The Bourne Imperative

by Robert Ludlum

  Soraya remembered how she had reached out and taken her friend’s hand. “Don’t be angry, Dee.” She hadn’t been listening, not really. “Be happy for me.”

  “The longer this goes on, the worse it becomes.”

  “Soraya?” Thorne had repeated. When he saw her expression, he looked stricken.

  And now, Soraya thought, returning to the dreadful present, the worst had happened. Now she had to tell him. It was the only way for them to stay together, to ensure their relationship continued uninterrupted.

  She opened her mouth to do it but, instead, her mind rebelled. Is this what I’ve reduced the baby to—a pawn? An immediate wave of disgust overwhelmed her and, leaning forward, she grabbed his wastepaper basket and vomited into it.

  “Soraya?” He hurried toward her. “Are you ill?”

  “I don’t feel well,” she whispered thickly.

  “I’ll call a taxi.”

  She waved away his words. “I’ll be all right soon enough.” She had to tell him, she knew she had no choice, but another wave rose up into her throat, gagging her, clogging her throat, and she thought, Not today. Just give me a day’s respite.

  An hour before he was set to embark with Alef for Sadelöga, Bourne had a dream. In the dream, he had been shot, pitched into the storm-dark waters of the Mediterranean, but instead of losing consciousness, as he had when this had occurred many years ago, he remained alert to the electric bolts of pain transfiguring his head into a short-circuiting engine.

  As he struggled in the darkness, he became aware that he was not alone. There was a presence eeling its way up from the depths of the sea, long and thin, a monstrous sea snake of some sort. It wrapped its long length around him while its fanged mouth darted in toward him. Again and again, he fought it off, but with each second that ticked by strength passed out of him, dissipating into the inky water. And as his strength waned, so the monster’s strength waxed, until it reared back, opened its mouth, and said, “You’ll never know who I am. Why don’t you stop trying?”

  It unwound itself from him, slipping away even as he grabbed for it, even as his desire to know it became unbearable…He woke up.

  Sweating heavily, he threw the covers off his naked body and padded into the bathroom, stepping into the shower even before he turned on the taps. The icy water hit him like a fist, which is what he wanted, to get away from the last coiling tendrils of the dream as quickly and completely as he could. It wasn’t the first time he’d had that dream. It always ended the same way. He knew the sea eel was his past, lurking in the deepest depths of his unconscious, coiling and uncoiling, but never revealing itself to him. If the sea eel was to be believed, it never would.

  When he was shaved and dressed, he sat on the edge of his bed and called Soraya, using his new satphone. They had an arrangement to check in with each other periodically, which worked well for both of them. Often they were able to swap intel to their mutual advantage.

  It was the middle of the night in DC, and it was clear that he had woken her up.

  “Are you all right?” her asked.

  “I’m perfectly fine. I just had a long, difficult day.”

  At once he knew she wasn’t telling him the whole truth, even though she insisted nothing was wrong. He kept at her until she admitted that the concussion she had gotten in Paris had become worse. That was all she would say, other than that she was being closely monitored by her doctor. Then she mentioned Nicodemo, and Bourne told her about his conversation with Christien, that Nicodemo was somehow involved with Core Energy and, specifically, its CEO, Tom Brick.

  “You mean Nicodemo is real?” she said when he had finished.

  “Christien and Don Fernando certainly think so. Can you do some digging into Core Energy and Brick for me?”

  “Of course.”

  “Take care of yourself, Soraya.”

  There was a slight hesitation before she said, “You, too.”

  Ninety minutes later, with the sky clearing in the east, the last clots of night gathered like refuse in the street gutters, he and Alef were in one of Christien’s cars, heading out of Stockholm toward Sadelöga.

  “You don’t look too good,” Alef said as they hit the highway and hurtled down it at breakneck speed.

  Bourne said nothing. Every few minutes his eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, memorizing the makes, models, and positions of the vehicles behind them.

  Alef’s gaze automatically went to the side mirror. “Expecting company?”

