The Bourne Ascendancy

  “I’ve been keeping abreast of the reports. What would bring him into the open now?”

  Anselm evinced a sphinxlike expression. “Excellent question.”

  Camilla waited, her double shot growing colder by the minute. When no answer was forthcoming she decided to press on. “And the seventh minister?”

  Anselm’s eyes behind his spectacles flicked down at his paperwork, then back up, all in the space of a heartbeat. “A man by the name of Qabbani. He’s from Syria.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “Vanished. As if he had never existed.” Anselm looked at her darkly. “Except Minister Qabbani most assuredly does exist. In fact, POTUS has just this hour spoken with him. Qabbani is safe and sound in Damascus, having never left.”

  “Then how the devil…?”

  “A Blacksmith.”

  Camilla shook her head. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Blacksmith,” Anselm repeated, enunciating the word carefully. “Someone who impersonates a dignitary, posing as them in world hot spots.”

  Camilla sat back and whistled. “There’s a dangerous job.”

  “Dangerous for you when the Blacksmith you’ve hired is Jason Bourne.”

  Camilla was so startled some of her espresso slopped into the saucer. “What?”

  “We believe Bourne is working with El Ghadan.”

  She shook her head. “Does that track?”

  “There’s simply no other explanation. How did the cadre gain access to a highly restricted area, so well guarded? Bourne is a master of infiltration. How did El Ghadan know that Bourne was impersonating Qabbani unless Bourne told him beforehand? All the ministers are dead except Bourne. You know El Ghadan as well as I do. He would never leave a witness alive. Ergo, he never had any intention of harming Bourne. Ergo, he and Bourne are working hand in glove.”

  “Even if everything you say is true—”

  “It is. Jason Bourne does what he wants, when he wants. He’s the most dangerous man in our neck of the woods, Camilla. A constant threat that gives POTUS gray hairs.”

  “Accepting all that, why in the world would El Ghadan team up with Bourne? From his dossier, we know that El Ghadan does not have a history of sharing power. Just the opposite, in fact.”

  Anselm leaned forward, the overhead lights sparking against his lenses, turning them briefly opaque. “All true, but here’s what’s just crossed the NSA’s signals desk: El Ghadan is planning an attack so big, so important that even he needs help.”

  “But what would…?” Camilla picked up on the sudden flurry of anxiety in the air. Then her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh my God, POTUS’s summit in Singapore.”

  Anselm showed his teeth at last, tiny nubbins that glittered briefly as he drew back his thin lips. “This raid was a dry run. They got into the hotel, they overcame security, and then, the coup de grâce, they had someone on the inside.” He lifted a forefinger like a college professor. “A little-known fact: Bourne is an absolute master of disguise. There’s no one better.”

  Camilla stared at him, wide-eyed and mesmerized.

  “Over the years,” he continued, “this government has done everything in its power to bring Bourne to heel, to administer to him the justice he so richly deserves. How perfect, then, for him to engineer the assassination of the president of the United States, the man who issued his termination order.”

  His tiny-tot elbows stuck out as he leaned more heavily on his desk. “This is revenge, Camilla. Revenge, pure and simple.” He took the cup and saucer out of her hand, set it aside. “We have to stop him. We have to end Bourne’s reign of terror once and for all. This is the mandate POTUS has given us.”

  “Us?”

  “The Company has been unsuccessful, so has the NSA. Even Treadstone, which has now been disbanded following the resignation of Soraya Moore and the severe wounding of Peter Marks. POTUS believes the time has come to think outside the box.”

  “Meaning?”

  “If Bourne has a weakness, it’s for people in distress.”

  “Do you have someone in mind, Howard?”

  “Here’s the brief.” Anselm handed her a hefty folder.

  “Good God, it’s as thick as a brick.”

  “The Joint Chiefs put their heads together.”

  She opened the brief. “This plan must be something special if it got the alphabet soup to play nice with one another.”

  Anselm smiled. “It is special, Camilla. Very.”

