The Bourne Deception

  “Let’s rejoin the lady businessman, shall we, and find out how badly she wants my Goya.”

  M. Errol Danziger, the NSA’s current deputy director of signals intelligence for analysis and production, was watching three monitors at once, reading real-time progress reports from Iran, Egypt, and Sudan, and taking notes. He was also periodically speaking into the microphone of an electronic headpiece, using terse signals-speak he himself had devised, even though he was speaking on an NSA-approved encrypted line.

  His Signals Sit Room was where Secretary of Defense Bud Halliday found Danziger analyzing and coordinating intel, and directing the far-flung elements of this blackest of black-ops missions. To those who worked most closely with him, he was known, ironically, as the Arab, because of the unceasing missions he’d successfully run against Muslim extremists of all sects.

  No one else was in the room, just the two men. Danziger glanced up briefly, gave his boss a deferential nod before returning to his work. Halliday sat down. He didn’t mind the curt treatment that in anyone else would warrant a severe dressing-down. Danziger was special, deserving of special treatment. In fact, this manifestation of intense concentration was a sign that all was well.

  “Give me your nibble, Triton,” Danziger said into the mike. Nibble was signals-speak for “timetable.”

  “High and tight. Bardem is on the money.”

  Triton was Noah Perlis’s ops designation, the secretary knew. The software program Bardem, which analyzed the changing field situation in real time, was his responsibility.

  “Let’s get started on the Final Four,” the Arab said. Final Four: the mission’s last phase.

  Halliday’s heart skipped a beat. They were close to the finish line now, nearing the biggest power coup any American official had ever managed. Damping down his excitement, he said, “I trust you’ll be finished with this session soon.”

  “That all depends,” Danziger replied.

  Halliday moved closer. “Make it happen. We’re going to see the president in just under three hours.”

  Danziger’s attention shifted from his screens and he said, “Triton, five,” into the mike before he flipped a switch, temporarily muting the connection. “You met with the president?”

  Halliday nodded. “I brought your name up and he’s interested.”

  “Interested enough to meet with me, but it’s not yet a done deal.”

  The defense secretary smiled. “Not to worry. He’s not going to choose either of the candidates from inside CI.”

  The Arab nodded; he knew better than to question his boss’s legendary influence. “We have a bit of a situation developing in Egypt.”

  Halliday hunched forward. “How so?”

  “Soraya Moore, whom we both know, and Amun Chalthoum, the head of the Egyptian intelligence service, have been snooping around the farm.”

  The farm was signals-speak for a current mission’s theater of operations. “What have they found?”

  “The original team was on vacation when their orders were transmitted. Apparently they were pissed off enough about their leave being cut short that their destination was overheard.”

  Halliday scowled. “Are you saying that Moore and Chalthoum are aware that the team was headed for Khartoum?”

  Danziger nodded. “This problem has to be nipped in the bud; there’s only one solution.”

  Halliday was taken aback. “What? Our own men?”

  “They violated security protocol.”

  The secretary shook his head. “But still—”

  “Containment, Bud. Containment while it’s still possible.” The Arab leaned forward and patted his boss on the knee. “Just think of it as another regrettable case of friendly fire.”

  Halliday sat back, scrubbed his face with the heels of his hands. “It’s a good thing humans have an infinite capacity for rationalization.”

  About to swivel back to his screens, Danziger said, “Bud, this is my mission. I devised Pinprick, I designed it down to the last detail. But you approved it. Now, I know for a fact you’re not about to let four disgruntled sons-of-bitches put our heads in the crosshairs, are you?”

  20

  DON FERNANDO HERERRA paused at the French doors, lifted a finger, and his eyes engaged Bourne’s. “Before we go inside, I must make one thing clear. In Colombia, I have taken part in the wars between the military and the indigenous guerrillas, the struggle between fascism and socialism. Both are weak and flawed because they seek only control over others.”

  The blue shadows of Seville lent him a keen and hungry look. He was like a wolf that has sighted the face of his prey.

