Текст книги "The Bourne Dominion (Господство Борна)"

Автор книги: Eric Van Lustbader

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Текущая страница: 24 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

30

IN THE LONG Damascene twilight, Bourne walked down Straight Street, the main artery of Bab Touma, the oldest section of the Medina. Not knowing where it might be safe, he dug out the slip of paper Rebeka had given him and called her. He heard the pleasure in her voice when he identified himself.

“I live in an alley off Haret Al-Azzarieh,” Rebeka said. “It’s very near the old Jewish synagogue, right around the corner, in fact. I’ll come down to meet you, otherwise, finding me the first time is pretty much impossible.”

Bourne liked that, and told her so. He saw her at the head of Haret Al-Azzarieh, leaning against a crumbling brick wall that might have been a thousand years old. She was dressed in woven leather sandals, a long flowing cotton dress, and a brightly colored long-sleeved shirt in the Syrian style. She seemed perfectly at ease.

“Are you hungry?” she asked, just as if they were old friends. “I know a small place with excellent food not far from here.”

Bourne nodded, and they wended their way down crumbling alleys and narrow streets. Every city in the Middle East had a pervasive smell. In Tunis it was jasmine, in Fez, cumin; here in Damascus it was coffee mingled with cardmom.

“What happened to your hotel reservation?”

“The room was unacceptable.”

“There’s no shortage of hotels in Damascus.”

“But none as impossible to locate as your apartment.”

She smiled as if she knew he wasn’t telling the truth. Perhaps she believed that he was simply taken with her; if so, he had no intention of setting her straight. On the other hand he was curious about her. She did not strike him as a typical flight attendant: slightly bored, reserved, interested in her passengers for only as long as they were on her plane.

Walking along the streets of the Medina was like opening a pack of Advent cards. In each window, within each doorway, were a staggering array of artisans working in glass, silk, pottery, and upholstery. There were bakers and halal butchers, flower arrangers and tailors, basket weavers and dyers. On the street itself were vendors selling everything from steaming cups of thick Turkish coffee to cardamom ice cream dipped in almonds. Then there were the flamboyant water sellers, dressed in the ornate Ottoman style of the Umayyad Caliphate. The Umayyad caliphs had made Syria their home, even while their fierce armies were expanding their empire east to Baghdad and north across the Mediterranean into Spanish Andalusia.

When Bourne remarked on the number of Iraqi accents he was hearing, Rebeka said, “For some years the Medina was declining in population. Iraqis—Sunni and Christian alike—fleeing the long war changed all that. Now the Old City is packed.”

The restaurant she took him to was tucked into an outdoor patio, jam-packed, and full of flavorsome odors. Vines climbed the walls and filigreed iron and brass lamps threw moonbeams of light across the tables and checkered tile floor. Niches in the black and ocher walls contained brightly colored mosaics of Ottoman sultans and Umayyad warriors.

The rotund chef bustled out from the kitchen. “ Marhaba,” he said.

“ Marhabtayn,” Rebeka replied.

He shook Bourne’s hand and said something Bourne couldn’t hear over the hubbub.

After they were seated, she said, “No menus. Baltasar will make us special dishes, probably farooj, because he knows it’s my favorite. Do you know what this is?”

“Chicken with chilies and onions,” Bourne said.

A plate of stuffed grape leaves was delivered to their table. Rebeka ordered mate, an Argentinian drink that had recently become beloved by many Syrians.

“So,” Bourne said as they ate, “why do you live in Bab Touma?”

Rebeka licked olive oil off the fingertips of her right hand. “The history of the Jews is here. Of course there’s history everywhere in the Medina, but the history of the Jews is the most evocative—stalwart, sorrowful, brave.”

“You must be sorry they’re mostly gone.”

“I am, yes.”

The mateappeared, a waiter pouring the beverage for them both. Bourne ignored it, waiting for it to cool, but Rebeka drank it hot through a silver straw.

“It’s sad to see all the ruins,” Bourne said, “the abandoned buildings, padlocked and dark. The synagogue most of all.”

