The Bourne Ascendancy

by Robert Ludlum

  “Get him upright,” he ordered his other man. “The camera must record his face as he is beheaded.”

  The Chechen approached Bourne, grabbed the hair at the top of his head, and pulled. When Bourne’s head came up, he mumbled something in Russian. When the Chechen bent closer to hear what Bourne was saying, Bourne smashed his forehead into the Chechen’s face. The man reared back, blood pouring from his nose, stumbled as his eyes rolled up in their sockets, and fell beside Camilla.

  Musa shouted, headed straight for Bourne, while the cameraman grabbed the heavy .45 at his hip and drew it. He was fully concentrated on Bourne and POTUS. As a consequence, he failed to notice Camilla’s hand reach out, draw the fallen Chechen’s weapon from its holster. She lay on the floor, used two hands, steadied by her elbows. The narcotic she had been shot with was still in her system. Her vision kept fading in and out, and there was a peculiar buzzing in her ears that at some point she began to recognize as human voices, shouting.

  Nevertheless, her training took firm hold, and she sighted, inhaled deeply, let it out, and squeezed the trigger. The bullet slammed into the cameraman’s side, the second one took him off his feet in a fountain of blood.

  * * *

  Bourne was ready for Musa as he came toward him. Launching himself to his feet, he leaped backward with all his strength, was rewarded as the chairback struck the concrete wall at an angle and shattered. With his arms free, Bourne drew his knees up, passed his legs between his arms. Now his bound hands were in front of him, and as Musa drew his pistol, he threw a section of the chairback. It struck Musa under the chin. He gagged, was driven back a pace, but did not lose his grip on the pistol.

  He fired, but Bourne, already on the move, was outside the trajectory of the bullet. Lifting his arms, he brought his balled fists down on the crown of Musa’s head, at the place where, as a baby, the parts of the skull knit together. The blow should have driven Borz to his knees, but miraculously, ominously, he remained on his feet.

  The handgun was useless to him now, and he let it drop to the floor, used both his hands in simultaneous kites. Bourne, his hands still bound, was at a distinct disadvantage.

  “Let’s see how you do without the armor,” Musa whispered. The straightened tips of his fingers drove into Bourne’s midsection just under the sternum. Almost at the same instant, he slammed the edge of his other hand into Bourne’s ear, rocking him backward.

  Following up the attack, he closed with Bourne, who met him with a cocked elbow, then a short, sharp swing of his forearm. Unfortunately, he was forced to use two hands, and Musa’s fists broke underneath the blow, hammering at the spot over Bourne’s heart. It was an old KGB hand-to-hand method that was supposed to interfere with the electrical flow to the organ, inducing a heart attack.

  Bourne could feel his pulse pause, as if suspended in time, then flutter, as if having lost its natural rhythm. His breath was hot in his throat, bitter as if with poisonous gases needing to be expelled.

  With an extreme effort of will, he ignored both and, looping his bound wrists behind Musa’s neck, twisted them with a vicious torque that spun the Chechen around. Now the plastic tie that bound his wrists dug deeply into Musa’s throat.

  Hauling with all his might brought the Chechen’s head back until he was staring at the ceiling. Bourne slammed his chest into the back of Musa’s head and slowly began to squeeze the air out of him, tighter and tighter, until the Chechen’s face became empurpled.

  Musa’s mouth opened, working spastically, trying and failing to inhale. Then a curious smile informed his lips.

  “You won’t ever know,” he whispered in Russian, “until it’s too late.”

  He fell heavily against Bourne, who lifted his arms and stepped away, allowing Musa’s corpse to crash to the floor.

  60

  Magnus, bound to his chair, was for once speechless. He worked his mouth like a fish out of water. He was disheveled, a state he had never before experienced, even after sex, which for him was always an exercise of power, dominance, and destruction. He watched the death exploding around him in a state of profound shock; his mind seemed to have fled elsewhere, to a safe place where he was still the president of the United States, still able to command everyone, still in control of even the smallest events.

