The Bourne Objective (5 page)

“I’m Egyptian, Muslim, a woman. Our new
DCI
doesn’t need any other reasons.”

“Not to worry, I know a good lawyer who—”

“Forget it.”

Delia frowned. “You’re not going to let them get away with this. I mean, it’s discrimination, Raya.”

Soraya waved a hand. “I’m not spending the next two years of my life going up against CI and Secretary Halliday.”

Delia leaned back. “It goes that high up, huh?”

“How could they do this to me?” Soraya said.

Delia rose and went around her desk to hug her friend. “I know, it’s like being jilted by a lover, someone you thought you knew but who turned out to be using you and, worse, was betraying you all the while.”

“Now I know how Jason felt,” Soraya said morosely. “All the times he’s pulled CI’s hand out of the fire and what did he get for it? He was hunted down like a dog.”

“Good riddance to CI, I say!” Delia kissed the top of her friend’s head. “Time to start over.”

Soraya looked up at her. “Really? Doing what, exactly? This shadow world is all I know, all I want to do. And Danziger’s so pissed off I didn’t come back to CI when he ordered me to that he’s put me on a clandestine service blacklist, making it impossible for me to work in the governmental intelligence community.”

Delia looked thoughtful for a moment. “Tell you what, I need to do some things down the hall, make a call, and we’ll go for some drinks and dinner. Then I have someplace special to take you. How’s that sound?”

“Better than going home, stuffing my face with ice cream, and staring at TV.”

Delia laughed. “That’s my girl.” She waved a finger in the air. “Don’t you worry, we’ll have so much fun tonight you won’t remember to be sad.”

Soraya gave her a rueful smile. “What about bitter?”

“Yeah, we can take care of that, too.”

B
ourne sprinted out of Suparwita’s house without looking to either the left or the right. To the people watching he would appear to be a man on an urgent mission. He suspected that they would want to follow him to his next destination.

He could hear them trailing him through the forest, drawn in closer by his focused behavior. He hurried through the underbrush, wanting them close to him so that his agitation would become their agitation. His life wasn’t in danger, he knew, until they had interrogated him. They wanted to know what he knew about the ring. No doubt they felt they were being discreet, but nothing was a secret in Bali. Bourne had heard that they had been asking about it in Manggis, the local village. Once he’d learned they were Russians, he had little doubt that they worked for Leonid Arkadin. He had last seen his enemy, the first graduate of Treadstone’s ultimate soldier program, in the battle-torn area of northern Iran.

Now, in the midst of the emerald-and-umber Balinese jungle, Bourne made a hard right, heading for an enormous
berigin
—what Westerners called a banyan—the Balinese symbol of immortality. He leapt into the
berigin
‘s many arms, working his way up through the labyrinth of branches until he was high enough to get a panoramic view of the area. Birds called to one another and insects droned. Here and there spears of sunlight pierced the many-layered canopy, turning the soft ground the color of chocolate.

A moment later he spied one of the Russians, stalking cautiously through the dense undergrowth, making his way around stands of thickly foliaged trees. He cradled the barrel of an AK-47 in the crook of his left arm, the forefinger of his right hand lay against the trigger, ready to spray bullets at the slightest noise or disturbance. He advanced slowly toward Bourne’s
berigin.
Every so often he glanced up into the trees, his scowling eyes dark and searching.

Bourne moved silently through the branches, positioning himself. He waited until the Russian was directly beneath him before he fell like one of the spears of sunlight. His heels struck the Russian’s shoulders, dislocating one, throwing him off his feet. Rolling himself into a ball, Bourne took the brunt of the fall on one shoulder blade, tumbling harmlessly head-over-heels. He was up and at the Russian before the stalker could regain his breath. Nevertheless the Russian’s training asserted itself, his leg flicking out and catching Bourne in the sternum.

Bourne grunted. The Russian, teeth gritted against the pain, sought to gain his feet, and time seemed to stand still, as if the primordial forest around them were holding its breath. Bourne’s right arm lashed out, the edge of his hand breaking the bones in the Russian’s dislocated shoulder. The Russian moaned, but at the same time he drove the butt of the assault rifle into Bourne’s side.

