The Bourne Legacy (Jason Bourne 4)

“This one is,” Khan assured him.

“Very well then.” Oszkar nodded. “So forget about cutting the power supply—it’ll take you too long, and even if you had the time you still might not be able to cut the power to all the backups.” He held up a forefinger. “But, what’s not so commonly known is that all magnetic locks work off DC current, so…” He rummaged around again, held up another object. “What you need is a portable AC power supply with enough juice to zap the mag lock.”

Khan took the power pack in his hand. It was heavier than it looked. “How is it going to work?”

“Imagine a lightning strike on an electrical system.” Oszkar tapped the power supply. “This baby will scramble the DC current long enough for you to open the door, but it won’t short it out completely. Eventually, it’ll cycle back on again and the lock will reestablish itself.”

“How long will I have?” Khan asked.

“That depends on the make and model of the mag lock.” Oszkar shrugged his meaty shoulders. “The best guess I can give you is fifteen minutes, maybe twenty, but no more than that.”

“Can’t I just zap it again?”

Oszkar shook his head. “Chances are good you’ll freeze the mag into its locked position, and then you’d have to take the entire door down in order to get out.” He laughed, clapped Khan on the back. “Not to worry, I have faith in you.”

Khan looked at him askance. “Since when did you have faith in anything?”

“Quite right.” Oszkar handed him a small zippered leather case. “Tricks of the trade always trump faith.”

At precisely two-fifteen in the morning, local Icelandic time, Arsenov and Zina placed the carefully wrapped body of Magomet into one of the vans and drove down the coast farther south toward an out-of-the-way cove. Arsenov was behind the wheel. Periodically, Zina, studying a detailed map, gave him directions.

“I sense the nervousness in the others,” he said after a time. “It’s more than simple anticipation.”

“We’re on more than a simple mission, Hasan.”

He glanced at her. “Sometimes I wonder whether icewater runs in your veins.”

She put a smile on her face as she briefly squeezed his leg. “You know very well what runs in my veins.”

He nodded. “That I do.” He had to admit that, as much as he was driven by his desire to lead his people, he was happiest being with Zina. He longed for a time when the war would be over, when he could shed his rebel’s guise and be a husband to her, a father to their children.

“Zina,” he said as they turned off the road and jounced down the rutted path that descended off the cliff face to their destination, “we’ve never talked about us.”

“What d’you mean?” Of course she knew very well what he meant and tried to push away the sudden dread that constricted her. “Of course we have.”

The way had become steeper and he slowed the van. Zina could see the last turn in the path; beyond that was the rocky cove and the restless North Atlantic.

“Not about our future, our marriage, the children we’ll have one day. What better time to pledge our love for each other.”

It was then that she fully understood how intuitive the Shaykh really was. For by his own words, Hasan Arsenov had condemned himself. He was afraid to die. She heard it in his choice of words, if not in his voice or in his eyes.

She saw his doubts, now, about her. If there was one thing she’d learned since joining the rebels, it was that doubt undermined initiative, determination, most especially action. Because of the extreme tension and anxiety, perhaps, he had exposed himself, and his weakness was as repugnant to her as it had been to the Shaykh. Hasan’s doubts about her were sure to infect his thinking. She’d made a terrible blunder in seeking so quickly to enlist Magomet, but she was so very eager to embrace the Shaykh’s future. Still, judging by Hasan’s violent reaction, his doubts about her must have begun earlier. Did he think that he could no longer trust her?

They had arrived at the rendezvous point fifteen minutes ahead of schedule. She turned and took his face in her hands. Tenderly, she said, “Hasan, long have we walked side by side in the shadow of death. We have survived through the will of Allah, but also because of our unswerving devotion to one another.” She leaned over and kissed him. “So now we pledge ourselves to one another, because we desire death in the path of Allah more than our enemies desire life.”

Arsenov closed his eyes for a moment. This was what he’d wanted from her, what he’d been afraid she’d never give him. It was why, he realized now, he’d jumped to an ugly conclusion when he’d seen her with Magomet.

“In Allah’s eyes, under Allah’s hand, in Allah’s heart,” he said in a form of benediction.

They embraced, but Zina was, of course, far away across the North Atlantic. She was wondering what the Shaykh was doing at this very moment. She longed to see his face, to be near him. Soon, she told herself. Soon enough everything she wanted would be hers.

Sometime later they got out of the van and stood watching on the shore, hearing the waves rumble and spend themselves against the shingle. The moon had already gone down in the short span of darkness this far north. In another half hour it would grow light and another long day would dawn. They were in more or less the center of the cove, its arms extended on either side so that the tide was stymied, the waves made small and robbed of their usual peril. A chill wind off the black water made Zina shiver, but Arsenov embraced it.

They saw the sweep of the light then, blinking on and off three times. The boat had arrived. Arsenov switched on the flashlight, returning the signal. Faintly, they could see the fishing boat running no lights, nosing in. They went to the back of the van and, together, brought their burden down to the tide line.

“Won’t they be surprised to see you again,” Arsenov said.

