Page 48 of The Bourne Legacy (Jason Bourne 4)

  Khan regarded him for a long time, but the tension had been broken, some Rubicon had been crossed. “If you’d been there, you would’ve been killed, too.”

  He turned away without another word, and as he did so, Bourne saw Dao in his eyes and knew that in some profound way the world had changed.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Reykjavik, like any other civilized place on earth, had its fair share of fast food restaurants. Each day these establishments as well as the more upscale restaurants received shipments of fresh meats, fish, vegetables and fruit. Hafnarfjördur Fine Fruits & Vegetables was one of the main suppliers to the fast-food industry in Reykjavik. The company’s van that had pulled up to the Kebab Höllin in City Centre early that morning with a delivery of leaf lettuce, pearl onions and scallions was one of many that had fanned out through the city on their daily rounds. The crucial difference was that, unlike all the others, this particular van had not been dispatched by Hafnarfjördur Fine Fruits & Vegetables.

  By early evening all three sites of the Landspitali University Hospital were besieged by people who were increasingly ill. Doctors admitted these patients in alarming numbers even as they ran tests on their blood. By dinnertime the results confirmed that the city had a virulent outbreak of hepatitis A on its hands.

  Health department officials frenziedly went to work to deal with the burgeoning crisis. Their job was hampered by several important factors: the quickness and severity of the onset of the particularly virulent strain of the virus, the complexities associated with trying to track which foodstuffs might be involved and where its source might be, and unspoken but much on their minds was the intense worldwide spotlight trained on Reykjavik by the international summit. High on their list of suspect foods were scallions, the culprits in the recent outbreaks of hepatitis A in the United States, but scallions were fairly ubiquitous in the local fast food chains, and of course they couldn’t rule out meats or fish.

  They worked into the twilit night, interviewing the owners of every company that specialized in fresh vegetables, sending their own staff out to inspect the warehouses, storage containers and vans of each firm, including Hafnarfjördur Fine Fruits & Vegetables. However, much to their surprise and dismay, they found nothing amiss, and as the hours swept by, they were forced to admit that they were no closer to finding the source of the outbreak than when they had started.

  Accordingly, just after nine P.M., health department officials went public with their findings. Reykjavik was under a hepatitis A alert. Because they hadn’t yet found the source of the infection, they put the city under quarantine. Over all their heads was the specter of a full-blown epidemic, something they could not afford with the terrorism summit beginning and the entire world’s attention focused on the capital. In their television and radio interviews, the officials sought to reassure an uneasy public that they were taking every measure to gain control over the virus. To that end, they said repeatedly, the department was devoting its entire staff to the ongoing safety of the public at large.

  It was just before ten P.M. when Jamie Hull walked down the hotel corridor to the president’s suite in a high state of agitation. First, there was the sudden outbreak of hepatitis A to worry about. Then he was summoned to an unscheduled briefing with the president.

  He looked around and saw the Secret Service men who were guarding the president. Farther down the corridor were the Russian FSB and Arab security guarding their leaders, who, for the sake of security and the ease of housing their staffs, had been assigned to one wing of the hotel.

  He went through the door guarded by a pair of Secret Service guards, huge and impassive as sphinxes, and into the suite. The president was prowling restlessly back and forth, dictating to a pair of his speechwriters as the press secretary looked on, scribbling hurried notes on a tablet computer. Three more Secret Service men stood by. They were keeping the president away from the windows.

  He cooled his heels without protest until the president dismissed the press people, and like mice, they scurried off to another room.

  “Jamie,” the president said with a big smile and an extended hand. “Good of you to come.” He squeezed Hull’s hand, gestured for him to sit, then took a seat across from him.

  “Jamie, I’m counting on you to help bring this summit off without a hitch,” he said.

  “Sir, I can assure you that I have everything under control.”

  “Even Karpov?”

  “Sir?”

  The president smiled. “I heard that you and Mr. Karpov have been going at it pretty good.”

