The Bourne Objective (Jason Bourne 8)

Arkadin wiped his mouth again. “North Africa. Interesting. My former partners did a fair amount of business in North Africa. I didn’t like their methods—or, to be honest, the people they were dealing with. That was one of the reasons I decided to buy them out.”

He was quick on his feet, Soraya thought, improvising like crazy. She was liking this conversation more and more.

“What line are you in?” she asked.

“Computers, peripherals, computer services, that sort of thing.”

Right, she thought, amused. She put a thoughtful expression on her face. “Well, I could connect you with some reliable people, if you like.”

“Maybe you and I could do business.”

Bite! she thought with some elation. Time to reel in the shark, but very slowly and very carefully.

“Hm. I don’t know, I’m already near capacity.”

“Then you need to expand.”

“Sure. With what capital?”

“I have capital.”

She eyed him warily. “I don’t think so. We know nothing about each other.”

He set his knife and fork down, and smiled. “Then let’s make getting to know each other our first order of business.” He lifted a finger. “In fact, I have something to show you that just might entice you into doing business with me.”

“And what might that be?”

“Ah-ah-ah, it’s a surprise.”

Calling the waiter over, he ordered two espressos without asking her if she wanted one. As it happened, she did. She wanted her senses to be on full alert because she had no doubt that at some point tonight she would have to fend off his amorous advances in a way that would lead him on, not turn him off.

They chatted amiably while drinking the espressos, finding their way toward feeling comfortable with each other. Soraya, seeing how relaxed he was, allowed herself to relax, as well, at least as far as she was able. Beneath, however, she felt the tension of steel cables singing through her body. This was a man of enormous charm, as well as charisma. She could see how so many women were magnetically drawn into his orbit. But at the same time the part of her that had pulled back, observing at an objective distance, recognized the show he was putting on, and that she was not seeing the real Arkadin. After a time, she wondered whether anyone had. He had so successfully walled himself off from other human beings that she suspected he was no longer accessible even to himself. And at that moment, he seemed to her a lost little boy, long exiled, who could no longer find his way home.

“Well,” he said as he set down his empty cup, “shall we move on?” He threw some bills onto the table and, without waiting for a reply, slid out of the booth. He held out his hand and, after a moment’s deliberate hesitation, she took it, allowing him to swing her out of her seat.

The night was mild, without a breath of a breeze, heavy as velvet drapes. The sky was moonless, but the stars blazed in the blackness. They strolled away from the water, and then north, paralleling the beach. To their right, the light-smear of Puerto Peñasco seemed part of a painting, a world apart.

Streetlights gave way to starlit darkness and then, abruptly, the lights of a large stone structure that looked vaguely religious in nature. She saw the cross set into the stone above the wood-and-iron door.

“It used to be a convent.” Arkadin unlocked the door and stood aside for her to enter. “My home away from home.”

The interior was sparsely furnished, but aromatic with incense and candle wax. She saw a desk, several armchairs, a refectory table and eight chairs, a pew-like sofa festooned with ill-matched pillows. All of it was heavy, dark wood. None of it looked comfortable.

As they walked through the living room, Arkadin lit thick cream-colored candles in iron stands of varying heights. The effect in the convent’s immense stone interior was increasingly medieval, and she smiled to herself, suspecting that he was setting the scene for romance or, in this case, seduction.

He opened a bottle of red wine and poured it into an oversize Mexican goblet, then he filled another with guara juice. Handing her the juice, he said, “Come. This way.”

He led her farther into the gloom, pausing to light candles along the way. The far wall was almost all brick fireplace, as enormous as any in an English baronial hall. She could smell the old ash and creosote coating the firebrick after decades of use and, judging by what she saw, years of neglect.

Now Arkadin lit a particularly large candle and, holding it high as one would a torch, walked toward the shadows of the fireplace. The impenetrable darkness began to give grudging way to the inconstant illumination of the flame.

As the shadows retreated, a shape took form in the fireplace, a chair. And on the chair sat a figure. The figure was bound to the chair by its ankles. Its arms, presumably bound at the wrists, were behind it.

As Arkadin brought the candle still closer, the light from the flame rose up from the figure’s ankles to legs, torso, finally revealing its face, bloody and swollen so badly that one eye had closed.

“How do you like your surprise?” Arkadin said.

The goblet of juice shattered on the floor tiles as it slipped from Soraya’s grip.

The man bound to the chair was Antonio.

It was like a chess match, Bourne staring at the old man, trying to place him as the director of the Centre for the Study of Ancient Documents when he had been in Oxford as David Webb, the old man staring at him more certain with every passing second of Bourne’s identity.

Chrissie was staring at them both, as if trying to figure out which would checkmate the other. “Adam, is my father right? Is your name really David Webb?”

Bourne saw a way out—the only way—but he didn’t like it. “Yes,” he said, “and no.”

“Either way, your name isn’t Adam Stone.” Chrissie’s voice held a metallic edge. “Which means you lied to Trace. She knew you as Adam Stone, and that’s how I know you.”

