The Bourne Enigma

  “Anyone sitting here?”

  He looked up to see a very beautiful woman standing beside him.

  “No one but me.”

  She sat down next to him, close, but not too close. She wore a loose-fitting ankle-length midnight-blue dress, which she tucked under her as she drew her knees up. She was barefoot, which meant she was staying at his hotel or the behemoth next to it.

  “May I ask you a question?”

  He turned his head toward her.

  “Do you think what I’m wearing is appropriate?” She laughed self-deprecatingly. “For the beach, I mean. I decided to come here at the last minute.” She shrugged her shapely shoulders. “Fight with my boyfriend. Only now I don’t think I want him to be my boyfriend—or any kind of friend.” She sighed. “Anyway, like I said, last minute.” That self-deprecating laugh again. “I forgot to pack a bathing suit, and the lobby boutique was closed. Is this dress as bad as I think it is?”

  He said nothing. He really didn’t want company at the moment, especially someone as attractive and lonely as this woman. But far away, in the darkened recesses of his mind, a bell was tolling.

  “Worse, huh?” She picked her head up, stared vacantly out to sea. “Serves me right.”

  He knew she wanted him to ask, For what? Any response would be part of a game he didn’t want to play.

  She gave him a rueful smile. “Serves me right for coming over here and disturbing your peaceful solitude. What an idiot I am. Sorry.”

  Rising, she brushed sand off her the back of her dress, momentarily revealing the contours of her buttocks and the backs of her thighs. “Have a good night.” She shook her head angrily. “Wow, that sounded lame.”

  She walked away from him down the beach, carefully putting one foot in front of the other, as if unsure of her footing. Without warning, she collapsed and didn’t get up.

  —

  “I’m fine,” she said, pushing him away as he crouched down beside her.

  Her dress was rucked up, her legs were out from under her, the right one, with its ugly jagged scar running up the outside of her calf, exposed to the knee. She couldn’t help seeing where he looked, but instead of pulling her dress down, she let it be.

  “I was studying to be a ballet dancer,” she said, “but then—” Her arm waved over the scar.

  “What happened?” Bourne said.

  “He speaks!” She smiled shyly, like a little girl. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-four or twenty-five. “Would you like to see the whole thing?” Without waiting for a reply, she drew the dress up her long, glorious legs until the fabric was bunched around her hips. The scar went that far.

  “This couldn’t have been the result of an accident,” Bourne said.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “It was made in stages, over a period of time.”

  She stared at him. One moment her large eyes were midnight-blue, the next they were pure black—a trick, he was sure, of the indirect lights from the hotel restaurant terraces. All at once, she jumped up, her magnificent legs vanishing beneath her dress. He rose with her. They stood side by side, not quite touching, gazing out over the sea.

  “Have you ever wanted to sail in darkness, on a night like this?”

  “I have done.”

  “Of course you have.”

  A corner of her mouth twitched up. A dusting of freckles arced across the bridge of her nose. He hadn’t noticed them before, but then he hadn’t really been looking.

  “So tell me how you knew—about the scar, I mean.”

  “I’ve seen one very much like it.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Where?”

  “On a woman.”

  “No, I mean where in the world.”

  “In Somalia.”

  There was still the ghost of a smile on her lips. “What? Pirates, I suppose.”

  “Pirates, slave traders, terrorists, call them what you will. She was a girl, actually. She looked twelve or thirteen, but with children who have been so abused it’s difficult to tell their real age.”

  When she turned to him her smile had vanished. Her eyes were on him, and they were very still. “And you saw this girl? With the same scar as mine?”

  “The wound at her hip was dark and swollen. It hadn’t completely closed over yet. There were droplets of blood around the edges.”

  A certain vibration had sprung up between them, a quivering in the air, as of a swarm of soundless insects.

  “And?”

  “And then,” Bourne said, “I disappeared her.”

