The Bourne Dominion (43 page)

Have you made your choices?
An innocent sentence coming from a flight attendant, but it had many layers of meaning she wasn’t aware of. Bourne had had his choices made for him when he plunged into the Mediterranean and surfaced without a memory of who or what he was. Since then, his life had been a struggle to understand the choices he had once made but could no longer remember, a struggle with the choices Alex Conklin had made for him. The latest case in point to surface from the murk of his past: killing Kaja’s mother, Viveka Norén. It nauseated him that Conklin had sent him on a mission of personal vengeance, to—what? To teach a dead man a lesson for trying to assassinate him? The cruelty and heartlessness of Conklin’s choice made Bourne sick to his stomach. And he had been the agent of death. He could not exonerate himself. “
There is no reason.
”

No, he thought now, there was no reason.

S
o, Mademoiselle Gobelins,” El-Arian said, “how may we best serve your needs?”

The moment he sat down beside her Soraya felt as if her skin had been seared. Invisible ants crawled over her flesh, and it was all she could do not to flinch away from him. Even his smile was dark, as if the emotion behind it came from a different place inside him. She felt his enormous psychic energy, and for the first time in her adult life she was afraid of another person. When she was five, her father had taken her to a seer in a seething backwater alley of Cairo. Why he did it, she had no idea. When her mother had found out about it afterward, she had flown into a rage, something Soraya had never before seen her mother do.

When the seer, a surprisingly young man with black eyes and hair and dark skin that looked like the hide of a crocodile, took her hand in his she felt as if the earth beneath her had crumbled, that she was falling into an abyss, that she would never stop falling.

“I have you,” the seer said, as if to comfort her, but she felt like a fly caught in his web, and she had burst into tears.

On the way home, her father had not spoken to her, and she sensed that she had failed an important test, that he would never forgive her, that his love for her was slipping away like grains of sand through her slender fingers. Afterward, following her mother’s terrifying outburst, she sensed that nothing was the same between her parents. Her father had broken some unspoken agreement between them and, just as he couldn’t forgive Soraya, his wife couldn’t forgive him. Six months later, her mother bundled her off to America. As a child or adolescent, she would never see Cairo again.

Soraya, sitting next to Benjamin El-Arian on the second floor of the Nymphenburg Landesbank, experienced again the same frightening sensation of falling into an unfathomable abyss.

El-Arian stirred beside her. “Are you well, Mademoiselle Gobelins?”

“Quite well, thank you,” she said in a thickened voice.

“You look somewhat pale.”

He rose and she took a quick breath, as if released from a vise.

Crossing to a sideboard, he said, “Perhaps a bit of brandy to revive your spirits.”

“Thank you, no.”

He poured the brandy anyway and brought it back in a cut-crystal glass. He sat down beside her and held out the glass. “I insist.”

She saw his dark eyes scrutinizing her expression.
He knows
, she thought.
But what exactly?

She brought a smile to her lips. “I don’t drink alcohol.”

“Neither do I.” He set the brandy aside. “Are you a Muslim?”

She nodded. “I am.”

“Arab.”

She looked at him steadily. He tapped one long forefinger rhythmically against his lips. Slowly. One, two, three, like a hypnotist’s metronome.

“That excludes Iranian, and you’re not Syrian, surely.” His eyebrows rose. “Egyptian?”

Soraya felt the need to gain some control over the conversation. “Where is your family from?”

“The desert.”

“That could be almost anywhere,” Soraya said, “even the Gobi.”

El-Arian smiled like an indulgent uncle. “Hardly.” A soft chime. “Excuse me.” He rose and, digging out his cell phone, stepped out of the office.

Soraya rose and a wave of vertigo caused her to clutch the armrest of the sofa in order to steady herself. Ignoring the continued pounding in her head, she crossed quickly to M. Sigismond’s desk, scanning the contents scattered across the top. Letters and files. Using the knuckle of her forefinger, she moved a sheet of paper slightly so she could read what was on the pages underneath. Her head came up as she heard El-Arian’s voice briefly; when it faded away, accompanied by footfalls, she continued poking around. There were no photos, no mementos, nothing by way of a personal nature. The office was perfectly anonymous, as if it was used only sporadically. She started on the drawers. Wrapping a tissue from a box on the desktop around the handle of a letter opener, she used the blade to open each drawer and survey the contents. She was looking for some evidence that would link M. Marchand’s traitorous dealings with the bank.

