The Bourne Ascendancy

  Aashir jammed his hands into his trouser pockets. “I’ve been trying to feel what it’s like to not remember your family, your childhood, your growing up.”

  “Don’t,” Bourne said. “Consider yourself lucky.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “No one ever understands another person.”

  Aashir peered at him sideways. “Do you really believe that?”

  The night was very dark; the encampment was in a mandatory blackout, no one allowed even to smoke outdoors. The two men could hardly see each other, but they felt each other’s presence, larger than life.

  Aashir went on without waiting for a reply. Perhaps he already knew the answer. “I have three sisters—had three sisters, I should say. They’re dead now. Missiles, drones, I don’t know. I’m the only male—the only son—and I’m such a disappointment.”

  “To your father,” Bourne said, “or to yourself?”

  “Does it matter? To my father I am a nonperson.”

  There was such a well of sorrow in Aashir’s voice, Bourne was compelled to reply. “I should think it matters to your mother. I would think it would matter even more to you.”

  “My mother understands nothing except cooking and cleaning and raising her children. That’s the scope of her life, the same as her mother before her. Now she has no children to raise. She is completely lost.”

  “You could go back.”

  “I am not a child!” Aashir said hotly.

  “But you seem to be the only one who understands her, who can help heal her pain.”

  “And who will heal my pain?”

  It was a cry from the heart rather than a self-pitying moan. Bourne had no answer for him; he had no answer for himself.

  * * *

  Vincent Terrier was with Marty Finnerman at the late morning meeting with Howard Anselm at Finnerman’s office in the Pentagon.

  “We got the high-res photos back,” Finnerman said as soon as Anselm had seated himself on a cane-backed metal chair. The Pentagon did not go in much for creature comforts.

  With a nod of his head, Finnerman deferred to Terrier, who immediately spilled a dozen 11-by-14 blowups onto Finnerman’s desk. As Anselm looked through them, Terrier provided the commentary.

  “The drone made three passes over Faraj’s encampment. We got his C-17.”

  Anselm tapped his forefinger on one blowup after another. “Blew it in two, I see.”

  Terrier bobbed his head the way a praised dog might. “That’s right. Faraj’s command building was also completely destroyed. Hopefully with Faraj in it.”

  “Mmm,” Anselm said. “No activity.”

  “Abandoned,” Finnerman agreed emphatically. “Everyone else dead.”

  Anselm glanced up. “Including the Americans.”

  “The American traitors,” Terrier corrected him.

  Anselm wagged a finger. “Wipe that smile off your face, Vincent.”

  “Vinnie’s right, Howard,” Finnerman interjected. “The drone strike was a complete success.”

  “I don’t see any bodies,” Anselm pointed out.

  “Burned to a crisp,” Terrier said. “Inside Faraj’s command and control facility.”

  “What’s this slight mound here? It looks like newly turned earth. There were survivors who took the damning photos, who buried the dead? I’d like eyes on the ground.” Anselm sat back. “Marty, why don’t you contact our friends at Mossad. You’ve told me they have a cadre not far from the valley.”

  “Had.” Terrier seemed to make a habit of interrupting. “For some reason unknown to us, they’ve pulled out of Waziristan completely.”

  Anselm frowned. “I don’t like that. What do they know that you guys don’t?”

  Finnerman made a show of laughing, but from the look in his eyes it was clear he wasn’t pleased with the question. A moment later, Anselm understood why.

  “I spoke to Eli Yadin this morning,” Finnerman said. “I asked him that same question. I wanted to know why we were being kept in the dark.” He put his hands flat on his desk as he leaned forward. “You know what he said? He told me there was nothing to interest them in Waziristan. At the moment, everything was quiet.”

  “In other words,” Anselm said, “he lied to you.”

  Finnerman looked like he had just smelled three-day-old fish. “It wouldn’t be the first time, and it won’t be the last.”

  “But this is a crucial moment for us.” Terrier, eager as his namesake.

  “Not a time for the director of Mossad to be dissembling to a purported ally,” Anselm added.