  —

  First Minister Timur Savasin, lounging in the shadows of his hotel room terrace, watched the couple stand with their backs to him as they gazed out to sea. They seemed close as lovers. He felt no jealousy seeing the Angelmaker with Jason Bourne, only a keen anticipation. It seemed to him now that tomorrow was the culmination of a fated life. He was overcome with the sensation, not of déjà vu but of the opposite: that he was meant to be here now, at this very moment, on the shore of Cyprus, watching the creature of his design and Bourne, close enough to have sex or to kill each other. She had taken only the briefest glance at the photo of Bourne, but that was all she needed. She had a knack for taking in entire subjects in the blink of an eye and never forgetting them. Keeping an image from a photo in her head was child’s play. Now here they were together. However she had handled the first contact, she had succeeded. He would have been stunned if she had failed.

  A frisson of presentiment passed through him then, like a chill ribbon invading a tropical ocean’s warm current. With startling clarity, he recalled the Angelmaker telling him that death was in their room with them. Idiotic as that had sounded to him then, he thought he felt death’s presence now, as, like him, it watched, godlike from above, its two principal objects of affection.

  Time to make some calls. Digging out his mobile, he dialed the first of two local numbers.

  —

  “And this girl, this refugee from Somali pirates,” the Angelmaker said, “where is she now?”

  Bourne’s gaze remained fixed on the lights at sea. “Wouldn’t it be strange if she were standing here beside me?”

  “I don’t believe in coincidences,” she said dismissively.

  “Neither,” Bourne said, “do I.”

  She looked at him again with that curious sideways glance. “What are you implying?” When he remained silent, she said, “Do you know how many complex factors would have to align in order for me to be that girl?”

  “A thousand angels dancing on the head of a pin.” Into the silence that now arose between them, he said, “You recognized me, Mala. I have no doubt about that. The question is, why are you here at the same time as me?”

  “I’m not that girl anymore.”

  “No one is the same.”

  “You are.” Her dress swirled around her ankles like a sail. “And for the record, I was a good deal older than I looked.”

  “That’s disturbing.” He shifted in the sand. “You’ve learned a great deal in the interim.”

  “I am wiser as well as older.”

  “Mala,” he said, “when are we going to stop playing this game?”

  “Why stop something that’s so pleasurable?”

  He saw the wisp of a smile play across her lips. Then it was gone. “There’s only one reason why you’re here now,” he said. “You’re working for the Russians.”

  “I work for myself.”

  “A very specific Russian.”

  “Who could that be?”

  “Tomorrow is zero hour,” he said.

  “Zero hour? That means nothing to me.”

  “You know.”

  “But I don’t.”

  Bourne knew there were many ways to lie; there was only one way to express true ignorance. “Tomorrow—in nineteen hours, to be exact—the Sovereign is going to order his troops into Ukraine for a full-on invasion.”

  “You’re hal
lucinating.”

  “He’s been arming ISIS, fueling their advance as a distraction for the Western powers.”

  “How could he do that?” she said. “Even the Sovereign couldn’t come up with such a plan. Besides, the committee that runs Bank Rossiya wouldn’t—”

  “But he did,” Bourne said. So she wasn’t working for the Sovereign. Who then? First Minister Timur Savasin. “He bypassed even his inner circle at Bank Rossiya. The money is in a secret account at the Omega and Gulf Bank, which he owns.” He turned his head, studying her profile. She was already a beautiful girl when he had come upon her in the Somali camp. But, as a young woman, how she had flowered open.

  “You’re making this up. The Western powers would never allow such a thing.”

  “The EU derives eighty percent of its natural gas from Russia. It’s getting on toward winter. What do you think will happen when the Sovereign turns off the tap, leaving millions of people shivering in the dark?”

  She crossed her arms over her chest.

  “In Somalia, after I liberated you, after I shot dead the creature who had marked you over and over as his possession, his slave, his chattel, do you remember what you said to me? How you survived those long months?”

