The Bourne Enigma (Jason Bourne 13)

But what to do now? The FSB agent, blue stubble and all, was making his way through the thickening cross-currents toward her. Instinctively, she backed away, then remembered her suitcase, took a step toward it, and saw an emaciated teenager snatch it up and vanish into the crowd before she could even sound an alarm. Anyway, in this maelstrom what would constitute an alarm that would make people stop and take notice? How loud would she have had to scream, and for how long?

Thinking that the kid needed what was inside more than she did, she continued backing away. But she was having more difficulty than the FSB man was. He seemed at ease eeling his way through the currents with the least amount of pushback, while she seemed enmeshed in the tentacles of an octopus that kept slowing her, impeding her progress.

She felt her breath coming more quickly, more shallowly. The short breaths only increased her anxiety. Dimly, she was aware that her state of mind was heading in the wrong direction. The more anxious she was the worse her decision making would be. And yet as Blue-Stubble continued to gain ground on her, she could not help herself. Not for the first time since her dreadful wedding night she wished Boris was with her. She wished she had confided in him, instead of seeking to play him. She wished she had told him she loved him more. Above all, she wished she had taken the time to appreciate him. But she had done none of those things, and now tears clouded her eyes, and she thought, Dear God, what next?

What was next froze her. Continuing to back up, she ran right into a stone wall—or, in this case, a man’s rock-solid chest. At once, she flinched away, but she was too late. His powerful arms clamped around her torso.

“Zdravstvuyte, Svetlana,” an unknown male voice said in her ear. “Dobro pozhalovaty v vash nova dom.” Hello, Svetlana. Welcome to your new home.

—

“Stand back!” Dr. McGuire said.

Reluctantly, Sara let go of Amira’s hand. The girl’s lips had turned blue. She did not look as if she was breathing.

“Martha, what’s happening?” Sara said.

“Vasovagal syncope,” the surgeon said. She appeared unperturbed. “It’s quite common, you know. Fainting at the sight of blood or a needle and such. The body overreacts to certain triggers. Heart rate and blood pressure drop precipitously.”

“Do something,” Sara said anxiously.

Dr. McGuire smiled. “There’s nothing to do. She’ll come out of it on her own.” She gestured as Amira’s chest heaved and she began to stir. “You see. It’s as I said.”

Amira’s eyes fluttered open. Sara smiled at her. “You’re fine. Don’t worry. You’re fine.”

“Keep talking to her while I start the transfusion,” Dr. McGuire said. “The sooner she gets the blood the better.”

Amira lifted her forearm off the bed and Sara took her hand. At once, Amira’s fingers clamped around hers. They were damp and clammy. Leaning over, Sara wiped the sweat off her forehead.

“What happened?” Amira asked.

“You passed out.” Sara broadened her smile, masking her concern. Was Amira out of the woods? Was Martha telling the truth? She would just have to trust the surgeon. “It’s a common thing,” she said, echoing what Martha had told her.

All hooked up, the blood began to flow from the assistant into Amira’s arm. The surgeon’s face relaxed as she monitored the flow. Sara took that as a good sign, and she, too, relaxed somewhat.

But now Amira’s expression had clouded over and, worried again, Sara said, “What is it? Are you in pain?”

Amira shook her head. “Come closer,” she whispered.

Sara sat on the edge of the table, her face close to that of the young woman. An entire world seemed to swim in her large, dark eyes. Questions, answers, unknowns, solutions, and, above all, disappointments. Her father, Sara thought.

“Rebeka,” Amira husked, “I’ve done a terrible thing.”

“Then you must forgive yourself, Amira.”

“I can’t, I…” Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes.

“Rebeka, her blood pressure is spiking,” Dr. McGuire called from the other side of the table. “Please keep her calm.”

Sara, wiping away the girl’s tears, said, “Have you killed someone?”

“No,” Amira said in a weak voice.

“Well, I have, and I’ve found a way to forgive myself.” Sara kissed her cheek. “So you must find the strength inside yourself to do the same.”

“But I lied to Uncle Samson.” She meant Bourne.