  Terrier’s head came up. “Purported?”

  Finnerman shook his head. “Not now, Howard.”

  Anselm spread his hands. “Why not now?” His gaze moved to Terrier. “The Israeli Knesset has secretly okayed the expansion of settlements across the Green Line, the 1967 border, the latest of which is in the Jordan Valley, which the hard-liners are adamant to keep under its military control, arguing it’s Israel’s eastern security border. The prime minister has assured POTUS he won’t sign the bill into law, but meanwhile the expansion has begun, one more reason this so-called peace summit is a sham. The Orthodox segment of the population has for some time joined with the hard-line conservative pols, keeping a hammerlock on Knesset policy.”

  Anselm leaned back, stared up at the ceiling. “You know, in a perfect world—”

  “Humans don’t—and frankly, can’t—live in a perfect world,” Finnerman cut in. “You know better than most how imperfect our world is.”

  “And getting more imperfect by the day,” Terrier muttered.

  “What?” Finnerman said.

  Terrier shook his head. “Nothing.”

  “If we’re finished debating intangibles.” Anselm picked at a bit of imaginary lint on his trousers leg. “POTUS’s thesis has never been that well thought out; the Israeli prime minister said as much.”

  Terrier looked from one to the other. “So now—what? How is this peace summit still happening?”

  “It’s happening,” Anselm said, “because it has to happen.”

  Terrier opened his mouth then closed it with a snap. “You mean…”

  “Yes,” Anselm said, “it’s one enormous PR stunt. To keep the status quo alive, to save face for everyone.”

  “And to keep the ‘peace process’ industries from imploding,” Finnerman said, “depriving thousands of people of their livelihoods and companies of profits.”

  Including yourselves, Terrier thought bitterly, because you’re shareholders in any number of those Gravenhurst-directed companies making money off of this phony peace process. How I despise you all.

  “The bottom line,” Anselm concluded, “is that this summit will benefit everyone involved. And when nothing substantial comes of it, the spin will be, ‘POTUS tried, he got farther than any other president in a decade. Kudos to the hero.’”

  Finnerman laughed. “And then everyone can go back to hating one another.”

  35

  The Arab and Chechen cadre moved out precisely at midnight. Black clouds roiled over their heads, fitful gusts of wind brought with them further hints of rain. The impending heavy weather actually bolstered their spirits, as the chances of their being spotted had been eliminated.

  They could move freely, follow the two Waziri warriors with a complete freedom rarely afforded them. They were led toward the mountains, where a curious pale mist was creeping, as if to greet them or help shepherd them into eastern Afghanistan.

  The time gave Bourne cause to think again of Soraya and Sonya. His mobile was of no use here, so he had no way of knowing whether El Ghadan had sent another proof-of-life video, no way to know whether Soraya and her daughter were indeed still alive. Despite El Ghadan’s assurances, he knew the timetable was working against all of them. The longer Soraya and Sonya remained in captivity the greater their chance of being killed, no matter what Bourne did.

  That he had a plan, that there was still a glimmer
of hope, was cold comfort to him. That he carried with him a corner of a plan from Singapore, the place he needed to be, was like a light in the darkness. But there was still a ways to go; how Borz, Faraj, and their men were going to get from Afghanistan to Singapore was anyone’s guess. And that was assuming they survived the Taliban.

  For the moment, Bourne needed to put all his doubts aside. He was determined to keep his friend and her daughter from harm. He knew he would move heaven and earth to save them.

  As they exited the valley, they also left level ground behind them. The way became rockier as the terrain rose steeply into the foothills, which all too soon morphed into a narrow, winding path, flanked on either side by stony ledges and imposing outcroppings.

  Three hours after they left the valley, the path vanished altogether, and they found themselves at the complete mercy of Khan Abdali’s men. This disturbed Faraj, but it seemed to faze Borz not at all. He followed the two elongated skeletons with absolute confidence, an attitude that, from Bourne’s observations, appeared to annoy, then anger Faraj, who had been forced to cede control to the Chechen ever since the C-17 landed in Waziristan.