  Nothing from her. Nothing at all.

  “You told me that you became expert at deluding yourself. You convinced yourself that you were somewhere else, that you were someone else. ‘I would have gone insane.’ Those were your exact words. That iron will was ingenious, admirable, but now it has worked against you. I was wrong—some people don’t change. What is different here than it was in Somalia? You have traded one master for another.”

  He moved so that he was facing her, his back to the rolling sea and its mysterious winking lights neither of them could decipher. “Mala,” he said, “Russia is going to war. It’s going to invade Ukraine. You know the Sovereign’s stated claim on Eastern Europe. The populace of the West cares very little about what happens to Ukraine—think of the dithering and nonresponse when Russia took over the Crimea. Most people in the West don’t even know Estonia exists, let alone want to risk lives to save it. Unless the plan is stopped now, before it begins, how long after Russia absorbs Ukraine do you think it will take before the new Union of Soviet Socialist Republics invades Estonia?”

  56

  Sara rose from delta sleep chased by dreams that had latterly insinuated themselves into her sleep, as if her unconscious was preparing her to leave the delicious nothingness in which she floated.

  “Rebeka!”

  Her eyes snapped open, she found herself looking up at Dov.

  “Are you awake?”

  “What d’you think?” she said crossly, because her head was still muzzy.

  “The private jet belongs to Abdul Aziz, a businessman from—”

  “Istanbul,” she finished for him. That had snapped her to full consciousness.

  “You know him?”

  “He’s a friend of Bourne’s.”

  “Well, I hope he doesn’t end up like Bourne’s other friend, General Karpov.”

  She sat up. “You knew about that?”

  “It didn’t make us happy.”

  Her vertigo seemed to be gone. “D’you have more?”

  “God, yes. A whole lot more. And very fast transport standing by for you.”

  “Is it stocked with food?”

  He laughed. “Yes.”

  She stood. “Fill me in while we board. Suddenly, I’m ravenous.”

  —

  “When do you want me to kill him?” the Angelmaker said when she returned to their room.

  Timur Savasin had ordered room service: a pink saddle of lamb, grilled vegetables, halloumi cheese, and loukaniko sausage. Out of respect, he had ordered her a salad as well, something he detested.

  She sat down opposite at the laden table in the sitting area of their suite and began to serve herself. “Tonight would be good.”

  “Very possibly.”

  “In his sleep. Moonlight stealing into the room. Very romantic. I’d like that. All romance ends in death.”

  “So that’s what you started?” he said neutrally. “A romance?”

  “Christ, no.” She laughed, showing small white teeth. “I was using a figure of speech.”

  “Very poetic.”

  The hint of an electric current in his voice caused her to glance up, between transferring a spoonful of artichokes, carrots, and onions to her plate.

  “FM, you aren’t jealous, are you?”

  “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Smiling slyly, she speared a chunk of lamb on the tines of her fork. “I’ll say this for you, FM, you do love your meat.” She popped the morsel in her mouth, chewed slowly and lasciviously, swallowed. “Human and otherwise.”

  Pushing back his chair, he crossed to the sideboard where the three bottles of premium-grade vodka he had ordered each stood in the center of its own sweating ice bucket. He poured himself a shot, downed it with a violent backward thrust of his head, sloshed in a triple. Turning around, he watched her eat with slow, methodical precision; he’d never seen her wolf her food.

  She lifted a shapely arm. “Come. Sit. Eat your meats.” She speared a sausage. “They’re really rather wonderful.”

  He took a sip or two of his vodka, strolled back across the room, and, moving his chair, sat down beside her. Taking up a fork, he began to eat from her plate.

  “Here’s the table leg.” She tapped it with a forefinger. “Why don’t you piss on that, too?”

  He grunted. “No worries there. I’ve already marked my territory.” He chomped down on a sausage. “Many times.” He chewed slowly, thoughtfully. “So you’ve bonded yourself to him.”