“Oh, the synagogue, at least, is no longer empty. It’s been renovated recently.”

“And worship has begun again?”

“There’s an Arab living there now, not full-time, but still…” She shook her head. “Incredible, isn’t it?”

“That’s sometimes the end of things,” Bourne said. “Sad and ironic.”

She refilled her cup and shook her head again. “It shouldn’t be that way. It mustn’t.”

The empty plate was whisked away, replaced by another piled with falafel.

“Tell me about the synagogue. Who lives there now?”

Rebeka frowned. “No one knows, really. At least, no one’s saying. But then this city thrives on secrets.”

“You live near enough. You must have seen the Arab coming and going.”

She smiled, tilting her head so her eyes caught the light. “Why are you so interested in the synagogue?”

“I have business with the Arab who lives there.”

She put down her cup. “You know his name?”

“I do.”

“What is it?”

He popped a falafelball into his mouth. “Why are you so interested in him?”

Her laugh was like velvet. “You and I have a mutual interest.”

“So it would seem.” Bourne swallowed some mate. “His name is Semid Abdul-Qahhar.”

“Really? He’s rather famous, isn’t he?”

“In certain circles, yes, he is.”

They looked at each other, and Bourne saw knowledge in her eyes that she had not spoken of. The faroojcame, steaming and looking luscious. The babble of voices around them seemed to have built into a crescendo, forcing them to lean across the table to hear each other.

“Semid Abdul-Qahhar is a terrorist,” Rebeka said, “though he pretends to be otherwise.”

“How do you know that?”

“I’m Jewish,” Rebeka said.

Now her interest in the Arab who had defiled the synagogue was clear.

He won’t find anything of interest in my locker,” Boris said.

“Zachek will decide that.”

“I’m somewhat surprised to see you out of your Moscow Central bunker,” Boris said.

“Some matters are worth pursuing yourself,” Beria replied. “Otherwise, where is the satisfaction?”

“You’re wise not to trust Zachek.”

“You found that out the hard way.” Beria folded his arms across his chest. “You know, General, your problem is you’re too trusting. For the life of me I cannot fathom how you have persisted so long.”

“Flourished,” Boris said. “Use the correct term.”

Beria frowned. “You certainly evince no fear. We’ll soon fix that up.” He smiled cheerfully. “Really, General, no one believes that you would allow Cherkesov to die without him spilling his guts.”

Boris stared up at Beria. Then he crooked his forefinger, signaling for the SVR director to come closer. Beria glanced around as if he suspected a trap, then he leaned over, putting his head close to Boris’s. He smelled of expensive cologne.

“Stalin wore cologne, too, Beria. Did you know that?” Boris clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Men who wear cologne…” He shrugged to the extent he was allowed by the masseur’s weight on his back. “What can I say?”

Beria produced a pained smile. “Zachek will be back in a moment and then everything will change for you. If he finds nothing—”

“Trust me, he won’t.”

“If he finds nothing,” Beria repeated with added emphasis on each word, “then we evacuate you to our safe house. I have men there, experts in their field.”

“I probably know them either by name or by reputation,” Boris said.

Beria looked at him quizzically. “I don’t understand you, General.”

“Few do.” Boris unfurled his left hand and watched as Beria stared at the key.

Beria plucked the key up. “Is this it?”

“It is what Cherkesov was supposed to deliver to Semid Abdul-Qahhar.”

Beria’s head snapped up, his black, feral eyes boring into Boris’s. “That terrorist is here?”

“According to Cherkesov,” Boris said. “His residence is in the old synagogue in Bab Touma. Assuming I’ve been in this hammam for about an hour, the meet is set for two hours from now.”

A flicker of suspicion momentarily crowded out Beria’s expression of triumph. “Why are you telling me this, General?”

“I know when I’ve been outmaneuvered. And I have no wish to be evacuated to a safe house filled with sharp claws and teeth.”

