The Bourne Ascendancy

  “Lieutenant,” Blum said, affably cordial.

  “Blum,” Tamer replied. “I should have you arrested.”

  “On what charge?”

  “On any charge I care to name.”

  “Would that be prudent, or even wise?” Blum said.

  “I’m not in a particularly prudent frame of mind tonight.”

  “Your leader is missing.” Blum nodded. “I understand.”

  Tamer plucked at his lower lip as if ridding it of a bit of tobacco. “I don’t think you do, but have a seat anyway.”

  Blum, wanting to maintain control of the interview for the moment, remained standing. “There is a time for intimidation,” he said, “and a time for negotiation.”

  “Tactical Command doesn’t negotiate. I want the woman, Martine Heur, the Canadian diamond merchant seen getting onto Hassim’s boat with Colonel Khalifa. According to the harbormaster, she was the lone survivor.”

  “Martine Heur is no longer in Qatar, that much I can tell you.”

  “It’s hardly enough,” Tamer sneered. “It’s hardly anything at all.”

  “On the contrary,” Blum said evenly, “it’s more than you knew five minutes ago.”

  Tamer stared at him as if dressing down a recruit. When that silent intimidation didn’t work, he shrugged. “So why are we here, to stand and stare at one another? You are wasting my time.”

  “And your time is so valuable.” Blum indicated with his head. “Let’s sit, then.”

  Tamer sighed to show his exasperation. Nevertheless, he sat back down, and Blum slid into the seat opposite him. Tamer looked up, surprised to see a female standing so close to them. Sara had positioned herself perfectly, using Blum as a shield so that until this moment the lieutenant hadn’t seen her.

  “What’s this, then?” Tamer said.

  Before he could make a move, Sara sat down beside him. He cringed away, as if she had leprosy.

  “I won’t sit here with a female,” he said with clear distaste.

  “You will,” Blum said.

  The lieutenant snorted. “Who are you to give me orders?”

  He made to get to his feet, but Sara, extracting a scalpel she had taken from the doctor’s surgery, plunged it though Tamer’s trousers, just missing his thigh. It went all the way through the cloth, the tip burying itself in the seat. Tamer let out a low howl of approximately the same pitch as the sax solo up on the stage. No one appeared to notice either sound.

  “That’s more like it,” Blum said.

  Tamer, pinned like a butterfly on display, ignored him, glared at Sara.

  He was about to open his mouth when the telephone on their table rang. Blum looked at Sara, who picked up the old-fashioned black Bakelite receiver.

  “By all that is holy,” a voice said in her ear, “you have just signed your own death warrant.”

  26

  When Camilla came down to breakfast it was, as usual, barely light. She looked for Hunter, but found instead a man with brush-cut hair, a mile-long stare, and the demeanor of a carnival barker.

  “Morning,” he said, in a thick burr. “Vincent Terrier.”

  “What? As in the dog?”

  “I’m your new nanny.”

  Camilla didn’t like him, liked his attitude even less. “I don’t need a nanny.”

  He shrugged. “Difficult times.”

  She scanned the typed menu disinterestedly. “Where’s Hunter?”

  “Gone.” He showed her some teeth. That, she thought, did not bode well for her.

  He ordered oatmeal, which, according to his type, he called porridge, “with milk, no sugar.” Camilla shuddered internally. She ordered her usual—two poached eggs, wheat toast—though in truth what appetite she had come in with had evaporated.

  “You’re mine now,” Terrier said, for no particular reason she could see apart from further pissing her off.

  She resented his tone as much as the phrase, which made her sound like an acquisition, like a car or a wristwatch. The food was placed before them, and he dug in as if he hadn’t eaten in days.

  “Am I being monitored?” she asked.

  “Should you be?” he said between shovelfuls of porridge.

  This man was from Anselm. Hunter had promised to protect her from Anselm; now Hunter was gone. Poof! Just like that. Suddenly she’d had enough of Terrier and his master, and, as she had once read in a Le Carré novel, people who have had enough want more. “I demand to know what happened to Hunter.”

