The Bourne Enigma

  “Beautiful, El-Amir.” Borz stomped his booted feet as if he were at a sporting event. “I commend you, my friend!”

  “It’s as I told you,” El-Amir said as he removed the thumb drive and packed away his laptop. “The production, framing, and editing of violence into a memorable entertainment package takes old-school Hollywood theory and modern electronic know-how.”

  Borz nodded. “This will go out?”

  “It’s already up on YouTube and our own six channels with links on Twitter, Facebook, pins on Pinterest, and Tumblr. I got it out as soon as I finished the editing.” He sat back, puffed on his cigar. “And how was Moscow?”

  “Shitty,” Borz said. “Why anyone would choose to live there is beyond me.”

  “Most of them don’t.”

  “Killing Karpov,” Borz said, hopscotching topics to see how well El-Amir would keep pace. He was well aware of how he had terrified the man. All well and good. Periodically, everyone needed to be reminded of their place in the scheme of things.

  “Killing General Karpov was a positive pleasure,” Borz said with admirable alacrity. “Plus, I got to spike an old friend of mine—a Kidon assassin named Rebeka.”

  “I’m happy for you.”

  “What are friends for?” Borz’s lips formed a curdled smile. “Even the ones who can no longer talk. Especially those.”

  El-Amir tilted his head back, blew smoke into the sere wind off the desert. “Where does the bad blood between you and Rebeka come from?”

  “A poisoned well.” Hell would freeze over before he told anyone, let alone El-Amir, the origin of his animus toward Rebeka. Mossad had been trying to shadow him for some time, with only limited success. Frustrated, they had gotten Kidon involved. They had given Rebeka the scent and set her loose in Cairo, where they suspected he was hiding out. They were only half right. He was in Cairo, all right, but he was there to broker the biggest arms deal of his career. Unusually, the deal was complicated. Borz had had to handle two separate clients, two murderous personalities, two outsize egos, two hateful human beings—which for Borz was saying a lot—in order to close the deal. For all these reasons and one other—he alone was the arms dealer with a large and diverse enough inventory to satisfy these people—they had come to him. As such, he had tripled his usual fees. Neither of the clients seemed to mind. For Borz himself it was the payday of a lifetime and, as an added incentive, a good portion of the war matériel he would be supplying was going to be used against Israel.

  How it happened to this day Borz was unclear, but somehow Rebeka had discovered the site for the meet, where the deal would be consummated. A crack sniper, among her other infernal talents, she had shot dead both of his clients and just missed killing him by a hairsbreadth. Since then, he had been trying to run her down to exact the revenge she so richly deserved. She had not only cost him his enormous payday but had also humiliated him in a manner he could not abide.

  El-Amir, unaware of the inner workings of his master’s mind, took the cigar out of his mouth, studied the tip. “You know what I love most about a good cigar?”

  Ivan Borz watched a thin streamer of cloud occlude the moon for a moment. Then the silvery light returned to the Pyramids. “I can’t imagine.”

  “The ash,” El-Amir said. “It never crumbles. It stays together no matter how extended it gets.”

  Ivan Borz wanted nothing more than to strangle the life out of this ego-inflated balloon, but for the moment El-Amir was crucial to his current work. Borz laughed silently. Pity, really. “Is that part of Existentialism One at Cambridge?” He blew out a stream of smoke, watched it hide the moon as the cloud had moments before. Then it was gone.

  El-Amir laughed. “Don’t tell me you’re jealous of my education?”

  “Hardly,” Ivan Borz said. “Do the professors at Cambridge teach you how to kill? Or how to die?”

  24

  The moment Bourne left Amira’s houseboat he put in a call to Eli Yadin. Ever since he had worked with the director of Mossad he had Yadin’s private mobile number. He heard the electronic ring, then a click, the sudden hollowness on the line that indicated the switch to a secure line, then more buzzing as the various security sweeps processed the origin of the call. Only then did Yadin answer.

  “Where are you?” The Director was never one for small talk.

  “Cairo, looking for Ivan Borz.”

  Yadin grunted. “Good luck finding that fucking chameleon.”

