The Bourne Objective (Jason Bourne 8)

A large rat, terrified by the noise, leapt blindly at Arkadin’s face. Arkadin swung at it and missed. He rolled away, grabbed one of the torches, and thrust it out wildly. The rat leapt away, scrambling across Idir’s slumped body. The flames caught its tail, the rat screamed, and so did Idir, whose robes were now alight and burning with an acrid stench. Staggering to his feet, he slapped wildly at the flames with his good arm, but staggered, off balance, and fell against the plinth. His head struck the statue of Baal, knocking it off the generator housing. It shattered against the floor.

Rising, Bourne ran toward Idir, but the greedy flames had already engulfed him, making it impossible to get close. The sickening stench of roasting meat, the bright burst of flames, and then an ominous ticking counting down the three minutes of life they had left.

Arkadin swung his arm around and fired, but Bourne had moved behind Idir, and the burst of gunfire went wide. The flaming torch was fast guttering. Scooping up one of the torches, Bourne ran back into the doorway to the corridor. Under cover, he drew the Beretta. He was about to fire back when he glimpsed Arkadin on his hands and knees, scrabbling about in the rubble of the shattered statue. He picked out an SDS memory card, brushed it off, and, rising, stuck it into the appropriate slot of the laptop.

“Leonid, leave it,” Bourne shouted. “The laptop is a fake.”

When there was no response, Bourne called Arkadin’s name again, this time more urgently. “We have just over two minutes to find our way out of here.”

“So Idir would have us believe.” Arkadin sounded distracted. “Why would he tell us the truth?”

“He was terrified for the life of his son.”

“In the land of the blind,” Arkadin shot back, “there is no incentive to tell the truth.”

“Leonid, come on! Let it go! You’re wasting time.”

There was no response. The moment Bourne showed his face in the pentangle, Arkadin fired at him. His torch sparking and sputtering near its end, Bourne sprinted back up the corridor the way they had come. Halfway along, the torch guttered and died. He threw it aside and kept on, his eidetic memory guiding him unerringly to the base of the spiral staircase.

Now it was a matter of outrunning the clock. By his estimation, he had less than two minutes to get out of the house before the C-4 exploded. He reached the top of the staircase, but there was no light. The door was closed.

Returning to the bottom of the stairs, he grabbed another torch, lit it, and sprinted back up to the top. Twenty seconds wasted. A minute and a half remaining. At the top of the staircase, he held the torch up to the door. It had no handle on this side. Not even a lock marred its smooth surface. But there must be a way out. Leaning in, he ran his fingertips around the edge where the door met the jamb. Nothing. On all fours he probed the lintel, found a small square that gave to the pressure of his fingertip. He jumped away as the door opened. Just over a minute left to find his way through the maze of concentric circles and out the front door.

Along the curving corridor he went, fast as he could, holding the torch high. The electric lights had been extinguished when Idir had thrown the switch turning off the generator. Once he paused and thought he could hear footsteps echoing behind him, but he couldn’t be certain, and he pressed on, spiraling outward, ever outward toward the skin of the house.

He went through the two open doors and was in what he was sure must be the last of the corridors. Thirty seconds to go. And then the front door was ahead of him. Reaching it, he hauled on the handle. The door wouldn’t budge. He battered on it, to no avail. Cursing under his breath, he turned back, staring down the windowless, doorless corridor. “Everything in the house is an illusion,” Tanirt had told him. “This is the most important advice I can give you.”

Twenty seconds.

As he passed close to the outer wall, air stirred at the side of his head. There were no vents, so where was it coming from? He ran his hand over the wall, which, he surmised, must be the outside wall of the house itself. Using his knuckles, he rapped on the wall, listening for an anomalous sound. Solid, solid. He moved farther back down the corridor.

Fifteen seconds.