  Terrier continued eating his disgusting, gluey mess without either answering or looking up.

  She leaned forward. “Did you hear me?”

  “Your eggs are getting cold.”

  She grabbed her plate, tilted it so that the eggs slid off into his bowl of half-eaten oatmeal. He paused with his spoon halfway to his mouth, staring down at the mess. Then he set the spoon very carefully back into one of the yolks, which had now spread over the top of the oatmeal.

  “This is the Dairy,” he said, just as carefully. “We don’t ask questions like that.”

  “I am Camilla Stowe,” she said with even more intensity. “I ask questions whenever I want, wherever I want.”

  He sat back, his eyes at last rising to meet hers. “So this is how it’s going to be.”

  She didn’t bother to speak; the answer was obvious.

  “I want my old handler back.”

  “I’m afraid that is im—”

  She rose and left the dining hall. Outside, in the clean, new-day air, she thought she’d feel better, but all she really felt was Hunter’s loss more keenly.

  * * *

  Soraya loved her child more than life itself, but she had discovered, to her chagrin, that she was not a natural mother. Every single thing that an infant, and now a toddler, required of her was a struggle. Her life had been forever changed, it was not wholly hers anymore, and for someone who had spent years in the clandestine services, this change was not an easy thing to come to grips with, let alone master. Most days she was left with a feeling of guilt, which, if she wasn’t careful, could become crushing, never more so than now. The fact that she hadn’t been able to protect either Sonya or Aaron from the life she had led ate at her, as if it were a living thing in her belly.

  “Mommy,” Sonya piped up in her little voice, “tell me more about the djinns.”

  It was not until after Sonya was born that Soraya discovered she was a natural-born storyteller. Now she used those stories to weave a spell of calm and optimism around the two of them, protecting them from Islam and his cohorts, although she had increasingly come to feel that Islam could become useful to her. She had no illusions about jihadists; she’d had too much experience with them. But establishing a relationship with one—and getting him to tell her his name—was a great leap forward. She felt as if she could at least keep her head above water, and possibly at some point reach the shallow end of the pool into which she and Sonya had been dragged.

  For the moment, she returned to the private inner world she was spinning for the two of them. Sonya had fallen in love with the djinn, obliging Soraya to make up endless stories about him. Curiously, this brought her closer both to her daughter and to motherhood.

  “Once upon a time, there lived a lonely djinn. He was lonely because he lived in the center of the Gobi Desert, in a place his fellow djinns had long abandoned.”

  Sonya was between her knees, leaning her little body in. “Why did he stay, Mommy?”

  “Because, my darling muffin, the djinn’s father was buried beneath the very dune where he had lived his whole life. And although his fellow djinns had long since moved on, he could not.”

  “He didn’t want to leave his daddy.”

  “That’s right, muffin.”

  “I wouldn’t want to leave my daddy either.”

  Tears leaked out of Soraya’s eyes.

  “Mommy?”

  “Yes, precious.”

  “The djinn can do anything, can’t he?”

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sp; “That’s right.”

  “I wish the djinn was here, Mommy.” Sonya’s voice suddenly seemed smaller than ever. “Then he could bring Daddy back.”

  * * *

  “Join me,” the voice on the telephone said in Sara’s ear. “Come alone.”

  Carefully, she lowered the receiver into its cradle and, staring at Lieutenant Tamer, said to Blum, “Someone has been observing us. I’m going over to his table now.”

  Blum shifted in his seat, but had the presence of mind not to crane his neck to look around the room. “Do you think that’s wise?”

  “I don’t have a choice.” Sara noted the slight smirk on Tamer’s face. “You won’t be smiling when I get back, I promise you.”

  “If you get back,” he said.

  Blum leaned forward, spoke urgently to her. “Who has been observing us?”

  “I’ll let you know shortly.” She freed the scalpel. Then she leaned over and, with her lips almost against Tamer’s ear, whispered, “The next time I use this on you you’ll howl and keep on howling.”

