The Bourne Ascendancy

  “On the Jordanian?” Magnus shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

  Bourne did not look at the president. “But you do, don’t you, Aashir?”

  Aashir nodded. “I’ve been thinking,” he said. “I don’t belong here; I never did. It’s time for me to go home and see my father.”

  “You’re sure,” Bourne said.

  Aashir nodded. “At long last, I am. Things must change or they must end. That is life’s secret, is it not?”

  The president’s face registered bewilderment. “What’s he talking about, Bourne?”

  Bourne put a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “It’s a long story, Magnus.”

  61

  Life for life. The one for the others.

  Bourne and Aashir arrived in Doha the next day. They had left Camilla at the Thoroughbred Club. She had been determined to jockey Jessuetta in the race she had been training for. As it happened, she was neck and neck with the president’s horse all the way down the stretch, but lost by a nose. It was an exhilarating race nonetheless. And Camilla would not say whether she had reined Jessuetta in at the last moment in order to smooth the ruffled presidential feathers caused by the unprecedented delay. Jimmie Ohrent probably knew, but if so, he chose to keep her secret.

  “I had fun,” Camilla had said to Ohrent, cheeks flushed, her pulse running fast. “I must say that.”

  “Then stay around for a while,” he had replied.

  * * *

  In Doha the sun was shining, but then the sun always shone in Doha. It was hotter than Hades, even this late in the day, but neither Bourne nor Aashir took notice.

  It had been agreed that the exchange would take place at midnight, on the causeway to the Pearl-Qatar. Bourne had set the time; El Ghadan had dictated the place. Begun in 2010, the Pearl-Qatar was a man-made paradise, an island almost a thousand acres in area, that was only possible to construct in the Middle East. Its hotels, marina, malls, and residential towers were still being finished.

  The wide, curving causeway, however, was complete. Apart from the two cars, at midnight it was completely deserted. Bourne, with Aashir beside him, sat behind the wheel of a rented silver Opel. On the other side of the apex of the curve crouched a large black SUV.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” Bourne said.

  “You’ve asked me that before,” Aashir replied. “Nothing’s changed.”

  “Everything’s changed,” Bourne said. “An idea has become reality. We’re at the crossroads. Now there’s no turning back.”

  “I don’t want to turn back,” Aashir said. “I have a chance to do something worthwhile. Freeing a woman and her daughter—that’s something I can be proud of. It’s not enough to make up for what my father has done, but—”

  “It’s enough,” Bourne said. “It’s more than enough.” He turned to Aashir. “I owe you a great debt.”

  “On the contrary, I owe you everything,” Aashir told him.

  Behind the SUV, lights from finished structures pierced the night like comets. Here and there, the vague outlines of enormous yachts rose from the water like leviathans.

  Midnight.

  Over the curve, one of the doors of the SUV opened and Sara stepped out. It seemed like such a long time since Bourne had seen her. He was struck anew by her beauty, her courage, her presence, which seemed to make the lights over the causeway shimmer, as if they were standing on Bifröst, the rainbow bridge of Norse mythology that connected Earth to Asgard.

  “Stay where you are until I call for you,” Bourne said to Aashir.

  He got out of the Opel, stood staring across the expanse at Sara. Then his gaze shifted to the SUV itself. He began to walk toward it.

  “I need to see them,” he called to Sara, careful not to use her name nor in any way give El Ghadan a reason to think they knew each other.

  “They’re in the backseat,” she said. “They’re fine.”

  “I need to see that for myself.” Bourne’s voice echoed eerily across the flat expanse of water, low, black, still, like a sheet of obsidian.

  “He wants to see his son.”

  Bourne turned, made a gesture, and Aashir climbed out of the car.

  El Ghadan must have said something to Sara, because she turned, ducked her head, and ushered Soraya out into the night. Soraya cradled her sleeping daughter in her arms. When she saw Bourne tears sprang into her eyes, rolled down her cheeks. She looked thinner than he remembered, and paler, but she certainly did not look older. Wiser, for certain.

  “Now have the boy walk up beside you,” Sara called.

  “He has to show himself,” Bourne replied.