Something formed in the pit of Sara’s belly, but she showed none of this sudden inner turmoil, only smiled. “It can’t be so bad.”

“But it is.”

Amira began to struggle against the tubes and needles, as if she wanted to rise up and flee the surgery, flee her own treachery. Placing her hands firmly on the girl’s shoulders, Sara held her down.

“Why would you lie to Uncle Samson?”

“I was afraid, Rebeka.”

“Of what?”

“I was afraid Uncle Samson would hate me.”

“That would be impossible. You know that, don’t you? Uncle Samson loves you unconditionally.”

This brought more tears. “I’m so ashamed.”

“Shhh,” Sara crooned, pressed her lips briefly to the girl’s forehead. “Calm yourself, Amira.”

“I can’t!” the girl wailed.

“Then tell me the truth. Tell me what you couldn’t tell Uncle Samson.”

Amira stared up at her. Color was already returning to her face. “You won’t hate me?”

“I can’t hate you,” Sara said, grinning. “I don’t know you well enough.”

A bubble of laughter escaped Amira’s mouth. For a moment, the two women were joined in the unrestrained joy that was the main gift of humor. Then the bubble—like all bubbles—burst, leaving the terror of what, until now, Amira had left unsaid.

“Rebeka,” she said, “I told Uncle Samson my brother, El-Amir, worked at CloudNet sat TV.”

“And he doesn’t? So what? I don’t understand.”

Amira stared up at Sara, her eyes pleading. “He did work there. He learned a great deal, worked his way up the ladder. All that’s true enough. But…but he’s not working there anymore.” She swallowed hard, almost choking until Sara lifted her head a little. She took a breath, gathering herself. “Last year, he disappeared. Without a word, he left his job, his wife, everyone. No one could find out what had happened to him. Until, a week before his murder, my father discovered that El-Amir had been secretly attending a mosque in the suburbs of Brighton, where over the course of months he was radicalized.”

She stopped, seemingly exhausted. When she began again, she appeared to be talking as much to herself as to Sara. “How? How could this happen? El-Amir is so smart, so clever. How could he let…?” Her eyes closed momentarily. “The shame of it, Rebeka. I can’t bear it.” Her breathing had become so labored that Dr. McGuire, shooing Sara away, took her blood pressure, her pulse, listened to her heartbeat, her tongue clucking rhythmically against the roof of her mouth.

“You must leave now,” she said. “My patient needs more than rest—she needs sleep. I am going to introduce a mild sedative.”

“No!” Amira cried. “Wait! Please!”

With the drug drawn into a syringe, Dr. McGuire looked at her askance. “You are under my care. Therefore—”

“Just a minute,” Amira pleaded.

“Martha,” Sara said. Her heart went out to this girl. “One minute.”

Dr. McGuire made a show of pulling her cuff back to reveal her wristwatch. “Begin,” she said.

Amira returned her attention to Sara. “Listen to me. I think the real reason my father was killed was because he discovered that El-Amir had joined Ivan Borz. That he was directing all the videos, using the techniques he’d learned at school and at CloudNet.”

“How did Feyd find out?”

“He traced the money El-Amir was sending us back to a man named Mik, in Moscow. Mik is a middleman,

a—my father told me the Russian word—vos-something.”

Sara could see the great money circle forming as if it were a tantric wheel. “A vosdushnik,” she said, her heart beating fast. Amira’s truth was important. More important than the girl could know. “A man who makes dirty money disappear into thin air.”

“Yes, that’s it. Through Boris, my father found out that this Mik is tied to Ivan Borz. That’s the last thing my father found out. Three days later, he was killed.” She swallowed. “And there’s something else.”

“Time,” Dr. McGuire looked up, but Sara stopped her from injecting the sedative into Amira’s bloodstream.

“Please, Martha.”

Dr. McGuire sighed and stood back, but watched her patient with a sternness that was crystal clear.

Sara knew she was on borrowed time. She leaned closer, her ear almost touching the shell of the girl’s ear. “What? Amira, what else do you want to tell me?”