  She began to read, then looked up, startled. “Wait a minute. This means—”

  “It’s you, Camilla. We’ve created a scenario expressly for you. We’re sending you into the field as the center. Your brief is to terminate Jason Bourne with extreme prejudice.”

  4

  Eli Yadin, director of Mossad, was tacking into the wind, sails straining, taking full advantage of the weather. His boat, a thirty-three-foot sloop he sailed himself, was perhaps a nautical mile off the coast of Tel Aviv. Sunlight winked in and out from behind puffy cumulus clouds. He looked up, grinned at his daughter Sara. He had taken her out on the boat as a celebration of her recovery from her near-death knifing. They had broken bread together, shared a bottle of rosé, had even gone for a brief swim.

  Then his phone rang—not his mobile, but his sat phone. For a moment they stared at each other, recognizing the portent of disaster. He handed her the sail lines and went belowdecks to take the call.

  It was his asset-in-place in Doha.

  “Director, a Quai d’Orsay operative was just dropped off at the French embassy doorstep.”

  An icy ball of fear formed in the pit of Yadin’s stomach. If it was him…“Dead or alive?”

  “Half his head has been blown off.”

  “Not a professional assassination, then.”

  “Probably not.”

  Yadin looked out a window. Tel Aviv seemed very far away. Nevertheless, his world had found him. He dreaded asking the fateful question.

  “His name?”

  “Aaron Lipkin-Renais. I know the Frenchman was only an occasional, but still I thought his death important enough to—”

  “You did the right thing.” Yadin squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. Dammit, he thought. Dammit to hell. “Now tell me all of it.”

  * * *

  “Sara!” Eli Yadin called. “Sara!”

  The wind was in her hair, the sun in her eyes. She had never looked more beautiful, he thought, nor felt more precious to him.

  “What is it?” She tied off the line, came toward him as he took the wheel.

  Tears overflowed her eyes when he told her. “How?” she said. “How did it happen?”

  “Aaron had been missing for two days, along with his family. His daughter had been ill; it was assumed he had taken the family away for a rest. Twelve hours later, he still hadn’t responded to the emergency signals from his own office. His colleagues were canvassed. He’d said nothing to any of them. He, his wife, and daughter had vanished.”

  “Then he washes up dead outside the French embassy in Doha?” Sara shook her head. “It makes no sense.” She sat on a teak taffrail. “What about his wife and daughter?”

  “Nothing,” Eli said. “Not a word, not a sign.”

  Sara looked away, didn’t bother to pull her hair back from her face.

  “I know you and Aaron were close.” When she did not immediately respond, Eli went on. “Did your situation change after he was married?”

  She looked at him sharply. “Why should it?”

  Eli shrugged. “A man marries, he has a child. Priorities change.”

  “They didn’t for you, Abba.”

  Now it was his turn to give her a sharp look. “Do you resent me for that?”

  “How can I resent you, Abba? You’re the bravest man I know.”

  “Sara.”

  “Now Aaron is dead, his wife and child are missing.”

  Eli made a course correction while he considered a moment. “We’ve got a most vexing mystery
on our hands.”

  Sara squared her shoulders. Her feet were braced at shoulder width. She was clearly gathering herself. “Abba, I need to find out what happened. I want to go to Doha.”

  Without a word of protest, Eli turned the wheel over, headed the sloop back to Tel Aviv. He did not care for the idea of sending her to Qatar, but when she used that tone of voice he knew from bitter experience not to cross her.

  * * *

  “Sonya.”

  Silence.

  “Sonya!”

  The darkness exploded into light and Sonya, sobbing, ran into her arms. “Darling, I’m here.” Soraya gathered her daughter up, cradling her, rocking her back and forth. “Sonya, I’m here. It’s all right. It’s all right,” she crooned.

  * * *

  They had been allowed out of the room in order to use the bathroom. A jihadist had remained with them as Soraya washed them both down with the soap and washcloth provided, used the toilet, before they were escorted back to their cell.