  “Eli, was Sara in Moscow two nights ago?”

  “Why don’t you ask her yourself?”

  “Because I’m asking you.”

  Yadin’s voice grew grave and dark. “What’s happened?”

  “I was hoping you could tell me.”

  “Unfortunately, I have nothing to tell you.”

  “Eli, listen to me. I’m standing here on a bank overlooking the Nile and I have in my hand Sara’s Star of David.”

  Silence.

  “I know what you’re thinking, Eli. I know it’s hers.”

  “It can’t be. She was here this morning and she was wearing it.”

  He told Yadin about the dented point. “She must have bought a replacement.”

  “She hardly had time; she came here directly from the airport.”

  “Where did she fly in from, Eli? Where was Sara?”

  Silence.

  “I wouldn’t ask if—”

  “I know.”

  Another silence.

  “Sara had a target in Moscow,” Yadin said.

  “Did her assignment include killing Boris Karpov?”

  “It was not.”

  “The truth, Eli.”

  “I’m pleased Karpov is dead. He was no friend of Israel’s.”

  “He was a friend of mine.”

  “So Sara tells me. Curious friends you have, Jason.”

  “That would include you, Director.”

  Again, silence. And all the while Bourne was watching every movement, every shadow, the passing of every vehicle and boat, scrutinizing them for a hostile motion, or surveillance. He was in the enemy’s camp; from now on there would be no rest, no letting down his guard.

  “How does your friend’s death involve Sara?” the Director said at length.

  “His throat was slashed by a garrote. I found Sara’s star embedded in the wound.”

  “That’s not possible—”

  “Deep inside the wound, Eli.” Bourne took a breath. He hated the drift of this conversation, but he had to go there. “We both know Sara has used her star as a weapon.”

  “On more than one occasion,” Eli said with some deliberation, “it has saved her life.”

  Time to get it over with. “Did she have orders to terminate Boris Karpov?”

  “She did not.”

  “Eli—”

  “This I swear to you, Jason. But your information explains why the FSB is after her. They were checking all exits from Moscow. They pulled her face off a CCTV at Sheremetyevo, and now the entire organization’s out for her blood.”

  “Imagine what Mossad’s response would be if you were terminated, Eli.”

  “I can’t say I’m sorry he’s dead, but she didn’t come anywhere near your friend.”

  Now came the question Bourne did not want to ask. “Eli, do you think she might have deviated from her assignment? Boris was a whale of a target.”

  “We don’t work that way. Sara doesn’t work that way. End of story.”

  Bourne felt relief spread through him. “Okay. Then I think I know who did kill Boris.”

  “Someone known to me?”

  “Ivan Borz.”

  “Your own private ghost. It happens we have a line on him in Cairo. I assume you know that.”

  “Lines intersect, Eli. Let’s make sure they don’t cross.”

  “Lev Bin.” Yadin recited a mobile number.

  “I’ll contact him,” Bourne said. “Now tell me why the FSB thinks Sara killed Boris. I’m the one who found her star. No one saw me, n
o one knows.”

  “Perhaps it was simply her presence, along with the discovery of the man she did terminate. Consider: the head of FSB is murdered and that same day a Kidon agent is spotted leaving the country.”

  “How did they make her? I thought Kidon personnel were—”

  “A story for another time, Jason. Right now my concern is for Sara.”

  “Where is she, Eli? Jerusalem?”

  “She was. I wanted to hustle her off to the Maldives for a vacation and for her own protection. Only—”

  “Only what, Eli?”

  “She took a different flight.”

  A clutch in the pit of Bourne’s stomach. “Where did she go, Eli?”

  “When you see her, Jason, and you will see her, sooner rather than later, tell her she’s in a shitload of trouble from me.” A heavy intake of breath, audible even over the secure line. “And, Jason, don’t let anything happen to her.”

  —

  A young woman brought the tea on a tray she held aloft with one hand. A rolled prayer rug was beneath her free arm. Her black robes covered her from head to toe so only her eyes could be seen, which was the way women were obliged to present themselves in public. Anything less modest was wicked, wanton, an affront to the strict teachings of Allah.