A moment later she heard El-Arian’s voice approaching. She closed the drawer, dropped the letter opener, and was back at the sofa, using the tissue to blow her nose when he reappeared, M. Sigismond on his heels.

“My dear Mademoiselle Gobelins, my sincerest apologies for interrupting our meeting.”

“It’s quite all right,” she said, stuffing the tissue away in her pocket.

“Ah, but first impressions are so important, don’t you think?”

“I do.”

He held out his hand and she took it, rising off the cushion.

“M. Sigismond has an appointment. In any event, I believe you will find my office more conducive to concluding our business.”

He led the way down the hall and into a large office suite, this one furnished completely in a modern style. He stepped behind his desk, which held only an old-fashioned blotter, a set of fountain pens, a cut-crystal paperweight with the name of the bank engraved in gold, an ashtray filled with butts, and a multi-line phone. He gestured for her to stand beside him. “Please. I’m having papers drawn up for your intended deposit.” He pulled out a printed card from a drawer. “But first, we must gather some basic information.”

When she was at his side, he pressed a button and a video picture bloomed on the flat-screen panel across the room. Soraya saw herself in M. Sigismond’s office as she rose from the sofa and almost staggered. Her eyes followed herself as she crossed to M. Sigismond’s desk and began her clandestine work.

“I wonder,” El-Arian said, “what you were looking for?”

His hand clamped her wrist in an iron grip and did not let go.

I
van Volkin was your friend for, what? Thirty years?”

“Longer,” Boris said.

Cherkesov nodded. “And when the time was right, he sold you out.” Some color had returned to his face, and though he was still kneeling, he was breathing more easily. “That’s the way it is in our world. There’s room for comradeship and alliances, but not loyalty. In our world loyalty is too costly. It’s not worth the price.” He tried to shift to get the pressure off his skinned knees. “You think it’s any different with Jason Bourne? The man’s a natural-born killer. What does he know about friendship.”

“More than you.”

“Which is nothing.” Cherkesov shook his head. “I never had a friend
in my life—not the way you figure it, anyway. How could I? It would leave me in a vulnerable position.”

Boris turned the knife point slightly. “What the fuck do you call this?”

Cherkesov licked his lips. When he spoke, he words tumbled out, faster and faster. “Don’t you understand what a favor I’ve done you? I’ve given you the opportunity to kill Bourne before he has a chance to betray you the way your friend of over thirty years, Ivan Volkin, has.” Some words seemed to catch in his throat and he coughed, his eyes tearing with the effort. “Volkin has been advising the Domna ever since his so-called retirement from the
grupperovka
world. In fact, I’ll tell you a secret: It was the Domna that put the idea of retirement into his head. Who knows how much the Domna paid him to come work for them?”

Boris sat back on his heels, considering the implications of what Cherkesov had just said.

Sensing an opening, Cherkesov pressed on. “Listen to me, Boris. I’m of more use to you alive than dead. You and me, we form an alliance. I tell you what the Domna is planning and you use the power of FSB-2 to take Beria and his people down. We can then merge FSB-2 with SVR with you at the head and me advising you. Boris, think of the possibilities of being in charge of clandestine services both inside and outside Russia. The entire world will open up for us!”

“Viktor, you surprise me,” Boris said. “Beneath that thick crust of cynicism, you have a streak of positivity.”

Cherkesov’s fist connected with Karpov’s jaw, knocking him to one side so that the knife pulled away from Cherkesov’s flesh. Cherkesov grabbed for it, splitting a finger open on the edge. Using the spray of blood to blind Boris, he wrenched the knife away and jabbed it hilt-deep into Boris’s belly.

B
OURNE ROSE AND
made his way through the darkened cabin to the first-class galley. He found Rebeka leafing through the latest issue of
Der Spiegel
as she stood against the stainless-steel counter. She turned when she became aware of him, a smile blooming on her face.

“Good evening, Mr. Childress, what can I get for you?”

“A macchiato, please.”

“Can’t sleep?”

“Bad dreams.”

“Sadly, I know that scenario.” She set aside the magazine. “I’ll bring it to your seat as soon as I’ve brewed it.”

