Page 16 of The Bourne Initiative (Jason Bourne 14)

  “Then what good is living?”

  Fulmer felt the ground giving way under him again. “Tell me who told you I was responsible for supplying LeakAGE with…I assume it was in the course of pillow talk.”

  “It’s true,” Gwyneth said. “Men like to unburden themselves after sex. One intimacy leads quite naturally to another.”

  “I wouldn’t know, but I’ll take your word for it.” He sat forward. “Who blabbed?”

  “Your bodyguard, Max.”

  “What?” Fulmer winced as if he had been stuck with a needle. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “I pride myself on never being ridiculous.”

  “But it can’t be. Max has been with me for years. He’s a loyal—”

  “Even guard dogs get fed up with their masters, especially if they’re treated poorly.”

  Fulmer was about to deny that he had done any such thing, when he cast his mind back to how dismissive he’d been to Max in Kalmar. But, really, now he thought of it, that was only the tip of the iceberg. The fact was, he treated Max as part of the familiar furniture that was always with him. Except when he needed to be alone. And speaking of Kalmar, who knew what Max had got up to when Fulmer had dismissed him outside the conference room. What if he had followed Fulmer, witnessed his meeting with Françoise? Max leaking his secrets? It was possible, but…

  “How d’you know for a fact it was Max?”

  “Because it was me he told, directly.”

  Fulmer’s eyes opened wide. His complexion had gone waxen. “Afterward?”

  That smile, more knowing than enigmatic now, but even more erotic, if that were possible. “Say this for him, the man’s got good taste.”

  Fulmer slumped in his chair. He passed a hand across his brow.

  “Betrayal’s a bitch, isn’t it, Marshall?”

  —

  “So you’ve brought me back.” He heard nothing in reply; his mind was clearing. “That was the plan all along, why you reached out to me, why you set up the rendezvous in Skyros.”

  “The rendezvous saved your life,” she reminded him gently. “Understand, Keyre despises the Russians. He’s at war with them.” She watched for a beat, taking the temperature of his reactions. “It’s why he asked me to bring you to him.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  Steady on, she told herself. Even the hint of a lie and all will be lost. “But you do believe me. I know you do.”

  He thought about this for some time. His sudden bark of a laugh startled her. “Are you telling me that Keyre wants my help?”

  She said nothing; there was nothing to say. The situation spoke for itself.

  “This is too rich,” Bourne said. “Too damn good. Keyre is asking for a favor.”

  Still, she said nothing. All at once, even knowing how dire the situation with the Russians had become, she felt ashamed at her part in what could only be called an abduction. She knew now what she had known before, but had doggedly pushed away: her position between these two men was destroying her from the inside out. But perhaps that was her fate. She had endured too many indignities, too many insults to her mind and her body to ever be what she would once have been. She was what she had been made into, a product of inhumanity. Like Jason. In fact, precisely like Jason.

  Bourne struggled to sit up, and she pressed a pedal that lifted the top third of the bed until he was in a comfortable position. He gave a glance at the IV in his arm, the beeping monitor’s eye. “I want to get out of here.”

  “Not yet.”

  “I don’t care.”

  He reached to pull out the IV. She said, “You’ve been unconscious for six days.”

  That gave him pause, as she knew it would, brought home to him the severity of his wounds.

  “You lost a ton of blood,” she added.

  He let go of the IV needle, lay back against the pillow, but it was clear he wasn’t happy about it. “You haven’t said another word about Keyre.”

  “I have nothing left to say.”

  “I doubt that. What’s he want me to do?”

  “That’s for him to say.”

  “But you know.” It wasn’t a question; he knew her too well. Of course she knew; she was being the good soldier, waiting for the general to deliver the marching orders. “Tell him I won’t do it.”

  “You don’t know what it is.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  A certain silence threw up its spikes between them. The air they breathed was stretched with tension.

  “Listen to me,” the Angelmaker said at length.

  “Now you’re going to tell me he isn’t evil.”