  Now they were obliged to climb rather than march, grasping outcroppings, levering themselves along like lizards on a wall. The Waziri moved along the rock face as if wraiths, seeming to expend no effort as they mounted higher and higher, heading directly into the clouds.

  The chilling rain came an hour later, drenching them at once. The Waziri appeared not to notice, and the Chechens took their cue from them. Faraj and his grim-faced men soldiered on without either complaint or comment. They were inured to hardship—it was the only way of life they knew. To a man, they were fixated on their mission, their target, and the angels in the Promised Land that awaited their deaths.

  “Now I will tell you something, Yusuf, that Faraj would not understand. In fact, it would offend him,” Borz said to Bourne with the rain streaming down his face. “I love America. Yes, yes, it’s true. You know why I say this, Yusuf? Because America has developed the greatest war machine the world has ever seen. American businessmen have turned the ideology of war into a multibillion-dollar business.” He smiled. “Why do I love this? Well, that war machine is not wholly American. It has help from people like me.” His eyes twinkled through the rain. “Rest assured, Yusuf, when America goes to war I make money. Lots and lots of money.”

  He would have gone on, but one of the Waziri warriors came up to Bourne, spoke to him in their strange dialect. Bourne nodded.

  “What’s he saying?” Borz asked.

  “Around the next bend is Afghanistan,” Bourne said. “The moment we cross over, we’ll be in enemy territory. He wants you to order your men to be on guard.”

  The warning was duly passed from man to man, and weapons were brought to the ready. They continued on, around the curve in the rocks, clinging, slipping here and there, the rain ceaseless, the sky bearing down on them like a press.

  And so into Afghanistan.

  The terrain looked no different than it had for the last several hours, but then why should it? Western Waziristan flowed into eastern Afghanistan like a river to the sea.

  Within a half hour, the Waziri had found a seam in the rock face. The path through it was narrow, with high walls looming on either side like giant sentinels. The rain struck the sheer rock and bounced off so that it came at the men both vertically and almost horizontally. The wealth of water had turned the path to runnels, racing streams through which the cadre waded.

  Now the path pitched down at such a precipitous angle that they found themselves half sliding into what, in the almost hallucinatory light of the coming dawn, appeared to be a knifelike valley riddled on one side with caves that would afford them shelter from the incessant rain.

  Though soaked, the men were forbidden to build fires, even in the depths of the caves. Though tired and hungry, they were restless, craving an enemy to attack and destroy. Finally, however, they hunkered down and ate in huge, voracious mouthfuls, like baby birds. The Waziri and Chechens sat with their backs against the wall, watching as the Arabs—Bourne among them—knelt facing Mecca and chanted their prayers in hushed voices.

  “As I see these people praying,” Borz said to Bourne when the session had concluded, “I’m reminded not of the billions of Muslims—including Chechens—but of the officials in Washington, D.C., making decisions that affect the entire world. We are thrown back to the days when Rome ruled the world through its corrupt popes, when thousands of men were thrown into battle in God’s name.”

  He looked hard at Bourne. “Imagine what this world would be like if there were no religion.” He laughed. “You and I, Yusuf, would be out of work. Whatever, then, would we do?”

  Day had broken, sunlight was slowly prying its way through the thinning clouds. The rain was hardly more than a benign drizzle.

  “Fetch the Waziri,” Borz said. “I need details about the next stage of our trek.”

  Bourne was approaching them, at the mouth of one of the caves, when the shooting began. Automatic weapons fire shattered the dawn from multiple directions, and all around him Chechens and Arabs were spun around, fountaining blood and brains.

  Part Three

  36

  Noreen? Are you fucking kidding me?”

  Camilla stared at the sheaf of photos Hunter had shaken out of a manila folder.

  “Noreen?”

  “Of course Noreen.” Hunter clucked like a mother hen. “Why d’you think Anselm goes through assistants like crap through a goose?”