  “I’m always expecting company.”

  Alef laughed shortly. “Yeah, I know what you mean.”

  Bourne gave him a long, keen look. “You do?”

  “What?”

  “You said you knew what I meant when I said I’m always expecting company. How do you know?”

  Alef returned his gaze and shook his head helplessly. “I have no idea.”

  “Think!”

  Bourne said it so sharply that Alef jumped.

  “I don’t know. I just do.” His eyes returned to the side mirror. “Nothing suspicious.”

  “Not yet, anyway.”

  Alef nodded, accepting this judgment. “I have a good feeling about Sadelöga. Going back, I mean.”

  “You think it will help you remember.”

  “I do, yes. If anything will…”

  His voice dropped off and they rode the rest of the way in silence. Christien had a boat waiting—the same one he and Bourne had been fishing in when they pulled Alef out of the water. Someone had cleaned it up. No trace of blood could be detected on its interior.

  Bourne saw Alef into the boat, then untied the ropes and, pushing off with his boot, jumped in. They motored slowly over to Sadelöga. The air was wet and heavy. A low mist lay over parts of the water like a shroud. As they neared Sadelöga, Alef began to look around.

  “Anything look familiar?” Bourne’s breath made little clouds in the icy air.

  Alef shook his head.

  Several minutes later, Bourne slowed. “This is where we hauled you out of the water. You couldn’t have been in too long, so we must be near where you were shot.”

  Slowing further, he nosed the boat in closer, paralleling the shore.

  “Let me know,” he said.

  Alef nodded. He appeared increasingly agitated, like someone approaching his own death. Bourne knew the feeling. Beneath the tendrils of fog, chunks of ice could be seen milling against the shoreline. In just the few days since they had been here, the temperature had dropped at least ten degrees. The cold had silenced even the usually gregarious gulls. It was painful to pull air into the lungs.

  “I don’t know,” Alef said miserably. “I don’t know.” And then, all at once, his head came up like a hunting dog on point. “There!” He was quivering. “Over there!”

  Bourne turned the boat, heading in to shore.

  You’ve been spying on her!” Delia looked at Peter incredulously. “She’s your friend, for God’s sake.”

  “I know, but—”

  “You people are incredible.” She shook her head. “Inhuman.”

  “Delia, it’s because I’m Soraya’s friend that I followed her.”

  Delia snorted skeptically. They were in her office, where Peter had come to see her. She had kicked the door closed as soon as he had asked his first question.

  “What was she doing at the offices of Politics As Usual?”

  “Gosh,” Delia said, “aren’t you going to ask me what she and I talked about at lunch?”

  “I assumed it had something to do with her visit to Dr. Steen.”

  Delia, head shaking again, backed away from him until she was behind her desk. “I don’t know what you think is going on—”

  “I’m asking you to tell me.”

  “You need to ask Soraya these questions, not me.”

  “She won’t talk to me about them.”

  “Then you have to understand that she has good reason.”

  “See, that’s the thing,” Peter said,
taking a step toward her, “I don’t think her reasoning is sound.”

  Delia spread her hands. “I don’t know what—”

  “I think she’s in trouble,” he said. “I’m asking you to help me help her.”

  “No, Peter. You’re asking me to betray her trust.” She crossed her arms beneath her breasts. “I won’t, no matter what you say or do.”

  He stared at her for what seemed a long time. “I care about her, Delia. Deeply and truly.”

  “Then go back to your work. Leave this alone.”

  “I want to help her.”

  “Help is a relative term. If you pursue this, I promise you it will only end in tears.”

  He shook his head. “I’m not sure what you—”

  “Whatever she’s going through, she doesn’t want to share it with you.” Delia smiled coldly at him. “It will be the end of your friendship, Peter. That’s what I mean.”

  Alef scrambled ashore even before the boat had run up onto the snow-covered shingle.

  “Wait!” Bourne called as he cut the motor. Then, cursing, he leaped onto the bank, sprinting after Alef.

