The Bourne Enigma

  “I’m afraid this time it’s different.” The professor looked rueful. “I received a call from the Director wanting to know why you hadn’t arrived home with the cadre.”

  Sara’s eyes flashed. “And what did you tell him?”

  “Before I had a chance to say anything, he told me he was sending—”

  “Don’t tell me,” Sara said, strapping herself in as the pilot and navigator in the row in front of her went through their final checklist. “He’s sending my boss, Dov Liron, to fetch me.” She shrugged. “That’s been done before.”

  “It isn’t Liron he’s sending, Rebeka. It’s Ophir.”

  “Oh dear.” Amir Ophir was the head of Metsada, Mossad’s Special Branch Ops. Ophir was second-in-command under her father. “That’s unfortunate.”

  “Well, it would have been,” Professor Tambourine said with a twinkle in his eye, “if he knew where you were headed.”

  “Why? What did you tell the Director?”

  “That you were no longer in Cairo. That you’d gone to Tunis.”

  “Tunis? What on earth would I be doing there?”

  Tambourine shrugged. “I’m sure I have no idea.” He grinned. “I’m just a stringer on this bus.”

  “From the bottom of my heart, Professor, thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. But when this adventure finally shakes out, I fear it may be the end for the both of us.”

  Sara winked at him. “I wouldn’t count on it.”

  He gave her a nod of approval. “I have weaponized you to your satisfaction?”

  “Completely. You’re a whiz, Professor.”

  “I do what I can.”

  “Ready,” the pilot said. “You’d better leave, R. M. We only have one extra chute, and that’s for the young lady.”

  Professor Tambourine laughed. “Drinks and dinner at Cairo’s finest for you and the crew when you return, Richard.” Then, rubbing his hands together in his best professorial fashion, he addressed Sara. “Righto. Luck and a stalwart heart, my brava.” He gave her the V-for-victory sign just before he left the cockpit and deplaned.

  She watched him stride across the tarmac, head held up, back ramrod straight, ready for whatever else the day might bring. There was a spring in his step she hadn’t seen before. She promised herself that when she returned to Jerusalem, whatever else happened, she would keep him safe from harm.

  Moments later, the tarmac clear, Richard revved the engines to full power. The ailerons were at full lift as the plane taxied down the runway, and, with a great leap upward, punched its way into the burning sky.

  —

  “In those days, I was running guns out of Istanbul,” Borz said. “In those days, before the Islamic voice of Turkey rose up, you could run guns with impunity.”

  “You can still run guns out of Istanbul with impunity,” Bourne said. “It’s only the officials who’ve changed, not the policies.” He regarded Borz for a moment. It was still disconcerting to be talking to someone who looked like himself. That was the point, he assumed. Borz had demonstrated a keen grasp on human psychology. “So either you weren’t running guns or running them was a front for something else.”

  Borz sat stock-still. Only a piteous moan from the British SAS officer broke the silence that had overlaid the ubiquitous thrum of the electronics. Bourne assumed there must be an immense generator somewhere nearby to power all the equipment. Electricity in a war zone was inconstant at best.

  “I can’t stand that sniveling,” Borz snapped. He pointed to Bourne. “With me.”

  An armed guard accompanied them for the short walk back to the first building. All the dishes in the center of the table had been cleared.

  “Here,” Borz said, indicating the chair where El-Amir had sat. “He never did finish his food—so sit. Eat.”

  Bourne did nothing of the sort. Instead, he sat back, arms folded across his chest, studied Borz through half-closed eyes. “What sort of trade would appeal to a man like you, Bobby? A businessman and a self-professed sociopath.”

  Borz’s fingers gripped the back of the chair opposite Bourne. “High-functioning sociopath.”

  “Yes, of course.” Bourne stared up at the ceiling, then back down to Borz. “You were transshipping young girls.”

  “How d’you come to that?”

  “One, the white slave trade is the most lucrative of all criminal activities. Two—”

  “Wait a minute. Why not drugs?”

