The Bourne Deception

  At that point, Moira knew she was nearing the end of her rope. One of her operatives had stumbled on a secret so important that either Black River, the NSA, or both working in concert had killed him. Now they were after her. Her fledgling company had just over a hundred operatives, more than half of them recruited from Black River. Any one of them could be a traitor, because of one thing she was absolutely certain: Someone inside Heartland had tracked her ISP address to the Wi-Fi network at the Shade Grown Café and had given it to the NSA. That was the only explanation for them showing up so quickly.

  Now she was out of options. She had no one to trust. Except, she thought bleakly, one person. The person she’d vowed never to see or speak to again, not after what had happened between them, which was unforgivable.

  Moira closed her eyes, swaying slightly with the motion of the speeding ambulance. While now was not the time for forgiveness, maybe it was time for a truce. Who else could she call? Who else could she trust? She gave a little gasp of despair. If it weren’t so sad it would be funny, really, turning for help to the last person she’d ever accept anything from. But that was then, she told herself grimly, and this is now.

  With a silent curse, she used her burner to dial a local number. When the male voice answered, she took a deep breath and said, “Veronica Hart, please.”

  “Who shall I say is calling?”

  Oh, the hell with it, she thought. “Moira.”

  “¿Moira? Ma’am, she’ll need your last name.”

  “No, she won’t,” Moira said. “Just tell her Moira, and be damn quick about it!”

  The moon is out.” Amun Chalthoum checked his watch. “It’s time we talked.”

  Soraya had been on her satellite phone with her local Typhon agents in place. They were all running down leads on the new Iranian MIG, but so far none of them had made any progress. It was as if the group was so far underground their contacts had come up empty. Whether this was because their contacts knew nothing or were too afraid to divulge the group’s existence was anyone’s guess. If it was the latter, she had to admire the level of their security.

  She decided to agree to Amun’s suggestion, but not in the way he wanted. As he held the tent flap back for her, she said, “Leave your firearm here.”

  “Is this really necessary?” he said. When she didn’t reply he narrowed his eyes for a moment to show his displeasure, then, sighing, took his pistol from its polished leather holster and set it down on a field desk.

  “Satisfied?”

  She passed out of the relative warmth of the interior into the chill night. Some distance away the American task force was busy sifting through the wreckage for clues, but as yet Delia hadn’t given her another update, although—as Veronica had said—the downed plane wasn’t her primary mission. She shivered in the ascetic chill of the desert air. The moon was immense, lent a kind of grandeur by the eternal and seemingly endless sea of sand.

  They began heading for the bare perimeter, where Chalthoum’s guards should have been posted, but she saw no one, and she stopped. Though he was a pace ahead of her, he sensed something amiss, and turned back.

  “What is it?” he said.

  “I won’t go another step in that direction,” she said. “I want to be in shouting distance.” She indicated the constellation of lights on the other side of the site, safely beyond the perimeter dictated by Chalthoum, the glowing encampment of the international news media, somehow alien in the ominous night, as if it were a ship that had come to ruin on the teeth of the reef of the downed plane.

  “They?” he scoffed. “They can’t protect you. My people won’t let them past the perimeter.”

  She gestured. “But where are your people, Amun? I don’t see them.”

  “I made certain of that.” He lifted an arm. “Come, we have very little time.”

  She was going to refuse but something in his voice caused her to relent. She thought again about the tension she’d first sensed in him, the leashed rage. What, really, was going on here? Now he’d piqued her curiosity. Had he done that deliberately? Was he leading her into a trap? But to what end? Unconsciously, her hand patted her back pocket where the ceramic switchblade rested, waiting to protect her.

  They walked on in silence. The desert seemed to whisper around them, restlessly shifting, filtering between clothes and skin. The sheen of civilization ground down until only a hard nub was left, rough and primitive. Chalthoum reveled in his element. He was larger than life, which was of course why he’d taken her out here years ago, why they were here now. The farther they moved away from the others the more he seemed to grow both in stature and in power, until he towered over her. Turning, his eyes glittered, reflecting the blue-white moonlight.