Beria sighed just as Zachek returned and threw the locker key on the floor, shaking his head. “My dear General, I do thank you for being so forthcoming,” Beria said, “but I’m afraid I can’t leave you here. You are a loose end, and I won’t have that.”

He raised his eyes to look at the masseur, and nodded. At once the masseur trapped Boris in a fierce grip. Beria turned, no longer concerned with Boris. He held up the key and Zachek nodded. As the two walked out, Zachek shot Boris one last look that could have meant anything. Boris paid him no mind; his attention was focused fully on what he had to do now.

The masseur was leaning over the table, his left forearm pressed down across the back of Boris’s neck, his right knee on the small of Boris’s back. Boris’s right hand found the wooden peg under the table and pulled it with the same fierce determination he’d once used when pulling the firing pin on a hand grenade.

Without the peg’s support, the front of the table collapsed. The masseur lost his balance, and, with it, the pressure he exerted on Boris’s torso. Boris slid down the table, curled his legs, and twisted out from under the masseur’s sprawled body. As the masseur struggled to rise, Boris punched him in the side of the face. When this had little effect, he drove his knee into the same spot. The masseur collapsed as if poleaxed.

Boris scooped up his locker key and found his way back to where his clothes still hung, careful not to run into Beria and his little prick of a lapdog. If he never saw another SVR agent in his life, he’d die a happy Russian. But he knew that was too much to hope for.

My head hurts.” There was a ringing in Soraya’s right ear that had nothing to do with the bandage covering half her head.

Aaron’s face swam into view. “I know.”

“I mean it reallyhurts.”

“Be happy you’re not dead. After that little stunt—”

“El-Arian?”

He responded to the anxiety in her voice. “Shot dead.”

“You’re sure?”

“Three shots to the chest and one to the head.” He smiled thinly. “Yes, I’m sure.”

Soraya relaxed visibly and licked her lips. “I’m thirsty.”

Aaron took a plastic cup off a tray, poked a straw into the water he poured in it. He did something to the bed so that Soraya’s head, shoulders, and torso lifted off horizontal without her having to take her head off the pillow.

She began to suck the water up.

“In the hospital again, I’m afraid.” Aaron’s smile turned tentative. “Not too much, we don’t want it coming right back up.” He placed the cup on the tray. When he turned back, his eyes engaged hers. “You almost got yourself killed.”

“Almost doesn’t count.” When he failed to laugh, she said, “You’re welcome.”

“I owe you, Soraya.”

She looked away. “You don’t owe me anything.”

He sighed, hooked his shoe through the rung of a chair, and brought it over so he could sit down beside her. “Why did you run away?”

“I hate hospitals.”

He looked relieved. “I thought you hated me.”

“Men,” she said.

He looked down at his hands. “I’m sorry about Chalthoum.”

Tears began to leak from Soraya’s eyes and Aaron jumped up and used a tissue to blot the corners. Soraya jumped as if burned.

“Get away from me!”

He backed away, his face pale and drawn. Then he turned and stepped to the door. She waited until he pulled down the handle before saying, “Come back.”

He hesitated, then turned. She could see in his eyes that he didn’t know what to do. Something black burned inside her, reveling in her mastery over him. Then, as quickly as the spark flamed up, it died, leaving her empty and shaking.

“Which is it, Soraya?”

“Aaron. Please.”

He approached her with a cautious step and sat gingerly on the edge of the chair, as if ready at any moment to flee. She looked at him. All the fight had left her. She felt as if she had gone through a terrible trial by fire, had seen loves, wants, and needs reduced to ash, leaving her naked, but no longer vulnerable. She sensed her strength returning, but it was a different form of strength, one that would require time to explore.

Her eyes fluttered closed for a moment.

“Soraya?”

She heard the anxiety in his voice and looked at him. “How am I?”

“Better than you have any right to be.” He seemed relieved to be talking about a topic that was quantifiable. “When we brought you in here the doctors were very grave. Frankly, I don’t think they gave you much of a chance. But the wound looked worse than it was. The bullet from El-Arian’s weapon grazed your skull high enough so your vision wasn’t impaired. And we’ve been assured that your hearing will return to normal in time.”