  “You have to be well connected to be in the drug trade in a place like Istanbul, and you were too young for that. Besides, as I was about to say, Istanbul is perfectly situated geographically to transship girls from Eastern Europe into the West, where you’d get top dollar. Plus, being a sociopath, trading in human beings wouldn’t bother your conscience in the least. You don’t have a conscience.”

  “Perhaps you should tell this story,” Borz said testily. When Bourne made no reply, he continued in an altogether different tone of voice. “You had been inserted into Istanbul to terminate—does the name Dolman strike a spark? No? Well, he was your target, Dolman. I found this out only much later. Too late, I would say.

  “I had worked for Dolman briefly before breaking away. Going out on my own wasn’t easy. A lot of people died, even more blood was shed before an uneasy détente was established.

  “Afterward, I figured out that you had been provided with intel indicating I knew Dolman’s operation inside and out. I was impressed from the first time we met by how much of the underground workings of Istanbul you knew.”

  “And what was your name then, Bobby? Your full name?”

  Borz bared his teeth. “The story, Jason. The story is what matters here.” He slipped into the chair opposite Bourne. “Not hungry? Well, this story won’t help your appetite, this I can guarantee.”

  “Back to Dolman.”

  “No. Dolman was only a minor player in this particular drama. Back to you and me. Because that’s what it became, back then in Istanbul. You made yourself useful to me, then indispensable. You have that knack.”

  “What knack?”

  “Of being able to insinuate yourself into any situation.”

  “It’s a gift.”

  “Right.” Borz laughed, but it was a sound devoid of pleasure. He leaned forward, placed his elbows on the table. “So the two of us, all those days ago—we became inseparable. My business was never better—the military-grade weapons, anyway. You didn’t find out about the…girls…until near the end. That’s what I thought, anyway. There came a time, however, when I realized that I was wrong, that you knew about the girls right from the get-go. Your fucking intel was so good.”

  Borz seemed lost in thought for a moment. Then he went on: “So. There came a time when you had insinuated yourself so deeply into my regime that you felt comfortable bringing up the topic of Dolman. He was my main rival—older than me, more connected, more powerful. I wanted to be like him, and he knew it. He could feel me breathing down his neck. So did you.

  “You offered to take him out for me, but, of course, you needed the intel only someone who had been inside his organization could give you. Me. So I gave you everything I had learned while I was working for Dolman: his organizational structure, the people close to him, the ones he trusted, the ones he didn’t. Most important of all, I drew a map of the inside of his compound, gave you his schedule. Dolman was a man of habit; those things never change. And armed with all this knowledge, you infiltrated his compound, found him, and killed him.”

  Borz rose, restless again, came around the table to stand behind Bourne’s chair, his hands resting lightly on the top slat, so that Bourne could feel his knuckles across the middle of his shoulders.

  His voice grew tight. “What I had never imagined, what you did to me, Jason, was make me the prime suspect in Dolman’s murder. You stole my stiletto—a knife that was special to me; Dolman had presented it to me. Everyone knew that knife—they’d all seen it. And you sliced it across Dolman’s throat.”

/>   Bourne had just enough time to think, The way you sliced open Boris’s throat, before Borz coiled his arm around Bourne’s own throat, locked him in the hold with the heel of his hand against the nape of Bourne’s neck with such force he lifted Bourne out of his seat.

  “I…want…my…money…fucker,” Borz rasped in his ear.

  Instead of resisting, Bourne went with the pull and lift, drawing his knees up to his chest, and somersaulted back over Borz’s head. His own head was still locked; worse, the bones of Borz’s forearm were virtually crushing his windpipe, cutting off all air.

  On the other hand, he was now behind Borz, he had Borz in an awkward and indefensible position, and when he drove his knee into Borz’s kidney, Borz grunted, had no choice but to let his grip slip. Bourne drew his fist back to deliver a blow that would crack Borz’s lower ribs, but he was held back by Borz’s gunman, who put the muzzle of a handgun to the side of his head.

