The Bourne Ascendancy

by Robert Ludlum

  He held the SD card in his hand for a moment before he dropped it on the ground, and stepped hard on it, grinding it to pieces. Then, filled with dread for his own safety, he walked on. Pausing at a stall, he bought a half pound of fresh-roasted pistachios, popping them one by one into his mouth as he strolled deeper into the market’s maze.

  A moment later, he abruptly stopped, turned away from the flood of people, and vomited into a dust-coated corner.

  9

  Camilla was sore all over. She ached in places she hadn’t thought about in years. She felt as if Starfall had stomped all over her. When she told Hunter this, her trainer said, “That’s what hot baths and liniment massages are for. Get used to it. This is only the beginning.”

  Camilla might be complaining to Hunter, but she was pleased with her progress. By the end of the day, with a deep blue dusk settling over the Virginia mountains, she had been urging Starfall into an easy gallop around the ring. Uncertainty had given way to an incredible sense of elation. As Hunter had predicted, the feel of the muscular beast between her legs provided her with a surge of power. She wanted to charge into battle, to sweep aside the enemy, to keep going until she reached the foothills of the darkening mountains.

  Of course, she did no such thing, and as if divining her thoughts and emotions, Hunter admonished her when she at last drew Starfall to a stop and dismounted beside her trainer.

  “Don’t allow your emotions to run away with you.” She took the reins, walking Starfall out of the ring, back to the paddock. “It’s easy, to do that, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Never lose the sense of who you are and what the horse is. Though he may seem like more, Starfall is only a vehicle, that’s all. If you lose your perspective you’ll botch the end of it, the most important part. Sure as we’re walking here you’ll get hurt, possibly very badly. You need to keep your wits about you, remember everything I’ll be teaching you. Then, when the moment comes, you’ll be all right. You’ll be perfectly safe, I promise.”

  Much to Camilla’s surprise, after the promised hot shower and massage, she was instructed to meet Hunter back at the stables, where she was taught how to brush down Starfall and feed him. Then it was time for dinner, which was served—again, a surprise—in the barn. She and Hunter ate with the horses all around them.

  Then it was time for sleep—or so Camilla thought. It wasn’t long, however, before Hunter’s purpose was made clear to her.

  Night riding.

  “There is a strict deadline,” Hunter said. “It’s crucial you spend as much time around horses as possible before you’re inserted into the field.” She led Camilla back to the stalls. “You’ll be among professionals—all experts. Forget this for even a moment and you’re finished. They will smell a plant six furlongs away. My job is to make you as genuine as a copper penny.”

  She grinned. “When you arrived this morning, you asked me whether we really had enough time to get you battle-ready.” Her grin widened as she opened the door to Starfall’s stall. “Darlin’, believe me, when you leave here, you won’t have a worry in the world.”

  * * *

  Sara Yadin, who had reassumed her role as Rebeka, who once again thought of herself as Rebeka, slid behind the wheel of her rented car, but she did not fire the ignition. Instead, she stared sightlessly out the windshield and thought about the last moments of her meeting with Bourne.

  She had been about to tell him that she was going after Soraya and Sonya when he had pulled her to him, given her a spine-tingling kiss, then had whispered in her ear, “Don’t go after Soraya and Sonya, and don’t go near El Ghadan.”

  When she had tried to pull away far enough to look him in the eye, he had held her fast. “He’s going to expect that sort of frontal assault.” Bourne’s words filled her ear. “He’s already prepared for it, believe me.”

  “Then what?” she whispered back. “I’m not going to stand idly by while—”

  “No one’s asking you to, least of all me. You’re far too valuable an asset.”

  “What are you proposing?” she asked.

  “Go sandcrabbing. You’re in the perfect place to dig up dirt on El Ghadan.”

  “Every secret service on earth has been trying to do that for years, without success.”

  “But here you are in Qatar, in the center of the web.”

  “You think Qatar is his territory?”

  “I’ve been working as a Blacksmith for a year. He had fifteen chances to trap me before this one. Why would you choose the summit in Doha?”