And then the sound changed. Hollow. Standing back, he slammed the heel of his shoe into the wall. It went through. Again. Ten seconds. Not enough time. Thrusting the torch into the ragged hole, he set it afire. The flames ate up the paint and the board behind it. Dropping the torch, he covered his head with his arms and dived through.

Glass shattered outward, and then he was rolling in the street, picking himself up and running, running. Behind him, the night seemed to catch fire. The house ballooned outward, the shock wave of the explosion lifting him off his feet, hurling him against the wall of the building across the street.

At first he was struck deaf. He picked himself up, staggered against the wall, and shook his head. He heard screaming. Someone was screaming his name. He recognized Soraya’s voice, then saw her running toward him. Badis was nowhere to be seen.

“Jason! Jason!” She ran up to him. “Are you all right?”

He nodded but, examining him, she was already shrugging off her coat. Ripping off a sleeve of her shirt, she bound his bleeding hands.

“Badis?”

“I let him go when the house blew.” She looked up at him. “The father?”

Bourne shook his head.

“And Arkadin? I made a circuit of the building and didn’t see him.”

Bourne looked back at the fierce blaze. “He refused to leave the notebook and the ring.”

Soraya finished bandaging his hands, then they both watched what was left of the house being consumed by the fire. The street was deserted. There must have been hundreds of eyes watching the scene, but none of them was visible. No Severus Domna soldier appeared. Bourne saw why. Tanirt was standing at the other end of the street, a Mona Lisa smile on her lips.

Soraya nodded. “I guess Arkadin finally got what he wanted.”

Bourne thought that must, after all, be true.

31

DIDN’T I TELL YOU,” Peter Marks said crossly, “that I didn’t want to see anyone.”

It was a rebuke, not a question. Nevertheless, Elisa, the nurse who had been looking after him ever since he’d admitted himself to Walter Reed Army Medical Center, appeared unfazed. Marks lay in bed, his wounded leg bandaged and hurting like poison. He had refused all painkillers, which was his prerogative, but much to his annoyance his stoicism hadn’t endeared him to Elisa. This was a pity, Marks thought, because she was a looker as well as being whip-smart.

“I think you might want to make an exception for this one.”

“Unless it’s Shakira or Keira Knightley I’m not interested.”

“Just because you’re privileged enough to wind up here doesn’t give you the right to act like a petulant child.”

Marks cocked his head. “Yeah, why don’t you come over here and see what it’s like from my point of view?”

“Only if you promise not to molest me,” she said with a sly smile.

Marks laughed. “Okay, so who is it?” She had a gift of excavating him out of even his darkest mood.

She came over and plumped up his pillow before elevating the top half of the bed. “I want you to sit up for me.”

“Shall I beg, too?”

“Now, that would be nice.” Her smile deepened. “Just make sure you don’t drool on me.”

“I have so few pleasures here, don’t take that away from me.” He grimaced as he pushed himself farther up the bed. “Christ, my ass is sore.”

She made a show of biting her lip. “You make it so easy for me I can’t bring myself to humiliate you even more.” She came over and, taking a brush from a side table, neatened his hair.

“Who is it, for Christ’s sake?” Marks said. “The fucking president?”

“Close.” Elisa went to the door. “It’s the defense secretary.”

Good God, Marks thought. What can Bud Halliday want with me?  But it was Chris Hendricks who walked through the door. Marks fairly goggled. “Where’s Halliday?”

“Good morning to you, too, Mr. Marks.” Hendricks shook his hand, pulled over a chair, and without taking off his overcoat sat down beside the bed.

“Sorry, sir, good morning,” Marks stammered. “I don’t… Congratulations are in order.”

“That’s the spirit.” Hendricks smiled. “So, how are you feeling?”

“I’ll be up and about in no time,” Marks said. “I’m getting the best of care.”

“I have no doubt.” Hendricks placed one hand over the other in his lap. “Mr. Marks, time is short so I’ll cut right to the point. While you were overseas Bud Halliday tendered his resignation. Oliver Liss is incarcerated and, frankly, I don’t see him getting out anytime soon. Your immediate boss, Frederick Willard, is dead.”