  She stared at him, did not speak a word, but after a moment the front driver’s door opened and El Ghadan appeared. Bourne had insisted that El Ghadan come without driver or bodyguard.

  Unlike before, El Ghadan wore a traditional Iranian outfit. His face appeared as pale as Sara’s, lined, tense, and all of a sudden Bourne realized that he was almost rigid with anticipation to have his long-lost son returned to him.

  “You should be dead, Bourne,” he called, his voice flat, like a cast stone skipping across the surface of the water. “I should be angry, but I’m not. You have found my son, you have brought him back to me, and for this I am grateful.”

  “Okay now,” Bourne said softly, and Aashir approached the spot where Bourne stood, facing El Ghadan.

  “It’s all good,” Bourne said when he felt Aashir close beside him. “You’ll be with him in a moment. The start of a new life for both of you.”

  To El Ghadan, Bourne called, “Let them come.”

  El Ghadan’s hand flicked out, and Sara guided Soraya and the child along the causeway, away from the SUV, toward Bourne, who, with his arm lightly across Aashir’s shoulders, began their walk toward the apex, the designated spot for the exchange to be made.

  The closer they came the more studiously Bourne watched El Ghadan. With his son’s life at stake he was fairly certain the father would do nothing untoward, but his training nevertheless required him to remain on guard lest at the last minute he try to shoot Soraya.

  When she was near enough, he said, “How are you?”

  “Fine, now.”

  Her voice was strong and steady, which reassured him. Sonya, perhaps hearing their voices in her sleep, stirred, wrapped her arms more securely around her mother’s neck, snuggled her cheek against Soraya’s breast. “Now that you’re here.”

  “Bourne.” El Ghadan’s call was sharp, almost harsh, as if his throat was sore. “My son, if you please. It’s been such a long time.”

  Bourne turned to Aashir and they clasped forearms. Aashir kissed Bourne on both cheeks, and they parted without a word. Everything that could have been said between them had been said. It was time to leave, for Aashir to return to his family, to find a way to start a new life. Who knew, Bourne thought as he watched him approach his father, perhaps he would have a positive effect on the fanatic, a taste of the modern world to which Islam, like every religion, had to adapt.

  Bourne studiously avoided talking to Sara, or even looking at her, except out of the corner of his eye. El Ghadan would expect him to be focused on the people he knew.

  “It’s good to see you again, Soraya.”

  Her eyes were shining, enlarged with tears. “Thank you, Jason. I know no one else could have saved us.” Her hand reached out, grasped Sara’s arm. “But without Rebeka, I don’t know what we would have done.”

  Bourne looked directly at Sara for the first time, whispered, “You did great work.”

  Soraya looked from one to the other. “You two know each other?” She laughed softly. “I should have known.”

  It was the laugh—the unalloyed joy in her mother’s voice—that must have woken Sonya. Squirming, she turned in her mother’s arms, looked Bourne squarely in the face, and, with a huge smile, said, “Mama, the djinn has come at last.”

  It was then they heard the shot—a single report carrying over the water, ri
pping apart the night.

  Bourne ran without even a conscious thought, over the apex, toward the SUV. Beside it, El Ghadan stood, a pistol in one hand. Just in front of him lay Aashir, facedown, arms spread-eagled. Blood, black as pitch, pooled around his head.

  “What have you done?” Bourne cried.

  “What had to be done.” El Ghadan moved to the open door of the SUV.

  By an odd quirk of acoustics the water on either side amplified their voices, so there was no need for either of them to shout. Bourne kept closing the gap between them, but it didn’t seem fast enough.

  “He was your son.”

  “No, Bourne. He was a homosexual. No son of mine can be a homosexual. He brought shame on my family. It is not allowed. The honor of my family must be restored.”

  “And the reputation of El Ghadan.”

  As if in a dream, Bourne seemed to gain no ground. He ran harder, full out. But El Ghadan was already behind the wheel of the SUV.

  “I leave him to you, Bourne. You loved him. I never did.”

  He had left the engine running, and now he put the vehicle in gear, made a U-turn, and sped away, leaving Bourne to kneel over Aashir’s body, and mourn.

