Page 29 of The Bourne Ascendancy (Jason Bourne 12)

  “He’s dead.” Aashir bit his lip. It was clear that was all he was prepared to say about it now, possibly forever.

  “Aashir, look at me,” Bourne said. “I’m sorry for your loss. I’m sorry you’ve had to carry this terrible burden.”

  This produced in the boy a smile, both grateful and rueful. “Strange. It doesn’t seem so terrible, now someone else knows.”

  Then, at last, Aashir allowed himself to cry.

  * * *

  Hunter’s midnight-blue ’72 Chrysler Imperial barreled down the Virginia highway on its way to Dulles International Airport. The windows were open, the Imperial’s speed was redlining, and Hunter seemingly had no worries about being picked up by the highway patrol’s radar.

  Beside her, Camilla stared straight ahead as her future came rushing toward her at light speed.

  “What are you thinking?” Hunter said.

  “I’m thinking about Kettle—the dinger.”

  “And here I was hoping you were thinking about staying here.”

  “And do what?” Camilla shifted in her seat. “Anselm and Finnerman have their claws too deeply in me.”

  “Well, at least you have Kettle’s real name and photo. Hopefully you’ll be able to ID him before—” She broke off, biting her lip.

  Camilla shot her a sidelong glance, but Hunter would not meet her eye.

  Traffic had thickened, and for a time Hunter concentrated on her driving. There was a lot of weaving going on, as other drivers stared or honked their horns. It wasn’t every day you got to see a cherry 1972 Imperial doing ninety-five in rural Virginia.

  “Now that I know you’re really going, do you have any curiosity what Terrier and I have in mind for you?”

  Camilla shook her head.

  “What does that mean?”

  “That conversation was part of another life.”

  Hunter turned to her. “You mean you don’t want to know what it is?”

  “That’s exactly what I mean.”

  Hunter maneuvered the Imperial smartly around a truck. “I don’t get you.”

  “We’re not the same people who met for the first time last week, are we? I don’t want to be involved in whatever you had planned in Singapore.”

  “Never say never.” Hunter opened her handbag, took out a buff-colored envelope, dropped it on Camilla’s lap.

  Camilla stared down at it, frowning. “What is this?”

  “Read it on the plane. If you decide to. If not, go into the ladies’ room at the Singapore airport, burn it, and flush the ashes down the toilet. Will you do that? Yes? Okay.” Hunter pressed the accelerator all the way to the floorboard. “You’re ready for takeoff.”

  42

  You stink,” Islam said, the moment he entered the room.

  “And whose fault is that?”

  Soraya watched Sonya run to him, watched as he gathered her up in his arms, lifting her over his head until she began to giggle.

  “How about a shower?” he said to Soraya as he cradled Sonya in the crook of one arm.

  “I’d like that,” Soraya said. “We’d both like that.”

  He took them out of the room, down the hall lined with El Ghadan’s men, their faces wrapped in headscarves, their dark eyes revealing nothing. These young men with their grim silence, their lack of affect, their oiled assault rifles still chilled her. They were only babies.

  Islam ushered them through the second door on their right—a larger space than the toilets, and brighter. It was wider than it was long. Shower stalls lined the rear of the room, tiled and blessedly clean. A stack of thick towels sat folded atop one wooden stool, piles of clean clothes on another.

  “I estimated sizes for both of you,” Islam said, setting Sonya down.

  “Thank you.” Soraya turned to him. “May we have some privacy?”

  “I’m afraid I have to stay,” Islam said. Then, unexpectedly, his eye crinkled, indicating that he was smiling at her. “But I will turn my back so long as you promise not to hit me again.”

  Soraya surveyed him for a moment. “I promise. Neither Sonya nor I will hit you.”

  His smile broadened. “There’s soap, shampoo, and plenty of hot water.” Then he turned away, facing the door.

  Warily at first, then more rapidly, Soraya undressed her daughter, then herself. Taking Sonya by the hand, she led her into one of the showers, which was large enough for three adults. The hot water was sheer ecstasy, and for a time she reveled in it, before she got down to work, soaping up Sonya’s little body, washing her hair. Then, because Sonya asked to, she squatted down so her daughter could wash her hair.