“They’re the Shaykh’s men, nothing surprises them,” Zina replied, acutely aware that according to the story the Shaykh told Hasan she was supposed to have met this crew. Of course, the Shaykh would have already apprised them of that fact.

Arsenov switched on his flashlight again and they saw heading toward them an oared boat, heavily laden, lying low in the water. There were two men and a stack of crates; there would be more crates on the fishing boat. Arsenov glanced at his watch; he hoped they could finish before first light.

The two men nosed the prow of the rowboat up onto the shingle and got out. They didn’t waste time with introductions, but as they had been ordered to do, they treated Zina as if she was known to them.

With great efficiency, the four of them offloaded the crates, piling them up neatly in the back of the van. Arsenov heard a sound, turned and saw that a second rowboat had pulled up onto the shingle and knew then that they’d beat the dawn.

They loaded Magomet’s corpse onto the first rowboat, now otherwise empty, and Zina gave the crew members the order to dump it when they were in the deepest water. They obeyed her without question, which pleased Arsenov. Obviously, she’d made an impression on them when she’d supervised the delivery of the cargo to them.

In short order, then, the six of them moved the rest of the crates into the van. Then the men returned to their boats as silently as they had disembarked from them and, with a push from Arsenov and Zina, began their return journey to the fishing boat.

Arsenov and Zina looked at each other. With the arrival of the cargo, the mission had suddenly taken on a reality it hadn’t had before.

“Can you feel it, Zina?” Arsenov said as he put his hand on one of the crates. “Can you feel the death waiting there?”

She put her hand over his. “What I feel is victory.”

They drove back to the base where they were met by the other members of the cadre, who through the judicious application of peroxide dye and colored contact lenses had now been utterly transformed. Nothing was said concerning the death of Magomet. He had come to a bad end and this close to their mission none of them wanted to know the details—they

had more important things on their minds.

Carefully, the crates were unloaded and opened, revealing compact machine pistols, packs of C4 plastique explosive, HAZMAT suits. Another crate, smaller than the others, contained scallions, bagged, bedded in shaved ice. Arsenov gestured to Akhmed, who donned Latex gloves and removed the crate of scallions to the van that had printed on it Hafnarfjördur Fine Fruits & Vegetables. Then the blond and blue-eyed Akhmed climbed into the van and drove off.

The last crate was left for Arsenov and Zina to open. It contained the NX 20. Together, they looked at it, the two halves lying innocently inside their molded foam bed, and thought of what they’d been witness to in Nairobi. Arsenov looked at his watch. “Very soon now the Shaykh will arrive with the payload.”

The final preparations had begun.

Just after nine A.M., a van from Fontana Department Store pulled up at the service entrance on the basement level of Humanistas, Ltd. where it was halted by a pair of security guards. One of them consulted his daily work sheet and even though he saw on it a delivery from Fontana for Ethan Hearn’s office, he asked to see the bill of lading. When the driver complied, the guard told him to open the back of the van. The guard climbed in, checked off each item on the list, then he and his partner opened every carton, checking the two chairs, credenza, cabinet and sofa bed. All the doors on the credenza and cabinet were opened, the interiors inspected, the pillows on the sofa and chairs lifted. Finding everything in order, the security guards handed back the bill of lading and gave the driver and his delivery partner directions to Ethan Hearn’s office.

The driver parked near the elevator and he and his partner unloaded the furniture. It took them four trips to get everything up to the sixth floor, where Hearn was waiting for them. He was only too pleased to show them where he wanted each piece of furniture, and they were just as pleased to receive the generous gratuity he handed them when their task was completed.

After they left, Hearn closed the door and began to transfer the stacks of files that had built up beside his desk into the cabinet in alphabetical order. The hush of a well-run office fell over the room. After a time, Hearn rose and went to the door. Opening it, he found himself face to face with the woman who had accompanied the man on the stretcher into the building late yesterday.

“You’re Ethan Hearn?” When he nodded, she held out a hand. “Annaka Vadas.”

He took her hand briefly, noting that it was firm and dry. He recalled Khan’s warning and he put an innocently quizzical look on his face. “Do we know each other?”

“I’m a friend of Stepan’s.” Her smile was dazzling. “Do you mind if I come in, or were you just leaving?”

“I do have an appointment in”—he glanced at his watch—“a little while.”

“I won’t take up much of your time.” She walked to the sofa bed and sat, crossing her legs. Her expression, as she stared up at Hearn, was alert and expectant.

He sat in his chair and swiveled it around to face her. “How may I help you, Ms. Vadas?”

“I think you’ve got it wrong,” she said brightly. “The question is how may I help you?”

He shook his head. “I don’t think I understand.”

She looked around the office, humming to herself. Then she leaned forward, her elbows on her knee. “Oh, but I think you do, Ethan.” That smile again. “You see, I know something about you even Stepan doesn’t.”

He stitched that quizzical look back onto his face, spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness.

“You’re trying too hard,” she said shortly. “I know you’re working for someone else as well as for Stepan.”

“I don’t—”

But she’d put a forefinger across his lips. “I saw you yesterday in the garage. You couldn’t have been there for your health, and even if you were, you were far too interested in the proceedings.”