Amira stared up at her with frightened eyes, whispered, “My father betrayed General Karpov.” The tip of her tongue swiped across her dry lips. “We had money trouble, as I told you. The houseboat. General Karpov set up a note for us to pay off over time, at a non-Sharia bank. But our neighbors next door bought the note. They wanted both slips. They threatened to kick us out if we didn’t pay in full within the month. My father found another paymaster.”

“Who, Amira? Who was he?”

“I… I don’t know.” Her eyes began to lose focus.

“Enough.” Dr. McGuire, normally a mild enough woman, shouldered Sara away, injected Amira with a powerful sedative.

“Amira,” Sara said, “are you sure you don’t know the paymaster’s name?”

“I swear, Rebeka. Please believe me.”

“I do, sweetheart. You rest now.”

Amira shook her head, but it seemed as if her thoughts had lost their edge, as she was drawn under by the tide of the sedative. Then, abruptly, they snapped back to life. “Please, oh, please promise me you won’t let any harm come to my brother.” Her eyes were losing focus, but she was still agitated, struggling against the sedative’s increasingly powerful current. “Rebeka, promise me!”

“I promise,” Sara whispered.

Amira sighed deeply, her eyes fluttered closed, and her breathing turned deep and slow. Sara watched her for some time. The peacefulness in her expression was profound. After a short while, she tiptoed out.

39

Bourne, his mind rising slowly and drunkenly into consciousness from the abyss into which it had plummeted, felt as if his head was stuffed with congealing cement. Thinking was difficult, putting words together to form a sentence impossible.

He was lying down; that was as much as his twilit senses told him at the moment. He turned his head, saw a very fit man dressed in a khaki outfit that looked vaguely military. He sat back on a tilting chair that from time to time creaked as he moved, his long legs extended, ankles crossed one over the other, the heels of his boots resting on a metal desktop.

To his utter astonishment, he saw his own face watching him, a half smile on his slightly curved lips.

“Surprise, Jason! Arise to meet yourself!” the man said in an uncannily accurate imitation of Bourne’s voice.

The lips, though, Bourne realized, those lips were not his—they were a bit too thin. A subtle difference, not likely to be detected by anyone who didn’t know him intimately, a minute pool. Nevertheless, theatrical makeup made them precisely the same color; they would pass muster at a cursory glance or with someone who didn’t know him well. Now, as his vision cleared further, he saw the man was wearing prosthetics to alter the shapes of his nose and cheeks, colored contact lenses in order to mimic Bourne’s own eye color. Again, they would do for everything but close-up scrutiny.

“But now I’m getting ahead of myself.” The man—who could only be Ivan Borz—folded his legs, scooted his chair across the floor to where Bourne lay.

“Where am I?” Bourne croaked.

“A question for another day.” Borz smiled down with the strange benevolence a hunter shows a hare caught in his trap. “After you have answered all of mine.”

Bourne’s mouth was horribly dry. Borz appeared to notice this, but didn’t offer anything to drink. In fact, he poured himself a glass of ice water from a pitcher on a small, square table beside his left hand, drained it slowly. He put the empty cup down, smacked his lips.

“Okay, now. I just have to indulge my curiosity. How badly are you hurting? General Karpov was a friend of yours. A good friend, I’m given to understand by multiple contacts. What are the odds, eh?” His smile widened, showing large, vulpine teeth. “Gone but not forgotten. At least not by me. His death set you on this road, his death brought you to me.”

His eyes flicked over to Bourne. “My men have determined you’re not carrying any concealed weapons. Having hurled your Glock and its noise suppressor at me, not very accurately, I’d say you’ve got nothing.” He chuckled. “But I digress.”

With a wicked half smile, he watched Bourne start to thrash around on the trestle table. “Getting your motor skills back, I see. Admirable recovery time, I must say.” He nodded. “Your attempts to get up are useless, however. You’re quite steadfastly bound to the mast—like Odysseus, yes?” He sighed. “Sometimes, it’s all about the classics. Which is a shame, because these days there’s so little time to read.”