  “You shouldn’t be in here with us,” Soraya said as she scrubbed herself down.

  “I shouldn’t be doing a lot of things,” Islam said, “but my life does not run along those lines. I have no wife, no children. My job is to wage war. Injustice is all I know.”

  “Now you sound full of self-pity.”

  He stiffened. “Not self-pity. Rage.”

  Soraya placed a soap bubble on the tip of Sonya’s nose, making her laugh. “You’ve been brought up on rage.”

  “Injustice breeds rage. Assaults on our homeland, occupation by infidels, the contamination of Western consumerism, while we are forced into mountain and desert retreats. How would Sonya respond to these violations? How would she react to being oppressed? Don’t even respond. You can’t know the answer, you can’t even imagine it.”

  Soraya finished her shower in silence, knowing he was right.

  * * *

  Bourne, Ivan Borz, Aashir, and the five Chechen soldiers came down from the mountains without incident. Borz had sent two of his men ahead as advance scouts, but they had seen nothing untoward. There was no sign of Taliban activity. Behind them, the caves looked like cavities in an otherwise healthy mouth. They had the sad look of abandonment, of temporary homes, unloved and unwanted, occupied only by the restless spirits of the forgotten dead.

  They spent more than half a day on their trek. Occasionally they would pause for a brief rest. Even the mighty Chechens seemed near the end of their rope. The deaths of so many of their compatriots had worked its black magic on them. They were sullen and dispirited. All except Borz, who seemed as light and buoyant as a birthday balloon. At each rest stop, he opened a map, studying it in relation to the terrain that surrounded them.

  “You know where we are,” Bourne said at one point.

  “Absolutely.” Borz made no secret of the map. “Once we were across the border and into the caves we were all right. The Waziri knew where to take us.”

  “They didn’t betray us,” Bourne said.

  “I know. It’s a pity Faraj shot them.” By his tone it was clear he didn’t think it was a pity at all. Rather, it was a complication Faraj’s rage had done away with.

  “Where are we headed?” Bourne asked.

  “Here.” Borz’s forefinger stabbed out, indicating a spot on the map. “Not so far now.” He looked up at the darkening sky. The sun seemed to have an aversion to this part of Afghanistan. The terrain was cloaked in a perpetual twilight; they seemed to be floating between worlds.

  “No point in coming on our destination at night.” Borz folded the map and put it away. “We’ll make camp here and set out at first light.”

  They settled in, backs to rocks, the Chechens taking turns standing guard. Bourne noted they used infrared night-vision goggles to pierce the darkness. Borz had certainly been telling the truth when he said he profited by America’s wars. Those goggles were American-designed and -manufactured.

  They ate their meager rations, too exhausted to know exactly what it was they were chewing. It didn’t matter as long as it provided sustenance. At last, they settled down to shallow sleep, but for Bourne the night wore on, the minutes draining away so slowly his thoughts flickered among them like comets streaking in the darkness of space. He didn’t want to sleep; he wanted to get on with it. There was no time to waste.

  He was all too aware of the

hours passing, of the sluggishness of their progress. The beginning of the summit was only a day away now, and here he was embedded in a terrorist cadre whose objective was also the summit. This, at least, had been his working premise ever since he recognized the blueprints on Borz’s desk. But Borz was not divulging any information, and Bourne knew better than to push him too hard. That would only cast suspicion his way—the last thing he needed from the Chechen leader.

  But time, his implacable enemy from the start of the mission El Ghadan had forced on him, was fast becoming Soraya’s and Sonya’s executioner. For the first time, he wondered whether he would be able to save them, whether he had taken the right path after all. But the fact was, he could not think of a reasonable alternative—either then or now. There was only faith left to him, faith that the path both he and Borz were on would lead to Singapore quickly now.

  “Yusuf,” Borz said, as he sat down beside Bourne, “satisfy my curiosity. When did you make your first kill?”