  * * *

  At that moment, Aashir appeared in the doorway, Musa’s bloody corpse between him and Bourne. He seemed transfixed by the carnage. Camilla saw danger where Bourne did not. Still in her prone position on the floor, she swung the .45, centered the barrel on Aashir’s heart. She was about to squeeze the trigger when Bourne called out.

  “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot.”

  She put the gun up, kept her shooter’s position, but the effort she had made was too much for her, and, shaking, she slumped down, her breathing slowed and thickened.

  Bourne knelt down, went through Musa’s clothes until he found the hard leather case. Extracting a syringe, he pulled off the plastic casing protecting the needle, injected the serum into Camilla’s upper arm.

  “What are you doing here?” Bourne said as he awaited Camilla’s return to consciousness.

  Though it was unclear whether he was addressing Aashir or POTUS, it was Aashir who answered.

  “Borz ordered me to shoot the dignitaries in the presidential box,” he said softly. Producing a knife, he sawed through the plastic tie binding Bourne’s wrists. “I couldn’t do it.”

  “You weren’t meant to shoot anyone,” Bourne said as he helped Camilla to sit up. “Borz was using you as a diversion. He was going to make an anonymous call to the police about your presence in the stands opposite the presidential box. While you were being taken into custody, the real event would be taking place here in this room.”

  Aashir’s shoulders slumped and he leaned back against the wall, as if his legs could no longer hold him upright on their own. “Nothing is ever as it seems,” he murmured, possibly to himself.

  “Untie the president,” Bourne said.

  Magnus cringed. “Keep that raghead away from me. What is he, Iranian like El Ghadan?”

  “He’s Jordanian.” Out of Magnus’s sight, Bourne looked at Aashir, put a forefinger across his lips.

  “Iranian, Jordanian, what’s the difference?” Magnus spat.

  “For one thing, Jordanians are Arabs, Iranians are Persians.”

  “A jihadist is a jihadist. They all want to kill us.”

  “Not all of us,” Aashir said.

  “And who are you to say, sonny?” Magnus said.

  Aashir made no comment. He stepped behind Magnus, slit his bonds in two. The president brought his arms around to his lap with a groan. He rubbed his wrists to get the circulation back.

  Aashir, wary of the American president, stepped quickly away from him. “I can’t believe what Borz was going to do here.”

  Bourne gestured with his head. “If that was Borz.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Bourne looked up at him. “Do you seriously believe a man of Borz’s stature—the world’s largest illegal armaments dealer—would put himself in the field?” Bourne shook his head as he helped Camilla to her feet. “I don’t know who that man was, but I’ll wager any amount Ivan Borz is safely in Russia or Chechnya or wherever the hell he calls home.”

  Aashir stared at the corpse for a long moment before picking his way over to the video camera to turn it off. Then he crouched down beside the false Borz, rummaged through his clothing, looking for some means of identification.

  “You won’t find anything,” Bourne said.

  But because he was young and in a way still full of hope, Aashir continued to paw through the pockets, patting seams and linings. “There’s nothing,” he said at last, sitting back on his haunches. “Nothing at all.”

  POTUS, coming out of his self-imposed paralysis, rose and on shaky legs approached Camilla. “Are you all right?” When she didn’t answer him, he switched topics, as politicians sensing trouble learn to do with
out conscious thought. “Do you know this man?”

  She stepped back. “Please, Bill, don’t come near me.”

  He stared at her bleakly. “I’ve ruined everything.”

  “We need to evacuate this room,” Bourne said. “Now.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Magnus said, “until she answers my question.”

  For a long moment, Camilla said nothing as she regarded Bourne with an expression of curiosity. “No, I don’t know him,” she said at length, “but I’ve been shown his photo. I believe this is Jason Bourne.”

  “Impossible!” Magnus burst out.

  But no one was listening to him.

  “I was meant to protect POTUS by killing you,” Camilla said to Bourne. “I was trained to jockey a horse so I could be on the inside, so I could explore the nooks and crannies where you might be.”

  “That’s as difficult to believe as this man being Ivan Borz.” Bourne shook his head again. “Another diversion. This time from the opposite side: from Washington. Your superiors likely sent you into the field to be killed along with me.”