He was too stunned even to formulate a denial. And what was the point? he asked himself. She’d made him, even though he thought he’d been so very careful. He stared at her. She was, indeed, beautiful, but she was even more formidable.

She cocked her head. “It isn’t Interpol you work for—you don’t have their habits. CIA, no, I don’t think so. Stepan would know if the Americans were trying to penetrate his organization. So who then, hmm?”

Hearn wouldn’t say; he couldn’t. He was only terrified that she already knew—that she knew everything.

“Don’t look so ashen, Ethan.” Annaka rose. “I don’t care, really. I simply want an insurance policy in case things turn sour here. That insurance policy is you. For now, let’s just call your treachery our little secret.”

She had crossed the room and gone out the door before Hearn could think of a reply. He sat for a moment, immobile with shock. Then, at last he got up and opened the door, looking this way and that up and down the corridor to make certain she was really gone.

Then he closed the door, walked over to the sofa bed and said, “All clear.”

The cushions lifted up and he put them on the wall-to-wall carpet. When the plywood panels that covered the bed mechanism began to stir, he reached down and lifted them out.

Underneath, instead of the mattress and bed frame, lay Khan.

Hearn realized that he was sweating. “I know you warned me, but—”

“Quiet.” Khan climbed out of the space that was no larger than a coffin. Hearn cowered, but Khan had more important things on his mind than corporal punishment. “Just make sure you don’t make the same mistake twice.”

Khan walked to the door, put his ear against it. All that could be discerned was the background hum of the offices on the floor. He was dressed in black trousers, shoes, shirt and waist-length jacket. To Hearn, he looked a good deal bulkier in the upper body than he had the last time they’d met.

“Put the sofa bed back together,” Khan ordered, “then return to work as if nothing had happened. You have a meeting soon? Make sure you go to it and that you’re not late. It’s imperative that everything appear normal.”

Hearn nodded, dropping the plywood panels into the well of the sofa bed, then replacing the cushions. “We’re on the sixth floor,” he said. “Your target’s on the fourth floor.”

“Let’s see the schematics.”

Hearn sat down at his computer terminal and brought up the schematics for the building.

“Let me see the fourth floor,” Khan said, bending over his shoulder.

When Hearn brought it up, Khan studied it carefully. “What’s this?” he asked, pointing.

“I don’t know.” Hearn tried zooming in. “It looks like blank space.”

“Or,” Khan said, “it could be a room adjacent to Spalko’s bedroom suite.”

“Except there isn’t a way in or out,” Hearn pointed out.

“Interesting. I wonder if Mr. Spalko made some alterations his architects knew nothing about.”

Having memorized the floor plan, Khan turned away. He’d gotten all he could from the schematic; now he needed to see the place for himself. At the door he turned back to Hearn. “Remember. Get to your appointment on time.”

“What about you?” Heard said. “You can’t get in there.”

Khan shook his head. “The less you know, the better.”

The flags were out in the endless Icelandic morning, filled with brilliant sunshine and the mineral scent of the thermal springs. The elaborate aluminum scaffold of a large dais had been set up and wired for sound at one end of Keflavik Airport, which Jamie Hull, Boris Illyich Karpov and Feyd al-Saoud had determined was the most secure space on the grounds. None of them, even Comrade Boris, it seemed, was happy about their respective leaders appearing in such a public forum, but in this all the heads of state were of a like mind. It was imperative, they felt, not only to show their solidarity in a public manner but also to show their lack of fear. They all knew the risk of assassination when they took their positions, were acutely aware of how that risk had escalated exponentially when they had ag

reed to the summit. But they all knew the risk of death was a component of their work. If you set out to change the world, inevitably there would be those who would stand in your way.

And so on this morning of the start of the summit, the flags of the United States, Russia and the four most influential Islamic nations rippled and cracked in the biting wind, the front of the dais had been draped with the carefully fought-over logo of the summit, armored security was in place around the perimeter, snipers placed high up at every possible strategic sight line. The press had come from every nation in the world; they had been required to show up two hours in advance of the press conference. Journalists had been methodically screened, their credentials checked, their fingerprints taken and scanned through various databases. Photographers had been warned not to load their cameras ahead of time because they needed to be X-rayed on site, each film cannister examined, every one of the photographers themselves observed while they loaded their cameras. As for cell phones, they were confiscated, meticulously tagged and kept outside the perimeter, to be retrieved at the end of the press conference by their respective owners. No detail had been overlooked.

As the president of the United States made his appearance, Jamie Hull was at his side, along with a brace of Secret Service agents. Hull was in constant contact with every member of his contingent as well as the other two heads of security via an electronic earbud. Just behind the U.S. president came Aleksandr Yevtushenko, president of Russia, accompanied by Boris and a cadre of grim-faced FSB agents. Behind him were the leaders of the four Islamic states, with the respective heads of their security services.

The crowd as well as the press surged forward only to be kept back from the front of the dais the dignitaries had now mounted. The microphones were tested, the television cameras went live. The U.S. president took the microphone first. He was a tall, handsome man with a prominent nose and the eyes of a watchdog.