“Dead? My God, how?”

“A topic for another day. Suffice it to say that with all this sudden upheaval, a power vacuum has formed at the top of the pyramid, or one of them, anyway.” Hendricks cleared his throat. “Like nature, the clandestine services abhor a vacuum. I have been following the systematic dismantling of CI, your old bailiwick, with something of a jaundiced eye. I like what your colleague did with Typhon. In this day and age, a black-ops organization manned by Muslims focused on the extremist Muslim world seems a rather elegant solution to our most pressing ongoing problem.

“Unfortunately, Typhon belongs to CI. God alone knows how long it will take to right that ship and I don’t want to waste time.” He hunched forward. “Therefore, I’d like you to head up a revitalized Treadstone, which will take up Typhon’s mission. You will report directly to me and to the president.”

Marks frowned deeply.

“Is something the matter, Mr. Marks?”

“Everything’s the matter. First off, how on earth did you hear about Treadstone? And second, if you’re as enamored of Typhon as you claim, why haven’t you contacted Soraya Moore, Typhon’s former director?”

“Who said I haven’t?”

“Did she turn you down?”

“The relevant question,” Hendricks said, “is whether you’re interested.”

“Of course I’m interested, but I want to know about Soraya.”

“Mr. Marks, I trust you’re as impatient to get out of here as you are with your questions.” Hendricks rose, crossed to the door, and opened it. He nodded, and in walked Soraya.

“Mr. Marks,” Secretary Hendricks said, “it’s my pleasure to introduce you to your co-director.” As Soraya approached the bed, he added, “I’m quite certain the two of you have many matters, organizational and otherwise, to discuss, so if you’ll excuse me.”

Neither Marks nor Soraya paid him the least bit of attention as he stepped out of the room, closing the door softly behind him.

Well, look who the wind blew in!” Deron stepped out of his doorway as Bourne came in. As soon as Bourne was inside, Deron gave him a huge hug. “Dammit, man, you’re worse than a will-o’-the-wisp, first I see you, then I don’t.”

“That’s the idea, isn’t it?”

Then he glanced down at Bourne’s bandaged hands. “What the fuck?”

“I had a run-in with something that tried to eat me.”

Deron laughed. “Well, you must be okay then. Come on in.” He led Bourne into his house in Northeast Washington. He was a tall, slim, handsome man with skin the color of light cocoa. He had a clipped British accent. “How about a drink or, better yet, something to eat?”

“Sorry, old friend, no time. I’m flying out to London tonight.”

“Well, then, I’ve got just the passport for you.”

Bourne laughed. “Not this time. I’m here to pick up the package.”

Deron turned and looked at him. “Ah, after all this time.”

Bourne smiled. “I’ve finally found the proper home for it.”

“Excellent. The homeless make me sad.” Deron took Bourne through the rambling house and into his enormous studio, fumey with oil paint and turpentine. There was a canvas on a wooden easel. “Take a look at my newest child,” he said before disappearing into another room.

Bourne came around and took a look at the painting. It was almost finished—enough, anyway, to take his breath away. A woman in white, carrying a parasol against a burning sun, walked in high grass, while a young boy, possibly her son, looked on longingly. The depiction of the light was simply extraordinary. Bourne stepped in, peering closely at the brushstrokes, which matched perfectly those of Claude Monet, who had painted the original La Promenade in 1875.

“What do you think?”

Bourne turned. Deron had returned with a hard-sided attaché case. “Magnificent. Even better than the original.”

Deron laughed. “Good God, man, I hope not!” He handed Bourne the case. “Here you are, safe and sound.”

“Thanks, Deron.”

“Hey, it was a challenge. I forge paintings and, for you, passports, visas, and the like. But a computer? To tell you the truth the composite housing was a bitch. I wasn’t sure I’d gotten it quite right.”

“You did a great job.”

“Another satisfied customer,” he said with a laugh.