Leaning heavily on the AK-47, the Russian rose to his feet, stumbled over to where Bourne lay tangled in vines. He pointed the muzzle of the rifle but, as he did so, Bourne aimed a scissors kick at his adversary’s knee, bringing the Russian down to his level. A short burst from the rifle scythed upward, raining bits of leaves, bark, and branches onto both of them. The Russian swung the AK-47, trying to use it as a battering ram, but Bourne was already inside the arc of his swing. A swift strike with the edge of his hand broke the Russian’s collarbone, and the heel of Bourne’s other hand slammed into his nose with such force, it drove cartilage and bone into the Russian’s brain. As he keeled over, dead, Bourne snatched the assault rifle out of his bloody grip. He could see the crude tattoo of a serpent wrapped around a dagger that the Russian had gotten in prison, proof positive that he was a member of the
grupperovka.

Bourne was unwrapping the vines around him when he heard a guttural voice from behind.

“Drop your weapon,” it said in Moscow-accented Russian.

Bourne turned slowly and saw the second Russian stalker. He must have followed the sound of the gunfire.

“I said drop it,” the Russian growled. He, too, held an AK-47, which was aimed at Bourne’s midsection.

“What do you want?” Bourne said.

“You know very well what I want,” the Russian said. “Now drop your weapon and hand it over.”

“Hand what over? Just tell me what you want and I’ll give it to you.”

“I’ll take the ring now. Right after you drop my partner’s rifle.” He made a beckoning motion. “Come on, fucker. Otherwise I’m going to shoot one leg off, then the other, and if that fails—well, you know how painful a gut wound can be, how long you’ll linger in agony before you bleed to death.”

“Your partner. Too bad about him,” Bourne said, at the same time letting the AK-47 slip out of his grip.

It was pure instinct, the Russian couldn’t help glancing over at his fallen companion. As he did so the motion of the AK-47 made him look down. That was when Bourne whipped the vine up and out. It caught the Russian around the neck, and with a powerful pull Bourne jerked him forward, right into his fist. The Russian doubled over. Bourne, dropping the vine, drove both fists down on the back of his neck.

The Russian crumpled, and Bourne, crouched over him, rolled him onto his back. The man was still dazed, gasping and flopping like a fish on the bottom of a boat. Bourne slapped him into full consciousness, then pressed a knee into his sternum, using his full weight.

The man stared up at him out of blue eyes. His face was unnaturally ruddy, and he could not hold back a dribble of blood from the corner of his mouth.

“Why did Leonid send you?” Bourne said in Russian.

The man blinked. “Who?”

“Don’t do that.” Bourne pressed down and the man groaned. “You know perfectly well who I mean. Leonid Arkadin.”

For a moment the Russian stared up at him, mute. Then, despite his dire circumstances, he laughed. “Is that what you think?” Tears rolled from the corners of his eyes. “That I work for that shitbag?”

The Russian’s response was too spontaneous, too unexpected to be false. Besides, why would he lie? Bourne paused for a moment, reassessing the situation. “If not Arkadin,” he said slowly and carefully, “then who?”

“I’m a member of the Kazanskaya.” There was no mistaking the pride in his voice; this, too, was genuine.

“So Dimitri Maslov sent you.” Not long ago Bourne had met the head of the Kazanskaya in Moscow under unpleasant circumstances.

“In a manner of speaking,” the Russian said. “I report to Vylacheslav Germanovich Oserov.”

“Oserov?” Bourne had never heard of him. “Who is he?”

“Director of operations. Vylacheslav Germanovich plans every phase of the Kazanskaya action while Maslov handles the increasingly annoying government.”

Bourne considered for a moment. “Okay, so you report to this Oserov. Why was it funny that I thought Arkadin had sent you?”

The Russian’s eyes blazed. “You’re as ignorant as a head of cabbage. Oserov and Arkadin hate each other’s guts.”

“Why?”

“Their feud goes back a long way.” He spat out some blood. “Interrogation finished?”

“What’s the nature of their enmity?”

The Russian grinned up at him through bloody teeth. “Get the fuck off my chest.”

“Sure thing.” Bourne stood up, grabbed the Russian’s AK-47, and slammed the butt into the side of his head.

I
SHOULD
HAVE
KNOWN
,” Soraya said.

Delia turned to her, a twinkle in her eye. “Known what?”