  “I need your help,” he said with his usual bluntness.

  She almost laughed. “You need my help?”

  He looked away for a moment. “You’re about the last person I’d think of asking for help.”

  And with that one statement she understood how dire his circumstances must be. “What if I refuse?”

  He pointed to the satellite phone in her hand. “Do you think I don’t know who you were calling with that?” The whites of his eyes looked eerily blue in the monochrome light. “Do you think I don’t know why you’re really here? It isn’t about this air disaster; it’s about this new Iranian MIG.”

  11

  WILLARD, standing in the center of Dr. Firth’s compound, waited anxiously for Bourne to return. He had thought briefly of going out after him, but rejected the idea. As often happened when he thought of Bourne, his thoughts turned to his own son Oren. He hadn’t seen or heard from Oren in fifteen years, and as for his wife, she was dead and buried. He’d often assumed that his breach with Oren had come at the funeral, when he’d stood dry-eyed and mute as the casket containing the mortal remains of his wife was lowered into the ground.

  “Don’t you feel anything?” Oren had confronted him with an anger that had apparently been building for years. “Anything at all?”

  “I’m relieved that it’s over,” Willard had said.

  It was only much later that he realized telling his son the truth had been a grievous mistake. That was a time, however brief, when he’d grown tired of lies. He never made that error again. Human beings, it became clear to him, thrived on lies; they needed them in order to survive, to be happy, even. Because the truth was often unpleasant, and people didn’t care for that. Furthermore, it didn’t suit many of them. They’d much rather lie to themselves, have those around them lie to them to preserve the illusion of beauty. Reality wasn’t pretty, that was the truth.

  But now, here in Bali, he wondered whether he was like all the others, weaving a prison of lies around himself to blot out the truth. For years, he’d tunneled his way into NSA like a mole, arriving at last at the safe house in Virginia, where all the lies were housed. For years, he’d told himself it was his duty. Other people, even his own son, seemed like ghosts to him, part of someone else’s life. What else did he have? he asked himself over and over as he toiled away as an NSA steward. It was duty, only duty he could connect with.

  The NSA mission had been fulfilled. By necessity his cover had been blown with them, and he was free. No one inside CI had yet figured out what to do with him. In fact, so far as the new DCI was concerned, he was on a long-overdue vacation.

  Now, free of the servile persona of Willard, the NSA steward, he’d come to realize that being a steward was only a role he’d been playing; a role that wasn’t him at all. When Alex Conklin had begun to train him, Willard had had visions of perilous derring-do in far-off corners of the world. He’d read all the James Bond novels countless times; he itched for the adrenaline rush of covert battles. As he became more and more accomplished, as he excelled at his teacher’s increasingly difficult exercises, Conklin had begun to confide in him. Then the fatal mistake: As he began to learn Treadstone’s secrets, he’d allowed himself the fantasy of becoming Conklin’s successor: the master manipulator
. But reality had sent him crashing to earth. The Old Man had called, wanting Willard for the role in which he’d already cast him. Willard was sent underground, into NSA, into prison with, it seemed, no chance for a reprieve.

  He’d done whatever had been asked of him, had done it well, masterfully, even. That’s what everyone had told him. But what had he gotten out of it? Truth, the truth: nothing, not a damn thing.

  Now, at last, he had the freedom to fulfill his dream of becoming a master manipulator, of outdoing his old teacher. Because, in the end, Conklin had failed. He’d allowed Leonid Arkadin to slip away, and then, instead of going after Arkadin and bringing him back, he’d forgotten about the Russian and had tried to better him with Jason Bourne. But you can’t turn your back on a creation like Arkadin. Willard knew every decision Conklin had taken with Treadstone, he was aware of every misstep. He wouldn’t repeat the last one, which was to allow Leonid Arkadin to escape. He’d do better, much better. He’d fulfill Treadstone’s final goal. He’d succeed in creating the ultimate fighting machine.

