The Bourne Sanction (7 page)

“I need your bike,” Bourne said.

“Well, you bloody well can’t have it, mate,” the cyclist said with a heavy British accent.

At the corner of 31st and M, a black
GMC
SUV
was pulling into the curb in front of the two men.

Bourne pressed four hundred dollars into the cyclist’s hand. “Like I said, right now.”

The young man stared down at the money for a moment. Then he swung off, said, “Be my guest.”

As Bourne mounted up, he handed over his helmet. “You’ll be wanting this, mate.”

The two men had already vanished into the GMC’s interior, the
SUV
was pulling out into the thick traffic flow. Bourne took off, leaving the cyclist to shrug behind him as he climbed onto the sidewalk.

Reaching the corner, Bourne turned right onto M Street. The
GMC
was three cars ahead of him. Bourne wove his way around the traffic, moving into position to keep up with the
SUV
. At 30th Street, NW, they all hit a red light. Bourne was forced to put one foot down, which was why he got a late start when the
GMC
jumped the light just before it turned green. The
SUV
roared ahead of the other vehicles, and Bourne launched himself forward. A white Toyota was coming from 30th into the intersection, heading right for him at a ninety-degree angle. Bourne put on a burst of speed, swerved up onto the corner sidewalk, backing a clutch of pedestrians into those behind them, to a round of curses. The Toyota, horn blaring angrily, just missed him as it jounced across M Street. Bourne was able to make good headway, as the
GMC
had been slowed by the sludgy traffic up ahead, splitting off where M Street and Pennsylvania Avenue, NW, intersected at 29th Street. Just as he neared the light he saw the
GMC
take off and knew he had been spotted. The problem with a bicycle, especially one that had caused a minor uproar lunging through a red light, was that the cyclist became conspicuous, exactly the opposite of what was intended.

Making the best of a worsening situation, Bourne threw caution to the wind, following the accelerating
GMC
into the fork as it took Pennsylvania Avenue. The good news was that the congestion prevented the
GMC
from keeping up speed. More good news: Another red light loomed. This time Bourne was ready for the
GMC
to plow right through. Swerving in and out between vehicles, he put on another burst of speed, running the red light with the big
SUV
. But just as he was coming abreast of the far crosswalk, a gaggle of drunk teenagers stumbled off the curb on their way across the avenue. They closed off the lane behind the
GMC
and were so raucous they either didn’t hear Bourne’s warning shout or didn’t care. He was forced to swerve sharply to the right. His front tire struck the curb, the bike lifted up. People scattered out of its way as it became, in effect, a missile. Bourne was able to keep it going after it landed, but there was simply nowhere for him to steer it without plowing into another group of kids. He applied the brakes without enough effect. Leaning to the right, he forced the bike down on its side, ripping his right trouser leg as it skidded along the cement.

“Are you all right?”

“What were you trying to do?”

“Didn’t you see the red light?”

“You could have killed yourself-or someone else!”

A welter of voices as pedestrians surrounded him, trying to help him out from under the bicycle. Bourne thanked them as he scrambled to his feet. He ran several hundred yards down the avenue, but as he feared the
GMC
was long gone. Expelling a string of bawdily colorful curses, Arkadin rummaged through the pockets of Oleg Ivanovich Shumenko, who lay twitching in the bloodstained catwalk deep inside the Sevastopol Winery. As he did so, he wondered how he could have been such a fool. He’d done precisely what Shumenko had wanted him to do, which was to kill him. He’d rather have died than divulge the name of the next man in Pyotr Zilber’s network. Still, there was a chance that something he had on his person would lead Arkadin farther along. Arkadin had already made a small pile of coins, bills, toothpicks, and the like. He unfolded each scrap of paper he came across, but none of them contained either a name or an address, just lists of chemicals, presumably those the winery required for fermentation or the periodic cleaning of its vats.

Shumenko’s wallet was a sad affair-sliver-thin, containing a faded photo of an older couple smiling into the sun and the camera Arkadin took to be Shumenko’s parents, a condom in a worn foil pouch, a driver’s license, car registration, ID badge for a sailing club, an
IOU
chit for ten thousand hryvnia-just under two thousand American dollars-two receipts, one for a restaurant, the other for a nightclub, an old photo of a young girl smiling into the camera.

