The Bourne Ascendancy (Jason Bourne 12)

Anselm swallowed hard. “I…I don’t know what you mean, sir.”

POTUS pressed a key on his mobile, and to his horror Anselm heard his own voice in brief colloquy with Finnerman.

Anselm seemed to have lost control of his eyes. They were rolling in their sockets like caroming pinballs. “Sir, if you’ll only give me a chance to explain. We were trying to protect you from—”

“All explanations have passed their sell-by date,” POTUS said silkily, talking right over Anselm. “Now, you will do precisely what I tell you, no more, no less.”

Anselm nodded numbly, dug in the capacious pocket of his bathrobe, pulled out his mobile, and punched in a speed dial number.

POTUS watched beneath half-closed lids. “What? No answer, Howard?” He snapped his fingers. “Oh, that’s right, Marty Finnerman’s mobile has been confiscated, along with his computer at work and his laptop at his home.” A slow smile, like the sun rising, spread across POTUS’s face. “Your co-conspirator is at this moment in custody—in a solitary holding cell, being interrogated by certain elements of Homeland Security I don’t know about.” The smile continued to spread like honey across toast. “I mean, just between you and me, I do know about them, but, well, you know…”

Slapping his hands on his thighs, POTUS rose. “It’s your turn now, Howard.”

Anselm was almost breathless, as if he were trapped in a room without oxygen. “Look, look, making her a jockey was my idea. Why? So Camilla would be sent for training to the Dairy, where she would be trained by Hunter Worth. Hunter had been on our radar—”

“By ‘our radar,’ just who do you mean, Howard?”

Anselm took a deep breath to try and steady himself. “Gravenhurst.”

POTUS nodded. “The Watchers. But tell me, Howard, who watches the Watchers?”

Preferring not to answer that, Anselm pressed desperately on. “Hunter is a homegrown danger. But she was working with someone. We needed to know whom. So I sent Camilla—”

“It’s Terrier.”

Anselm gaped. “What?”

“Camilla just phoned it in. Hunter’s contact is Vincent Terrier.” Magnus nearly exploded. “One of Finnerman’s most trusted agents, for Chrissakes!”

Anselm went pale. “I didn’t—”

“Shut up, Howard.” For the first time in many months, POTUS’s face seemed devoid of indecision or anxiety. Without taking his eyes from his chief of staff, he held out a hand. “Marie?”

His press secretary handed over a sheet of paper with the presidential seal. “This is a press release, Howard. It describes in detail how the drone program was the brainchild of Marty Finnerman. I’m pinning the program on him. And he’s going to fall on his sword. Why? Because you’re going to convince him it’s in his best interests. And why will you do that, Howard? Because it’s in your best interests.”

“Camilla did what she was supposed to do…I mean, without me—”

“You used her. You put her in harm’s way, you shit.” Magnus handed over another sheet. “Signing this acknowledgment of your complicity in this affair will keep you out of jail, but nothing more. Am I making myself clear?”

Anselm, unable any longer to get his voice to work, nodded shakily.

“Now get out of here.”

Magnus crossed the living room to where a pair of Secret Service agents had been patiently waiting just outside the closed door. “He’s all yours, boys. Treat him the way you’d treat the son of a bitch who just screwed your sixteen-year-old daughter.”

54

Borz took Aashir by the elbow. “Come with me.”

The living area of the warehouse had a narrow catwalk that had once been the province of the supervisor overseeing loading and unloading, but was now rarely used. It was separated from the living area by a thin composite-board wall and a door a rat could waltz through.

When they were out on the catwalk, Borz turned to Aashir. “Yusuf has taught you to shoot the long gun.”

Aashir nodded. “He has.”

“You’re confident in your aim.”

“I am.”

“In killing people.”

“I have done so for you, Borz, have I not?”

The Chechen nodded. “That you have, and very well indeed. You handled the Taliban without fear. Today, you will need all that calmness and courage, Aashir, because once we get inside the Thoroughbred Club you’re not staying with the cadre. I have a special assignment for you, one no one else can know about.”