  He turned as the gate to Firth’s compound opened and Jason Bourne stepped inside. It was twilight, the western sky streaked with sherbet colors, overhead pure cobalt. As he approached, Bourne was holding a small object between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand.

  “A .30 M118 shell,” Bourne said.

  Willard held out his hand and took a close look at it. “Military-grade, specifically made for a sniper rifle.” He gave a short, warbly whistle. “No wonder the bullet went clear through you.”

  “Ever since the 2005 bombings in Kuta and Jimbaran, the government has been fanatic about weaponry. No matter how good this sniper is there’s no way he could have smuggled in the gun and ammo.” Bourne smiled grimly. “Now, how many places on Bali do you think would carry full-metal-jacket .30-caliber M118 ammo and the rifle that could fire it?”

  Arkadin said: “Anyone else have a question?”

  Still holding both his weapons, he looked hard into the eyes of each of the ninety-nine remaining Black Legion recruits, and saw in equal measure abject fear and unquestioning obedience. Whatever might happen next, wherever he might lead them, they were his.

  It was at this moment that his satellite phone buzzed. He turned on his heel and walked away from the men, who stood silent, rigid as if made of stone. They wouldn’t move a muscle, he knew, until he gave the order, which wouldn’t be for a while.

  Wiping sweat off his ear, he put the phone up to it, said, “What now?”

  “How was your visit from Maslov?” Triton’s voice reverberated through the ether. As always, it was absolutely accentless English.

  “Thrilling,” Arkadin said, “as usual.” As he spoke, he turned in a complete circle, trying to figure out the location of Triton’s men.

  “You won’t find them, Leonid,” Triton said. “You don’t want to find them.”

  Fair enough, Arkadin thought. Triton was the power putting this mission together, or at any rate he worked for the power that was footing the bill, including his own extremely generous pay package. He could see no advantage in antagonizing him.

  Arkadin sighed, for the moment putting his rage aside. “What can I do for you?”

  “Today, it’s what I can do for you,” Triton replied. “Our timetable has been moved up.”

  “Moved up?” Arkadin glanced at the men, well conditioned but untrained for this mission. “I told you at the outset that I needed three weeks, and you assured me—”

  “That was then, this is now,” Triton said. “The theoretical stage has passed; we’re now in real time, and the clock that’s ticking belongs neither to you nor to me.”

  Arkadin felt his muscles contract as they did just before a physical confrontation. “What’s happened?”

  “The cat is about to come out of the bag.”

  Arkadin frowned. “What the fuck does that mean?”

  “It means,” Triton said, “that evidence is quickly coming to light. Incontrovertible evidence that will set everything in motion. There’s no turning back now.”

  “I knew that from the beginning,” Arkadin snapped. “So did Maslov.”

  “You have until Saturday to carry out your mission.”

  Arkadin nearly jumped. “What?”

  “There is no other recourse.”

  Triton disconnected with a finality that rang like gunfire in Arkadin’s ear.

  Willard wanted to go with him, but Bourne refused. Willard was smart enough to understand it; he simply wanted his desire on the record. During the time Bourne was recovering, Willard had amassed a list of a baker’s dozen individuals on the island either known or suspected of trading in contraband weapons, but only one who reputedly dealt in the highly specialized sniper’s rifles and full-metal ammo that had been used to shoot Bourne. On an island as small as Bali it would have been a breach of the security net he’d thrown around Bourne to canvass all of the purported dealers—it would have drawn too much attention to himself.

  Firth rented Bourne a car, and he drove into the chaos of the capital city of Denpasar. It wasn’t difficult to locate the Badung Market, but finding a place to park was another matter. Finally, he found an area presided over by an old man with a split-melon smile.

  Bourne wove through the spice and vegetable areas to the rear, where the butchers and the meat vendors had their stalls. Willard had said that the man he wanted looked like a frog, and he wasn’t far off the mark.