  “I’ve bonded him to me.”

  “By giving him your confidence.”

  “The foundation of all con games. That’s right.”

  “And he bought it—your confidence.”

  “I believe so.”

  “This is not just any mark. This is Jason Bourne.”

  “I know who he is, FM,” she said levelly. “What eludes me is your intense antipathy toward him.”

  “He and Boris Karpov were close friends. I don’t need any more incentive.”

  “But you do have more.”

  He set down his fork, wiped his lips with a napkin. “I believe we shall continue this conversation in the bedroom.”

  “I haven’t even started on my salad yet,” she pointed out. “Shall I take it with?”

  —

  He was like an animal, ripping off her clothes, growling in the back of his throat. The Angelmaker had seen him like this once before, with one of his mistresses. He had insisted she watch, from a shadowed corner where she was to remain absolutely still. At the end of the session, Savasin’s victim, as she became in the Angelmaker’s mind, had emerged spattered with bite marks, roundels already turning from oxblood to black-and-blue. As she had stumbled out, half insensate, the First Minister had called the Angelmaker to his bed for the first time, which was when she saw the blood on the sheets.

  Now, as his hands and mouth roamed over her body, the Angelmaker felt the well of time open up, felt herself falling into it, down and down, until she was back in the Somalian pirate encampment. Her body was crisscrossed, swirled, circled, triangled with wounds, turning with time into scars, remnants of unthinkable rituals, which her captor called art, and which, for decades after, she held on to as desperately as a drowning woman clutches a dead body in order to keep afloat.

  It was in the Somali encampment, at the hands of her captor, a Yibir, one of a clan of Somali magi so ancient they predated the coming of Islam, that she had been desensitized to sex without pain. She had been trained, he had trained her—she knew all this—but somehow the circuits in her brain had been rewired, and now her body responded only to the stimuli the Somali had laid out for her. There was, therefore, a ghastly agony inside her, an itch that could never be scratched. Never be assuaged. Except by pai
n. Bourne was right. Even after time and distance, she was still the Somali’s prisoner, with no hope for escape.

  Breaking away, she rolled off the bed.

  “Where are you going?” he asked as she walked away.

  57

  Bourne lay atop the bed in his darkened hotel room. Moonlight, sliced into cool bars by the wide, wooden jalousies, stretched across the tile floor like mercury. And like mercury, the moonlight had turned poisonous since his encounter with Mala on the beach outside his sliders. Winter was coming. Even here, a certain chill had invaded the Mediterranean night. He tried to turn his mind off, but the coming events of tomorrow kept returning to vex him. Only hours to go, and still he had no answer as to how to get into the Sovereign’s account at the Omega + Gulf Bank. He knew Boris must have included it in his cipher, but after racking his brains for hours on end he remained at a loss to discover where it was. He had deciphered the entire rebus—all four groups of Sumerian glyphs.

  All at once, he sat up, drenched in cold sweat. Had there been a fifth group, written in invisible ink? It was an old-school trick, but one Boris might very well have used. If so, Bourne was screwed, having destroyed the scrap of paper in order to keep it from falling into the wrong hands. If so, if the information he needed wasn’t somewhere embedded in the four groupings of glyphs stored in his memory then, by tomorrow evening, the entire world would be at war.

  Unless First Minister Savasin possessed the account code. In which case, there was still a chance, though a slim one. But slim was better than none.

  Bourne was about to lie down again, to sink himself, if not into sleep, then into deep meditation, when he picked up a corruption of one of the bars of moonlight, as of a shadow crossing in front of it on his polished concrete balcony.

  Bourne lay very still, slowing his breathing until the rise and fall of his chest was barely discernible. The shadow was there, moving so slowly as to be almost imperceptible. Arranging the pillows to resemble a body under the sheets, he slipped off the edge of the bed farthest away from the sliders, crept to the end, keeping his head and shoulders low enough that that bed blocked his progress from view.