His gaze studied the young man’s face as if it were a specimen in a killing jar. “I’m trusting you with this assignment, Aashir.” He closed the distance between them. “Am I right in trusting you?”

“You know you are,” Aashir answered.

For a long moment Borz kept up his scrutiny of the young man’s face. Then, as if satisfied, he gave a curt nod. “Bombs are mechanical,” he said. “They sometimes don’t work, or don’t work properly. That’s where you come in. We’re leaving nothing to chance. Our intel is that all the dignitaries will be sitting in the presidential box for the second race.” A cynical smile stole across his face like a sneak thief, and was gone. “The ruling family’s horse will be running in it, and if the past is any guide it will win it.” He closed the distance again, lowered his voice to just above a whisper. “Because the ruling family will be in attendance, each race will go off at exactly the scheduled time, so everything we do has been planned out in advance, timed to precision. I will show you where to go. You’re going to be given the long gun and a roost from which to shoot. You’ll be directly across from the presidential box, far enough so the detonation will not reach you. But your role is essential, you understand?”

Aashir nodded. “Why isn’t Yusuf being given the long gun? He’s the real expert. Don’t you trust him?”

Borz sighed. “Of course I trust him; he saved my life in Waziristan. But I don’t know him the way I knew Furuque. You have been with me for some time. You’re a natural; you’re as good a shot as he is.”

He leaned in. “No one who enters the presidential box will leave it alive. That will be up to you, Aashir. Anyone left alive after the bomb goes off—or if it fails to detonate—you shoot him dead. The American president first, then the Palestinian, then the Singaporean.”

“And then the Israeli?” Aashir said into the small silence.

“The Israeli?”

“Have you forgotten, Borz? The prime minister of Israel.”

“No,” Borz said. “I haven’t forgotten him. An urgent call will summon him at the precise moment. He won’t be in the box when the bomb is detonated.”

* * *

So that’s El Ghadan’s plan, Bourne thought. Assassinate the heads of state, scuttle the peace process for all time, and blame it on the Israelis. The resulting worldwide outcry might well spell the end of Israel. An ear to the composite-board wall delivered the conversation on the catwalk as if he were out there with Borz and Aashir. But there was a further aspect to the plan he hadn’t told Aashir. Of course he hadn’t.

Bourne opened the door, stepped out onto the catwalk.

Borz turned. “Yusuf, what do you want? This is a private conversation.”

“Well, it was.” Bourne came toward the two men. “Why don’t you tell Aashir what his real role in the plan is?”

“You overheard?”

“That wall wouldn’t stop a rubber bullet,” Bourne said.

Borz’s eyes were slitted. He was fairly shaking with rage. “No, no, you deliberately listened in.”

“To protect Aashir.”

“I’ve had enough of your interference. Aashir is off-limits,” Borz said.

Bourne ignored him. “Aashir, listen to me—”

The Chechen leapt at Bourne, a knife in his left hand. Bourne evaded the first strike, struck at Borz’s wrist. The blade, only partially deflected, scored a line down the inside of Bourne’s right forearm, where blood immediately welled.

Out of the corner of his eye Bourne saw A

ashir step in. He hit Borz on the side of the jaw, a clumsy blow that nevertheless twisted Borz’s head and enraged him. Slamming his shoulder into Bourne, Borz grabbed on to the front of Aashir’s uniform and jerked him forward, butting him with his bony forehead, them shoving him back against the railing so hard that Aashir bounced off and right into a powerful blow to the gut. As he doubled over, Borz grasped his head. He was about to pound it into the railing when Bourne buried a fist in his kidney.

Borz’s face screwed up, his torso jackknifed, and Bourne struck down his grip on Aashir. As the young man collapsed onto the catwalk, Bourne drove his knuckles hard into Borz’s ribs. Borz gasped, but still managed to stamp hard on Bourne’s instep, then deliver a one-two combination to his midsection.

