Page 32 of The Bourne Ascendancy (Jason Bourne 12)

  “You speak fine Yemeni Arabic for a Persian,” Bourne said.

  “Adaptability. All part of my cover. I can change to other regional dialects. Which would you like to hear? Tunisian, Iraqi, Saudi, Omani—I can even do that Egyptian thing, where they put the ‘shhh’ sound at the end of their words.”

  For a time, then, both men kept up a rapid-fire dialogue, switching dialects every few sentences, following which Aashir, slightly out of breath, laughed softly.

  “We are like two grains of sand from the same desert, Yusuf. So alike and at the same time unlike, no two grains of sand being identical.”

  “When you return home, your father will be proud of your accomplishments.”

  “As long as I keep from him my secret heart.”

  “I assume he doesn’t know where you are.”

  “He’s been searching for me for a long time.” Aashir looked around to make sure no one else was in hearing distance. “No one here knows my real name.”

  “Not even Borz?”

  Aashir let out a breath. “Especially not him. He’s so venal he’d sell me out to my father in the blink of an eye.” He eyed Bourne. “You’re not curious?”

  Bourne shrugged. “Either you’ll tell me or you won’t.” But he was elated. He had suspected who Aashir was almost from the moment the young man began to confide in him. Now he had no doubt; now he knew the path he had chosen was the right one. The way to saving Soraya and Sonya was like a blinking light finally observed on the far horizon.

  “If I decide to tell you, Yusuf, I know you’ll keep it to yourself. I trust you.”

  “I appreciate that, Aashir.”

  The young man leaned toward Bourne, lowering his voice further. “Our family name is Sefavid. We were once a dynasty, the most powerful in Islamic Persia. We brought the Twelver school of Shia Islam to Iran, though our ancient descendants were actually Azerbajiani Sufis. Along with the Ottoman and Mughul, we were one of the so-called gunpowder empires. Our lands stretched from Iran, Iraq, Azerbaijan, of course, Georgia, Afghanistan, all the way to Turkey.” He made a helpless gesture. “And now look at what we have been reduced to. That is the well of bitterness from which my father drinks. It is his faith, his rage, his cause. He kills and, possibly, will be killed for it. This is his life.”

  “But it isn’t yours,” Bourne said.

  “I have no life,” Aashir replied. “I am adrift, a leaf allowing the river to take me where it may.”

  “You can’t live your whole life like that.”

  “But, Yusuf, isn’t that what you are doing?”

  “Do as I say,” Bourne told him, “not as I do.”

  “But why not? You are a good man. Down to your very core—your soul—you are a good man. You understand things the others do not—cannot. It seems to me I could do worse than to follow your lead.”

  “Perhaps. But at some point, you must find your own way.”

  “But, Yusuf, you of all people must know that I don’t trust myself to do that.”

  And with that he pierced the final layer of Bourne’s armor, and found the place Bourne had so successfully hidden from the world.

  * * *

  Out on the pulsing twilight streets of Singapore, Howard Anselm was at last able to take a deep breath, something he had tried and failed to do during what had seemed to him the interminable flight from D.C. to Singapore. Scheduling POTUS’s necessary one-on-one press meetings, hurried meals, calls to the advance party, including Magnus’s Secret Service contingent, all the while revising the summit schedules and fielding requests and/or complaints from the press on board, had driven what humanity he still possessed deep underground.

  The moment POTUS was settled in his suite at the Golden Palace Hotel, overlooking the river that snaked through the heart of the city, he knew he had to get out from under the crush of arrangements and responsibilities, at least briefly, or risk being buried alive.

  He took one of the limousines at the presidential party’s disposal to the edge of the Chinese quarter, then, armed with the slip of paper one of the Secret Service agents had at his request palmed him, he took to the street on foot.

  Now, as he picked his way through jam-packed Chinatown with its riot of bright colors, odd food smells, and myriad shouted voices, he searched for the large sweets stand at the all-night food market. The business he was looking for was well hidden within the sweetshop, an apt incorporation if ever there was one.