  “He was running a difficult operation. It demanded complex logistics,” she whispered. “The hotel had to be secured, the personnel suborned, the surrounding area swept clean. And the police—”

  “Yes,” Bourne had whispered in her ear. “The police is the place to start.”

  The police, Rebeka thought now. El Ghadan could not have pulled off such a complicated raid without involving elements within the Doha police.

  Pushing her sunglasses up the bridge of her nose, she switched on the ignition, put the car in gear, and pulled out into traffic.

  Bourne was right. It was time to go sandcrabbing.

  * * *

  Barring a White House crisis, Howard Anselm and Marty Finnerman made it a habit to meet for a late dinner three times a week. Both men, being creatures of strict routine, always ate at RNR Steak on 22nd Street NW. Partly this was because RNR Steak was one of the newest power spots inside the Beltway, but mainly it was because Finnerman and the chef, Richard Renaldo, were longtime friends. There was always a table for them, no matter how crowded the room. Often, when they were finished with their business, Renaldo would join them for an after-dinner drink, but in any event he always sent out special plates of food. The two men never bothered to consult the menu.

  A sultry evening hung heavily over Washington, so it was a relief for Anselm and Finnerman to enter the cool, dim restaurant interior. They were greeted by the manager, who led them to their usual table. They sat in plush chairs, surrounded by dove-gray walls with butter-yellow accents. Here and there, large paintings of indeterminate age and dubious quality adorned the walls, interspersed with brass sconces radiating indirect lighting.

  Finnerman, who always chose the wine, picked an Argentine rosé, and the men settled in for the rest of the evening.

  Their discussion followed a particular form. As the chief architect of the administration’s national security policy, Finnerman always began, while Anselm listened, inserting an appropriate or pointed comment when required. Tonight, however, it was Anselm who made the first comment.

  He leaned forward, his forehead creased with worry. “Marty, I think we ought to find a way to postpone the peace summit.”

  Finnerman goggled. “Have you lost your mind? We can do no such thing. You know it as well as I do. The planning has been in the works for more than a year.”

  Anselm licked his lips as if they were chapped and dry. “I’m concerned we’ve pushed Camilla into the deep end.”

  “Of course we’ve pushed her into the deep end. That’s the point of the brief. Where the fuck is this coming from all of a sudden?”

  “I got a call from Hunter.”

  Finnerman grunted. “Hunter!”

  The wine came, the waiter uncorked it, went through what Anselm felt was the pretentious and boring ritual of smelling the bottom of the cork, pouring a bit into Finnerman’s glass, watching indulgently while Finnerman swirled the wine around, smelled it, swirled some more, then tasted it. Anselm began to grind his teeth.

  “I know what you think of her,” Anselm said when they were alone again, “but she’s the best horse trainer at the Dairy.”

  “Also our best butch since Janet Napolitano.”

  Anselm picked up his glass and took a nice swig of the wine, which was refreshing but a bit too mineral for his taste. “You know what they say about hard-core homophobes.”

  “I do,” Finnerman said, “but don’t let that s
top you from telling me.”

  “Any boys in your closet, Marty?”

  “Very funny,” Finnerman said sourly.

  Anselm set his glass down. “I’m not kidding. If there is one you’d best fess up now so we can deal with it before it stains POTUS.”

  “Stop it,” Finnerman said tartly.

  “I know, you don’t allow homos in the Pentagon. What? You have a machine at the entrance that—”

  “For Christ’s sake, enough!”

  “Then give a serious listen when I voice some concern about our plan.”

  The first course was laid out before them: gleaming stone crab claws set amid a profusion of micro-greens.

  “Okay, okay.” Finnerman reached for the nutcracker that had been delivered with the claws. “Christ almighty, Howard.” He split apart a claw with uncommon violence.

  Across from him, Anselm allowed himself a secret smile.

  “My concern is for the aftermath.”

  “The aftermath?”

  “Hunter told me that Camilla is exceeding all expectations.”