  Hull swallowed hard, wondering if he’d been brought in to be fired. “There was some minor friction,” he said tentatively, “but that’s all in the past.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” the president said. “I’m having enough difficulties with Aleksandr Yevtushenko as it is. I don’t need him pissed off at me over a slight to his number-one security chief.” He slapped his thighs and rose. “Well, showtime is eight o’clock this morning. There’s still a lot to prepare for.” He stuck out his hand as Hull rose. “Jamie, no one knows better than I how perilous this situation might become. But I think we’re agreed that there’s no turning back now.”

  Outside in the corridor Hull’s cell phone rang.

  “Jamie, where are you?” the DCI barked in his ear.

  “I just came out of a briefing with the president. He was pleased to hear that I have everything under control, including Comrade Karpov.”

  But instead of sounding pleased, the DCI forged on in a tense urgent tone. “Jamie, listen to me carefully. There’s another aspect to this situation, which is given strictly on a need-to-know basis.”

  Hull automatically looked around and walked quickly out of earshot of the Secret Service guards. “I appreciate your confidence in me, sir.”

  “It concerns Jason Bourne,” the DCI said. “He wasn’t killed in Paris.”

  “What?” For a moment Hull lost his composure. “Bourne’s alive?”

  “Alive and kicking. Jamie, just so we’re on the same page, this call, this conversation, never happened. If you ever mention it to anyone, I’ll deny it ever took place and I’ll have your ass in a sling, are we clear?”

  “Perfectly sir.”

  “I have no idea what Bourne is going to do next, but I always believed that he was heading your way. He may or may not have killed Alex Conklin and Mo Panov, but he sure as hell killed Kevin McColl.”

  “Jesus. I knew McColl, sir.”

  “We all did, Jamie.” The Old Man cleared his throat. “We can’t allow that act to go unpunished.”

  All at once Hull’s rage vanished, to be replaced by a sense of high elation. “Leave it to me.”

  “Use caution, Jamie. Your first order of business is keeping the president safe.”

  “I understand, sir. Absolutely. But you can be sure that if Jason Bourne shows up, he won’t leave the hotel.”

  “Well, I trust he will,” the Old Man said. “Feet first.”

  Two members of the Chechen cadre were waiting in front of the Reykjavik Energy van when the health services vehicle, dispatched to the Oskjuhlid Hotel, came around the corner. The van was parked crosswise in the street and they had placed orange plastic work cones around and seemed hard at work.

  The health services vehicle came to an abrupt halt.

  “What are you doing?” one of the health services people said. “This is an emergency.”

  “Fuck you, little man!” one of the Chechen answered in Icelandic.

  “What did you say?” The irate health services worker climbed out of his vehicle.

  “Are you blind? We have important work here,” the Chechen said. “Use another fucking route.”

  Sensing a situation that could turn ugly, the second man got out of the health services vehicle. Arsenov and Zina, armed and intent, emerged from the back of the Reykjavik Energy van and herded the suddenly cowed health services workers into the van.

  Arsenov and Zina and one

other member of the cadre arrived at the delivery entrance to the Oskjuhlid Hotel in the hijacked vehicle. The other Chechen had taken the Reykjavik Energy van to pick up Spalko and the remainder of the cadre.

  They were dressed as government employees and presented the health department ID tags that Spalko had procured at great expense to the security detail on duty. When queried, Arsenov spoke in Icelandic, then changed to halting English when the American and Arab security people couldn’t understand him. He said that they had been sent to ensure that the hotel kitchen was free of hepatitis A. No one—least of all the various security teams—wanted any of the dignitaries to come down with the dread virus. With all due dispatch, they were admitted and directed to the kitchen. This was where the cadre member went, but Arsenov and Zina had other destinations in mind.

  Bourne and Khan were still scrutinizing the schematics of the various Oskjuhlid Hotel subsystems when the pilot announced that they were landing at Keflavík Field. Bourne, who had been pacing back and forth while Khan sat with the laptop, reluctantly took his seat. His body ached horribly, which the aircraft’s cramped seating had only exacerbated. He’d tried to put on hold the feelings that had come up in connection with finding his son. Their conversations were awkward enough as it was, and he had the distinct impression that Khan would instinctively shy away from any strong emotion he might show.