Bourne turned to look at her. “Adam Stone is as much my name as David Webb used to be. I’ve been known by different names at different times. But they’re only names.”

“Damn you!” Chrissie got up, turned her back, and stalked into the kitchen.

“She’s pretty angry,” Scarlett said, watching him with her eleven-year-old face, beautiful yet not fully formed.

“Are you angry?” Bourne asked.

“You’re not a professor?”

“In fact, I am,” Bourne said. “A professor of linguistics.”

“Then I think it’s cool. D’you have a whole bunch of secret identities?”

Bourne laughed. He liked this child. “When the need arises.”

“Bat-Signal!” She cocked her head, and in the straightforward manner of children, said, “Why did you lie to Mum and Aunt Tracy?”

Bourne was about to say something about Tracy, but just in time reminded himself that as far as Scarlett was concerned her aunt was still alive. “I was in one of my secret identities when I met your aunt. Then Tracy told your mum about me. It was the best way I could get her to listen to me quickly.”

“If you’re not Professor David Webb who the hell are you?” Chrissie’s father said, visibly gathering himself.

“I was Webb when I knew you,” Bourne said. “I didn’t come to Oxford, to you, under false pretenses.”

“What are you doing here with my daughter and granddaughter?”

“It’s a long story,” Bourne said.

A spark of cunning came into the old man’s face. “I’ll bet it has something to do with my older daughter.”

“In a way.”

The old man clenched a fist. “That damn engraving.”

A little chill traveled down Bourne’s spine. “What engraving?”

The old man peered at him curiously. “Do you not remember? I’m Dr. Bishop Atherton. You brought me a drawing of a phrase you said was an engraving.”

And then Bourne remembered. He remembered everything.

Book Three

21

>   ANTONIO SLUMPED IN the furious darkness of the convent’s hearth, a darkness so thick and black it seemed to obliterate not just light, but life itself.

Soraya took several steps toward him, peering into the gloom.

“He’s not your pool boy,” Arkadin said. “That’s clear enough.”

She said nothing, knowing that he had begun to bait her in order to gain information. This, in itself, was a hopeful sign, indicating that Antonio hadn’t talked, despite the beating he’d received.

Deciding that outrage was her best course, she turned on Arkadin. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

When Arkadin smiled it was like a wolf appearing through pine trees. “I like to know who my prospective partners are.” His smile lengthened, like knives being unsheathed. “Especially ones that fall into my lap so conveniently.”

“Partners?” She laughed harshly. “You must be fucking dreaming, my Russian friend. I wouldn’t partner with you for—”

He grabbed her then, pressing his lips against hers, but she was ready for him. She folded herself against him and slammed her knee into his groin. His hands on her trembled for a moment, but he did not let her go. His lupine grin never faltered, but there were tears glittering in the corners of his eyes.

“You won’t get me,” she said softly but icily, “either way.”

“Yes, I will,” he said, just as icily, “because you came here to get me.”

Soraya had nothing to say to this, but she was hoping he was making a stab in the dark, because otherwise she was blown all to hell. “Let Antonio go.”

“Give me a reason.”

“We’ll talk.”

He massaged his groin gently. “We already talked.”

She bared her teeth. “We’ll try another form of communication.”

He put a hand on her breast. “Like this?”

“Untie him.” Soraya tried not to grit her teeth. “Let him go.”

Arkadin appeared to consider her request. “I think not,” he said after several moments of tense silence. “He means something to you, which makes him valuable as leverage.” Reaching into his pocket, he produced a switchblade. It snikked open and, pushing her away, he advanced on Antonio. “What should I cut off first, do you think? Ear? Finger? Or something even lower down?”

“If you cut anything off…”

He turned to her. “Yes?”

“If you cut anything off you’ll never be able to sleep while I’m lying beside you.”

He leered at her. “I don’t sleep.”

She had begun to despair for Antonio’s life when her cell rang. Without waiting for Arkadin to give her permission, she answered it.

“Soraya.” It was Peter Marks.

“Yes.”

“What’s happened?” Intuitive as ever, he’d picked up on the tension in her voice.

She stared into Arkadin’s eyes. “Everything’s hunky-dory.”

“Arkadin?”

“You bet.”

“Excellent, you’ve made contact.”

“More than.”

“There’s a problem, I get it. Well, you’ll have to find your way out of it and fast, because our mission’s become urgent.”

“What the hell is going on?”

“You need to get Arkadin to the following address within seventy-two hours.” Then he recited the address Willard had given him.

“That’s an impossible order to fill.”

“Obviously, but it’s got to be done. He and Bourne have to meet, and that’s where Bourne will be.”

A pinpoint of light appeared in the darkness ahead of her. Yes, she thought, it just might work. “Okay,” she said to Peter, “I’ll put a rush on it.”

“And make sure he takes his laptop with him.”

Soraya let out a breath. “How d’you propose I do that?”

“Hey, that’s why you get the big bucks.”

He rang off before she could tell him to go to hell. With a grunt of disgust, she pocketed her cell.

“Business problems?” Arkadin said in a mocking tone.