  Bourne stared up at the uncountable stars, their brightness banishing all concerns, all negative thoughts; they would only get in his way. “I try not to think about it.”

  “But surely you remember.”

  “I remember everything,” Bourne lied. “That’s why I try not to think about it.”

  “Death becomes me,” Borz said after a small silence. “There is a silence just after someone dies—a special silence I cherish.”

  Bourne’s ears pricked up. “Why?”

  “It’s only in that silence I feel truly alive.”

  * * *

  They made their destination just before midday. They sky was clear, the temperature elevated. The scouts hadn’t seen a soul. The blasted landscape they passed through was devoid of all life; they might as well have been treading on the dark side of the moon.

  Dust coated them. It had gotten into everything, including their mouths and noses. The taste was like medicine forced on them to stem a sickness. The Chechens had come out of their lethargy into a state of perpetual impatience. This led to irritation, which led to anger. They snapped at each other, their iron discipline crumbling in the face of the hostile environment. It was as if the air they breathed was hour by hour changing them, turning them against themselves. Once, Aashir intervened, breaking up a fight over an alleged slight. Another time, Borz, holding Aashir back, allowed two men to go at it, trusting that their rage would be spent by violence. He was wrong. The bitterness remained, festering like a plague to which all of them had been exposed. Bourne kept an eagle eye on Aashir, but the boy seemed to have shaken off the effects of the concussion. In fact, Aashir did his best to keep the Chechens relatively calm and sane by telling them stories of djinns, living dust devils, and talking serpents. Bourne was impressed not only by his initiative but by how he inveigled the disgruntled men to listen to him. He wasn’t even Chechen, but he won the affection of death-hardened men.

  The cadre crested a rise, trekked across a plateau so barren they all felt vulnerable to a sudden attack, and so Borz hurried them along. At the far end of the plateau, the terrain dropped into a wide depression, in the center of which was a large item covered with camouflage netting.

  “Here we are!” Borz cried, loudly enough for all of his men to hear. They were in need of encouragement.

  While two Chechens stood watch, Borz directed the three remaining soldiers to cut away the netting. An Antonov An-140 twin-engine turboprop crouched, awaiting their arrival. The plane had a capacity of fifty-two people and a maximum range of a bit over sixteen hundred nautical miles. Borz must have felt it expendable, Bourne thought. At nine million dollars, it was a relatively inexpensive aircraft as these things went. An Alenia or an ATR went for about twelve to twenty-six million, but the Antonov was sound enough. How Borz had managed to have it flown here was anyone’s guess.

  At last! Bourne thought. His pulse beat fast in his temples, a rush of blood to his head.

  Borz unlocked the door, climbed in, and his men followed. Bourne, the last one to board, felt a strange premonition come over him as he kicked away the chocks, freeing the wheels. He went up the central aisle to the cockpit. Borz was already in the pilot’s seat, well into his pre-takeoff checklist. Bourne slid into the seat beside him.

  “I don’t have a good feeling,” he said.

  Borz grunted. “You never have a good feeling.” His fingers were flipping switches as he watched for any red lights, assuring himself step by step that the plane was ready. He started up the engines and the cabin started to vibrate. “Look, green lights across the board.”

  Bourne tapped a dial. “The altimeter’s off.”

  “It’s an Antonov,” Borz said. “Fucking Russians. What d’you expect?”

  “I expect everything to be in working order in any plane I fly.”

  Borz turned to him. “For an Arab, you can be quite amusing, Yusuf, you know that?”

  Moments later, they were rolling across the depression. On the far end was a line of trees, dusty, misshapen, brownish green. The Antonov torched the sky, its undercarriage not even close to scraping the treetops.

  “Flight time about fifty-five minutes,” Borz called over the engines’ roar.

  Bourne pulled out his rifle, stripped it down, inspected each piece, put it back together. Borz watched him, but said nothing.