“That an inveterate player like you would take me to the best private poker game in the district.”

Delia laughed as Reese Williams led them down a wallpapered hallway peppered with paintings and photos of African wildlife, predominantly elephants.

“I’ve heard about this place,” Soraya said to Williams, “but this is the first time Delia’s seen fit to bring me here.”

“You won’t be sorry,” Williams said over her shoulder, “that I promise you.”

They were in her Federalist brownstone off Dupont Circle. Reese Williams was the strong right arm of Police Commissioner Lester Burrows, indispensable to him in many ways, not the least through her extensive contacts within the upper echelons of DC’s politicos.

Williams threw open the double pocket doors, revealing a library that had been converted into a gambling den, complete with a green baize table, comfortable chairs for six, and clouds of aromatic cigar smoke. As they entered the only sounds in the room were the click of chips and the barely audible flutter of a deck of cards being expertly shuffled, then dealt to the four men sitting around the table.

Besides Burrows, Soraya recognized two senators, one junior, one senior, a high-powered lobbyist, and, her eyes opened wide, was that—?

“Peter?” she said incredulously.

Peter Marks looked up from counting his chips. “Good God. Soraya.” At once he stood up, said, “Deal me out,” and came around the green baize table to embrace her. “Delia, how about taking my place?”

“With pleasure.” She turned to her friend. “Peter’s a regular here and I called him from the office. I thought you could use seeing an old compatriot.”

Soraya grinned and kissed Delia on the cheek. “Thanks.”

Delia nodded and left them, sitting down at the table. She took her usual stacks of chips from the bank, signing an
IOU
for the amount.

“How are you?” Marks said, holding Soraya at arm’s length.

Soraya surveyed him critically. “How do you think I am?”

“I heard through my pals in CI what Danziger did to you.” He shook his head. “I can’t say that I’m surprised.”

“What d’you mean?”

Marks led her across the hall to a quiet corner in the deserted sitting room, where they were ensured complete privacy. French windows looked out on a shadowy alley of greenery. The room was wallpapered a warm persimmon color, the walls covered with photos of Reese Williams in Africa amid crowds of tribesmen. In some of them she was also with an older man, possibly her father. Plush sofas and several deep-cushioned armchairs of striped fabric were arrayed before a fireplace with a marble mantelpiece. A low polished wooden table and a sideboard with two trays of liquor bottles and cut-crystal glasses completed the picture. No amount of municipal salary or rake-offs could account for this magnificent house. Soraya thought Reese must come from enormous wealth.

They sat side by side on a deep-cushioned sofa, turned partly toward each other.

“Danziger’s just looking for excuses to get rid of CI’s top management,” Marks said. “He wants his people—and by that I mean Secretary Halliday’s people—in positions of power, but he knows he has to tread carefully to avoid it looking like a wholesale slaughter of the old guard, even though that’s been the plan all along. It’s why I bailed when I knew he was coming in.”

“I’ve been in Cairo, I didn’t know you’d left CI. Where did you land?”

“Private sector.” Marks paused for a moment. “Listen, Soraya, I know you can keep a secret, so I’m willing to go out on a limb here and tell you.” He paused, his eyes flicking toward the door, which he’d carefully closed behind them.

“So?”

Marks leaned in farther, so their faces were close together. “I’ve joined Treadstone.”

For a moment, there was nothing but shocked silence and the
tick-tock
of the brass ship’s clock on the marble mantel. Then Soraya tried a laugh. “Come on, Treadstone is dead and buried.”

“The old Treadstone, yes,” he said. “But there’s a new Treadstone, resurrected by Frederick Willard.”

Willard’s name wiped the smile from Soraya’s face. She knew of Willard’s reputation as the Old Man’s Treadstone sleeper agent inside the
NSA
, who had been instrumental in exposing the former director’s criminal interrogation techniques. But since then he’d seemed to vanish off everyone’s radar. So Peter’s information was all too credible.

She shook her head, her expression troubled. “I don’t understand. Treadstone was an illicit operation, even by CI’s covert standards. It was shut down for very good reasons. Why on earth would you sign up for it now?”

“Simple. Willard hates Halliday as much as I do—as much as you do. He’s promised me that he’s going to use Treadstone’s resources to destroy Halliday’s credibility and his power base. That’s why I want you to join us.”