  Three Months Later

  Abdul Aziz prayed six times a day. Facing Mecca, his forehead pressed to his prayer rug, he felt the complex beauty of Islam, the goodness of Allah, and knew he was blessed.

  But today he was not at his enormous office suite, nor at his palatial home, with its Moorish tile fountains, watercourses, and open-air pavilions made of fragrant cedar of Lebanon. Today he was in a hammam deep within the Marrakech medina. It was quiet here, serene, but all around the hammam the clamor and tumult of the teeming market continued in an endless swirl, complex as an Islamic design.

  Sitting in the steam room opposite Aziz was El Ghadan. Sara had brokered a deal between the two of them, acting as El Ghadan’s intermediary. Every six months or so, El Ghadan changed his shipping companies. He had his own, of course—Omega + Gulf Agencies—but the volume of arms was far too great for any one company to transship without raising unwanted attention from any number of quarters.

  This was how El Ghadan had decided on Abdul Aziz. He had heard of Aziz’s expertise, and when Sara had come to him with the idea of using the Qatari’s services he was intrigued. There began a six-week vetting process, after which El Ghadan was finally satisfied. Aziz had suggested Marrakech as neutral territory, and this very hammam because it was private and discreet.

  Unsurprisingly, El Ghadan had arrived with three bodyguards, each of whom looked as if he could take out a UN battalion. Aziz was unfazed. “As long as our business dealings remain between the two of us you can have as much security as you desire.”

  “And you?” El Ghadan had said when he had arrived. “What about your security, Abdul Aziz?”

  “I am a simple businessman,” Aziz had answered. “I have no need of security.”

  Now they were alone in the steam room, sitting on tile platforms built into the walls, their loins wrapped in towels. Lighted candles inside pierced and filigreed Moroccan lamps set in niches threw dancing shadows across their faces.

  Two of El Ghadan’s guards stalked the hammam like Dobermans hunting rats. The third stood just outside the steam room door, arms hanging loose and ready.

  These people were always ready, Aziz thought. Always at the precipice, an inch away from the darkness.

  “The arrangement I propose would be for three years,” Aziz said easily. “If, at the end of that term, matters are satisfactory to both parties, a longer contract period would be negotiated.”

  El Ghadan smiled. “My dear Abdul Aziz, I am neither interested in a three-year contract nor a longer-term arrangement. What I propose is that I buy your company lock, stock, and barrel.”

  The shock on Aziz’s face and in his voice was palpable. “But this is impossible! Mine is a family-run business. I inherited it from my father, he from his father. My three sons work in it, and when I retire they will take it over. I have never even contemplated selling it.”

  “Until today.” El Ghadan grinned. “I am prepared to make you a very generous offer.” He stated an astronomical figure. “I believe that’s overly generous, in fact, beyond the annual profits you now see from it. Forward-looking numbers once I take over will double or possibly triple the current amount within the next three to five years. This is what I want.”

  “With all due respect,” Abdul Aziz said in muted alarm, “it’s not what I want.”

  “I see. Well, I’m prepared to add another quarter of a billion on top.”

  “You don’t understand,” Aziz said. “I won’t negotiate. If you’re not interested in the arrangement I outlined, I consider the matter closed.”

  As he began to rise, El Ghadan said, “Sit back down,” so sharply Aziz could not help flinching.

  “I beg your pardon.” El Ghadan waved a hand through the billows of steam. “Please be good enough to be seated.” He smiled, but it was without an iota of warmth.

  “Now”—he rubbed his hands together—“you mentioned your three sons. I assume you would like them to live to a ripe old age, to one day marry—excuse me, Hamad is married, but as yet without issue, yes?—and, Allah willing, give you many healthy male grandchildren to take care of you in your declining years.”

  Abdul Aziz’s voice hardened. “Are you threatening my family?”

  “I don’t make threats, my friend.” His smile, polished to a high gloss, shone like a beacon. “I am just outlining a possible future, one of a number which will either benefit you or take you down a dark road that will cause you grief.”