  That was a mistake. Bourne slammed into him while, at the same time, his hand shoved the barrel away so that when the gunman fired he almost took the top of Borz’s head off. Borz ducked down. His harsh shout of alarm and momentary fear caused his gunman to freeze, not knowing what to do. That was all the opening Bourne required. Driving the edge of his hand into the place between the gunman’s neck and shoulder, he ripped the weapon out of his hand, smashed the butt into the back of the man’s head. The gunman fell beside Borz, who was trying to rouse himself from his close encounter with the bullet.

  Bourne bent, grabbed Borz, hauled him up, struck him a blow on the point of his chin. Borz staggered back, regained his footing, struck back. The blows came so thick and fast they were mere blurs, difficult to defend against. Then Bourne struck Borz with such force that he was sent reeling across the room. From down on one knee, Borz rose, grabbed a chair, smashed it against the wall. One thick leg remained in his first, transformed into a cudgel. He was in the process of launching himself toward Bourne when a mortar shell struck the side of the building, sending everyone and everything flying.

  44

  Sara awoke from a deep sleep to find ten more messages from her father on her mobile. That made twenty-five. Professor Tambourine had been right; she was going to be in real trouble when she returned to Jerusalem.

  “Miss?” Richard, the pilot, had turned in his seat to address her. “Shelling has recommenced over Kobanî. We can’t get down as low as we’d like. Can you skydive?”

  Sara smiled. “I’ve done it once or twice before.”

  Richard looked dubious. “I’m afraid this is going to take the skills of an expert.”

  Sara was up, shrugging on her parachute. “I’ll be fine. I was just kidding.”

  “You’d better be,” Richard said, facing forward again. “Otherwise you’ll be dead before you hit the ground.”

  —

  Flung through a gaping hole in the wall, Bourne found himself outside. His ears were ringing and his head ached fiercely, but he was otherwise unhurt. Bodies were sprawled on the ground, some bleeding, others dead. Scooping up a fallen semiautomatic weapon, he went back inside the building, but there was no sign of Borz. He wanted to search every room, but all was chaos. Outside, the bombardment had intensified. Another shell could hit the building at any time.

  Bourne once again stepped through the ragged opening. One look at the terrain, a glimpse of Kurdish fighters, and his mind, sifting at lightning speed through the possible world’s hot spots, realized he was in Kobanî, Syria, just beyond the western Turkish border.

  More mortar shells were falling as ISIS troops recommenced their attack. The ground rumbled and shook, the air swirled thick with smoke and burning debris. Men were running for cover. He looked up, saw a plane high up, headed more or less toward the compound. It looked like one of the small relief corps bringing in supplies to the embattled Kurds.

  No more than a hundred yards away he saw a helo standing alone, a single guard in front of the access. Firing started up behind Bourne, bullets chipping away at the corner of the building against which he was pressed. The guard came to alert, and his semiautomatic weapon swung down, its muzzle at the ready.

  Caught between a rock and a hard place, Bourne reached down, hefted a rock in his hand. He threw it to the side of the guard. As he whirled, Bourne detached himself from the cover of the building, ran directly toward the helo, praying that it wouldn’t be blown to smithereens by a mortar shell.

  The guard saw him coming, swung around, fired without aiming. Bourne shot him in the chest, tossed him aside, and climbed into the helo. In war zones, vehicles were always on standby, ready to be used at a moment’s notice. The helo was no exception. He fired the ignition, started the rotors going just as three of Borz’s men rounded the corner where Bourne had been concealing himself. They saw the guard on the ground, pointed, and began running toward the helo. They didn’t dare shoot, lest they cripple a vital piece of multi-million-dollar equipment.

  He heard the signal noise of a mortar shell nearing, ground the sticks, and got the helo into the air just before the explosion took out one of the men and maimed another. The third scuttled back into the building.