Tilting his head, he said, “But again, I digress.” His smile was restrained and yet, in a purely theatrical manner, seemed to consume the space around him. “I’ve heard so much about your eidetic memory, even seen it at work.” He crossed his burly arms across his chest. “But you don’t remember a bit of it, do you, Jason? Where was it? you’re asking yourself right about now. Where did I meet this man—a man I can’t remember for the life of me?

“In the end, it might come to that.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “But first let me see if I can help you. We met in a city. But which one? A place where you felt a strong sense of déjà vu upon arrival: Paris, Zurich, London, Budapest, Cambridge, Beijing? Or might it have been a city in the Middle East—Doha, for instance? Beirut, Damascus, Jerusalem. Or maybe—maybe even Moscow. Moscow would be ironic, wouldn’t it? Any of them ringing a bell?” He grunted. “I didn’t think so.”

He tapped his cheek. “Wherever it was, you taught me the basics of becoming a human chameleon, not only through theatrical makeup and prosthetics, but altering voice pitch, speech patterns, gait, and the incline of the torso standing or sitting. ‘Mannerisms, Bobby’—you used to call me Bobby, remember? But of course you don’t. When it comes to memory you’re as useless as a store window mannequin. I hated when you called me Bobby; I much preferred Rob.

“In any event, you’d teach me: ‘Mannerisms, Bobby, will make you or break you when you’re out in the field. Someone from the opposition might find your eyes, nose, or mouth familiar, but if your mannerisms don’t match, he’ll pass you by, forget you in an instant. When the opposition is looking for you, Bobby, mannerisms become a matter of life and death.’”

Borz poured himself another glass of water, drank it more slowly, as tantalizing droplets of condensation slithered down the sides. During this deliberate act of withholding he never took his color-corrected eyes from Bourne’s. “So,” he said at length, “do you remember even a phrase of that particular lesson?”

Bourne said nothing, understanding that Borz not only reveled in the sound of his own voice, but felt compelled to answer his own questions. The more Bourne lengthened his verbal leash the more accurate his psychological assessment would be. Understanding the enemy was the first step in the steep climb to defeating him. But, of course, there was another reason for his silence. He was desperately trying to fit something about Borz into the picture the terrorist was painting for him. He had received his undergraduate degree in hiding in plain sight during his rigorous Treadstone training, but the rest—the graduate and postgrad diplomas—he earned on his own, after his

violent break with Treadstone. He had no memory of this man or of teaching him—or anyone—the techniques of being a human chameleon. Even more baffling, he couldn’t think of a reason why he would have.

Borz’s grin was as awful to look at as a slab of bloody meat. “No? I didn’t think so.” He shrugged, a deliberately theatrical gesture. “I’d say it’s a pity, but your ignorance provides an opportunity to open up the box of this episode in your past and show you what’s inside.”

It had taken Bourne this long to make sense of his surroundings: a long, narrow room, whitewashed and nearly barren. Across from him was an old-fashioned, leaded-paned window. But beyond there was nothing of value: just the wood-plank wall of an adjacent structure. No tree, no patch of sky, not even a leaf was visible. The air didn’t stink of antiseptic or disinfectant, so he could rule out a hospital or a clinic. In fact, it had nothing about it of a municipal building. On the contrary, he picked up the scents of sandalwood, sandy earth, the ubiquitous dust of a barren landscape. No animal smells whatsoever, so rule out a farm. Likewise, the subtle scents of the desert were nowhere in evidence.

Wherever he was, it didn’t seem like anywhere in or near Cairo. Not knowing how long he had been unconscious, he could be virtually anywhere on earth, save the Poles.

Borz suddenly hunched forward. “I can feel that brain of yours working up a sweat, Jason, as if it were a nuclear reactor nearing critical mass.” He laced his fingers together as he rested his wrists on his knees. “So. Where did we meet? Was it any of those cities I mentioned, or none of them? Does it even matter? Rob and Jason. Yes, those were the days.” His eyes grew hard. “At least they were until you betrayed me.”