  Anselm needed release, both emotional and physical, but the one would not be possible without the other. Which was why he had solicited the address from the Secret Service agent who had been to Singapore. The city-state was the most difficult place in Southeast Asia to find physical relief. It was also the most dangerous. Wickedly strict, the government was notorious for severely punishing even the comparatively minor sins of cursing or spitting in public. Paying for sex was a huge no-no, which didn’t stop Anselm in the slightest. He had an itch he was determined to scratch. Fuck Singapore and its dotty laws. In fact, fuck everyone who wasn’t American.

  It was in this strange mood, an amalgam of lust and aggression, that Anselm came upon the sweetshop. He paused for a moment, stunned at the riotous display of tier upon tier of different types of candies, more than he could ever have imagined. He began to wonder what was waiting for him within.

  The paper he was holding informed him that he should ask for Old Numby. The real name of the proprietor of both businesses was Nem-Pang, but no one had called him that since he was a child. Anselm was just about to ask for Old Numby when his mobile buzzed. He would have ignored it, especially in his current mood, but he recognized the vibration pattern he had set up. Finnerman was calling.

  “POTUS has a problem,” Finnerman said without preamble. “Which means we have a problem.”

  The familiar hollowness, which rendered all voices flat and toneless, meant that the under secretary of defense for policy was using a scrambled line.

  Anselm closed his eyes for a moment, his body swaying slightly from the time change and lack of sleep. He did not want to know about another problem, especially not now.

  “What?” he said because he had no other choice.

  “The opposition have bum-rushed a major Senate hearing on the viability of POTUS’s drone program.”

  Anselm’s eyes snapped open; he was suddenly on the alert. “Overnight? How the fuck did that happen?”

  “Families of the kids killed in the drone strike have leaned hard on their senators and congressmen. And of course, they’ve been joined by the usual lefty suspects. But, Howard, the stink they made went viral—and I mean immediately. Congress had to scramble. And the worst part is there’s bipartisan support for dismantling the program.”

  “Our own party is selling POTUS out?” It was virtually a howl of pain and rage.

  “Elements within, yes.”

  “POTUS will make those fuckers pay.”

  “We all will, Howard,” Finnerman said. “Which is why it’s more vital than ever that we ensure the major incident occurs at the summit. POTUS comes home a hero and the drone problem goes away. You’re on-site. You have to make certain that no one interferes with the dinger. It’s vital Kettle makes his shot.”

  “He will, Marty. You can count on me.” Anselm took a step toward the sweetshop’s promised land. “The plan will go down like clockwork tomorrow. Guaranteed.”

  “It had better,” Finnerman said. “Otherwise, POTUS is going to suffer a most humiliating defeat, which means neither of us will get the war we want and need.”

  Anselm severed the connection, walked into the sweetshop, where he was greeted by a blast of sugar, honey, and whatever the hell else the Chinese used in their candy. Melamine, probably, he thought sourly.

  But then he encountered Old Numby and was determined not to let the dire implications of the call reverberate through his fun time. Old Numby was squat, goggle-eyed, and so comically bowlegged that when he walked he rocked back and forth like one of those bobb

leheads you saw on car dashboards in Middle America.

  There was nothing comical about his demeanor, however. Old Numby was all business. Anselm spoke the code words written on the slip of paper he had been given, and after sizing him up, Old Numby said, “Money. Let me see money.”

  Anselm showed it to him.

  Old Numby nodded, threaded him through gargantuan mountains of candies, into the dim rear of the space.

  When they reached a padlocked door, Anselm said, “What kind of selection have you got back there?”

  Old Numby grinned, revealing stumps of teeth the color of tea-stained ivory. “What is it you want?”

  * * *

  Borz came down the aisle to fetch Bourne. “You boys have a nice visit?” Without waiting for a reply, he beckoned to Bourne. “Let’s go, Yusuf.”

  Bourne and Aashir exchanged a brief glance before Bourne rose and followed the Chechen up front, where the two sat together.