  The process of working toward a reconciliation was immensely difficult for both of them. Still, he suspected, it was worse for Khan. What a son needed from his father was far more complex than what a father needed from his son in order to love him unconditionally.

  Bourne had to admit that he was afraid of Khan, not only of what had been done to him, of what he had become, but of his prowess, his cleverness and ingenuity. How he had escaped from the bolted room was a marvel in and of itself.

  And there was something else as well, a stumbling block to their accepting each other and perhaps eventually reconciling, which dwarfed all the other obstacles. In order to accept Bourne, Khan had to give up everything his life had been.

  In this Bourne was correct. Ever since Bourne had sat down next to him on the park bench in Old Town Alexandria, Khan had been a man at war with himself. He still was, the only difference being that now the war was in the open. As if staring into a rear-view mirror, Khan could see all the opportunities he’d had to kill Bourne, but it was only now that he understood that his decision not to take them had been deliberate. He couldn’t harm Bourne, but he couldn’t open his heart to him either. He remembered the desperate urge he’d felt to launch himself at Spalko’s men at the rear of the clinic in Budapest. The only thing that had stopped him was Bourne’s warning. At the time he’d put his feelings down to his desire for revenge against Spalko. But now he knew that it stemmed from another emotion entirely: the devotion one family member has for another.

  And yet, to his shame, he realized that he was afraid of Bourne. He was a fearsome man in strength, endurance and intellect. Being near him, Khan felt somehow diminished, as if whatever he’d managed to accomplish in his life was as dust.

  With a roll, a bump and a brief squeal of rubber, they were down and taxiing off the active runway toward the far end of the airport, where all private aircraft were directed. Khan was up and heading down the aisle to the door before they had come to a halt.

  “Let’s go,” he said. “Spalko already has at least a three-hour start on us.”

  But Bourne had also risen and was standing in the aisle to oppose him.

  “There’s no telling what’s waiting for us out there. I’ll go out first.”

  Immediately, Khan’s anger, so near the surface, flared. “I told you once—don’t tell me what to do! I have my own mind; I make my own decisions. I always have and I always will.”

  “You’re right. I’m not trying to take anything away from you,” Bourne said with his heart in his mouth. This stranger was his son. Everything he said or did around him would have exaggerated consequences for some time to come. “But consider, up until now you’ve been alone.”

  “And whose fault d’you think that is?”

  It was difficult not to take offense, but Bourne did his best to defuse the accusation. “There’s no point in talking of blame,” he said equally. “Now we’re working together.”

  “So I should just concede control to you?” Khan answered hotly. “Why? D’you for a minute think you’ve earned it?”

  They were almost to the terminal. He could see just how fragile their detente was.

  “It would be foolish to believe that I’ve earned anything with you.” He glanced out the window at the bright lights of the terminal. “I was thinking that if there’s a problem—if we’re walking into some kind of trap—I’d rather it be me than you who—”

  “Have you not listened to anything I’ve told you?” Khan said as he shouldered past Bourne. “Have you discounted everything I’ve done?”

  By this time the pilot had appeared. “Open the door,” Khan ordered him brusquely. “And stay onboard.”

  The pilot dutifully opened the door and dropped the stairs down to the tarmac.

  Bourne took one step down the aisle. “Khan—”

  But the glare from his son stopped him in his tracks. He watched from the Perspex window as Khan went down the stairs and was met by an Immigration official. He saw Khan show him a passport, then point to the aircraft. The immigration official stamped Khan’s passport and nodded.

  Khan turned and trotted up the steps. When he came down the aisle, he withdrew a pair of handcuffs from under his jacket, slapped them on Bourne and then on himself.