  “I and others like me were trained to kill a victim who has been stripped of his defenses, who lacks any capacity for response. This act is known as the perfect crime. Do you understand me?”

  He continued to peer into Bourne’s face as if he were connected to an X-ray machine. “I know you weren’t hired by Nikolai Yevsen or by Dimitri Maslov, his silent partner. How do I know this? Though I know almost nothing about you—including your real name, which is the least important thing about you—I know that you are not a man to hire himself out to anyone. Instinct tells me this, instinct steeped in the blood of my enemies, whose eyes I have looked into many times as I spilled their guts, men who measure their intelligence solely by their zeal for torture.”

  Bourne felt galvanized. So Yevsen and Maslov were partners. Bourne had met Maslov several months ago in Moscow, when the grupperovka boss was in the midst of a war with a rival mob family. If he was now in partnership with Yevsen it could only mean that he’d won the war and was consolidating his power. Was it Maslov, not Yevsen, who was behind the attack on him?

  “I understand,” Bourne said. “You’re not afraid of Yevsen or Maslov.”

  “Nor am I interested in them,” Hererra said. “But I am interested in you. Why have you come to see me? It’s not my Goya, and it’s not the señorita inside, beautiful and desirable though she may be. What, then, do you want?”

  “I was followed here by a Russian hitman with a scar on one side of his neck and a tattoo of three skulls on the other.”

  “Ah, yes, Bogdan Machin, better known as the Torturer.” Hererra tapped the tip of his forefinger against his lower lip. “So it was you who killed that bastard at the Maestranza yesterday.” He gave Bourne an appraising look. “I’m impressed. Machin had left a litter of the dead and maimed behind him like a train wreck.”

  Bourne was similarly impressed. Hererra’s intel was swift and excellent. Bourne unbuttoned his shirt, revealing his chest wound. “He tried to shoot me dead in Bali. He bought a Parker Hale Model Eighty-five and a Schmidt and Bender Marksman Two scope from Wayan. It was Wayan who gave me your name. He said you recommended Machin to him.”

  Hererra’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “You must believe me, I never knew.”

  Bourne grabbed the Colombian by the shirtfront and slammed him against the French doors. “Why should I believe you,” he said into Hererra’s face, “when the man who bought the Parker Hale couldn’t be Machin because he had gray eyes?”

  At that moment Fausto appeared from a doorway on the other side of the garden, his gun aimed at Bourne, who pressed his thumb into Hererra’s Adam’s apple and said, “I have no desire to hurt you, but I will know who tried to kill me on Bali.”

  “Fausto, we’re all civilized individuals here,” Hererra said as he stared into Bourne’s eyes, “put away your weapon.”

  When the young man had obeyed, Bourne released the Colombian. At that moment the French door opened and Tracy appeared. She looked at each of the three men in turn, and said, “What the hell is going on?”

  “Don Hererra is about to tell me what I need to know,” Bourne said.

  Her gaze returned to the Colombian. “And the Goya?”

  “It’s yours at the full asking price,” Hererra said.

  “I’m prepared to—”

  “Señorita, don’t try my patience. I will have my full
asking price, and with what you tried to pull you’re lucky at that.”

  She pulled out her cell. “I’ll have to make a call.”

  “By all means.” Hererra raised a hand. “Fausto, show the señorita to a place where she can have privacy.”

  “I’d rather be outdoors,” Tracy said.

  “As you wish.” The Colombian led the way back inside. When Fausto had shut the door and disappeared down the hallway, he turned to Bourne and very softly and very seriously said, “Do you trust her?”

  Harvey Korman had just bitten down into an indifferent roast beef and Havarti on rye when, to his astonishment, Moira Trevor and Humphry Bamber exited GWU Hospital’s ER entrance without his partner, Simon Herren, anywhere in sight. Korman threw down a twenty, got up, tossed on his padded jacket, and swung out the coffee shop door, which was almost directly across the street from the hospital entrance.

  It was a quirk of luck that Korman was small and slightly pudgy, with round cheeks and almost no hair, more Tim Conway than his namesake. Still, with his physique and unprepossessing manner no one would take him for a private intelligence operative, let alone a member of Black River.