  “Time,” she said. The two men had long since finished their cigars, the smoke dissipating on the late-night wind that scoured the desert, created tiny sand devils, whirling dervishes that turned the uplights brown.

  As the woman set the tray down on a side table, El-Amir said, “Borz, look into her eyes.”

  Borz did so, saw those magnificent eyes from the new video El-Amir had shot, edited, and uploaded to the Net.

  “Congratulations,” Borz said. “You’re a star.”

  El-Amir smiled. “No doubt,” he added. “No doubt at all.”

  Ivan Borz reached beneath his chair, unfurled his own silk prayer rug. The woman handed the rug she carried to El-Amir. She looked askance at the severed head in its box.

  “Remind you of your homeland?” Borz said, because he couldn’t help himself.

  Her eyes lifted to his. There was no hint of amusement in them. He had learned rapidly that she had no sense of humor whatsoever.

  “I am reminded of the oppressor every time I see drones in the sky, see missiles pulverize a home where someone I knew lived.”

  Borz grunted. “How well you express yourself in Arabic.”

  “My parents speak Arabic,” she said. “They wonder where I’ve gone.”

  “To a better place,” Borz said.

  She lifted a bowl of water from the tray, handed it around so that the men could wash their bare feet and hands. In this sere wind a towel was superfluous; their extremities dried almost immediately. Then, without another word, she turned and left them.

  The men knelt on their rugs, and the sacred ritual began. Their voices were joined in prayer, as synchronous as the movements of their torsos.

  Prayers finished, they rolled their rugs, sat back in their chairs, sipped tea in companionable silence.

  At length, El-Amir said, “We have almost more recruits than we can handle. Social media has not only raised our profile a thousandfold, it has given us direct access to those who are weak-willed, easily radicalized, immanently susceptible to our cause.”

  “You have put us in an enviable position,” Borz said as he and El-Amir sipped tea beneath the gaze of the Pyramids, of the ghostly moon. “We are actually ahead of schedule.”

  “I aim to please,” El-Amir said. “We both have great ambitions that supersede religion or ideology.”

  “Tell me,” Borz said, because he had no interest in talking ambition with anyone but the boxed head, “do you ever miss your sister? She’s just across town, still living on your father’s houseboat.”

  “I always miss Amira, or at least the part of me that died back in London does.” El-Amir’s voice was low, level, seemingly without emotion. “The person that is here, that films, cuts, and edits your videos doesn’t remember who she is.”

  It was perfect—the best answer he could give, and Borz was pleased.

  “And you,” El-Amir said. “Are you still seeing this woman, this tour—?”

  “What of it?” Borz snapped. He disliked probes into his personal life.

  El-Amir shrugged. “I wondered whether you’d see her one more time before we left.”

  Borz kept silent. All around them dawn crept across the desert, and with it began the parade of tour buses, bringing tourists who braved the international news reports to visit the glories of Egypt’s past. These days the buses were two-thirds empty, sometimes never ran at all for lack of customers. Borz felt some pride in that.

  The dawn. They had acknowledged it with prayer; now it was time, once again, to work. Four days, he thought as he rose. Four days until the end of the world.

  25

  Svetlana Karpova sat on her hospital bed, dressed, overheated, and impatient. She was ready to leave; her doctor had given his consent, had signed all the paperwork. She should have been gone hours ago. Instead, here she sat with a pair of military officers standing guard outside her door. She had tried to step outside her room but they had stopped her, gently but firmly. These were not FSB men; who had given them the command to keep her here she could not say.

  She had been moved, of course. The room where Andrei Avilov had died had been cordoned off as a crime scene. Through the open door of her new room, she had caught glimpses of forensic experts coming and going, lugging their mysterious equipment. But for all their vaunted expertise they had found nothing, for the simple reason there was nothing to find. Andrei Avilov had died in that room, but he’d been murdered elsewhere. They, of course, did not know that. They would never know it. And soon enough the case—if you wanted to call it that—would be closed.

