Текст книги "The Bourne Dominion (Господство Борна)"

Автор книги: Eric Van Lustbader

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Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

The heavyset man raised his eyebrows. “Among others.”

Boris’s heart skipped a beat. “There are others?”

“There are always others, General.” He gestured with a hand. “Excuse my poor manners. Come. Sit.”

Boris stepped onto the prayer rug, careful to sit in the same position as his host, though it pained his hips and flexor muscles.

“You asked me what Cherkesov and your friend Volkin were talking about,” the heavyset man said. “It was the Domna.”

“Do you know that Cherkesov left FSB-2 to join the Domna?”

“I heard as much,” the heavyset man acknowledged.

Boris didn’t believe him. He sensed his host was withholding information. “Cherkesov has ambitions that, for the moment at least, outstrip his power.”

“You think he had a plan in mind when he allowed himself to be lured away from FSB-2.”

“Yes,” Boris said.

“Do you know what it is?”

“It’s possible one of us does.”

The heavyset man’s belly began to tremble, and Boris realized that he was laughing silently.

“Yes, General Karpov, that is quite possible.” Boris’s host considered for a moment. “Tell me, have you ever been to Damascus?”

“Once or twice, yes,” Boris said, alert that the conversation had suddenly veered in a new direction.

“How did you find it?”

“The Paris of the Middle East?”

“Ha! Yes, I suppose it once was.”

“Damascus has beautiful bones,” Boris said.

The heavyset man considered this for a moment. “Yes, Damascus possesses great beauty, but it is also a place of great danger.”

“How is that?”

“Damascus is what Cherkesov was sent here to discuss with your friend Volkin.”

“Cherkesov is no longer welcome in Russia,” Boris said, “but Ivan?”

“Your friend Volkin has a number of, shall we say, business interests in Damascus.”

Boris was surprised; Ivan had let it be known that, apart from consulting, he was retired. “What kind of business interests?”

“Nothing that would keep him in good standing with the grupperovkabosses with whom he has done business for decades.”

“I don’t understand.” The moment the words were out of his mouth, Boris knew that he had made a fatal error. A key aspect of his host’s face changed radically; all its intimacy and friendliness disappeared like a puff of smoke.

“That is a pity,” the heavyset man said. “I was hoping that you could shed some light on why Damascus has become the focus of both Volkin and Cherkesov.” He snapped his fingers and the two men on either side produced Taurus PT145 Millenniums, small pistols with a big .45 punch.

Boris jumped up, but two more men, armed with Belgian FN P90 small-profile submachine guns, appeared in the doorway.

Behind them came Zachek with a death’s-head grin. “I’m afraid, General Karpov,” Zachek said, “that your usefulness is at an end.”

Bourne had just inserted the crowbar into the gap between the top and side of one of the crates when the rear door opened. He snapped off the flashlight an instant before the two Russians emerged. Before one of them could reach for the light switch, he tossed the flashlight across the warehouse. When it struck the floor, the Russians started, reached for their weapons, and ran toward the sound.

He was closer to the gunman, the driver having taken the lead. Swinging the crowbar, he slammed the end into the gunman’s hand, and his pistol dropped to the floor. The gunman howled, the driver pulled up short and turned on his heel just as Bourne flung the crowbar. It hit the driver square in the face, knocking him backward so hard his head slammed into the concrete, cracking his skull, killing him instantly.

The gunman, his fractured right hand hanging at his side, pulled out a stun baton with his left hand. It was a sixteen-incher that could deliver a nasty three-hundred-thousand-volt kick. The gunman swung it back and forth, keeping Bourne at bay while he advanced on him, pushing him back along the side of the van. His plan seemed to be to get Bourne into a corner where he would have no room to maneuver away from the baton. One touch of it and Bourne knew he would be writhing helplessly on the floor.

He retreated along the length of the van. The gunman had his eye on where he wanted Bourne to end up, so he was a beat slow in reacting as Bourne swung open one of the van’s rear doors, using it as a shield between him and the baton while he scrabbled in the toolbox.

The gunman was swinging around the end of the door when Bourne uncapped the aerosol can of enamel paint and sprayed it into the gunman’s eyes. The gunman reared back, hands to his face, gasping, and Bourne slammed the bottom of the can against the fractured bones. The gunman groaned, the pain bringing him to his knees. Bourne took the baton from him, but the gunman lunged forward, wrapping his arms around Bourne’s legs in an attempt to bring him down. His mouth opened to sink his teeth into Bourne’s thigh when Bourne connected with the side of his head. All the breath seemed to go out of him and he lay on his back, the fingers of his good hand trying to dig the paint out of his eyes.