  Now she tried not to think about Aaron, about how his corpse, cut loose, had lain between her and her daughter, a terrible reminder—if any more were needed—of their captors’ ultimate power. Now he was gone. God alone knew how they had desecrated his poor body. It was impossible not to think of Aaron. God in heaven, he was dead, his life winked out in the space of a heartbeat. The reality of it was almost too much to bear, and, strong of mind and body as she was, so well trained by Treadstone’s most accomplished masters, she felt certain she would have broken down were it not for Sonya. She had to remain strong for her daughter. Her primary duty now was to keep Sonya calm, to reassure her that everything was going to be all right. Mourning for Aaron must wait until they were both far away from here—wherever here was—and safe. So, like the best agents, she placed her grief into the farthest corner of her mind, reverently sealing it off for the time being.

  “Darling,” she said in her steadiest voice, “I’m here. You’re safe.”

  “Mommy!”

  That little voice, as familiar to her as her own, now full of anguish and terror, almost broke her heart.

  “I couldn’t see you, Mommy.”

  “I was right here, sweetheart. Right here all the time.”

  “I couldn’t see you!” the child repeated, as children do.

  God, keep me strong, Soraya prayed. Let me protect my child and I will love you forever and ever. “If the lights go out again, here’s what you do, muffin. Listen to my voice. Follow it in your mind and you’ll find me.”

  “I won’t be able to!”

  “Yes you will, muffin. Remember Scheherazade? Remember the stories she told the old king, the stories I sing to you in Farsi as you go to sleep every night?”

  “I remember them all, Mommy.”

  “Of course you do, muffin. Your memory is like a long, gorgeous river. Now think back to the song of Dinazade in the Cave of the Djinn. Do you remember how dark it was in the cave?”

  “Very dark.”

  “So dark that Dinazade could not see a thing.”

  “And she had no lamp to light. And outside it was nighttime, a night with no moon or stars.”

  Soraya smiled to herself. Sonya was such a remarkable child. “Yes. But Dinazade had to find her way. What did she do?”

  “She heard the wind blowing through the cave. She followed the sound of the wind.”

  “And what happened?”

  “She found the many-roomed house of the djinn.”

  “How?”

  “Their voices sounded like the wind when they spoke to her.”

  Soraya began to sing in Farsi: “I will come for you when the moon is full to melon-bursting / When the trees shiver and bend to my will / When darkness lulls you to sleep / I will come / I will gather you in my arms and sail with you to shores unknown.” Her voice almost cracked. “Now, sweetheart, does my voice sound like the wind?”

  “Yes, Mommy.”

  “Then follow it and in the darkness you will find me, and like the djinn did for Dinazade, I will keep you safe from harm.” Soraya sang, almost in tears, “For I am the sun and I am the moon / The stars, they do my bidding / None dare stand before me / For I am made of air and sea and sky / When you are with me / When I hold you / You are in the arms of God.”

  * * *

  “So you’ve agreed to it.”

  “Yes, sir, I have.”

  President Magnus frowned. “For Christ’s sake, Camilla, don’t call me ‘sir’ when we’re alone.”

  Camilla’s generous lips curled in a cat’s smile. “As you wish, Bill.”

  The two of them were sitting on one of the two facing sofas in the Oval Office. In front of them glowed the iconic seal of the president of the United States, woven into the majestic blue carpet, reminding all who entered just where they were.

  “You’ve read the brief.”

  “I have.”

  “All the way through.”

  “I’ve memorized it. It’s quite complex.”

  “It has to be. With the summit only a week away, surely you can see that.”

  “Why not postpone the summit? Or at least change the venue.”

  Magnus shook his head. “Too late. Besides, I’ll be goddamned if I’ll let a terrorist threat disrupt the culmination of the most important peace process of our lifetime.”

  “Of course. It’s just that—”

  “I know.” POTUS sighed. “Why did you say yes, Camilla? Was Howard that persuasive?”

  “You know me, Bill,” she said. “I’m a patriot at heart. That’s my training. I go where my country needs me most. I will protect you. As the head of Secret Service that’s my job.”