  These were the facts, as Svetlana knew them. Then why was she being kept here, clearly against her will? She had no idea, but she’d had just about enough. She needed to grieve for her dead husband in solitude and quiet. And a hospital was about the least quiet building in the city.

  She stood up, determined to confront the two officers once and for all, bully her way past them if need be, when a striking man walked into her room. He was accompanied by an even more striking young woman, never introduced, who said not a word through the entire interview.

  “Mrs. Karpova, I am so very sorry for your loss,” the striking man said. His voice was a purr, almost like velvet, a difficult thing to accomplish using the Russian language. He had piercing eyes, a mustache and goatee combination that had gone out of style with Trotsky, and pitch-black hair, slicked back from his window’s peak with some kind of pomade she could smell from across the room. He appeared fit and strong. Nevertheless, he was smoking a cigarette, the stench of which made her want to vomit. Smoke curled lazily, lending him a penumbra, like some minor deity, which, in a very real way, he was.

  Boris had introduced them at the reception. But even had he not she would have recognized him from the many news photos she had seen of him. His presence answered a number of questions, including the nature of her guards. He advanced across the room to stand between her and the door. She found herself face-to-face with Timur Savasin, the first minister, the most powerful man in the Russian Federation, bar only the Sovereign himself.

  “The general was a great man. Great. He will be missed most acutely.” Smoke emanated from his nostrils, as if he were a drowsing dragon.

  She noted that Savasin said “the general,” not “Boris Illyich.” So Boris hadn’t been kidding about this guy, she thought. Dangerous as an electric eel, and just as slippery. He was no friend of Boris’s, he’s no friend of mine.

  She briefly put on a thousand-watt smile before she allowed her features to return to those of a grieving widow, who had been manhandled. “Thank you, First Minister. Your kindness is greatly appreciated. Now. Can you tell me who killed my husband?”

  He waved a hand in dismissal. “
Now, now, that’s nothing for you to concern yourself with. The matter is being dealt with, trust me.”

  Trust you? she thought. Not for a second. “I’m afraid I must insist, First Minister. The government owes me that much, at least.”

  Timur Savasin appeared to consider her request. At length, he stubbed out his cigarette, nodded. “All right, Mrs. Karpova, as a special favor I will tell you what we know. The general was killed by a Mossad agent—a member of their Kidon branch—the assassins. How she gained access to the hotel we’ll never know. But rest assured, we know where she’s fled to, and agents have been dispatched to ensure her termination.”

  “A name,” Svetlana said. “I want a name, First Minister.”

  “We don’t divulge names,” he said flatly.

  Men had been saying no to Svetlana all her life. She knew how to deal with them, even the powerful ones. “My husband was the head of FSB. You owe me this, First Minister.”

  Timur Savasin sighed, apparently decided that telling her could do no conceivable harm. “The only name we have is the one Kidon has assigned her. Rebeka.”

  “Her operational name is as far as you’ve gotten.”

  “That’s all we need, Mrs. Karpova,” he said darkly, slamming the door on the subject.

  He rubbed his hands together. The unpleasant necessities dealt with, he was at once all business. “And now, if you would, please tell me in your own words what transpired between you and Andrei in your hotel suite the night of your wedding.”

  “I was attacked,” Svetlana said. “Assaulted.”

  “Sexually?”

  “Surely you’ve read the medical report.”

  “I’d like to hear it from you.”

  “Of course.” She nodded, careful for the moment to be obedient. “I was physically and sexually assaulted.”

  “My apologies for being so blunt, Mrs. Karpova. It cannot be helped.”

  “I understand.” You shit, she thought.

  “Who assaulted you, Mrs. Karpova?”

  This was the tricky part. She must not show that she had the slightest motive to kill Avilov. If she told the truth, if she implicated Avilov in the assault, there would be her motive, laid out for Savasin on a silver salver. There was also her cousin Rada to protect. She recalled with vivid clarity the deep and abiding enmity between FSB and Savasin’s military cadre, and particularly Andrei Avilov’s hatred of Colonel Korsolov burning bright. She needed to gamble that Avilov’s prejudice was a reflection of his boss’s.