  “I haven’t been at the White House long enough to…” Camilla’s voice trailed off as she stared at a photo of Bill kissing Noreen—William Magnus, POTUS—while she was wrapped up in the American flag. “Was this taken in the Oval Office?” Her voice was sharp, pitched an octave higher than normal, with, to her chagrin, an edge of hysteria.

  “I don’t know. I wasn’t told.”

  Hunter, a pro through and through, kept her tone at the midway point between cynicism and pity. She didn’t say, I told you so, but she had every right to, Camilla knew.

  The two women were in the barn, brushing down their respective steeds, following another perfect session on the racing oval. It was the dinner hour; they were alone. Hunter’s timing had once again proved flawless.

  “The soft white underbelly of Anselm’s job.”

  “He pimps for POTUS.”

  “Crude,” Hunter said, “but accurate.”

  Do I detect a whiff of triumph in her voice? Camilla wondered. She saw that these photos were meant as a coup de grâce, the hard evidence to push her all the way over to Hunter’s—and Terrier’s—side. If her background wasn’t enough to get her to accept their philosophy, then by God, good old-fashioned jealousy would do the trick. And of course, from jealousy would come the need for revenge—at least in their minds.

  Was there nothing to which these people would not stoop? Camilla asked herself, but she already knew the answer. No, there was absolutely nothing. These people—and she included POTUS and Anselm in the mix—were amoral. Time and again she had found herself wondering how people of high position like Anthony Weiner and Eliot Spitzer, not to mention the Secret Service agents she had canned because of their flagrant dalliances with South American whores, could do what they did, over and over. Did they not consider that they would be caught? No, they did not. She saw that now. Because, like POTUS, they believed themselves beyond judgment, above the law.

  She experienced a sudden hallucinatory moment. She saw herself as she had been—as head of the Secret Service, as Bill’s lover, as a victim. At the same time, she was aware of what she had become—a false pawn, a realist, but also a cynic. And then she looked at Hunter and saw two of her as well: the trainer, the protector, but also the false friend, the latest person to want to carry Camilla in her pocket like a coin.

  Now, Camilla thought, when she thinks I’m most angry and therefore most vulnerable, she’s going to make her pitch. Now I’ll
find out the task she and Terrier have in mind for me.

  Still, she needed to prove her thesis to herself, she needed Hunter to drive the last nail into her own coffin, because for Camilla betrayal was far more serious than it was for the people surrounding her; it was not to be embarked upon lightly, with no thought to its consequences.

  “What will happen to those photos?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” Hunter said in the most offhanded way. “These are the only copies. I’ll burn them. The digital images will be erased. No trace of them will remain.”

  And there it was, Camilla thought. The last nail. The photos had been taken exclusively to induce her to act. And while she was about it, who was to say they were real? They might just as easily have been Photoshopped. She had no experience with fake photos, so there was no way to tell. And yet now that she considered it, there was a way for her to tell. The fact that Noreen was wrapped in the flag, just as POTUS had wished Camilla to be, was all the proof she needed. The photo was real, no question.

  “Let’s take a walk,” Hunter said, ending Camilla’s train of thought.

  They had finished grooming their horses, fed them, replenished their water. Hunter picked up a kerosene lantern and what appeared to be a wicker picnic hamper, and they set out, heading due east, past the racing oval, over a low ridge and down into a swale. In the distance, the meadow where the cows grazed and lazed during the day stretched away, a deep emerald sea, dotted here and there with the desert islet of a tree or two.

  Camilla thought about her reaction to the photos. She felt no anger, and certainly no regret. What she did feel, however, was shame. Shame that she had been a part of this sad parade of young women mesmerized by Bill’s charisma, POTUS’s power. She felt as dirty as a used washcloth. More than anything the photos made her itch to scrub herself down under a very hot shower.

  The eastern half of the swale fell away gently, then, without warning, more steeply. This was a section of the Dairy Camilla had not explored. As if someone had rung a bell, the sun slipped behind the western hills and twilight was ushered in. Their elongated shadows turned blue, then vanished altogether. They picked their way downward.