Bourne grabbed his hand and pulled it away. “Who do you work for?”

“Go fuck your mother,” the man said in his guttural tone.

Bourne dialed down the charge on the baton and gave the gunman a shot in the side. His body arched up, the heels of his shoes drumming against the concrete.

“Who do you work for?”

Silence. Bourne raised the charge slightly and applied it again.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” The gunman coughed heavily and began to choke. His mouth was full of blood; in his frenzy he had bitten his tongue almost clear through.

“I won’t ask you again.”

“You won’t have to.”

The gunman’s jaws ground together and, a moment later, his chest convulsed. A bluish foam mingled with the blood in his mouth, bubbling over to coat his lips. Leaning over, Bourne tried to pry open the jaws, but it was too late. A distinct odor of bitter almonds wafted up to him and he reared back. The gunman had bitten open a cyanide capsule.

23

PARIS AT NIGHT was not such a bad place for a single woman to be. She sat in a café, drinking bad coffee and thinking about taking up smoking. Soraya was surrounded by young bohemians, with which Paris was always teeming, no matter the era. The thing about Paris’s inhabitants she loved so much was that they were constantly reimagining themselves. While the city itself—its grand boulevards, its martial lines of horse chestnuts, its magnificent parks, its beautiful fountains around which were arrayed timeless cafés where one could sit for hours and watch the world go by—remained constant, its young people were busy remaking themselves.

The water of the Canal St. Martin was as black and shiny as vinyl. She was surrounded by lovers, bicyclists, laughing college kids, tattooed writers, and sloe-eyed poets, scowling into the night as they scribbled their random thoughts.

Each café was a nexus of its neighborhood, and though each had its own patrons, there was always room for the occasional guest. Waiters, long-haired and slim-hipped, came and went, dispensing plates of steak-fritesand carafes of pastis. It wasn’t only French she heard spoken at the adjacent tables, but German and English as well. The endless existential arguments remained the staple of the city’s café society.

Her head hurt so much that she rested it in her hands. Her eyes closed, but this only caused her to become dizzy. She opened her eyes with a start and a muttered curse. She had to keep herself awake until the danger from a concussion had passed. Flagging down a passing waiter, she ordered a double espresso, gulped it down while the waiter was still standing beside her, then asked for another. When this came, she dissolved three teaspoonfuls of sugar in it and sipped slowly. The dual jolts of caffeine and sugar elbowed away the exhaustion. For the moment, the pain in her head eased and her thoughts became clearer.

She wondered whether it had been a mistake to run away from Aaron. She had needed to get out of the hospital immediately—the place reminded her of too many colleagues’ deaths. He had been unwilling to help her and she had neither the strength nor the inclination to explain. Besides, she needed to be alone. She needed to think about Amun.

She was torn up inside. It was as if the dark thoughts she’d had about him had conspired to kill him. On the surface, she knew this was crazy, but right now she was feeling just a bit crazy, just a bit out of control. She had thought she’d loved Amun, then had come his anti-Semitic remarks, and her confidence in her own feelings had been shaken. Her love for him could not have been real if it had been destroyed by one nasty incident. But she couldn’t know that for certain, and now she would never know. She looked out at the canal, seeing Amun’s face, wanting him to speak to her. But the dead could not speak; they could not defend themselves or apologize. They could not proclaim their love.

Her eyes welled up and tears rolled down her cheeks. The world seemed empty and endless. Amun was dead and it was her fault. She had asked him to join her in Paris to help her investigation, and, out of love, he had come. There was a finality about what had happened, as well as an inevitability. She never should have allowed herself to become involved with him. She should have taken a page out of Jason’s book and kept herself at a healthy remove. But this wasn’t why she was crying.

I should have been punished, she thought. Not Amun.

Unable to bear her sanctuary a moment longer, she rose and, throwing several euros down on the table, walked off across the glistening cobbles into the secret heart of Paris. Three blocks later, holding on to a lamppost for dear life, she doubled over, vomiting up the contents of her stomach.