  “Oh, no, Keyre is evil, all right. But the fact is, he’s battling a greater evil.”

  “By selling arms to fight the infidel.”

  “A case could be made for that, yes.”

  Bourne shot her a skeptical look. “And how is he fighting the infidel by trading in human trafficking?” He took her wrist; his voice was a raspy whisper. “You and Liis were part of that.”

  “There is no good side here,” she said tersely. “No angels in residence.”

  “Tell him I want Giza. Tell him to let your daughter go.”

  She shook her head sadly. “He’ll never agree.”

  “He must if he—”

  “No. Don’t you understand? He wouldn’t let me go. He would never have made that bargain. You forced it. You’re in no condition to force anything.” She looked away. “Besides, Giza is his daughter, too.”

  He let go of her wrist. “You shouldn’t have brought me here. You know that.”

  “I had no choice.”

  “You were only following orders.” His voice mocked her.

  Her face fell, all pretense gone. “Only one man has the key.” Her voice cracked. “How I wish it were otherwise.” She turned away abruptly, ensuring he wouldn’t see her eyes well up.

  “Mala…”

  “It’s no good.” She shook her head. “There’s no exit for me.” She took a breath, turned her head back to him. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have brought you back.”

  “Then help me get out of here.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” said Keyre, filling the open doorway. So rapt were they in their conversation, neither had heard him open the door. “Nor is it desirable.”

  He stepped toward them, his eyes burning like coals, and involuntarily, the Angelmaker moved back to stand in the semi-darkness beyond the monitor. Her eyes were blank; her expression revealed nothing. It was as if their intimate conversation had never occurred.

  “Look at me, Bourne, not her,” Keyre said with silken smoothness. “You’re with me, until I say otherwise.”

  —

  After almost a week, Morgana was growing used to Kalmar—the breakfasts of thick, sun-yellow yogurt, dark bread spread with Kalles kaviar out of a tube, the strong coffee that seemed to burn its way through the lining of her stomach, the ubiquitous muesli, to which Larry London insisted on adding crushed flax and sesame seeds, the open smoked fish sandwiches for lunch. Even the Proviva, a juice drink said to ensure digestive health, which had nauseated her the first day, was now palatable. But the profusion of fresh berries—many of which, like cloudberries, she had never before heard of—took no getting used to at all. She had also become inured to the sonorous bells from the spires of the Kalmar Cathedral and Lutheran churches ringing at all hours. But she never forgave Larry and Françoise for serving her filmjölk—the fermented milk Swedes are so fond of—without first warning her.

  “The look on your face,” Françoise had cried as she and Larry doubled over in laughter. “Priceless!”

  Actually, she did forgive them. How could she not? Françoise had saved her from incarceration—and possibly worse—and Larry treated her like an old friend, trusting her completely. In fact, within days of her arrival, the three of them, having swung easily into a routine, were acting as tightly as a family unit. This was particularly gratifying to Morgana, coming from a

broken family with a mother and a sister who wanted no part of her.

  But of course this was an integral part of the plan Françoise had devised for Marshall Fulmer. Or was it for Gora Maslov? Well, in this case it was for both, though only her brother was aware of it. There was something about working both ends of the block that appealed powerfully to her—a woman brought up with a strong, willful father and brother, who, consciously or not, undercut her at every turn. Their bullying necessitated her building a series of personae, strong as brick-and-mortar edifices, to hide her true identity. This process had begun so early in her life and gone on for so long that she had become lost behind the walls she had erected, until she no longer knew who she really was. Nor did she particularly want to know. This could be viewed as a flaw in her character, perhaps even a weakness. But since no one had yet breached her defenses, certainly not Gora, whose personality dictated that he be attuned to taking advantage of situations rather than people, it was hardly a danger.

  Morgana’s routine consisted of spending days with Larry London and evenings with Françoise—dinner once or twice with both of them. Larry was smooth without being obvious about it; he knew how to draw her out, to set her at ease. It was a gift, a great one at that.