  “There’s a copse of pines and a lake,” Alef said, as if to himself. “Somewhere, somewhere.” His eyes were wide and staring and his head jerked back and forth on the stalk of his neck.

  Bourne was almost upon him when he burst through a small stand of pines and saw the lake. It looked solidly frozen.

  “I remember crossing this,” he said as Bourne caught up with him.

  “Let’s take it one step at a time,” Bourne said. “Why were you here?”

  Alef shook his head. “I crossed the lake or—” He took a step onto the ice. “I was trying to get away.”

  “Get away from who?” Bourne pressed him. “Who was chasing you?”

  “That lake.” Alef had begun to shake. “That damn lake.”

  A kind of electric storm bursts behind his eyes as shards of memories bubble up from the fog of his amnesia. He sees himself, hears the panting of his breath, sees the slim figure skating lithely after him as if on blades. An abrupt blank, the memory-lamp inside his head extinguished, then he feels himself stumbling. The next instant, he is down on his knees, the figure is rushing inexorably toward him, and he turns, aims his handgun, but he stumbles, and it goes flying. He wants to scramble after it, but there’s no time. He’s off and running again, running for his life.

  These memories rush at him like an attacking army, flickering in and out of focus. In between is the darkness of the befogged abyss he has come to know as amnesia—his life ripped away from him, forever beyond his grasp. The grief that had held him fast quickly morphs into panic welling up inside him as shards of memory stab him so fast and furiously that he becomes overwhelmed, disoriented, briefly insane.

  Alef blinked, back in the present.

  “Okay.” Shadowed by pines, at the edge of the flat, glittering expanse, Bourne began to guide him back toward the shoreline where he had moored the boat. “I think that’s enough for today.”

  “No! My life is back there! I have to get it back!” Alef broke away, hit the ice, but before he could take another step Bourne grabbed him, jerking him back into the shelter of the trees.

  “You can’t go out there,” Bourne said. “It’s too exposed, too dangerous.”

  “Dangerous?”

  Bourne shook him briefly, trying to get him to focus. “You were shot, remember? Someone is after you.”

  “I’m dead, Jason.” He stared wide-eyed. “Don’t you see? No one’s after me now.”

  Bourne saw that this trip that he and Christien had decided on was a mistake. It was too soon. Alef was losing his grip on reality. “Let’s go back to the boat and talk it through calmly and rationally.”

  Alef hesitated, staring out across the icy expanse of the lake, then nodded. “Okay.”

  But the instant Bourne let go, he broke away, began to skate onto the lake, his legs splayed, his arms straight out like airplane wings to keep himself from sprawling headfirst onto the ice.

  Bourne lunged after him, one eye on Alef, the other on the trees, dense enough to hide a regiment, that ringed the lake. The wind whipped slivers of ice into his face. He raised one hand to shield his eyes, and heard the sharp report as if it were an afterimage, there and gone before it registered. Thick shards of ice fountained up as the sharpshooter squeezed off two more shots, creating a deep gouge in the ice just in front of where Alef stood.

  Bourne slammed into Alef, covering him but, at the same time, sliding both of them forward into the gouge made by the sniper’s bullets. The ice cracked in a spiderweb beneath them. Bourne tried to back up, hauling Alef with him, but bullets struck the ice behind him, pinning him down, and now, with a deep groan, the ice gave way, plunging both of them down, a surprisingly strong current sucking them out into icy darkness.

  5

  Water rushed into Bourne’s nose, stinging his nostrils. It was no wonder the ice cracked—this was a salt water lake. He was forced to let go of the gun in order to reach for Alef, who was sinking faster. Bourne had to turn, aim himself down, giving powerful kicks to force himself to accelerate like an arrow loosed from a bow, in an attempt to catch up with Alef.

  Within moments, the cold penetrated his jacket and boots. He could feel his heart hammering faster as his core temperature came under attack. By the time it actually started to drop, it would be too late. He wouldn’t have strength enough to push himself up through the gelid water, let alone drag Alef with him.