  “Yes, I know. I was shown the brief,” Camilla said to Bourne. “I also heard a recorded conversation between Marty Finnerman and Howard Anselm. They wanted their dinger, Kettle, to kill me as well as you.”

  “I took care of that,” Magnus said.

  No, Camilla thought. I did. But on this point she kept her own counsel, wanting Magnus to at least have this victory to himself.

  “Both Anselm and Finnerman are in federal custody,” POTUS said.

  Stepping over the corpse of the false Borz, Bourne went to the door, opened it. “There’s another room, several yards down the corridor.” As Magnus moved to follow him, he added, “Brace yourself. Your men are dead, Magnus.”

  Sidestepping the bodies, they moved quickly along the corridor to the room Bourne had identified. Midway, Magnus touched Bourne’s arm and they dropped back a few paces.

  “I don’t want to be in an enclosed space with that towel—that Arab.”

  “Talk with him, Magnus,” Bourne said. “Maybe you’ll learn something.”

  The room, though smaller than the one they had been in, was set up less as a storeroom than a supervisor’s office, equipped with a metal desk and several chairs. Three filing cabinets hunkered along one wall. One of the overhead fluorescent lights buzzed when Bourne turned them on.

  “Maybe,” Magnus said. “Maybe you’re right. But the fact is, I can’t let anyone or anything impede the peace process. People will be looking for me. In fact, a panic already may be starting. Certainly alarm bells will be sounding from here to D.C. Tensions were already running high between the participants. Now, who knows? If I’m not there to guide them—”

  “There are some things I need to tell you,” Camilla broke in urgently.

  “I’m afraid it will have to wait, Cam.”

  “But it can’t.” She told Magnus about the conversation she had overheard between Hunter Worth and Vincent Terrier. “This is what Terrier said, and you know my memory, Bill, I’m quoting verbatim: ‘I work in the real America that no civilian sees. Because of that I understand that it runs on a warfare-state bureaucracy that has become so entrenched that no president, no political party can defeat it. It’s become permanent. And I also know that the heart of that warfare-state bureaucracy is a place called Gravenhurst.’”

  “Oh, for the love of God!” Magnus said.

  Bourne knew of Gravenhurst. Both Magnus and his chief of staff, Howard Anselm, were among its illustrious alumni.

  “Bill, whatever you think you know about Gravenhurst is a carefully honed façade.”

  “Come on, Cam. That’s got to be a lie!”

  Undeterred, Camilla persevered. “Terrier said that Gravenhurst is far more than the conservative think tank manned by like-minded Yale graduates it purports to be. There are no alumni, only members for life, and those members—the most highly placed individuals in the fields of politics, industry, and our infernal war machine—are as addicted to their own ideology as are jihadists like El Ghadan.”

  “This is incredible,” Magnus burst out. “Monstrous.” But his expression had clouded, an indication that he was beginning to put two and two together.

  “It gets worse,” Camilla said. “According to Terrier, your peace initiative is doomed to failure. Do you know why? Because the Gravenhurst alumni make too much money on the war machine. Peace is anathema to them.”

  “I don’t believe a word of it,” Magnus said stiffly. “People like Terrier are born liars.”

  “As opposed to your chief of staff and under secretary of defense for policy,” Bourne said.

  “By Cam’s account, this one was crazy enough to plot to have me assassinated.”

  “And didn’t Anselm and Finnerman plot against you?” Camilla said.

  POTUS appeared shaken to his core. Still, he felt he had one more swing left in this fight. “Gravenhurst is my alma mater. It’s a proud institution, doing invaluable work.” He cut the air with the flat of his hand. “Besides, I know all the men working there.”

  “Perhaps you don’t know them well enough,” Bourne said. “It sounds as if the entire infrastructure is rotten.”

  Magnus stared at Bourne. All at once, the air went out of him and he was obliged to sit back down. “Christ, if that’s true…” He ran trembling fingers through his hair. “What am I supposed to do?”