  The vendor was selling a brace of suckling pigs, live, still trussed to bamboo poles, to a young woman who by her dress and attitude must work for someone with money and status. People were queued up at the next stall to buy loins and breasts, and cleavers came down on sinew and bone, blood flying like the blooming of flowers.

  As soon as the young woman had paid for her pigs and signaled for two waiting men to take them away, Bourne stepped up and addressed the squat man. His name was Wayan, which meant “first.” All Balinese were given their names based on the order of their birth, first through fourth; the fifth child, if there was one, became Wayan again.

  “Wayan, I need to speak with you.”

  The vendor regarded Bourne with indifference. “If you wish to buy a pig—?”

  Bourne shook his head.

  “They’re the best on the island, ask anyone.”

  “Another matter,” Bourne said. “In private.”

  Wayan smiled blandly, spread his hands. “As you can plainly see there is no privacy here. If you don’t wish to make a purchase—”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  Wayan’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  He was about to turn away when Bourne produced five hundred-dollar bills. Wayan glanced down at the money and something flickered behind his eyes. Bourne was willing to bet it was greed.

  Wayan licked his thick lips. “Unfortunately, I don’t have that many pigs.”

  “I only want one.”

  As if by magic, the .30-caliber M118 casing Bourne had found in Tenganan appeared between his fingers. He dropped it into the center of Wayan’s palm.

  “One of yours, I believe.”

  The pig merchant, recalcitrant still, merely shrugged.

  Bourne flourished another five hundred in a tight roll. “I don’t have time to bargain,” he said.

  Wayan gave Bourne a sharp look, then, gathering up the thousand, jerked his head for Bourne to follow him.

  Contrary to what he had said, there was an enclosed space at the rear of the stall. On a rickety bamboo bench sat several paring and boning knives. As Bourne followed Wayan inside a burly man rushed him from the left. At the same time, a tall man stepped toward him from the right.

  Bourne slammed the burly man in the face, breaking his nose, ducked under the grasp of the tall one, and, rolling himself into a ball, launched himself across the small space. He crashed into the bamboo poles, sending the pigs and knives down around him. Grabbing a paring knife, he cut the bonds of three o
f the piglets. Squealing in their newfound freedom, they ran across the floor, forcing both Wayan and the tall man to dance out of the way.

  Bourne threw the paring knife into the meat of the tall man’s left thigh. His squeal was indistinguishable from those of the piglets, which continued to run wildly. Ignoring them, Bourne grabbed Wayan by his shirtfront, but just then the thickset man grabbed a boning knife off the floor and launched himself at Bourne, who swung Wayan between them. The moment the attacker checked his knife thrust, Bourne kicked the weapon out of his hand, took him down, and slammed the back of his head against the floor. His eyes rolled up in their sockets.

  Bourne rose, grabbed Wayan to keep him from fleeing, and whipped him around. Slapping him hard across the face, he said, “I told you I didn’t have time to bargain. Now you’ll tell me who bought that cartridge from you.”

  “I don’t know his name.”

  Bourne slapped him again, harder this time. “I don’t believe you.”

  “It’s true.” Wayan’s indifference had been ripped away; he was truly frightened. “He was referred to me, but he never told me his name and I never asked. In my business the less I know the better.”

  That, at least, was true. “What did he look like?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  Bourne grabbed him by the throat. “You don’t want to lie to me.”

  “Clearly not.” Wayan’s eyes rolled wildly in their sockets. His skin had taken on a greenish hue, as if at any moment he was going to be sick. “Okay, looked Russian. He wasn’t big, wasn’t small. Well muscled, though.”

  “What else?”

  “I don’t—” He gave a little yelp as Bourne slapped him again. “He had black hair and his eyes… they were light. I don’t remember…” He held up his hands. “Wait, wait… they were gray.”

  “And?”

  “That’s it. That’s all.”

  “No, it isn’t,” Bourne said. “Who recommended him?”