  “Less than an hour before we land,” Borz said. “How are you feeling?”

  “Fine.”

  “No aftereffects from your encounter with the Taliban?”

  “None.”

  “And Aashir? Is he fit? Can I count on him?”

  “Absolutely,” Bourne said. “He’s out to make a name for himself. It’s his way of becoming a man.”

  “A fine way,” Borz said approvingly. “His skill level?”

  “He’s a quick learner.”

  Apparently satisfied, Borz spent a moment studying the back of the seat in front of him. “You ever been to Singapore?” he said at length.

  “A number of times, yes.”

  Borz nodded. “We’re down a lot of men, so I’ve enlisted Musa. Also, I’m going to need your help more than ever now.”

  “Whatever I can do,” Bourne said, “if the pay is right.”

  A knowing smirk informed Borz’s face. “How does fifty thousand sound?”

  “Pounds, euros, Swiss francs, dollars, yen? No Russian or Chinese currency, please.”

  Borz opened his right hand, and Bourne counted five diamonds.

  “Perfect for transportation purposes,” Borz said. He let Bourne take one, hold it up to the light. “You know what you’re looking at?”

  “This one’s too flawed.” Bourne dropped it back into Borz’s palm, took up another. “And this one’s a cubic zirconia.”

  Borz studied him a moment. “You know, Yusuf, I do believe you’ve missed your calling. A sniper with your range of skills is being wasted.”

  “I’m just a simple man.”

  “And I’m just a tourist.” Borz laughed. “Will American dollars do you?”

  “Dollars will be fine.”

  Borz opened up a map. “No matter how many times you’ve been to Singapore, Yusuf, I can guarantee you’ve never been here.”

  Bourne looked at the tattered blueprint, but it did not have its corner torn off. It was not a plan of the Thoroughbred Club’s drainage system. It was a detailed architectural plan of the club itself.

  “What am I looking at?” Bourne said, though he knew quite well what it was.

  “The stands of the Singapore Thoroughbred Club.” Borz’s forefinger stabbed out. “Look here. On the roof of the stands is the lighting array for the night races. It’s new, elaborate, state of the art—sodium lights. The best lighting, but also the most delicate. It needs constant tending. That’s where we come in. We’re going to tweak the lighting array, give it an off-the-grid update.” He laughed.

  “We’re only going to be there about four minutes. That’s how long it’s going to take us to deal with the security guards stationed there, plant explosives, and make our way out. A press of a key on my mobile will do the rest.”

  He slapped the seat’s armrest. “We’re going to blow up the Thoroughbred Club while the president of the United States and the heads of Palestine and Israel are attending the races.”

  48

  But first,” Islam said. “This.”

  He must have made some sort of signal Sara didn’t catch, because just then the door into the warehouse opened and a jihadist came out. He was as slim as Islam, but shorter. His face was wrapped in his headscarf so only his eyes were visible. He carried a cheap plastic briefcase, which he set down beside Islam’s chair, then turned and left without uttering so much as a word.

  Islam snapped open the briefcase, removed a laptop, which he fired up, then plugged a small rectangle with a depression on the top into a USB port.

  “Give me your right forefinger,” he said. When she complied, he pressed it into the depression, then looked at the biometric readout on the screen. “Well,” he said, sitting back. “You are something of a mystery, after all. Your prints don’t show up on any international database.”

  No they don’t, Sara thought, once again grateful for Mossad’s ingenuity. “So this is all about trust.”

  “We don’t know who you are—or even if Ellie Thorson is your real name. You gave us two pieces of product on Mossad, both good. But so what? They might be bait—the solid intel allowing you entrée into the cadre.”

  Sara said nothing. In view of their rising suspicion, anything she said would now be construed wrongly. Best to sit tight, monitor her breathing, and try like hell to relax. To help her with this, she leaned forward and began to pluck up bits of the food. Eating always helped to calm her down.

  He watched her with a curious expression on his face. “We need assurance. Something concrete that cannot be faked.”

  Time to join in; time to get what she needed out of him. “Something you see with your own eyes.”