Before Bourne rose, he searched both the Russians, hoping to find a clue to the identity of the organization to which they belonged. Apart from keys to the van and the Vespa, twenty thousand euros, three packs of cigarettes, and a cheap lighter, there was nothing, no rings or jewelry of any kind. Opening up the driver’s mouth, he dug out his cyanide capsule and pocketed it. Then he stripped them, figuring he might be able to identify their affiliation from their tattoos, but they had none. He sat back on his haunches. Now he knew these men were not part of a grupperovkafamily, and yet they didn’t look like SVR agents, either. The mystery deepened.

Rising, he grabbed the crowbar and went through the rear door. Beyond was a short, evil-smelling corridor that led to a bathroom whose stench made his eyes water, and, at the end, a tiny office, furnished with a scarred metal desk, a swivel chair, and a steel filing cabinet. A single window looked out on a grimy air shaft.

The drawers in the cabinet and the desk were empty, not so much as a paper clip left behind. There was, however, a manila folder taped to the underside of the desk’s kneehole. Bourne opened it to find twelve shipping labels, matching the number of crates in the warehouse proper. They were all going to the same recipient: El-Gabal, Avenue Choukry Kouatly, Damascus, Syria.

Now he really wanted to know what was inside those crates. He was closing the folder when he heard the rumble of the front gate opening up and the burble of a car engine. Quickly he stowed the folder back in its hiding place. He heard voices raised, then shouts of alarm. Stepping to the window, he threw it open and climbed through.

There was no direct egress; he had to go up the shaft. Turning, he closed the window, which would give him a couple of minutes at least. The building was white stucco, affording no hand– or footholds. Grasping a drainpipe, he began his ascent.

Five, Rue Vernet was lit up like it was New Year’s Eve. At least half a dozen Quai d’Orsay vehicles were parked in front and the area was cordoned off, patrolled by policemen gripping submachine guns.

Jacques Robbinet found Aaron inside the Monition Club, directing a cadre of operatives as they combed through the labyrinth of offices. The club’s skeleton crew of nighttime personnel looked on, frozen in shock.

“What are you looking for?” Robbinet said.

“Anything. Everything,” Aaron said.

“And Soraya Moore?”

“She’s missing.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I left her room for a moment and when I got back…” He shrugged.

“So now you’re here instead of searching for her?”

“I combed the hospital. Then I sent two units out in a grid search.”

Robbinet stared at him. “But you didn’t see fit to go yourself.”

“Listen, sir, M. Marchand was in league with a group of Arab terrorists. This has become a matter of national security.”

“You’re telling me what’s a matter of national security?” Robbinet took Aaron by the elbow and led him away from the others. In a voice so low only Lipkin-Renais could hear, he said, “I asked you to take care of this woman, Aaron, and I expected you to do so. She’s an extremely important person.”

“I understand,” Aaron said. “But the incident in the basement precludes any—”

“Any orders I gave you?” Robbinet finished for him. “The Moore woman is co-director of an American intelligence agency. The American secretary of defense, a friend as well as an opposite number, asked me to do him a favor. Now she is injured and missing, and what are you doing? Standing around here watching your men stuff papers into boxes. Delegate, Aaron. There are any number of colleagues you could have tapped for this.”

“I wanted to oversee the confiscation of all the computers myself. It’s there we are most likely to find—”

“That was not your choice to make, Inspector. But since you’ve made it, keep at it.” Robbinet’s icy tone conveyed his fury. “This, at least, I know you’re competent at.” He began to walk away, then turned back for a moment. “Agents with limitations have limited careers.”

Using the drainpipe, Bourne hauled himself up the warehouse facade. Halfway up, the stucco gave way to horizontal timbers. They were so rough-hewn he was able to gain toeholds to help him ascend. He was nearing the roof when he heard a noise and froze. The scrape of a match left him certain someone was on the roof, and he continued upward slowly and silently. When he was just beneath the lip of the roof he could smell the cigarette smoke and make out the two voices conversing in low tones.

He rose a bit more, until he could take a quick look over the parapet. Two men, submachine guns slung over their shoulders, were talking languidly in Russian about girls and sex as they smoked. Neither was turned in his direction.

The drainpipe rang dully when Bourne kicked it. A moment later one of the Russians peered over the parapet. Bourne reached up and grabbed him, dragging him across the cement. The Russian tried to chop down on Bourne’s wrist, but was forced to shoot an arm out to keep himself from toppling over. He jerked a knife free and stabbed down toward the spot between Bourne’s shoulder and neck. Bourne gave one final jerk, which launched the Russian headlong over the parapet and down the air shaft.

