored hills lay Iran, and all at once Arkadin was homesick for Moscow. He missed the cobblestone streets, the onion domes, the late-night clubs where he reigned supreme. Most of all, he missed the endless array of tall, blond, blue-eyed dyevs in whose perfumed flesh he could lose himself, blotting out the memory of Devra. Though he had loved her, he hated her now, because she wasn’t really dead. Like a specter, she haunted him night and day, driving him to revenge himself on Jason Bourne, the last link to her life—and her murder. To make matters even worse, it was also Bourne who’d killed Mischa, Arkadin’s mentor and best friend. If it hadn’t been for Mischa Tarkanian, Arkadin doubted he’d ever have survived his ordeal in Nizhny Tagil.

  Mischa and Devra, the two most important people in his life, both dead because of Jason Bourne. Bourne had a lot
to pay for, Christ, did he ever.

  The men were almost finished with the grave. A pair of vultures, black shadows against the dimly glimmering sky, turned in lazing circles. I’m like those vultures, he thought. Patiently waiting for my moment to strike.

  Perched on his rock, knees drawn up, he turned his satellite phone over and over in the palm of his hand. Amazingly, several good things had happened because of Willard’s call. Willard was a mole, not a field man, and he’d made a fatal mistake: His ego had gotten the better of him. He should have quietly taken Ian Bowles apart, buried the pieces, and gone on with his business. Of course he’d wanted to know who’d sent Bowles, but his mistake was in announcing himself to Arkadin—worse, in warning him—because he’d as much as told Arkadin that Bourne was still alive. Why else would he be at Dr. Firth’s compound? Why else would he have killed Bowles? Now Arkadin had proof that Bourne was still alive, though how Bourne managed to survive a shot to the heart was something that nagged at him. Whatever else he might be, Bourne was no superman. Why hadn’t he been killed?

  With a sharp shake of his head, Arkadin set the imponderable aside for the moment. He dialed a number on his phone. Bowles had been nothing more than a temporary stopgap, someone to make a survey and report back. He’d failed; now it was time to bring in the big guns.

  The men unceremoniously threw Farid into the grave. Sweaty and ill tempered, they had long ago lost patience with their normally solemn task. Farid had violated the laws of the group; he was no longer one of their own. Good, Arkadin thought, lesson learned.

  The line was ringing.

  “Are you set up with the job?” Arkadin said as soon as the familiar voice answered. “Good. Because I’ve decided to play it your way, and now the clock is ticking. I’ll be sending you the last-minute details within the hour.”

  Two men began to shovel dirt over the body; the others spat into the grave.

  The DCI shook her head. “Moira, I’m afraid I’m just not feeling it.”

  The cords of Moira’s neck stood out. How long had she waited for this confrontation? “Did you feel it when you gave me up in Safed Koh?” Safed Koh was the local name for the White Mountains in eastern Afghanistan, where the notorious Tora Bora caves tunneled their way across the border into terrorist-controlled western Pakistan.