  “So?”

  “What if she survives?” he said.

  Finnerman dipped a chunk of pink-white flesh into a small bowl of drawn butter. “The way we set things up that’s not possible.”

  “But what if she does?”

  Finnerman sighed. “If you don’t get to the point soon I’ll be too old to understand it.”

  “We need to enlarge the dinger’s brief,” Anselm said, using the accepted marine slang for a crack marksman.

  Finnerman bisected the piece of flesh in a mincing bite. “In what way?”

  “He’s to dispatch both of them—Bourne and Camilla.”

  Finnerman, chewing meditatively, stared hard at Anselm. “You’re not joking.”

  “You know me better than that, Marty.”

  Slowly and deliberately, Finnerman set down his fork. He waved away the waiter who was coming to ask how they were enjoying their stone crab claws. “Well, fuck me.”

  “It has to be done,” Anselm said, “when you consider the big picture.”

  Finnerman sat back. “The big picture is the threat assessment we got from our old friends at Gravenhurst. The entire structure of POTUS’s initiative toward the peace summit in Singapore is built on their product.”

  “I’m talking POTUS and the girl.”

  “Oh, for shit’s sake, Howard, the girl’s a minor graft onto the larger scheme of things.”

  Anselm’s eyes were glittering. “She’s a constant temptation. And you know POTUS.”

  Finnerman’s mood had turned distinctly gloomy. “I know as you see it your primary job is to keep POTUS from all temptation, but dammit, you’ve got to keep your eye on the bigger prize.”

  “And yet it’s always the small things that put a spanner in the works, as our Brit cousins like to say. That was why I chose Camilla for this brief: Get her out of D.C., put her in a dangerous position, let her self-destruct.” Anselm, warming to his thesis, completely ignored his food. “But after Hunter’s call I got to thinking: What if Camilla doesn’t self-destruct? Why, then we need someone on-site to make certain she never returns to D.C.”

  “The dinger.”

  Anselm nodded. “The dinger will leave her in the dust.”

  “And there’s no other way?” Finnerman knew there was no other way, but he was the kind of person who needed reassurance.

  “Not if we want to be sure to close the circle,” Anselm said. “Not if we want to keep POTUS safe.”

  “You really are the limit, Howard.”

  “You know I’m right.”

  Anselm took up his fork and began to attack his crab claws. Soon enough, Finnerman joined him.

  10

  There was a cloud, black and oily, hanging over Damascus as they descended onto an open runway. Zizzy’s pilot had told them that they had twice been advised by the control tower to change runways. One of them had a smoking crater along one side.

  Tracers filled the air, rattling the airport buildings, most of which had had the glass of their windows shattered. Soldiers with assault rifles were everywhere, and the smell of cordite and building rubble was muddled with the stench of human sweat and fear.

  “Not to worry,” the pilot said as he ushered them across the short expanse of tarmac to the arrivals terminal, “most of the city is still intact.”

  But temporary redoubts of sandbags were everywhere. Bullets whined like mosquitoes, then abruptly vanished.

  “Call me when you want to go home,” the pilot said, just short of the terminal. “Hopefully the plane will still be in one piece.” He laughed, but they all knew it was only half a joke.

  * * *

  Inside, the air-conditioning was kaput. The electricity was barely working. A harried-looking immigration official took their passports, along with the wad of money Zizzy handed him. He spirited the baksheesh away and stamped their passports without bothering to look at them. Fear seemed to have exhausted him.

  “Each day that dawns, the rebels become bolder,” their taxi driver told them. “The city is totally divided.” He was a thin man in his mid-fifties with a burned face and a Syrian’s blue eyes. “I’ve seen everything here, but the last year has been hell on earth.” He swerved to avoid a pair of burned-out cars. One had slammed into a tree whose foliage had burned away. A body still lay half out of the vehicle. The stench of roasted human flesh was nauseating.

  “Take my advice,” their driver said, “turn around and fly out of here while you still can.”