  Then she scooted out, walked slowly and deliberately along the top tier to the table in the far corner, where the lamp had been turned off, as the voice on the telephone had instructed her.

  A man sat alone, partly obscured. Without a word, she sat down opposite him. Even though he was in shadow, she recognized him instantly.

  “Nite Jewel does not seem like your kind of place, El Ghadan,” she said.

  “You know my name,” he said, “but I don’t know yours.”

  “We’ll keep it that way,” Sara said, “at least for the moment.”

  “You speak Qatari Arabic perfectly, but you are not a native.” His eyes narrowed. “You are not American either.”

  Sara smiled. “I very much doubt this is why you called me over.”

  El Ghadan clasped his hands on the table in front of him. “Why did I call you over, then?”

  “It’s clear your lapdog went running to his master as soon as he received the call from my friend.”

  “It was the prudent thing to do.”

  “Indeed.” Sara strived to ignore his burning eyes. These fanatics are all alike, she thought. Nevertheless she was careful not to underestimate him, knowing not only his history but how cleverly he had trapped Bourne with Soraya and her family. This was a man who recognized the usefulness of psychology, and used it every chance he got. “And now here we are.”

  Silence reigned for a time. The quintet was on a break. A low murmuring filled the room. Now and again women, dressed like glamorous birds, rose from their perches, wending their way around tables to slide into places next to the single men who had offered telephoned invitations. The atmosphere was lush and sensual, a stark contrast to the fierce psychic war going on at the far corner table on the third tier.

  “There is a mystery I’d like cleared up,” El Ghadan said at length.

  “Which one? There are so many.”

  Though his face remained impassive, a terrible animosity built inside him, caused him to clasp his hands so tightly the knuckles turned white. “Khalifa is missing. Presumed dead. I take care of my people. I want to know what happened.”

  I’m in, Sara thought. “Believe it or not, I want to help you.”

  “And can you?”

  “You’ve got a leaky boat, El Ghadan.”

  He blinked, the only sign that she had genuinely surprised him. “You are saying what?”

  “You mentioned that Khalifa was one of your people.”

  “Yes.”

  “An important cog in your jihadist wheel.”

  El Ghadan tossed his head, abruptly impatient. “Yes, so…?”

  “You are a man of integrity, El Ghadan. I see this clearly. By this I mean that your beliefs are absolute, your aims motivated by ideology.”

  He shook his head, clearly baffled. “Having antagonized me, are you trying flattery now?”

  Sara smiled benignly, leaning slightly forward. “Not at all. I cannot imagine what advantage that would bring me. No, I am in the process of warning you.”

  El Ghadan sat back stiffly. “Warning me?”

  “Khalifa’s motives were not the same as yours. He coveted money, nothing loftier. Which meant that he was for sale to the highest bidder.”

  El Ghadan’s eyes narrowed. “And?”

  “He was set to sell you out to the Israelis.”

  “That’s an insane accusation,” El Ghadan scoffed. “I knew Khalifa well.”

  “Not well enough.”

  She chose this moment to lay on the table between them the product Blum and his local network had so meticulously amassed on Mahmoud Tamer. She pushed it across for El Ghadan to read. It detailed the comings and goings of Tamer between Doha and Beirut, where he continued to drop thousands of dollars a month at Casino du Liban, gambling and bedding high-end call girls.

  “I don’t have to tell you,” Sara said, “that a lieutenant’s salary isn’t going to pay for all that high living.”

  El Ghadan looked up, shaking his head. “What has this to do with Khalifa?”

  “Tamer is one of his lieutenants. I have similar product on the others. It’s the trickle-down theory, El Ghadan. His lieutenants were scraping the crumbs from his table. They were all dirty. It was the way Khalifa had of keeping them loyal.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t believe it.”