“I’d rather stay here,” he said. “I need to stretch my legs.”

A slight flush ruddied her cheeks just before she turned away. “Of course.” The scent of rose attar lifted off her. “Whatever you fancy.” Her eyes were the color and shape of ripe olives, unexpectedly exotic against her Mediterranean skin and black hair. Like an Egyptian of ancient Alexandria, she had a Roman nose and delicate cheekbones, and stood very tall even in her flats. Perhaps as a child she had studied ballet.

Bourne watched her deftly making the macchiato. “Are you based out of Madrid?”

“Oh, no. Damascus.” She produced a tiny cup, which she placed on the diminutive saucer. “I’ve been living there for the past six years.”

“Do you like it?”

“It’s difficult to make friends.” She shrugged. “But it pays for me to be there. I get a yearly bonus.”

“I haven’t been back to Damascus in some time,” he said truthfully. “I suppose there will be a lot of changes.”

She pulled the espresso and slid it across the counter to him. It had just the right amount of foam. “Yes and no. The modern parts are terribly congested, the traffic is a nightmare, the polluted air stifling, but the Old City is still filled with the gorgeous covered arcades, the leafy squares, and, of course, space around the great mosques.” She frowned. “But there are troubling aspects.”

“The state sponsorship of Hezbollah, for one.”

She nodded, her gaze falling gravely on him. “Also in the last year or so there’s a growing conservative segment of the population that looks favorably on Iran.”

Bourne seized the opening. “So there must be more in the way of security all over the city, starting with the airport.”

Rebeka gave him a rueful smile. “I’m afraid so. The airport, especially. Al-Assad has clamped down at entry points, partly due to pressure from the West.”

“There won’t be any difficulties, will there?”

She laughed softly. “Not for you. Anyway, there’s always a senior security official on hand when passengers deplane to guide you and answer questions.”

Having gotten what he wanted, Bourne threw back his macchiato. Rebeka tore off part of a page from her magazine and wrote on it. As he turned to go, she slid it over to him.

“I’m off for the next three days.” Her warm smile returned. “My number, in case you lose your way.”

I
nstead of piercing Boris’s flesh, the knife blade retracted into its handle. Laughing, Boris slammed the heel of his hand into Cherkesov’s nose. Blood gouted, the cartilage cracked, and Cherkesov fell onto his backside.

Boris took back the knife. He pressed a hidden button on the handle and the blade popped out. He pressed the button again, locking the blade in place so it would not retract.

He knelt beside Cherkesov. “Now we get to it, Viktor.” He shoved the tip of the blade into Cherkesov’s right nostril. “There are many things, precious to you, I’m sure, you will give up before you tell me what I want to know.”

Cherkesov stared up at him with reddened eyes. “I’ll die first.”

“You’re a liar, kitty cat,” Boris said.

“Huh?” Cherkesov looked up at him.

“You know what happens to liars? No? Wanna guess? No? Okay, they lose their noses.”

With one flick of Boris’s wrist, the blade slit open Cherkesov’s already bloody nose. Cherkesov arched up; Boris shoved him back down with the flat of his hand.

“Let me the fuck up!”

“Forget it, Viktor, it’s Chinatown.”

“Fuck you, you cocksucker. I’m not telling you a thing.”

“It’s not a question of pain, Viktor, but you already knew that.” Boris wiped the blade on Cherkesov’s trouser leg. “It’s a question of what you can tolerate living without.” He smiled, almost benignly. “Not to worry, I won’t let you die. There’s no escape.” The knife blade made a circuit of Cherkesov’s face. “I mean what I say; I’m an expert, and I have all night long.”

H
endricks was in his office, poring over the file of the three men found dead in Room 916 of the Lincoln Square Hotel. None of them was a
guest, none had any identification on him. Their fingerprints had yielded nothing, and now their dental records were being sought, though this would probably be a dead end as well. According to the FBI, who had taken over the case from Metro Homicide, the dental work was definitely not American. Eastern European was the best they could do at the moment, but that covered a lot of territory.

Hendricks paused to drink some ice water.

The one strange thing about all of the victims was the suicide pill—the hollow tooth that contained liquid hydrogen cyanide, an old NKVD marker. Were these men Russians and, if so, what the hell were they doing in Room 916 of the Lincoln Square Hotel?