In pocketing the receipts, the only reasonable leads he’d found, he inadvertently flipped over the
IOU
. On the reverse was the name
DEVRA
, written in a sharp, spiky feminine hand. Arkadin wanted to look for more, but he heard an electronic squawk, then the bawl of Yetnikova’s voice. He looked around, saw an old-fashioned walkie-talkie hanging by its strap from the railing. Stuffing the papers into his pocket, he hurried along the catwalk, slid down the ladder, made his way out of the champagne fermentation room.

Shumenko’s boss, Yetnikova, marched toward him down the labyrinthine corridors as if she were in the forefront of the Red Army entering Warsaw. Even at this distance, he could see the scowl on her face. Unlike his Russian credentials, his Ukrainian ones were paper-thin. They’d pass a cursory test, but after any kind of checking he’d be busted.

“I called the
SBU
office in Kiev. They did some digging on you, Colonel.”

Yetnikova’s voice had turned from servile to hostile. “Or whoever you are.” She puffed herself up like a porcupine about to do battle. “They never heard of-”

She gave a little squeak as he jammed one hand over her mouth while he punched her hard in the solar plexus. She collapsed into his arms like a rag doll, and he dragged her along the corridor until he came to the utility closet. Opening the door, he shoved her in, went in after her.

Sprawled on the floor, Yetnikova slowly came to her senses. Immediately she began her bluster-cursing and promising dire consequences for the outrages perpetrated on her person. Arkadin didn’t hear her; he didn’t even see her. He attempted to block out the past, but as always the memories flattened him. They took possession of him, taking him out of himself, producing like a drug a dream-like state that over the years had become as familiar as a twin brother.

Kneeling over Yetnikova, he dodged her kicks, the snapping of her jaws. He withdrew a switchblade from a sheath strapped to the side of his right calf. When he snikked open its long, thin blade, fear finally twisted Yetnikova’s face. Her eyes opened wide and she gasped, raising her hands instinctively.

“Why are you doing this?” she cried. “Why?”

“Because of what you’ve done.”

“What? What did I do? I don’t even know you!”

“But I know you.” Slapping her hands aside, Arkadin went to work on her. When, moments later, he was done, his vision came back into focus. He took a long, shuddering breath as if shaking off the effects of an anesthetic. He stared down at the headless corpse. Then, remembering, he kicked the head into a corner filled with filthy rags. For a moment, it rocked like a ship on the ocean. The eyes seemed to him gray with age, but they were only filmed with dust, and the release he sought eluded him once again.

Who were they?” Moira asked.

“That’s the difficulty,” Bourne told her. “I wasn’t able to find out. It would help if you could tell me why they’re following you.”

Moira frowned. “I have to assume it has something to do with the security on the
LNG

terminal.”

They were sitting side by side in Moira’s living room, a small, cozy space in a Georgetown town house of red-brown brick on Cambridge Place, NW, near Dumbarton Oaks. A fire was crackling and licking in the brick hearth; espresso and brandy sat on the coffee table in front of them. The chenille-covered sofa was deep enough for Moira to curl up on. It had big roll arms and a neck-high back.

“One thing I can tell you,” Bourne said, “these people are professionals.”

“Makes sense,” she said. “Any rival of my firm would hire the best people available. That doesn’t necessarily mean I’m in any danger.”

Nevertheless, Bourne felt another sharp pang at the loss of Marie, then carefully, almost reverently, put the feeling aside.

“More espresso?” Moira asked.

“Please.”

Bourne handed her his cup. As she bent forward, the light V-neck sweater revealed the tops of her firm breasts. At that moment, she raised her gaze to his. There was a mischievous glint in her eyes.

“What are you thinking about?”

“Probably the same thing you are.” He rose, looked around for his coat. “I think I’d better go.”

“Jason…”

He paused. Lamplight gave her face a golden glow. “Don’t,” she said. “Stay. Please.”

He shook his head. “You and I both know that’s not a good idea.”

“Just for tonight. I don’t want to be alone, not after what you discovered.” She gave a little shiver. “I was being brave before, but I’m not you. Being followed gives me the willies.”