They began to drift back through the house.

“How’s Kiki?”

“As ever. She’s back in Africa for six weeks working to improve the locals’ lot. It’s lonely here without her.”

“You two should get married.”

“You’ll be the first to know, old man.” They were at the front door. He shook Bourne’s hand. “Ever get up to Oxford?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.”

“Give the Grand Old Dame my regards.”

“I will.” Bourne opened the door. “Thanks for everything.”

Deron waved away his words. “Godspeed, Jason.”

Bourne, on the night flight to London, dreamed that he was back in Bali, at the top of Pura Lempuyang, peering through the gates that framed Mount Agung. In his dream he saw Holly Marie moving slowly from right to left. As she passed in front of the sacred mountain, Bourne began to run toward her and, as she was pushed, he caught her before she could fall down the steep, stone steps to her death. Holding her in his arms, he looked down on her face. It was Tracy’s face.

Tracy shuddered and he saw the jagged shard of glass impaling her. Blood inundated her and ran over his hands and arms.

“What’s happening, Jason? It’s not my time to die.”

It wasn’t Tracy’s voice that echoed in his dream; it was Scarlett’s.

London greeted him with an uncharacteristically brilliant, crisp, blue morning. Chrissie had insisted on picking him up at Heathrow. She was waiting for him just outside of security. She smiled as he kissed her on the cheek.

“Baggage?”

“Only what I’m carrying,” Bourne said.

Linking arms with him, she said, “How very nice to see you again so soon. Scarlett was so excited when I told her. We’ll have lunch up at Oxford and then pick her up from school.”

They walked to the car park and got into her battered Range Rover.

“Old times,” she said, laughing.

“How did Scarlett take the news about her aunt?”

Chrissie sighed as she pulled out. “About as well as could be expected. She was a complete wreck for twenty-four hours. I couldn’t go near her.”

“Children are resilient.”

“That, at least, is a godsend.” After winding her way out of the airport, she got on the motorway.

“Where is Tracy?”

“We buried her in a very old cemetery just outside Oxford.”

“I’d like to go straight there, if you don’t mind.”

She gave him a quick look. “No, not at all.”

The drive to Oxford was quick and silent, both Bourne and Chrissie lost in thought. In Oxford they stopped at a florist. At the cemetery, she turned in and parked the SUV. They got out and she led him throu

gh the ranks of headstones, some very old indeed, toward a spreading oak tree. A brisk wind was blowing from the east, ruffling her hair. She stood slightly back while Bourne approached Tracy’s grave.

He stood for a moment, then lay the bouquet of white roses at the foot of the stone. He wanted to remember her as she had been the night before her death. He wanted to remember only their intimate moments. But for better or for worse, her death had been the most intimate of moments between them. He didn’t think he’d ever forget the sensation of her blood on his hands and arms, a crimson silk scarf being drawn across them. Her eyes looking up at him. He had so wanted to hold on to the life that was draining out of her. He heard her voice whispering in his ear and his vision clouded. His eyes burned with tears that welled but would not spill over. How he wished he could feel her breathing beside him.

Then he felt Chrissie’s arm around him.

Scarlett, breaking away from a gaggle of her schoolmates, ran into his arms. He picked her up and whirled her around.

“I went to Aunt Tracy’s funeral,” Scarlett said with a child’s terrible gravity. “I wish I had known her better.”

Bourne hugged her tight. Then they all got into the Range Rover and, at his request, drove over to Chrissie’s office at All Souls College, a large, square room with windows that overlooked the ancient college grounds. It smelled of old books and incense.

While Bourne and Scarlett settled themselves on the sofa Chrissie used to grade papers, she made tea.

“What do you have in the briefcase?” Scarlett asked.

“You’ll see,” Bourne told her.

Chrissie came over with the tea service on an antique black japanned tray. Bourne waited patiently while she poured the tea, but Scarlett squirmed until her mother offered her a sweet biscuit.