  “Yes.”

  “I understand completely. I’d do the same if I were you.”

  “Then we’re agreed.”

  He made to rise, but she stopped him. “Not quite, Islam.” She waited until he slouched back into his chair. “I require some assurances, too.”

  He stiffened. “I don’t think you’re in a position to—”

  “Tell me, Islam. Am I a potential prisoner, or a potential asset? But how could I be the former? I am El Ghadan’s emissary, yes?”

  He nodded, frowning. “You are.”

  “Well, then, assurances.”

  For the first time since she laid eyes on him, he seemed unsure of himself, as if he had suddenly lost control of the situation. Clearly, he did not like that, but just as clearly he didn’t appear to know what to do about it.

  “Perhaps you want to call El Ghadan?” Her honeyed tone, devoid of all sarcasm, tempered her meaning. The last thing she needed was for him to get pissed off. “But really there’s no reason to, right?” Saved him face, shifted their relationship—how much she had yet to discover.

  Never taking his eyes off her, he reached into the briefcase, placed a SIG Sauer on the table between them. “Now you will have to make your decision.”

  Sara deliberately kept her eyes off the handgun, even though it was like a magnet, trying to draw her gaze.

  “That is for me?” she said.

  “As I told you. The value of our guests has been diminished in a major way.”

  Sara felt her pulse in her throat. With an effort, she kept all thoughts of Soraya and Sonya out of her mind. “Are the woman and her daughter no longer of any use to El Ghadan?”

  “That has yet to be determined.”

  “By me.”

  His dark eyes did not flicker even for an instant. “Pick up the gun, Ellie.” He rose. “Pick up the gun and we will confront them.”

  * * *

  Bourne buckled himself in. “Why are you doing this?”

  Borz, clicking his seat belt in preparation for landing, looked at Bourne with a degree of scorn. “Does it matter?”

  “I’m a rational man, Borz. I’m not a fanatic or an ideologue. I made that clear from the start. Of course it matters.”

  “It’s theater, Yusuf. All acts of terror are theater.”

  With a whine, the hydraulic landing gear clicked into place. The wing flaps extended,

slanted down.

  “That’s not enough of an answer.”

  “Well, Yusuf, it’ll have to do.”

  “I disagree in the strongest possible terms.”

  Borz stared at him. Then he drew a pistol. “Or I can kill you right here.”

  “Now you’re speaking like a madman,” Bourne said. “You may be many things, but crazy isn’t one of them. You’re a businessman, plain and simple. Whatever you choose to do you do for money.”

  “Shut up.”

  They hit the ground, bumped, and began to taxi furiously along the runway, Musa braking hard to decelerate.

  “Who’s your patron? Who’s paying you to kill wholesale?”

  “I said shut up!”

  Slowed considerably, the jet now rolled calmly toward the freight terminal. A member of the ground personnel in overalls, ears protected, light baton swinging rhythmically, guided Musa through the final phase of taxiing.

  Borz turned to Bourne. “Why do you care who’s paying the freight, Yusuf? What’s it to you?”

  “I don’t kill people lightly. I need a reason.”

  “Well, well, a sniper with a conscience. You need a reason to shoot individuals with the long gun?”

  “I usually work for myself, so, yes, I need a reason for every kill, so maybe I don’t make as much money as you do, but at least I sleep at night.”

  “I sleep just fine, Yusuf.”

  “Listen, Borz, you don’t want to tell me, that’s fine. It’s your prerogative, but then count me out. I’ll get off here and be on my way.”

  Borz gripped his wrist. “You’re not going anywhere.”

  “Are we actually going to discuss this? Then put the gun away.”

  The plane had come to a stop. Chocks had been kicked against its wheels, the engines switched off, mobile stairs had been set in place by ground personnel, and the door had been opened. No one got out of their seats, no one even unbuckled themselves. They sat, waiting for their leader to make the first move. But their leader wasn’t going anywhere—not at the moment, anyway. He was locked in a battle of wills with Yusuf.