  The hotel Shahakbik was nice enough—or at least it had been until a shelling had damaged one wing. Still, the rest of the establishment seemed to be running more or less normally. It had a generator that was called upon four or five times a day when the electricity ceased to function.

  Bourne and Zizzy were shown adjoining rooms, which overlooked an inner courtyard, lush with fig and lime trees, bougainvillea, and fragrant rose bushes. Intricate latticework balustrades curled around the circumference of the courtyard. Sunlight slanted down, then was obscured by foaming black smoke. Occasionally, the thump of artillery shells detonating could be heard. Prints shuddered against walls; a bit of plaster fell onto the rug.

  Bourne lay down, clothes and all, and stared at the ceiling until at last his eyes closed and he passed into merciful sleep.

  * * *

  Soraya’s head snapped up as a blaze of lights blinded her. In the absolute darkness, she had fallen into an exhausted doze, a shallow sleep in which her senses never let go of her daughter. Beside her, Sonya awoke with a squall of terror.

  “Sonya!” Soraya did not want to shout, did not want to give her captors the satisfaction of hearing her give voice to her fear. But she was a mother now, and her child was her only concern. Her will to live rose and fell on Sonya’s future.

  Please God, she silently prayed, give Sonya a long, happy life, and do with me what you will. This was the prayer she had repeated over and over again ever since the darkness came down, ever since there was nothing else to think about.

  “What do you want with us?” she said now. She could see nothing beyond the blinding light. “Why are you keeping us here?”

  The only reply was the insectlike whirr of machinery. Then someone emerged from the absolute darkness into the dazzling light. He went not to her, but to Sonya.

  “What are you doing?” she said in alarm. “Don’t you dare hurt her!”

  But a moment later, Sonya was plopped into her lap.

  “Mommy! Mommy!” Sonya’s hot, damp body pressed against her, the little arms thrown around her neck. Sonya’s cheek, wet with tears, sliding against her face, brought Soraya’s own tears welling up. She would die—offer herself—if only they would spare her daughter. Then she caught herself. She couldn’t die; she needed to keep Sonya safe.

  With Sonya squirming against her, she gathered all her strength, whispered in her daughter’s ear, “This is a game, muffin, so we must both play alon
g. Because, you see, if we play along we’ll be fine. Everything will turn out all right. We’ll be able to go home and everything will be as it was.”

  “But what about Daddy?” Sonya whispered back. “Daddy won’t come back with us, will he?”

  My daughter is too smart for her own good, Soraya thought. I must teach her how to harness that amazing intellect of hers. And just like that a new wave of terror and despair washed over her: What if I don’t make it out of here? What if we don’t make it out of here?

  “Mommy, what is it? Why are you shaking?”

  “I’m…” Soraya grew fierce, gathering herself for the sake of her child. “Mommy’s just a bit cold.”

  “Here,” Sonya said, “I’ll hold you closer, Mommy. I’ll warm you up.”

  Then Sonya’s arms were being pulled away from her, Sonya screamed, and Soraya said, “Remember what I told you, muffin.” And at once Sonya stilled herself. She allowed herself to be set on her mother’s lap, facing the lights.

  “Hold still,” a harsh voice ordered, but Soraya did not know whether it was directed at Sonya or herself.

  She became aware of the rustling of paper, and, squinting, she saw the ghostly silhouette of someone holding a newspaper in front of her face. Another silhouette, barely glimpsed. Someone else was taking a photo of first the front page of the newspaper, then of her with Sonya. Her mind struggled to clear itself from the fog of terror and lack of sensory input.

  “Speak,” the voice said.

  Her head turned from her daughter and she looked into the camera. “Listen, we are being—”

  “That’s enough!”

  Proof of life, she thought suddenly, and with that knowledge came the reason for their incarceration. Ransom seemed too far-fetched to even consider. Which left only one possibility: Her captors wanted someone to do something for them. But who? Who did she know who would be important enough for them to kidnap her and her family? And then she understood. Her husband’s murder had been an object lesson, proof positive of her captors’ seriousness, intent, and control.