“Nothing paralyzed.”

“No, but the concussion you were walking around with will need time to heal, or surely something neurologically bad will happen. No running.”

“Or falling off staircases.”

He smiled. “Best to get out of that habit.”

“I promise.” Her fingers picked at the sheet as if she couldn’t wait to get it off her. “I suppose, then, you’ll have to take me to safer places.”

His expression sobered. “Soraya, I promise to get you out of here as soon as I can. No more than a day or so while they finish tests, and then I’ll use Robbinet’s influence, assuming he’s still talking to me.”

“What happened between you two?”

“I lost you. He was ready to end my career if we didn’t find you alive and well.”

“I’ll talk to him.”

“Finally! I have a champion!”

He laughed and she joined in, even though it pained her a bit. She didn’t mind. The pain reminded her that she was alive, and that felt so very fine.

“But you have to be good,” Aaron said. “You still need plenty of bed rest.”

“Don’t worry, I now have a healthy respect for concussions.” She grinned. “Lucky I have that hotel room, huh?”

He nodded. “But now you have to rest.”

“In a minute. Please give me my cell phone.”

He gave her a stern look but did as she asked, rummaging in the shallow closet. When he brought it to her, she turned it on and saw she had four messages from Hendricks, but none from Peter. She looked up at Aaron. “Okay, now scram.”

His brow furrowed. “What does this mean?”

“Leave me alone.”

He nodded. “I’ll be right outside.”

“Don’t you have anywhere else to be?”

“I do.” He crossed to the door and opened it. He grinned. “But I’m learning to delegate.”

In all the noise of the restaurant Bourne almost didn’t hear his cell phone. He was in the middle of finessing more information out of Rebeka on the building plan of the synagogue, and for a moment considered ignoring the call. Then he saw it was from Soraya and answered. But he couldn’t hear a word she said, so, excusing himself, he went outside onto the street, walking several hundred feet away down a narrow alley, pressing himself against a crumbling building chained with a padlock.

“Where are you?” Her voice sounded tight and strained.

“Damascus.” Bourne kept his eyes on the passing crowds. Between Boris and Corellos, he needed to be wary of death squads and lone assassins. “Are you all right?”

“Yes. Fine. I’m in Paris. I tried to call Peter but he isn’t answering his cell, which is very odd. No one has seen or heard from him.”

“Contact Tyrone. If he hasn’t heard something, then he’ll find a way.”

“Good idea.” She told him everything she had learned about the Monition Club, the Arab terrorist connection, and the fiduciary trail that led back to the Nymphenburg Landesbank of Munich. She did not mention Amun; she did not want to speak his name, let alone hear any expression of sympathy, however sincere. She concluded with Benjamin El-Arian’s death, but omitted her injuries.

Bourne’s mind was processing the information as fast as it was received. “What interests me is that the Domna’s finances are handled through a Munich bank and Semid Abdul-Qahhar, the head of the Mosque in Munich, is also here in the same city where Severus Domna has its headquarters and staging area.”

“Staging area for what?”

“Not sure, but I think it’s an imminent attack on US soil.”

“Target?”

“I don’t—” Bourne broke off the conversation. He had seen someone, a flash of a face among the bobbing heads. Slamming his phone shut, he took off after the figure. As he drew closer, he was able to identify the familiar gait. Even without a clear look at the man’s face, he knew it was Boris.

Bourne shouldered his way through the crowds as people squeezed together along the narrow streets. After several minutes he had a sense that Boris was headed toward the synagogue. What was he up to? Surely if he had followed Bourne here, he had lost the scent. But Boris did not give the impression of someone who was lost. On the contrary, his concentration was fierce; he was a man on a mission.

The entrance to the synagogue was down a narrow, unprepossessing alley, which gave out on a cobbled courtyard with an olive tree planted in its center. When he reached a spot where he could keep an eye on the alley, Boris melted back into shadow. He crossed his arms in front of him like an Egyptian mummy and stood absolutely still, waiting.