“Nothing that can’t be solved.”

“I like your can-do attitude.” Mocking her still, he brandished the switchblade. “Are you going to solve this problem?”

Soraya put a thoughtful expression on her face. “Possibly.” Walking past him, she went into the hearth, where Antonio watched her with the one eye that wasn’t swollen shut. She was shocked to find him grinning at her.

“Don’t mind me,” he said in a hoarse voice, “I’m having fun.”

Without Arkadin being able to see, she put her forefinger to her lips, then pressed it to his. It came away bloody. She turned back to Arkadin. “It all depends on you.”

“I don’t think so. The ball’s in your court.”

“Here’s how this will work.” She emerged back into the flickering candlelight. “You let Antonio go and I’ll tell you how to find Jason Bourne.”

He burst out laughing. “You’re bluffing.”

“When it comes to someone’s life,” she said, “I never bluff.”

“Still, what does an importer-exporter know about Jason Bourne?”

“Simple enough.” Soraya had already worked out her answer. “From time to time, he uses my company as a cover.” This was a plausible enough story to give him reason to believe her.

“And why does an importer-exporter think I care where Jason Bourne is?”

She cocked her head. “Do you?” This was no time to back down or show weakness.

“And what if you’re not what you say you are?”

“What if you’re not what you say you are?”

He waggled a forefinger at her. “No, I don’t think you’re an importer-exporter.”

“All the more intriguing then.”

He nodded. “I confess I like mysteries, especially when they bring me closer to Bourne.”

“Why do you hate him so?”

“He’s responsible for the death of someone I loved.”

“Oh, come on,” she said. “You never loved anyone.”

He took a step toward her, but whether it was a threat or simply to get closer to her was difficult to tell.

“You use people, and when you’re finished with them, you crumple them up like a used Kleenex and throw them in the garbage.”

“And what of Bourne? He’s exactly like me.”

“No,” she said, “he’s not like you at all.”

His smile broadened, and for the first time it was without even a hint of menace or irony. “Ah, finally I have a useful bit of knowledge about you.”

She almost spit in his face, but she realized that would make him even happier, because it would indicate just how close he’d come to the bone.

All at once something seemed to change in him. He reached out and ran his fingertips along the line of her jaw. Then, indicating Antonio with the tip of the switchblade, “Go ahead, untie the stubborn fucker.”

As she entered the hearth one last time and knelt to free Antonio, he added, “I don’t need him anymore. I have you.”

This is how it happened.” Chrissie was standing in the kitchen, facing the window over the sink. There was nothing to see, except the grayness of dawn creeping through the treetops like gauze. She had said nothing when Bourne walked into the room, but she started when she felt him beside her.

“How what happened?” Bourne said into the silence.

“How I came to lie to you.” Chrissie turned on the hot water and, placing her hands in the stream, began to wash them as if she were Lady Macbeth. “One day,” she said, “a year or so after Scarlett was born, I looked in the mirror and said to myself, You have a body that’s been abandoned. Perhaps a man can’t understand. I had abandoned my body to motherhood, which means I had abandoned myself.”

Her hands moved in the water, washing, washing. “From that moment, I began to hate myself, and then, by extension, my life, which included Scarlett. Of course, that was something I cou

ldn’t tolerate. I fought against it and immediately fell into a dreadful depression. My work began to suffer, so obviously that the department chair suggested and then gently but firmly insisted I take a sabbatical. Finally, I agreed, I mean I hadn’t a choice, had I? But when I locked my office door behind me, when I drove out of Oxford, drowsing like Avalon in the mist, I knew something drastic had to be done. I knew it was no coincidence that I had locked myself away in a place that never changed. Like my father, I was safe in Oxford, where everything is pre-planned, pre-ordained, even; where there’s no possibility of even the slightest deviation. That’s why he reacted to Trace’s life choices the way he did. They terrified him, so he lashed out at her. It wasn’t until that day, leaving Oxford behind, that I understood that family dynamic and how it had affected me. It occurred to me that I might have chosen my safe life for him, not for myself.”

She turned off the water and dried her hands on a dish towel. The backs were red and raw looking. “I need to get my family out of here.”

“As soon as a friend shows up we’ll leave,” Bourne said.

“Scarlett.”

“She’s with your father.”

She looked back, almost wistfully, through the doorway into the living room. “Scarlett, at least, loves my parents.” She sighed. “Let’s go outside. I’m finding it difficult to breathe in here.”

Through the kitchen door they emerged into the dewy morning. The air was chill, and when they spoke little puffs of steam emerged from their mouths. The bases of the trees were still black, as if the roots were holding on to the dead of night. Chrissie shivered and wrapped her arms around herself.

“What happened?” Bourne said.

“Nothing that made sense, it was simply blind luck that I met Holly.”

Bourne was startled. “Holly Marie Moreau?”

She nodded. “She was looking for Trace and found me instead.”

Everything in this puzzle seems to return to Holly, he thought. “And you became friends?”

“More than friends, and less,” she said. “I know that doesn’t make much sense.” She shrugged. “I went to work for her.”