  “My name is Khan LeMarc and I’m a deputy inspector for Interpol.” Khan took the laptop under his arm and began to lead Bourne back down the aisle. “You’re my prisoner.”

  “What’s my name?” Bourne said.

  “You?” Khan pushed him out the door, following closely behind. “You’re Jason Bourne, wanted for murder by the CIA, the Quai d’Orsay and Interpol. It’s the only way he’d admit you to Iceland without a passport. Anyway, he, like every other official on the planet, has read the CIA circular.”

  The Immigration official stood back, giving them a wide berth as they walked past him. Khan unlocked the cuffs as soon as they were through the terminal. Out front, they got into the first taxi in the queue and gave the driver an address that was within a half-mile of the Oskjuhlid Hotel.

  Spalko, the refrigerated box between his legs, sat in the passenger’s seat of the Reykjavik Energy van as the Chechen rebel drove through the streets of City Centre toward the Oskjuhlid Hotel. His cell phone rang and he opened it. It wasn’t good news.

  “Sir, we were successful in closing off the interrogation room before the police or firemen entered the building,” his head of security said from Budapest. “However, we’ve just completed an exhaustive sweep of the entire building without finding a sign of either Bourne or Khan.”

  “How is that possible?” Spalko said. “One was strapped down and the other was trapped in a room filled with gas.”

  “There was an explosion,” his security chief said, and he went on to describe in detail what they’d found.

  “Goddammit!” In a rare display of anger Spalko slammed his fist against the console of the van.

  “We’re expanding the search perimeter.”

  “Don’t bother,” Spalko said shortly. “I know where they are.”

  Bourne and Khan walked toward the hotel.

  “How are you feeling?” Khan asked.

  “I’m fine,” Bourne replied a little too quickly.

  Khan glanced at him. “Not even stiff and sore?”

  “All right, I’m stiff and sore,” Bourne conceded.

  “The antibiotics Oszkar brought you are state of the art.”

  “Don’t worry,” Bourne said. “I’m taking them.”

  “What makes you think I’m worried?” Khan pointed. “Take a look at that.”

  The perimeter of the hotel was cor

doned off by the local police. Two checkpoints manned both by police and by security personnel of various nationalities were the only ways in and out. As they watched, a Reykjavik Energy van pulled up to the checkpoint at the rear of the hotel.

  “That’s the only way we’re going to get in,” Khan said.

  “Well, it’s one way,” Bourne said. As the van went through the checkpoint, he saw a pair of hotel employees walking out from behind it.

  Bourne glanced at Khan, who nodded. He’d seen them, too. “What d’you think?” Bourne said.

  “Going off-duty, I’d say,” Khan replied.

  “That was my thought.”

  The hotel employees were talking animatedly to each other and paused only long enough to show their IDs as they went through the checkpoint. Normally, they would have driven into and out of the hotel, using the underground car park, but since the security services had arrived, all hotel personnel were obliged to park on the streets surrounding the hotel.

  They shadowed the two men as they turned down a side street, out of sight of the police and guards. Waiting until they neared their cars, they took them down from behind, silently and swiftly. Using the keys, they opened the trunks, placed the unconscious bodies inside, taking the hotel IDs before slamming the trunks closed.

  Five minutes later they appeared at the other checkpoint in the front of the hotel so as not to come into contact with the policeman and security people who had checked the two hotel workers as they’d walked out.

  They passed through the security ring without incident. At last they were inside the Oskjuhlid Hotel.

  The time had come to sever Arsenov, Stepan Spalko thought. The moment had long been brewing, ever since he found that he could no longer bear Arsenov’s weakness. Arsenov had once said to him, “I’m no terrorist. All I want is for my people to receive their due.” Such a childish belief was a fatal flaw. Arsenov could delude himself all he wanted, but the truth was that whether he was asking for money, for prisoners returned, or for his land back, he was marked a terrorist by his methodology not by his aims. He killed people if he didn’t get what he wanted. He targeted enemies and civilians—men, women, children—it made no difference to him. What he was sowing was terror; what he would reap was death.