Bourne waited. Nothing happened. No one entered or left the alley leading to the synagogue. The sliver of sky visible was a carnival set, the night tinged a gaudy, electric blue from the lights atop the minarets.

Bourne took out his cell and dialed Boris’s number. In the shadows, Boris started and grabbed for his phone. As he did so, Bourne stepped into the shadows beside him.

“Hello, Boris,” he said. “I understand you’ve been sent to kill me.”

31

“JASON, WHAT IN hell are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same question, Boris.” Bourne studied his friend in the darkness. “The question is whether either of us will tell the truth.”

“When have we ever lied to each other?”

“Who can say, Boris? You know far more about our relationship than I do. Right now, as far as I can see, nothing is what it seems.”

“I couldn’t agree more. I’ve been shafted by so many people these last couple of days my head is spinning.”

“Friendship is a matter of trust.”

“Once again, I couldn’t agree more, but if you have to think about it, trust doesn’t exist.”

A bitterness in Boris’s voice disturbed Bourne. “What’s at the heart of this issue, Boris?”

“I just came from Munich. One of my oldest friends tried to have me killed there. As a matter of fact, you know him. Ivan Volkin never retired. He’s been working for Severus Domna for years.”

“My condolences.”

“You don’t seem surprised.”

“The only surprise was that you two were friends.”

“Well, we aren’t.” Boris turned his head away, peering down the street. “It seems we never were.”

Bourne let a moment pass, in honor of Boris’s sorrow. “Are you here to say your special form of hello to me,” he said finally, “or to Semid Abdul-Qahhar?”

“No secrets from you, are there? Why am I not surprised.” Boris laughed humorlessly. “Let me tell you something, my friend, several hours ago the man who forced me to make a decision between killing you and keeping my career was on the other end of my special form of hello.”

“So you have removed the need to kill me.”

“There was never any need, Jason. If I did what Viktor Cherkesov ordered me to do, there wouldn’t be enough of me left to have a career.” He grunted. “And by the way, how do you know that that prime dick Semid Abdul-Qahhar lives here?”

“How do you?”

The two men laughed together.

Boris slapped Bourne on the back. “Dammit, Jason, it’s good to see you! We must have a toast to our reunion, but first I’m expecting Konstantin Beria, the head of SVR, and his little prick, Zachek, to show up here.”

“How is that?”

Boris told him about the key that Cherkesov was tasked by the Domna to bring to Semid Abdul-Qahhar.

“You let Beria have it?” Bourne said.

Boris laughed. “For all the good it will do him. It’s not a real key, it doesn’t open anything. It’s modeled after the keys in a Flash video game.” Seeing the look on Bourne’s face, he added, “Hard to believe, but someone inside the Domna has a sense of humor.”

“What’s hard to believe is that you know anything about video games.”

“I need to keep up with the times, Jason, otherwise I’ll get run over by the young technocrats coming to power. They use video games to keep their skills sharp and the smell of blood in their nostrils.”

“You and I use the field.”

“They’re useless in the field, the young ones. They’re always looking for shortcuts.”

“For keys to unlock the next level.”

“That’s right. They don’t think for themselves.”

A cooling wind snaked down the street, bringing with it the scent of spices. The muezzins started up, the amplified calls to prayer drowning out all other noise. The street drained of people.

“The key was a test,” Bourne said.

Boris nodded. “To see if Cherkesov was trustworthy and obedient.”

“He failed.”

“Miserably. But Semid Abdul-Qahhar doesn’t know that yet. And Beria doesn’t know I’m waiting for him.” Boris put an arm across Bourne’s chest. “Hold on. They’re coming.”

Bourne saw two men approaching. They wore long coats that reached down to the tops of their shoes, a clear indication that they were carrying long-barreled weapons. The older man was short and feral looking, the other younger and taller, with a face that looked like it had been put through a meat grinder. Bourne smiled as he thought of Boris’s fists making vicious contact with the technocrat.

“I want these cocksuckers,” Boris said. “They tried to kill me.”