Bourne shinnied the last foot up the drainpipe and, as the second Russian appeared, levered his legs and torso upward. His ankles scissored around the submachine gun, and yanked it away from the Russian.

For a moment, Bourne lay atop the parapet, balancing himself. The Russian struck at him furiously, knocking him back so that his head and shoulders hung off the roof. The Russian’s hands found Bourne’s throat, his fingers closing around Bourne’s windpipe.

Bourne brought his forearms up, inside the Russian’s arms, and slammed them outward, breaking his hold. Then he kicked the Russian in the face. As he stumbled back, Bourne swiveled off the parapet onto the tarred roof and came after him. He grabbed him by his shirt and slammed the back of his head against the roof. Then, taking advantage of the man’s dazed state, he reached into his mouth and dug out the cyanide capsule disguised as a tooth.

“Who are you?” he said. “Who do you work for?”

The Russian’s eyes cleared, and his jaw began to work.

Bourne held out the poisonous tooth. “Searching for this?”

The Russian went into a frenzy then, but Bourne was prepared for this and, once again, he slammed his head into the rooftop.

“There’s no escape,” Bourne said, “no easy death.”

The Russian looked up at him with eyes the color of dirt. “I know you. You fucked the Domna. We should be working together, not trying to kill each other.”

“Who do you work for?”

“I’ll take you to my boss. He’ll tell you.”

Bourne relieved the Russian of all his weapons, then allowed him to rise.

“You’re a hero to us,” the Russian said.

Bourne gestured with his head. “Let’s go.”

That was when the Russian broke away. Bourne sprinted after him across the roof. He caught him at the edge of the parapet, but instead of fighting to free himself the Russian grabbed Bourne and dragged both of them onto the lip of the parapet. As they teetered on the brink, Bourne realized the Russian’s purpose. He struck the man under the nose; his grip loosened, and Bourne tore himself away just before the Russian followed his colleague down into darkness.

The moment he received the news of M. Marchand’s death in an Arab-town basement, Benjamin El-Arian hastened to the bank building at La Défense. There he had made certain to lock out the Monition Club computers from the servers he had set up in Gibraltar. He had created this fail-safe mechanism for just such a time, not believing, however, that it would ever come. Now that it had, he was doubly grateful for his prudence.

Staring out into the blank night, he reviewed all the decisions he had made during the past six months. Had he made mistakes, and if so, how serious would they turn out to be?

With a disgusted sound, he turned away from the window and, sitting at the head of the conference table, fired up his iPad. What had caused Marchand to go see his terrorist contacts?

Using his twenty-digit password, he logged into the Domna servers and downloaded the phone records for the past three days from the Paris office. Using a software filter, he found all the calls Marchand made, then cross-referenced them against his database of phone numbers. All of them were to parties known to El-Arian, save one. Approximately an hour before the incident in Arab-town and—here he double-checked the timing—just minutes after the visit from the Quai d’Orsay inspector and his guests, Marchand had placed a call to a number that wasn’t in the Domna database.

For a moment, El-Arian sat back, staring at the number. Why had Marchand called it and not him, as he should have done? He snatched up a phone and called a contact in the Paris Préfecture de Police. El-Arian woke him up, but that was all right, he was being paid a generous amount to be on call. El-Arian gave him the number, and the contact said he’d call back as soon as he had an answer.

El-Arian rose and made himself some Caravan black tea at the sideboard. At this hour of the night he needed a good shot of caffeine to keep his mind clear. Marchand had made a fatal error; that wasn’t like him. Something must have occurred during the visit by the Quai d’Orsay to have severely rattled him. But to bring the Arabs into the picture was about the worst move he could have made. El-Arian sipped his tea. It was almost as if Marchand had decided to self-destruct and take the entire Paris Monition Club with him.

El-Arian sighed. The Domna’s Paris operation had moved in all but name. The Monition Club had outlived its usefulness, especially now that the cache of Solomon’s gold was lost. He consoled himself with the fact that the American operation was proceeding on schedule. He glanced at his watch. Skara had twenty hours to complete her part and then every loose end would be tied up. The economic destruction of the United States would be ensured.

The phone rang and El-Arian grabbed it. “Did you get the information?”

“Yes,” his contact said, “but it wasn’t easy. I had to get through three firewalls to find the owner of that number.”

When he told El-Arian the name, Benjamin dropped his teacup and saucer. He didn’t even notice the Caravan tea stains on the bottom of his trousers.

No, no, no, he thought. It can’t be.