  He brought the helo around, wheeling through the smoke and debris screen. He was high enough now, as he came out of the thick fug, to see the black-garbed ISIS fighter units assembled to the southwest. The moment they spotted him, semiautomatic fire started up, and he lifted the helo higher, getting a right reading on the compass. He turned toward the Turkish border and had started out for it when he saw two ISIS terrorists, one with a shoulder missile launcher, the other with the missile. They loaded up the weapon and began to track the incoming plane Bourne had seen before. With a tricky twisting maneuver he swooped lower, gaining their attention. The man in back tapped his partner on the shoulder. Bourne was low enough to see the firer’s lips turn up into a grim smile.

  He put on speed, heading up, up, and away as the firer swiveled the helo into his sights. Bourne knew he knew he couldn’t outrun a missile. His one hope was that it was an old one, that its guidance system wasn’t working properly. A moment later he saw the contrail of the missile as it shot up toward him. At least now the incoming supply plane had a chance.

  Now the missile was directly behind him, and he commenced evasive maneuvers, pulling the helo to the left and right, dipping it down, lifting it steeply upward. The missile kept homing in on him. So much for a faulty guidance system. The continuing barrage buffeted the helo, and he struggled to keep it on course toward Turkey. The helo whirred through thick clots of black smoke. He was leaving behind an inferno of fiery debris, maimed bodies, lost causes.

  The helo had far less maneuverability than a fighter jet, to say nothing of its comparative lack of speed. No matter what he did, he couldn’t shake the missile. It continued to gain on him as the border loomed ever closer. Now he put the helo into the steepest climb it could handle. He calculated he had less than a minute to make the definitive maneuver that would save him.

  Up ahead, at more or less due north, he could see the border, and beyond it, Turkey. There wasn’t much difference in the terrain—dry brown earth, clotted with roots exposed by gunfire and explosive ordinance, low hills, brown again, in the distance. Not a tree or leaf in sight. But there were clusters of ragtag Kurdish fighters, weapons raised, watching the missile close on him. He put the helo on autopilot—a dangerous, possibly lethal, decision—but he had no other choice. He ranged through the interior, searching for anything that could help him.

  Forty seconds later, the missile struck aft in a blinding burst of propellant, warhead, fuel, molten plastic, and twisted metal. The stricken helo spun around twice before the entire fuselage combusted, sending whatever remained of it cartwheeling onto Turkish soil.

  45

  Head down, falling like a rocket, Sara felt like a missile. It was not yet time to pull the cord, to deploy the chute. A million thoughts ripped through her brain, none of them helpful, all of them tinged with fear. The fear was, of co
urse, mixed with exhilaration, but the important thing—the only thing—to remember was to keep her mind clear, to begin the countdown to deployment, to remember what she had to do afterward to compensate, not only for the prevailing wind, which Richard had called out to her along with the altitude just before she jumped, but also for the violent air pockets caused by the detonating ordnance. She was jumping into the midst of an all-out assault on Kobanî.

  Because of the smoke and explosions, she had no visual she could count on. She needed to rely entirely on her countdown to deploy at the proper altitude: too soon and the upper level winds would take her too far from her drop zone; too late and she would cripple herself, or worse, when she landed at shocking speed.

  There came the moment when she held her life in her right hand, pulled the rip cord. An instant of blackout, then momentary disorientation as her brain adjusted to the humane rate of descent. She was passing through clouds of choking smoke and cinders that made her eyes water, the inside of her nostrils sting. She was in the process of orienting herself when, off in the distance, toward the border with Turkey, she saw a midair explosion, saw for just an instant part of a helo’s fuselage spinning around before, it, too, vanished in a ghastly fireball.

  Then she was jerked off course by a detonation on the ground, and for the next twenty seconds, she was so busy with her waylines, course correcting, all thought of the exploded helo was wiped from her consciousness.

  She was almost down when another explosion hit close enough to her to send a chunk of a building hurtling through the canopy above her. At once, the chute canted over, and she began to fall much faster than was safe.

  The uneven, deeply pitted ground came up in a fiery blur. She jerked free of her harness, climbed the waylines, pulled the rapidly deflating canopy around her. She hit the ground with much of the chute under her curled-up body, and rolled into one of the mortar craters, whose concave surface further cushioned her landing.