“It looks like they’re carrying some heavy weapons,” Bourne said.

“So I see.”

Bourne was preparing himself when, from the corner of his eye, he saw a figure in a black robe and hijabcome stealthily down the street from the other end. It was Rebeka.

The security for Indigo Ridge once more set, Hendricks did precisely what Skara had asked him not to do: He went looking for her. First, he tried her cell phone, but got a Chinese man who told him to go to hell in Mandarin. Next, he had a private conversation with Jonathan Brey, the head of the FBI. He and Brey went back a long time; they exchanged favors regularly.

“Anything you want, Chris,” Brey said, “it’s yours.”

“I’m looking for someone who’s dropped out of sight,” Hendricks said, consumed with shame, humiliation, and the singular anguish of a jilted lover. “She may have already left the country.” He paused. “She entered as Margaret Penrod, which was an alias, but I have no doubt she’s now under another assumed name.”

“Any idea what that might be?”

Again, those terrible emotions washed over Hendricks. “I do not.”

“Photo?”

“I’ll have one sent over.” The government vetting process must have one, Hendricks thought, otherwise I’ll look even more like an idiot.“Right now, though, I need two of your best investigators.”

“Done,” Brey said.

Hendricks met the agents at Skara’s apartment. When the doorbell went unanswered, the agents broke in, sidearms drawn, even though Hendricks told them that wasn’t necessary. Procedure, they said in almost robotic unison. Once they had secured the premises, they retired to the doorway, as Hendricks ordered, lurking like a pair of leashed guard dogs.

Hendricks took a tour around the small one-bedroom apartment. The living room was depressingly bare, exuding the stale air of abandonment. There was nothing to tell him that she had been there. Ditto, the tiny bathroom; only lint lay like sand on the narrow shelves of the medicine cabinet. The toilet tank held only water, the bathtub had been washed clean of sediment and hairs.

He stepped into the bedroom and immediately smelled her. He went through the drawers of the dresser, which were all empty. Pulling them out, he turned them over, looking for something taped to their undersides. The closet was occupied by an assortment of hangers, nothing more. The bedside table had one drawer in which he found two paper clips, a card for her fake business, and the nub of a pencil.

With a heavy sigh, he sat down on the bad, feeling it give just the way her body gave under his weight. Wrists on knees, he bent over and stared at the floor. He missed her, there was no denying it. A hole gaped open inside him. He thought he had made sure he’d never feel that way again. His eyes swam out of focus, his thoughts swirled like water down a drain. At that moment his cell phone burred.

“Hendricks.”

“Mr. Secretary, this is CI agent Tyrone Elkins.”

The words slowly penetrated Hendricks’s muzzy mind. “How did you get my number, son?”

“I have a message from Peter Marks.”

Hendricks’s brow furrowed and tension came into his shoulders and arms. “Where is Peter?”

“He’s safe, sir. He’s been under attack. He needs to talk with you.”

“Well, put him on.” There was a pause. “Peter?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you all right?”

“I am, sir.”

“What the hell has happened to you?”

Peter recounted the near miss with the car bomb and his escape from the ambulance with its impostor crew. “It was sheer luck that Tyrone was behind me,” Peter concluded.

“Where the hell are you? I’ll send people to—”

“All due respect, sir, after the breaches in security you warned me of and the breach at the Treadstone building, I’d rather no one know where I am for the moment. Soraya found me through Bourne.”

“Bourne?”

“Both Soraya and Bourne know Tyrone, sir. That’s all it’s safe to say at the moment.”

“And Soraya?”

“Still in Paris. She found out who ordered the murder of her contact. Benjamin El-Arian. He’s dead.” He continued on, telling his boss about the intel he had found that had triggered the attacks on him. “You’ve got to send a team to bring Roy FitzWilliams back to DC for questioning ASAP. FitzWilliams consulted for this Syrian mining company, El-Gabal, and failed to report it when he was vetted.”

Another failure of the vetting process, Hendricks thought. It was a wonder this government was still standing.