  “Try your best to get the Palestinians and the Israelis to agree on something. A basis for further discussion, if nothing else,” Bourne said. “Then when you return to D.C. find people you can trust and start cleaning house.”

  Magnus looked up. “Camilla, will you help me?”

  She shook her head. “No, Bill. I’m done with this life. You’ll have to do this on your own.”

  His face looked stricken. His near-death experience had frightened him, but his vulnerability had absolutely terrified him. All the dynamism he had felt in his hotel room earlier had been beaten to a pulp by the events of the last hour. And now Camilla looked farther away from him than ever: icy and untouchable.

  “Because of what happened before,” he said, his voice cracking.

  “No, Bill. Believe it or not, my decision has nothing to do with you.”

  The hard edge to her voice made him wince. “Cam, I’ve made mistakes. My judgment…I’ve acted poorly. Very poorly.”

  “You’re better served telling that to your wife and children,” she said.

  Magnus looked ineffably sad. “Are we at the end, Cam, or at the beginning?”

  “That’s up to you, Bill.”

  It was up to him, he saw that now. The notion was like spotting a lighthouse in a violent storm. He reached out for it, trying to right himself before he capsized. “Right, then.” With a supreme effort, Magnus gathered himself. He was the president after all; he needed to act like one, even if he was still quavering inside. “I have my duties to attend to; I’ve spent too much time running from major decisions, letting other people make them for me.”

  “That’s what made you the perfect president for your billionaire pals at Gravenhurst,” Bourne said.

  Magnus regarded Bourne for what seemed a long time. He realized what a fool he had been. “I shudder to think that you and Camilla might be right.” He slapped his thighs and stood up. “In any event, it’s time for me to leave this underworld, to return to life. After all, I have a peace process to hammer out.”

  Bourne stood in front of the door. “Magnus, it’s vital that you not show yourself for the next few minutes.”

  “I couldn’t disagree more,” the president said. After the nasty shock he had received, he seemed to have regained his sense of importance and mastery. “And I resent you calling me by name. I’m the president of the United States.”

  “You would have been dead if I hadn’t saved you,” Bourne told him. “In here, you are who I say you are.”

  Magnus’s expression showed he was struggling with the reality
of the situation. Clearly, he didn’t like it, but what choice did he have?

  “You wanted to know what I’m doing here, Magnus. El Ghadan kidnapped a family out of Paris. A Quai d’Orsay agent by the name of Aaron Lipkin-Renais. He married one of your own. Soraya Moore, formerly co-head of Treadstone. The couple have a two-year-old daughter named Sonya. Soraya Moore is an old friend of mine. El Ghadan is keeping her and her daughter hostage because, he told me, he wanted me to kill you. But I was duped. The real plan was to get both of us here so we could be executed on camera in front of the entire world.”

  A tense and unpleasant silence followed, during which Bourne was aware of Aashir, the alien, the outsider witnessing the worst of Western culture—its greed, venality, and ferocious duplicity. But there was no disgust on his face, none of the fanatic’s smirking satisfaction at his screed writ large. He observed, and in observing, absorbed with a grave expression.

  Bourne said, “And here we are together in this small room, Magnus. I’ve saved you, counseled you. I made no move to kill you.”

  Magnus looked nervously at Camilla, who shrugged at him, as if to say, You can’t refute reality.

  Magnus’s attention returned to Bourne. “You’re saying that El Ghadan abducted the child as well?”

  “That’s precisely what he did. You must help the hostages. If you show yourself at this juncture—”

  “Their lives are forfeit,” Magnus said. “Yes, I see.” He shook his head. “You’re not at all like what your file claims you are. You’re supposed to be a rogue agent, unpredictable, borderline psychotic.”

  Bourne laughed. “Files of the clandestine services the world over are like history, meant to be remade by the people in power. I’d take them with several grains of salt if I were you.”

  “Still, I’ve been out of sight for too long. I have to make an appearance, and, frankly, the sooner the better.”

  Camilla turned to him, her expression accusatory. “Then what happens to the hostages, Bill? A mother and her two-year-old girl. Are they to be sacrificed?”

  “That depends,” Bourne said, “on Aashir.”