  “You’re a photographer,” she said the first day they were together. “Why are you interested in cyber-sleuthing?”

  “Ah, well,” Larry London said. “You have me there.”

  They were sitting next to each other in what passed for the business center of her hotel, a small windowless room bare apart from task chairs, a fax, and a pair of computer terminals on an unsecured wi-fi so riddled with malware and keystroke loggers Larry wouldn’t touch them with a six-foot Cossack. Guests came and went, checking email, logging into their airline accounts, opening themselves up to credit card or identity theft.

  “Morgana…Françoise said I could trust you with a secret. Is she right?”

  “Françoise and I know each other quite well.”

  A slow smile crossed his face. “Very well, then.” He scooted his task chair closer to hers, looked over his right shoulder, then his left, leaned in and whispered: “My job as a freelance photographer is a cover.”

  She frowned. “A well-documented one.”

  “What good would a cover be if it weren’t? It was created by the best professionals.” Now he drew back, his expression one of sudden doubt.

  Morgana leaned toward him to maintain their close proximity. “What is it?”

  “I’m not sure this is a good idea.”

  “Why not? I thought you said you trusted me.”

  He reflected a moment, then nodded. “You’re right.” His voice lowered even further. “Actually, I work for the Company.”

  Of course she knew that meant the CIA; the putative enemy of the NSA. The two agencies were eternally at odds on how to gather intel.

  He allowed her time to digest this bit of information.

  “Honestly…” she began.

  “Yes?”

  “Any American agency antagonistic to the NSA is okay with me.”

  He laughed softly. “Françoise said you’d say that.”

  “Did she really.”

  “Well, something like it, anyway.” He opened up his laptop, booted it up, then opened an app that provided him with a military-level shield, a bogus ISP that could not be traced. “Okay,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “Let’s get the ball rolling.”

  And that’s how, five days ago, Morgana’s hunt for the initiative continued. Of course, Morgana was under the impression that she was schooling Larry London in looking for other pieces of the cyber weapon on the dark web, and in a sense that was correct. But it was also correct that he was schooling her, in the sense of getting her used to working with him beside her.

  In the evenings, Françoise played the perfect friend—empathetic, solicitous, strong of opinion and the strength to fight adversity.

  “We can’t expect to succeed,” she said over their late supper in a small, ramshackle seafood house near the water, “until we’ve failed at least once.” She extracted a bit of pink langoustine flesh with the tines of her tiny fork. “It’s a cliché, I know, but in my experience it’s true enough.”

  “It’s happened to you?” Morgana cleared away a piece of shell to get at more of her langoustine’s delicious meat. “Failure, I mean.”

  Françoise laughed shortly. “More than once.” Playing Morgana’s friend wasn’t difficult. For one thing, they had been friends for years, having met in Paris, at the Musée D’Orsay, admiring Édouard Manet’s Le Déjeuner sur l’Herbe, and, after discussing the painting in the most positive terms, spending the next forty minutes strolling through the museum. Thereafter, they repaired to lunch, where, over salads niçoise and a bottle of a commendable Sémillon, she had presented herself as a business advisor to the rich and famous. At the end of four hours together, they had struck up a lasting friendship. For another, Françoise genuinely liked Morgana. She was smart and quick; Françoise found her naïveté charming. That Françoise was at some point able to use that naïveté to her advantage was an unexpected bonus. If she felt any remorse at using her friends, it was pushed to the sidelines, where it languished unnoticed in the shadows.

  “Give me an example,” Morgana said.

  Françoise considered for a moment, tapping her lips ruminatively with a forefinger. “Bien, well, to be honest, I failed as a sister. My brother is a shit.” All true. “But as the better person I should have found a way to maintain a relationship with him.” Like hell. Also, a lie. But she was considering Morgana’s sister, who had cut Morgana off because Morgana did not want to revisit the pain her parents’ bitter divorce had caused her. “He, well, you know, he made life impossible for me, so…” Her hand lightly fluttered. “Pffft!”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Françoise smiled. “Don’t be. I’m not.”