Peter said: “We’re looking at an imminent threat on US soil.”

“ Remember me when you are protecting Indigo Ridge,” Skara had said.

“Indigo Ridge,” Hendricks breathed.

“My thought exactly.”

“Good work, Peter.”

“Sir, I’m sorry I gave you a hard time. You were right about assigning me Indigo Ridge in this roundabout way.”

“I’m just happy my decision didn’t lead to your death.”

“Your job is no bed of roses,” Peter said. “But you do it well.”

“Thanks.” Hendricks thought a moment. “To maintain security until we have this situation nailed down, have Tyrone phone me every day at noon. I’ll let you know as soon as FitzWilliams is in custody. You deserve to be in on the interrogation.”

He closed the connection and called his Indigo Ridge field operations director, who was already getting flak from Danziger.

“Forget about him,” Hendricks said. “I want you to take a detachment and take Roy FitzWilliams into custody.”

“Sir?”

“You heard me. Assign your best man to fly him back to DC ASAP. I’ll have an air force plane waiting for you. I want him delivered directly to me, is that clear?”

“As crystal, sir. Consider it done.”

Hendricks called an air force general of his acquaintance and got him to authorize a jet to stand by. As he put his phone away, his gaze fell on Skara’s card, lying in the drawer of the bedside table.

“ Your job is no bed of roses,” Peter had said.

Into his mind swam an image of Skara as he had seen her the day they met, kneeling in his tiny strip of a garden, tending his roses.

He snatched up the card. There was a rose planted squarely in its center. With his heart pounding, he jumped up and ran out of the apartment, leaving the bewildered FBI agents in his wake.

Rebeka no longer looked like a flight attendant; there was a certain intensity about her, sharply alert and purposeful. Her eyes were eager, her cheeks flushed, as if she were about to hurl herself at Fate head-on. She had transformed herself into an avenging angel. She had changed clothes since he’d left her in the restaurant, confirming what he had suspected: She had her own agenda concerning the occupants of the synagogue. All she’d been lacking was the trigger, which he himself had provided when he had given her the identity of the Arab who was desecrating the Jewish house of worship alongside which she had chosen to live. He now suspected that she was Mossad, but in the end it didn’t matter. She was out to infiltrate the synagogue and assassinate Semid Abdul-Qahhar. The trouble was she was walking blind into a lethal crossfire between Semid Abdul-Qahhar’s men and the SVR. He had to stop her.

He was preparing himself to block her way when she veered off. She wasn’t headed for the alley that led to the synagogue after all. But because of their interrupted discussion over dinner concerning the synagogue’s architectural plan, he knew where she was going.

Grabbing Boris, he headed down the street after her.

Boris pulled back. “Are you crazy? You’re going to screw up everything.”

Bourne turned back to him. “It’s a matter of trust, Boris.”

Hesitating only a moment, Boris nodded, then followed Bourne as he headed left, down an alley that ran more or less parallel to the one leading to the synagogue.

Up ahead, Bourne saw Rebeka vanish to the left. He picked up his pace, Boris right behind him. When he reached the spot where Rebeka had disappeared, he saw a passageway no wider than shoulder-width. He plunged in, summoning up the plan of the ancient synagogue as Rebeka had described it to him.

Abruptly he came to the end of the passageway. A blank wall faced him.

“What the hell is this, Jason?” Boris whispered.

“We’re following a Mossad agent who knows another way into the synagogue.”

“How? Did she melt through solid stone?”

They were engulfed in darkness. Bourne reviewed everything he had learned about the synagogue from Rebeka. He knew where it was in relation to the passageway, so he turned to the left and felt along the stone wall, searching for a lever or handle. Nothing. Then he stepped back a pace, almost bumping into Boris, and his right foot scraped against a metal grate.

Both men backed up enough for Bourne to kneel down and feel around with his fingers. The grate was square, large enough for a human being to fit through. Curling his fingers through the holes, he pulled upward. The grate gave easily and he stood it on end against one wall. Then he slipped his legs into the hole. His shoes struck something.