She offered the cup of espresso. “If it makes you feel any better, I’d prefer you sleep out here. This sofa’s quite comfortable.”

Bourne looked around at the warm chestnut walls, the dark wooden blinds, the jeweltoned accents here and there in the form of vases and bowls of flowers. An agate box with gold legs sat on a mahogany sideboard. A small brass ship’s clock ticked away beside it. The photos of the French countryside in summer and autumn made him feel both mournful and nostalgic. For precisely what, he couldn’t say. Though his mind fished for memories, none surfaced. His past was a lake of black ice. “Yes, it is.” He took the cup, sat down beside her.

She pulled a pillow against her breast. “Shall we talk about what we’ve been avoiding saying all evening?”

“I’m not big on talking.”

Her wide lips curved in a smile. “Which one of you isn’t big on talking, David Webb or Jason Bourne?”

Bourne laughed, sipped his espresso. “What if I said both of us?”

“I’d have to call you a liar.”

“We can’t have that, can we?”

“It wouldn’t be my choice.” She rested one cheek on her hand, waiting. When he said nothing further, she continued. “Please, Jason. Just talk to me.”

The old fear of getting close to someone reared its head again, but at the same time he felt a kind of melting inside him, as if his frozen heart were beginning to thaw. For some years, he’d made it an ironclad rule to keep his distance from other people. Alex Conklin had been murdered, Marie had died, Martin Lindros hadn’t made it out of Miran Shah. All gone, his only friends and first love. With a start, he realized that he hadn’t felt attracted to anyone except Marie. He hadn’t allowed himself to feel, but now he couldn’t help himself. Was that a function of the David Webb personality or of Moira herself? She was strong, self-assured. In her he recognized a kindred spirit, someone who viewed the world as he did-as an outsider.

He looked into her face, said what was in his mind. “Everyone I get close to dies.”

She sighed, put a hand briefly over his. “I’m not going to die.” Her dark brown eyes glimmered in the lamplight. “Anyway, it’s not your job to protect me.”

This was another reason he was drawn to her. She was fierce, a warrior, in her own way.

“Tell me the truth, then. Are you really happy at the university?”

Bourne thought a moment, the conflict inside him becoming an unholy din. “I think I am.” After a slight pause, he added: “I thought I was.”

There’d been a golden glow to his life with Marie, but Marie was gone, that life was in the past. With her gone, he was forced to confront the terrifying question: What was David Webb without her? He was no longer a family man. He’d been able to raise his children, he saw now, only with her love and help. And for the first time he realized what his retreat into the university really meant. He’d been trying to regain that golden life he’d had with Marie. It wasn’t only Professor Specter he didn’t want to disappoint, it was Marie.

“What are you thinking?” Moira said softly.

“Nothing,” he said. “Nothing at all.”

She studied him for a moment. Then she nodded. “All right, then.” She rose, leaned over, kissed him on the cheek. “I’ll make up the sofa.”

“That’s all right, just tell me where the linen closet is.”

She pointed. “Over there.”

He nodded.

“Good night, Jason.”

“See you in the morning. But early. I’ve got-”

“I know. Breakfast with Dominic Specter.”

Bourne lay on his back, one arm behind his head. He was tired; he was sure he’d fall asleep immediately. But an hour after he’d turned off the lights, sleep seemed a thousand miles away. Now and again, the red-and-black remnants of the fire snapped and softly fell in on themselves. He stared at the stripes of light seeping in through the wide wooden blinds, hoping they’d take him to far-off places, which, in his case, meant his past. In some ways he was like an amputee who still felt his arm even though it had been sawed off. The sense of memories just beyond his ability to recall was maddening, an itch he couldn’t scratch. He often wished he would remember nothing at all, which was one reason Moira’s offer was so compelling. The thought of starting fresh, without the baggage of sadness and loss, was a powerful draw. This conflict was always with him, a major part of his life, whether he was David Webb or Jason Bourne. And yet, whether he liked it or not, his past was there, waiting for him like a wolf at night, if only he could reach through the mysterious barrier his brain had raised. Not for the first time, he wondered what other terrible traumas had befallen him in the past to cause his mind to protect itself from it. The fact that the answer lurked within his own mind turned his blood cold because it represented his own personal demon.