  Without light there was no direction. Bourne, an expert diver, knew how easy it was for even professional divers to become disoriented on night dives, or when adverse conditions like nitrogen narcosis began to affect them. Extreme cold was another serious danger that could slow the mind and cause wrong decisions to be made. This far down in the icy depths, wrong decisions would be fatal.

  Bourne’s lungs were bursting, he could no longer feel his toes, and his fingers felt thick and unwieldy. Head pounding, he made one more desperate kick downward, felt Alef’s collar, and hauled upward. Reversing his body, he kicked rhythmically, trying to keep his mind occupied in the present, even while flickers of his own near-drowning, which had caused his amnesia, flashed through his mind.

  He found it increasingly difficult to stay in the present, to keep his body working at peak level, never mind peak efficiency. There was nowhere for him to go in the Mediterranean, only he wasn’t in the Mediterranean, he was far, far to the north. But a kind of peaceful warmth was stealing over him, a great lethargy even as his legs continued to pump, even as he continued his hold on Alef. But if he was warm, wasn’t he in the Mediterranean? He must be. He had been shot, cast overboard out of Marseilles and now…Now he saw himself held fast in the dense shadows of jungle foliage. He was standing behind a man who knelt on the ground, wrists bound at the small of his back. He saw himself gripping a military-issue .45, saw himself pressing its muzzle against the base of the man’s skull, saw himself pull the trigger. And saw Jason Bourne crash to the jungle floor, dead…

  He wanted to cry out. An icy shiver slithered down his spine and he twisted back and forth, as if trying to rid himself of the nightmarish images. Then he looked up, saw a lighter patch in the endless darkness, a way out!

  Glancing down, he saw Alef’s pinched, white face, and the sight galvanized him, dissipating his lethargy, his slide into the nightmarish watery wastes. Kicking out with renewed energy, he saw the pale patch widening, growing brighter and brighter until he breached the surface, gulping air into his burning lungs. He renewed his grip on Alef as the unconscious man grew heavier the farther he hauled him out of the water.

  But Bourne still wasn’t thinking clearly, and time after time Alef’s body kept slipping back into the darkness, until Bourne climbed slowly and painfully out of the water, then turned, using all his strength. Inch by inch, he drew Alef out of the water, hauling first on his collar, then under his arms, and finally, grasping his belt and sliding him the res
t of the way, onto the ice.

  He was finished then. The cold and the dread of memories long buried had sapped all his energy. Collapsing onto his back, he concentrated on breathing, even though a small voice in the back of his mind screamed at him to find shelter, to get out of his wet clothes before they froze onto his flesh.

  It was then a shadow fell over him, and he looked up to see a man standing over him. He was holding a handgun at his side. The sniper? Then where was his rifle? Back in the woods? Bourne’s clouded mind couldn’t think straight.

  “No need to introduce yourself, Bourne,” the man said, sliding down to his knees, “I know who you are.”

  He grinned as he pressed the muzzle of the handgun against the side of Bourne’s head. Bourne tried to lift his arm up, but his clothes were partially frozen, weighing him down like armor. His fingers felt frozen in place.

  Clicking off the safety, the man said, “Pity there’s no time to get to know each other.”

  The report of the pistol shot echoed across the lake, around and around like a frenzied shout. A clutch of gulls rose, screaming in fright, into the heavily striated sky.

  I can’t get a read on either of them.”

  “What the hell does that mean?” the president said. “You’re my eyes and ears inside Treadstone.”

  Dick Richards crossed one leg over the other. “It seems to me that your problem lies not with Marks and Moore but with Secretary Hendricks.”

  The president glared at him over his desk. The Oval Office was quite still; even the occasional footfalls, phones, and various secretaries’ and assistants’ voices were muffled, as if coming from a great distance, rather than just outside the doors.

  “I don’t need you to tell me what my problem is, Richards.”

  “No, sir, of course not. Nevertheless, Treadstone is Hendricks’s baby.”