  Just shy of fifty minutes later, Borz began the Antonov’s descent. Bourne, staring out the windscreen, saw them approaching another depression—this one large enough to be termed a valley. In the center, the rocky terrain had been cleared to create a landing field. A long-range jet, fuselage gleaming in the sunlight, stood ready and waiting at one end of the strip. Bourne could make out six armed men. One, scanning the sky with binoculars, raised his assault rifle, pumping it up and down three times.

  “All’s well,” Borz said. He switched the landing lights on and off three times, in response to the signal.

  They had descended far enough that Bourne could see the airstrip was wider than most, could accommodate both the Antonov and the jet at once. Borz made preparations for the landing. He had entered the critical flight path, was beginning his final approach, when the altimeter suddenly dropped precipitously.

  Both men saw it.

  “It’s nothing, Yusuf.”

  But Bourne, his premonition returning at full force, knew Borz was wrong.

  Without another word, he unstrapped himself, knelt at the rear of the cockpit, unlocked the hatch in the floor, and peered in at the tangle of wires and electronic systems.

  “Pull up!” he shouted at once. “Borz, pull up now!”

  43

  Benjamin Landis, code named Kettle, had many attributes that set him apart from his brethren, but possibly the most important was that he looked precisely like the legend given to him by the DOD. He entered Singapore under the name Jack Binder, Inverhalt Fabrications’ Far East regional sales manager. Inverhalt had offices in Washington, Paris, and Mumbai, or so it read on his business card. If anyone was curious enough to telephone these offices they would be put through to a dedicated agent at the DOD Foreign Ops section, but no one had ever called, at least not in Kettle’s memory.

  He was middle-aged, tall, thin, whey-faced, and balding. He also affected the slight stoop of many taller people and the splay-footed gait of someone with fallen arches, which he did not have. Apart from a briefcase filled with Inverhalt information, he traveled without baggage, preferring to buy whatever he needed at his destination.

  Finished with immigration, he went immediately to his airline’s customer service desk and in response to his query was handed a sealed envelope. He headed to the men’s room, where he entered a stall, locking the door behind him.

  Slitting open the envelope, he found a set of car keys, a bill of lading, and a slip of paper containing three lines of electronic type. The first was the location of a vehicle, the second was an address, the third was an alphanumeric code. He memorized them all, then set fire to the paper, flushing the ashy rema

ins down the toilet.

  The Mitsubishi van was waiting for him in the long-term parking lot. In the glove box was the ticket, plus enough local money to cover the cost of parking and much more. He drove out of the lot and the short distance to the freight terminal. A guard checked his bill of lading, stamped it, and directed him to the proper warehouse, where imports were waiting, having cleared customs. Two men in overalls loaded three long rolls wrapped in brown paper into the rear of the van.

  Exiting the airport, he drove to the address he had memorized. He had had several previous briefs in Singapore and so had no need to consult the Google Maps app on his mobile.

  The address was a warehouse—one of a row of them—in the southwestern section of the city. To the left of the corrugated galvanized steel door was an electronic pad into which he punched the alphanumeric code he had memorized. The door rose, and he returned to the van and drove it into the interior, which contained only a black BMW sedan.

  Opening the van’s rear doors, he unwrapped the consignment, which turned out to be rolls of silk from India. The fabric was wrapped tightly around thick cardboard cores, each one of which contained a piece of the sniper’s rifle, scope, and ammo he had had custom made for him.

  He checked the pieces, fitted them together, loaded and unloaded the long gun, then broke it down again. Leaving the keys in the van, he got into the BMW, reached under the floor mat, inserted the key in the ignition, and backed out. He pressed a button on the visor and the steel door slid down into place. Then he turned the car and drove into the golden late afternoon sunlight.

  * * *

  “That’s the last of the press interviews for today,” Howard Anselm said as he handed the Reuters correspondent over to one of Air Force One’s uniformed stewards.

  Even thirty thousand feet in the air, POTUS’s responsibilities never ended. It was the conclusion of a long day, and the president looked particularly haggard, so much so that even Anselm, his mind awhirl with resolving the protocols of four nations, was struck by it. He came into the spacious presidential cabin, closing the door behind him.