  What the fuck? he thought as he carefully tailed the pair down the street. Where the hell is Simon? Noah Perlis had told him that the Trevor woman was dangerous but, of course, he’d taken the warning with a couple of grains of salt. Not that he or Simon had ever met Trevor, which was why Perlis had chosen them for this assignment, but everyone in Black River knew Perlis had a thing for Moira Trevor, tinting his judgment of her. He never should have been her handler while she was working for Black River. In Korman’s judgment, Perlis had made some key mistakes, including using Veronica Hart as a stalking horse, so Trevor wouldn’t think ill of him when he’d abruptly taken her off mission.

  That was all in the past, however. Korman needed to concentrate on the present. He turned the corner and looked around, bewildered. Bamber and Trevor had been half a block ahead of him. Where the hell had they gone?

  This way! Hurry!” Moira guided Bamber into the corner lingerie shop. It had two doors, one on New Hampshire Avenue, NW, the other on I Street, NW. She spoke on her cell as she led him through the shop and out the opposite door, back onto New Hampshire Avenue, where they lost themselves in the crowd. Five minutes later and four blocks away the Blue Top taxi Moira had called pulled up to the curb and they quickly climbed in. As it accelerated away, she pushed Bamber down in the seat. Just before she herself slid down she caught a glimpse of the man who had been following them, a man who looked comically like Tim Conway. There was nothing comical, however, about his grim expression as he spoke into his cell, no doubt apprising Noah of the situation.

  “Where to?” the taxi driver said over his shoulder.

  Moira realized she had no idea where to go to ground.

  “I know a place,” Bamber said hesitantly, “somewhere they won’t find us.”

  “You don’t know Noah like I do,” Moira said. “By now he knows you better than your own mother does.”

  “He doesn’t know about this place,” Bamber insisted. “Not even Steve knew.”

  Why should I trust anyone?” Bourne said.

  “Because, my friend, in this life you must learn to trust someone. Otherwise you will be consumed by paranoia and a longing for death.” Hererra poured three fingers of AsomBroso Anejo tequila into two glasses, handed one to Bourne. He sipped his, then said, “Me, I don’t trust women, period. For one thing they talk too much, especially among themselves.” He walked over to the wall of books and ran his fingertips over the bound spines. “Down through history there were uncountable times when men from bishops to princes were undone by a bit of discreet pillow talk.” He turned. “While we fight and kill for power, that’s how women amass theirs.”

  Bourne shrugged. “Surely you don’t blame them.”

  “Of course I blame them.” Hererra finished off his tequila. “The bitches are the root of all evil.”

  “Which leaves you for me to trust.” Bourne put aside his drink untouched. “The problem, Don Hererra, is that you’ve already proved yourself untrustworthy. You’ve lied to me once.”

  “And how many times have you lied to me since you walked through my door?” The Colombian crossed the room, took up Bourne’s tequila, and drank it down in one long shot. Smacking his lips, he wiped his mouth with the back of a hand and said, “The man Wayan described, the man who tried to kill you, was hired by one of your own people.”

  “The killer’s name.”

  “Boris Illyich Karpov.”

  Bourne froze, unable for a moment to believe what he’d just heard. “There must be some mistake.”

  Hererra cocked his head. “You know this man?”

  “Why would a colonel in FSB-2 hire himself out to an American?”

  “Not just an American,” the Colombian said. “Secretary of Defense Ervin Reynolds Halliday, who as we both know is among the most powerful men on the planet. And he wasn’t hiring himself out.”

  But it couldn’t be Boris, Bourne told himself. Boris was a friend, he’d helped Bourne in Reykjavik and then in Moscow, where he’d surprised Bourne by showing up at a meeting with Dimitri Maslov, with whom he was clearly friendly. Were they more than friends? Was Boris a partner of Yevsen, along with Maslov? Bourne felt cold sweat break out on his back. The spider’s web he’d stepped into was growing exponentially with each interconnecting strand he discovered.