  “And the rest of Secret Service?”

  “Cleaned up, as you directed. Besides, Warren has been with me every step of the way. He’ll do fine until I return.”

  POTUS seemed uninterested in Warren, her deputy. “What about your own needs?”

  She pursed her lips, which, though she did not know it, made her look all the more alluring. “Now you’re being disingenuous. It’s not my needs you’re referring to.”

  “Our needs.”

  She stared at him, breathing softly. By any measure he was an impressive man: tall, square-shouldered, oozing masculinity. Women loved him, men envied him. His skill as an orator was outstripped only by his ability to connect with individual people, be it a foreign leader, a legislator, or the common man or woman. He had won the last election in a landslide, and, remarkably, his approval ratings had stayed high into this, his second year in office, traditionally the most perilous, as the honeymoon effect wore off. Not for William Magnus. Not at all.

  “I was amused this morning,” Camilla said now, “the way Howard tried to waylay me.”

  “Let me guess,” POTUS said. “With his Nespresso.”

  She laughed; they laughed together.

  “Come over here,” he said, patting the fabric next to him.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  His face clouded over, his wide-set gray eyes darkening. “Nothing’s a good idea anymore,” he grumbled.

  “Now you sound like a little boy.”

  “I want what I want. We all do. It’s a primal human trait.”

  “Primal animal trait, you mean.”

  He shrugged, ran a hand through his thick salt-and-pepper hair. “What’s the difference?”

  “In this case, none.”

  He shook his head, looked for something for his restless hands to do, found only her. “You know the brief’s hidden agenda. It’s an evil plot dreamed up by Howard and Marty to keep us apart.”

  “Maybe it’s not so evil.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  The phone on his desk rang, but he made no move.

  “Aren’t you going to answer that?” Camilla asked, knowing he wasn’t.

  Magnus was looking at the American flag furled on its stand behind his desk. “I was just thinking…”

  The
ringing stopped; the silence in the Oval Office was absolute. Sound bafflers and frequency-modulating surveillance jammers made it so.

  “I was just thinking,” POTUS began again, “what it would be like to take you, wrapped in the flag.”

  “You see,” Camilla said, “Howard and Marty do have your best interests at heart.”

  He turned to her, his expression now slightly hostile. He could be mercurial that way. She had learned this very quickly.

  “Do you?” he said.

  She considered a moment. “To be honest, I don’t know whether it’s in my best interests either.”

  “It.” His hostility was more evident. “You won’t even use the word.”

  “There are many words for what we did.”

  As quickly as it had appeared, his hostility vanished. He grinned at her. “Don’t you want to come over here and fuck me again?”

  “You see, that’s just what I mean, Bill. I have no intention of becoming the other woman, outed by God alone knows who, hounded for the rest of my life. Monica Lewinsky finally had to flee the country, for God’s sake.”

  “You’re not Monica Lewinsky.”

  “She and Clinton only did it once.”

  “Supposedly.”

  “You and I did it once, and luckily for us we didn’t get caught.”

  “We’re not going to be outed, Camilla.”

  “And you—you’d face impeachment in this very puritanical country.” She shook her head. “No, once was enough.”

  He looked genuinely stung. “You can’t mean that.”

  “Of course I don’t mean it, Bill. But also I do. Very much so.” She stirred. “Come on, we’re both too smart for this.”

  “The heart wants what it wants.”

  “Cock, Bill. Cock.”

  He smiled, sadly, a little boy again. “Okay, okay. I take your point.” His expression became suddenly serious as he half turned toward her. “But look here, Camilla, promise me you’ll take care of yourself.”

  “Of course I will. I always do.”

  He nodded. “I know that, but…this is different. You’re going up against Jason Bourne.”

  “He’s been a thorn in the CIA’s side for years, not to mention the NSA and you. But he’s just a man—one man. And the Black Queen brief is correct: This is the only way to get to him. He won’t come at you at your hotel—it’s too heavily defended. He might be able to get in, but he’d never get out.”