  “You don’t want to believe it.” She passed to him the product Mossad, at her father’s request, had manufactured. It was a spreadsheet of dates and times when large amounts of money were wired to a specific account in the Cayman Islands that, according to the material, Khalifa himself had opened. The damning part was the page on which the wiring instructions had been deciphered. They emanated from a shadow bank account in one of the half dozen Tel Aviv banks linked to Mossad. The Cayman account existed, the account records had been backdated. Apart from Khalifa’s involvement, everything was real and correct. In the unlikely event that El Ghadan should dispatch one of his men to Grand Cayman, armed with a photo of Khalifa Al Mohannadi, the bank manager would tell him that yes, that was indeed the man who opened the account on such-and-such a date, and here was his signature. Mossad left as little as possible to chance.

  In a sudden burst of disgust, El Ghadan pushed the product back across the table. “And Khalifa’s end?”

  “Came at the hands of Hassim, the boat’s owner.” This was of course another lie, but it was a necessary one. The day she started telling the truth to jihadists, Sara thought, was the day she needed to get out of this business. “Hassim discovered just how dirty Khalifa and his men were. They fought across the deck of the boat. A storm was approaching; it was a dangerous moment to be doing anything but running before it. Immersed too deeply in their mutual animosity, they ignored the storm, to their detriment. Locked together, each searching for an advantage, they went over the side.”

  El Ghadan took a moment to digest her story. Then he said, “And how do you know this?”

  “The woman who was on board with them, the woman who survived—”

  “The so-called Martine Heur.”

  “She is my friend. My childhood friend. We’re closer than sisters. No sibling baggage, you see.”

  El Ghadan’s eyes narrowed. “Surely that is not her real name.”

  “It is or it isn’t. What’s the difference?”

  El Ghadan’s eyes burned. “You know the difference.”

  “She is protected from you, believe me,” Sara said flatly. “Besides, Martine did you a great service. And so have I.” She glanced over her shoulder to where Tamer sat with Blum. “You need to clean house here in Doha.”

  Without another word, she rose. About to leave, she was halted by the sound of his voice. The quintet had started up again, Lerner and Loewe this time, and she was obliged to retrace her steps in order to hear what he was saying.

  “How can I get in touch with you?” he asked.

  “Why would you want to?” she said.

>   “I could use your eye on the Israelis. What do you say?”

  27

  Waziristan was a place of no one’s dreams. Caught between Afghanistan and Pakistan, seen from above it looked like it had been expelled by both countries. It bordered the state of Peshawar, was cracked by mountains, many of them impenetrable. It was inhabited by Pashtun tribes, who now shared their spiky, unlovely territory with elements of the Taliban, al-Qaeda, and possibly other hard-core jihadists. The Waziri, a rough, warlike people, kept these disparate cadres separated, like Siamese fighting fish, lest they wage a continuous war, one against the other, and in the process turn the country to ruin.

  The C-17 circled the pressed dirt airstrip once, then pulled itself down in stomach-churning fashion before the nose could smack into the wall of granite that rose steeply at the far end. The plane hit hard, the tires smoking, the brakes shrieking like the ghosts of the Waziri dead.

  Even in this great valley, they were high up. The air was clear, clean, and thin. The sky was very blue, almost dark overhead. Clouds clung to the mountaintops to the east, churning and gloomy. Occasionally, lightning flickered in their depths and deep rumbles of thunder like beaten drums rolled ominously through the valley.

  Faraj’s men were unloading the C-17 through its massive rear door. The American would-be jihadists marched down, stiff-legged from their uncomfortable journey seated on wooden benches. Most trotted off to relieve themselves, as the C-17 had no facilities on board. To one side of the strip was a line of buildings, looking more like temporary shelters, camouflaged in order to be invisible from above.

  From these buildings men emerged. Bourne immediately caught their difference from the men with whom he had been traveling. Chechens, he thought. And he thought of Sara’s encrypted text, which confirmed Nebby’s intel: the invisible line connecting Khalifa, El Ghadan, and Ivan Borz, the Chechen arms dealer who had ably stepped into Viktor Bout’s enormous shoes.

  “This is the edge of nowhere,” Faraj said, breaking into Bourne’s musings, “the margin of society. The mountains of western Pakistan are crawling with people who have been forced out of the cities to the east for religious and ethnic reasons. They are treated like pariahs, and so they become pariahs.”