  “But here…” Hererra had turned away for a moment, rummaging through the drawer of the escritoire. When he turned back, he had a manila folder in one hand and a micro-recorder in the other. “Take a look at these.”

  Bourne opened the folder when the Colombian handed it to him and saw what were clearly surveillance photos, black and white, grainy, but clear enough to see two men talking in earnest conversation. Though the faces were in close-up the low light rendered everything slightly fuzzy.

  “They met in a Munich beer hall,” Hererra said helpfully.

  Bourne recognized the shape and features of Boris’s face. The other man, older, taller, was probably American. It was, indeed, the secretary of defense, Bud Halliday. Then he saw the electronic date-stamp, which was several days before he was shot.

  “Photoshopped,” he said, handing back the photos.

  “In these times, all too possible, I admit.” Hererra presented him with the micro-recorder as if it were a prize. “Perhaps this will convince you the photos are undoctored.”

  When Bourne pressed the play button, this is what he heard above the reduced background clamor:

  “Terminate Jason Bourne and I will use the full might of the American government to put Abdulla Khoury where he belongs.”

  “Not good enough, Mr. Smith. An eye for an eye, this is the true meaning of quid pro quo, yes?”

  “We don’t assassinate people, Colonel Karpov.”

  “Of course not. No matter, Secretary Halliday. I have no such compunctions.”

  After a slight pause, Halliday said: “Yes, of course, in the heat of the moment I forgot our protocols, Mr. Jones. Send me the entire contents of the hard drive and it will be done. Agreed?”

  “Agreed.”

  Bourne pressed stop and looked at Hererra. “What hard drive are they talking about?”

  “I have no idea, but as you can imagine I’m trying to find out.”

  “How did you come into possession of this material?”

  A slow smile reemerged on the Colombian’s face as he put a forefinger across his lips.

  “Why would Boris want to kill me?”

  “Colonel Karpov didn’t inform me when he asked for the favor.” Hererra shrugged. “But as a matter of routine I ran a check on the phone he was calling from. It was a satellite phone and it was located in Khartoum.”

  “In Khartoum,” Bourne said. “Perhaps at Seven Seventy-nine El Gamhuria Avenue, Nikolai Yevsen’s headquarters.”

  Hererra’s eyes opened wide. “Now, truly, I am impres
sed.”

  Bourne lapsed into a meditative silence. Could there be a connection between Boris and Nikolai Yevsen? Could they be collaborators instead of adversaries? What grand scheme could bring these two disparate men together, could cause Boris to try to kill him and, once discovering that he was still alive, hire the Torturer to finish the job?

  Something didn’t make sense, but there was no time now to figure out what because Tracy was opening the French door to enter the room, and Hererra, smiling at her, said, “Has your principal made a decision?”

  “He wants the Goya.”

  “Excellent!” Don Hererra rubbed his hands together. He was grinning like a cat that has caught a particularly rare and tasty morsel. “The world has no idea who Noah Petersen is, but I have a suspicion our friend here does.” He lifted his eyebrows as he gazed at Bourne.

  “Not talking?” He shrugged. “No matter. Mr. Petersen is Señorita Atherton’s principal.”

  Tracy stared at Bourne. “You know Noah? How is that possible?”

  “His real name is Noah Perlis.” Bourne, thunderstruck, looked at both of them in turn. The spider’s web had presented an entirely new dimension. “He works for a private American military contracting company by the name of Black River. I’ve had some dealings with him in the past.”

  “What do you know?” Hererra said. “The world is filled with chameleons and, not surprisingly, they all know one another.” He turned from Bourne and gave Tracy a mock bow. “Señorita Atherton, why don’t you tell the gentleman where you’re to deliver the Goya?” When she hesitated, he laughed good-naturedly. “Go on, you’ve nothing to lose. We all trust one another here, don’t we?”

  “I’m to deliver the Goya by hand to Khartoum,” Tracy said.

  Bourne could hardly catch his breath. What in the world was going on? “Please don’t tell me you’re to deliver it to Seven Seventy-nine El Gamhuria Avenue.”

  Tracy’s mouth opened wide in an O of astonishment.