  Morgana, abandoning her langoustine for the moment, leaned forward. “You said that you had more than one failure.”

  “Yes, well, but I’d rather not—”

  “Oh, come on. You know all my secrets.”

  “Not all your secrets, surely.”

  Morgana reached out, squeezed Françoise’s hand. “Besides, what are friends for?”

  Françoise gave a little chortle. “Since you put it that way.” She took a breath. “I made a mistake with Larry.”

  “Larry London?”

  “The very same.” Françoise put down her fork. “When we met I fucked up. I came on like an army tank, but that was the wrong approach. It took me six months to mend that particular fence. But the point is I learned, from both the failures. You can’t use the same strategy with everyone. Assessing the playing field before deciding on how to act is essential.”

  “That sounds so cold, so clinical.” Morgana’s eyes narrowed. “Is that what you did with me?”

  “What, no. Oh, my God, Ana, no.” Ana and Franny were their secret names for each other, never to be used when there were others around. “I was speaking of business, not friendship. My God, if I was reduced to doing that with friends—with you, of all people—I’d be on antidepressants.”

  Morgana, with her hand still on Françoise’s, turned her friend’s hand over, tapped the blue vein on the delicate flesh of the inside. “I’m glad to hear that.”

  Françoise’s sudden laugh was like the sun breaking through clouds. “Speaking of dear old Larry, how’s your search coming? Is he being helpful?”

  “Larry’s been a help.” Morgana withdrew her hand, set it in her lap, as if embarrassed by its intimate gesture. “But I still don’t know where the locus is.”

  Françoise frowned. “The piece is still online.”

  “Yes, and another just showed up, but it isn’t helping me much. It’s like a jigsaw puzzle with no clues.”

  “Then we’ve got to redouble our efforts to find it.”

  “Larry and I already agreed on that. We’ve split up assignments. While I??

?m working on decoding the algorithm, he’s using his sources worldwide to track the locus.”

  She smiled. “He’s closer than I am. In fact, he’s very close, which is good because this algorithm is like nothing I’ve ever encountered before.”

  “Yes, but we still have no idea when it’s scheduled to be deployed.”

  Morgana took a breath, let it out slowly. “Actually, we do now. One thing I’ve been able to decipher is that the new algorithm has a built-in Day Zero trigger.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Ten days from today, the cyber weapon will be deployed, and the American president’s nuclear codes will be vulnerable. Bourne or whoever is directing the team will be able to set off a catastrophic event of unprecedented proportions.”

  “Armageddon.”

  Morgana nodded. “And as it stands right now, nothing will be able to stop it.”

  19

  Keyre, there is no way I’m doing anything for you.”

  “No hasty decisions, Bourne.”

  “Nothing hasty about this one.”

  Keyre smiled like an uncle indulging a willful and ignorant adolescent. The two men were sitting in facing rattan chairs with cushions of a tribal pattern typical of coastal Somalia. Between them was a wooden table carved in the intricate Arabic style. On it was a beaten bronze tray on which sat a large pot of tea, two handleless cups, three small plates, one each of dried dates, hummus, and wedges of unleavened bread. A solid concrete floor, rather than beaten earth, beneath their feet, solid walls, lamps lit by electricity provided by a pair of large generators. The room was a far cry from the soiled tents of his first visit.

  The Angelmaker stood at some remove. Beside her was a small table on which was placed a buff-colored folder and an army or marine surplus walkie-talkie. She inhabited a spot precisely between the two men, as if in an effort to appear neutral, which Bourne knew perfectly well was an illusion, tempting though it might be to consider.

  “I must have missed the line of tanning heads on my way in,” Bourne said now.

  Keyre kept his smile in place. “Beheadings are part of the past.” He gestured with an open hand. “You should eat. You need to build up your strength.”