  “My path is already determined,” Aziz said, “by my own actions and by Allah’s grace and beneficence.”

  El Ghadan seemed to want to keep a neutral expression, but in the end his emotion got the better of him. “You’re not afraid of me.”

  “No.”

  “Not afraid of dying.”

  “When that day arrives I will be transferred from the loving arms of my family into the loving arms of Allah.”

  “And what of your three sons? What if they are no longer around to deliver you into the loving arms of Allah?”

  Aziz hated what El Ghadan was saying, hated even more his sardonic tone. But, he supposed, that was how you spoke when you were on top of the world, all enemies defeated.

  Time, he thought.

  “And what of your own son, El Ghadan—or should I call you Sameer Sefavid? Yes, I think that’s best. What of Aashir, Sameer? You blew his brains out. Your own son.”

  El Ghadan was so astonished no coherent word emerged from his open mouth.

  “You’re not fit for life—let alone taking over my company.”

  El Ghadan leapt up, calling for the guard outside. Instantly, the door flew open and the man came in. He took one step over the threshold, then fell on his face. The back of his skull was a bloody morass.

  Behind him Bourne entered. “No one’s left to help you, Sameer,” he said. “You’re on your own.”

  El Ghadan looked from Bourne to Aziz and back again. “This was a setup, all along a setup.”

  “And now it’s over,” Bourne said.

  “Never!” El Ghadan pulled a short dirk from beneath his towel, thrust it forward, but Bourne caught his wrist, twisted it away from him. He slapped his other hand behind El Ghadan’s neck, jerked him toward him so they were face-to-face.

  “Now everything is over,” Bourne said.

  El Ghadan winced. “What did you…?” But he keeled over before he could finish his thought.

  Bourne glanced at the mangèr, the tiny blade, the “serpent” hidden inside the bracelet Khan Abdali had given him to combat, as the malik said, extreme darkness. He had pricked El Ghadan with its point. Its poison had worked almost instantaneously.

  Abdul Aziz looked up at Bourne. “I see now this was the only way to get him to emerge from his fortress.”

  “You had doubts.”

&
nbsp; “Until we began to speak in earnest.” His smile showed many teeth. “The negotiation, such as it was, went precisely as you predicted.”

  “Some reactions are utterly reliable.” Bourne pulled Aziz to his feet. “And now, I think we’ve both had enough steam.”

  A Week Later

  It wasn’t easy,” Sara said, “finding a place for him. After all, he was neither Arab nor Jew.”

  “He wasn’t Iranian either,” Bourne said, “at least by their standards. He was without a home. I know what that’s like.”

  They stood in front of Aashir’s grave. It was a clear day, clouds running before the hot wind. The dust tasted of antiquity, of the succession of civilizations, and of the blood of the fallen. They were in the ancient Mamilla Cemetery, hard by the western edge of Jerusalem’s Old City.

  “Added to that,” Sara continued, as if he hadn’t spoken, “he was a Sefavid. His ancestors declared Shia Islam the state religion of Iran. They also declared the Jews najis, unclean, and had them expelled.”

  “Did you hear what I said?”

  Sara bowed her head. “Of course I did.”

  Above them rose the Temple Mount, and its two sacred monuments dating back to the seventh century. It was where Judaism and Islam intersected: The rock where Abraham bound his son, Isaac, to be sacrificed to God was also the place where Mohammed ascended to heaven.

  “This is not a religious issue,” Bourne said in a tone of voice that made it clear he was adamant.

  “Everything in Jerusalem is a religious issue.”

  He stared down at the grave, silent.

  “Nevertheless,” she said, “I understand.”

  He did not move or blink; he seemed scarcely to breathe, as if he had become rooted to the spot, an old tree, wiser now.

  “There was nothing you could have done,” she said, her voice pitched lower, as soft as the wind. “You saved Soraya and Sonya. Isn’t that enough?”

  “It’s never enough.”

  She saw the sadness in his face. “No, I suppose not.”

  For a long time, the only sound was the wind rustling the treetops. Then, startlingly, a child’s voice was raised in song—a nonsense rhyme that so entranced the littlest ones the world over.