Out came the bloodied knife again. He slashed inside, going for Bourne’s throat, and for a moment the two of them were very close, in a kind of tense stasis. Borz’s lips were against Bourne’s ear. “You’re fucked now, Yusuf,” he whispered. He brought his elbow against Bourne’s throat, dug it in with a vicious strength. “Lose all hope, you who enter here.”

He bent Bourne back over the railing and swept inward with the knife blade. But Bourne had worked his hands to the inside. They were now in the narrow space between his body and Borz’s. Grabbing the Chechen’s belt, he lifted him off his feet, lifted him up over his own body. Borz’s elbow was caught between the two men’s chests. He frantically tried to shift it, but Bourne blocked him, and seconds later, the elbow cracked. Bourne heard the joint go with the sound of a rifle shot.

Borz lost control of the knife as he struggled to free himself, but he was too far off the catwalk, his center of balance was too high. He was tipping over. With one last effort, he freed the knife with his good arm, tried to stab Bourne, but it was too late. He had lost his balance, he had no leverage, no power behind the strike.

Then he was upside down, raised by Bourne’s powerful arms, delivered into the air. He seemed to hang for a moment at the level of the catwalk’s railing. He flung out his arms in a vain attempt to grab on, then plummeted down onto the concrete floor of the warehouse.

His skull hit first, broke open like a ripe melon, blood and brains spilling out. Then his spine fractured as the rest of him struck the floor.

* * *

Bourne immediately knelt by Aashir’s side, gathered him in his arms. Blood leaked from Aashir’s nose and he was going in and out of consciousness until Bourne slapped his cheeks, bringing color to them and blood back into his face.

“Are you all right?” Aashir asked.

Bourne laughed. “I should be asking you that.” He grasped Aashir under the arms. “Let’s get you up.”

Aashir, struggling with his balance, leaned against the railing, holding tight. Then he looked around. “Where’s Borz?”

“He went over the side,” Bourne said. “He’s dead.”

“In fact, that’s not true.”

They turned to see that Musa had appeared on the catwalk. His eyes stared straight at Bourne. “You killed the wrong man, Yusuf. That was Nazyr, one of my lieutenants. He was in charge of the Waziristan cadre.”

“One of your lieutenants?” Aashir looked bewildered.

“Musa is the real Borz,” Bourne said. “But I’m wondering why you would want Nazyr to impersonate you?”

“Security.” Borz smiled. “The Mahsud are no different than any other Waziri tribe. They have given me no good reason to trust them. If my deal with them goes sideways I’m not there to take the fallout.”

He shrugged. “Not that any of it matters. Furuque was supposed to be our sniper at the Thoroughbred Club. Then you took over. But the moment you killed Nazyr you betrayed me and this cadre.”

Aashir threw up his hands. “Wait! What are you saying?”

There was a small, easily concealed .25 caliber pistol in Borz’s right hand, and before anyone had a chance to react or even utter another word, he shot Bourne twice in the chest.

Holstering the gun, he glanced at Aashir. “Does that answer your question?”

55

When Camilla arrived at the Singapore Thoroughbred Club with Ohrent she found it much changed. For one thing masses of flowers were everywhere. For another, a colossal specially made construct of the Singapore merlion, the half-land, half-sea beast, symbol of the city-state, had been erected in the center of the main racing oval. For still another, the club was chockablock with security personnel from the three visiting countries. Not to mention that the complement of Singaporean security personal had been beefed up to three times its usual size.

In other words, the place was alive with new faces and activity, even around the stables, which, predictably, was making the horses nervous.

Opening Jessuetta’s stall door, Camilla did her best with voice and hands to calm her to a race-ready state. That was more than could be said for Camilla herself, who had been so unnerved by the events of the previous night, she watched herself as if through someone else’s eyes. With mounting horror, she witnessed her hands trembling as she sought to gentle Jessuetta. Who will gentle me? she asked herself. But there was no one; she was entirely on her own in the field, without backup or a local control she could trust.

“I’m going to take her out for a walk around the track,” she said when Ohrent appeared at the stall.

“You don’t have much time until the weigh-in. When the ruling family is in attendance everything runs like clockwork, not a minute late.”

“Once around the stables paddock. She’s too het up to stay here.”

As she slipped the bit into Jessuetta’s mouth and slid the bridle over her face, Ohrent said in a low voice, “Camilla, come out here for a moment.”

She looked at him, at the grave expression on his face.

He led her into the deep shadows of a far corner, held out a throwing knife in a slim sheath. “Do you know how to use this?”

She nodded.

Ohrent stepped around behind her, fitted the knife between the skin of the small of her back and the waist of her jeans. He came back around, gave her a thin smile.

She studied him. “What really happened last night?”

“Ask me no questions,” Ohrent said, so softly she had to lean in to be sure she heard him.

Camilla was reminded of the parable of the man who always tells the truth and the man who always lies. How do you tell them apart?

* * *

Bourne, who had been on his stomach since being shot by Borz, rolled over, pulled himself up to a sitting position, back braced against the catwalk railing. For a moment he stared at the smear of blood on the catwalk where he had bled from the wound Nazyr’s knife had scored along his arm. He needn’t have bothered, since Borz had ducked inside almost immediately, drawn by a mobile phone call. Aashir, with a look over his shoulder at Bourne, had trailed after him. Within minutes after that, the cadre had cleared out of the warehouse.

Deep pains ricocheted through his chest with every movement he made, so he stopped, spent the next several moments concentrating on deep breathing, to reoxygenate his system. Trauma and shock robbed you of what you needed most.

He looked around for a weapon, but someone—probably Borz—had scooped up Nazyr’s fallen knife. Then he pushed two fingers through the bullet holes in his uniform tunic. Unbuttoning it revealed an aramid vest—lightweight body armor he had been wearing since Zizzy had brought him his belongings out of the hotel room in Damascus.

Reaching down, Bourne pulled out the two .25 caliber bullets, flattened now, from the fabric of the body armor. He dropped them on the catwalk, grimaced as he at last stood up. His chest felt as if he had gone fifteen rounds with a heavyweight boxer.

He staggered into the living area. He had to find a spare tunic, one that wasn’t torn apart by bullet holes, otherwise he’d never get through security at the Thoroughbred Club.

* * *

The morning, clear and blue as a marble, was scorching by the time Borz and his cadre reached the servi

ce entrance to the Thoroughbred Club in the vehicle that had been provided for them. He had meant to station members of the cadre across the street from all the entrances to the club, to shoot patrons at random as they fled, but that was only a peripheral part of the theater. Considering the main objective of the plan, that detail would not be missed. It still would be theater on the grandest of scales.

Ivan Borz had assured him as much. He had been in contact with the real Ivan Borz, safe and sound in his headquarters, a heavily fortified medieval castle overlooking the Caspian Sea, from which he directed all his business. Borz never ventured far outside the Makhachkala area, except on his ninety-eight-foot yacht. He was something of a hermit, possibly even an agoraphobe. Musa—for that was the pilot’s real name—was another of Borz’s trusted lieutenants. He had been with Borz for over a decade, had bloodied his sword—so to speak—in numerous forays for his boss.

Showing their provided ID tags, the cadre passed through security without incident, though the heightened extent of it was perfectly clear. Inside the Thoroughbred Club complex, Musa gave his final instructions to the five members of his cadre and, with a map, sent them on their way.

Then he turned to Aashir, took him in the opposite direction, toward the side of the racetrack opposite the presidential box. The target area was at this moment devoid of anyone save members of the various national security agencies. The rest of the stands were already packed, as the first race was about to begin, and the betting had been fast and furious, as befitting a day when the ruling family was attending.

On the way to the sniper’s roost, Musa drew Aashir aside. “Are you certain you’re up to this?” he asked.

“Of course I am. Why would you ask that?”

“You became close to Yusuf during his time here, but I tell you the man was not to be trusted. It’s far better for everyone that he’s dead.”

Aashir nodded. He was holding a metal container, which contained the long gun, broken down into three sections.

They had attained the service stairs at the rear of the stands. “When you reach the top of the stairs—”