Bourne 4 - The Bourne Legacy (65 page)

When Zina's lips parted slightly, he saw that her teeth were bloody. Her hand, which he held so tightly, squeezed his and he knew that she wanted him to go on. He was not only freeing her from her own agony but he was freeing himself from his own. And the most curious thing was that it worked. Though she couldn't speak, though she was slowly dying, still her brain functioned. She heard what he said, and by her expression, he knew that it meant something to her—he knew that she was transported and that she understood.

"Zina," he said, "in a way, we're kindred spirits. I see myself in you— alienated, abandoned, utterly alone. I know this won't make much sense to you, but my own guilt at my failure to protect my sister made me hate my father beyond reason. All I could see was his abandonment of us—of me." And then, in a moment of astonishing revelation, he realized that he was looking through a glass darkly, that the only way he recognized himself in her was that he had changed. She was, in fact, the way he used to be. It was far easier to plan revenge on his father than to face the full brunt of his own guilt. It was from this knowledge that his desire to help her sprang. He fervently wished that he could rescue her from death.

But he, of all people, understood with uncanny intimacy the coming of death. Its tread, once heard, could not be stopped, even by him. And when the time came, when he heard the tread and saw death's proximity in her eyes, he leaned over and, without being aware of it, smiled down at her reassuringly.

Picking up where Bourne, his father, had left off, he said, "Remember what to tell the Questioners, Zina. 'My God is Allah, my prophet Mohammad, my religion Islam, and my kibla the Holy Kaaba.'" There seemed so much that she wanted to tell him and could not.

"You are righteous, Zina. They will welcome you to glory." Her eyes nickered once and then, like a flame, the life that animated them was extinguished.

Jamie Hull was waiting for Bourne when he returned to the Oskjuhlid Hotel. It had taken Bourne some time to get back there. Twice he was on the verge of passing out and was obliged to turn off the road, sitting with his forehead pressed against the steering wheel, he was in terrible pain, weary beyond thought, still, his will to see Khan again goaded him on. He did not care about security; he didn't care about anything now but being with his son.

At the hotel, after Bourne had briefly recounted Stepan Spalko's role in the assault on the hotel, Hull insisted on taking him to a medic to see to his fresh wounds.

"Spalko's worldwide reputation is such that even after we recover the body and release the evidence, there will be those who will refuse to believe it," Hull responded. The emergency medic's rooms were filled with casualties lying on hastily erected cots. The more seriously wounded had been driven off by ambulance to the hospital. Then there were the dead, of whom no one yet wished to speak.

"We know your part in this, and I must say we're all grateful," Hull said, as he sat beside Bourne. "The president wants to speak with you, of course, but that will come later."

The medic arrived and started to stitch up Bourne's lacerated cheek. "This won't heal pretty," she said. "You might want to consult a plastic surgeon."

"It won't be my first scar," Bourne said. "So I see," she said dryly.

"One thing we found troubling was the presence of HAZMAT suits," Hull continued.

"We found no sign of a biological or chemical agent. Did you?" Bourne had to think fast. He'd left Khan alone with Zina and the bio-weapon. A sudden stab of fear struck him. "No. We were as surprised as you were. But, afterward, there was no one left alive to ask."

Hull nodded, and when the medic was finished, he helped Bourne up and out into the corridor. "I know you'd like nothing better than a hot shower and a change of clothes, but it's important that I debrief you immediately." He smiled reassuringly. "It's a matter of national security. My hands are tied. But at least we can do it in a civilized manner over a hot meal, okay?"

Without another word, he delivered a short, sharp kidney punch that dropped Bourne to his knees. As Bourne gasped for breath, Hull drew back his other hand. In it was a push-dagger, the stubby leaflike blade that emerged from between his second and third fingers dark with a substance that was doubtless poisonous.

As he was about to drive it into Bourne's neck, a shot sounded in the corridor. Bourne, released from Hull's grip, slumped against the wall. Turning his head, he took everything in: Hull lying dead on the maroon carpet, the poisoned push-dagger in his hand, and hurrying up on his slightly bandy legs, Boris Illyich Karpov, director of the FSB's Alpha Unit, a silenced pistol in his hand.

"I must admit," Karpov said in Russian, as he helped Bourne to his feet, "I always harbored a secret desire to kill a CIA agent."

"Christ, thanks," Bourne gasped in the same language.

"This was a pleasure, believe me." Karpov stared down at Hull. "The CIA sanction against you has been rescinded, not that it mattered to him. It seems that you still have enemies inside your own Agency."

Bourne took several deep breaths, in itself a terribly painful proposition. He waited for his mind to clear sufficiently. "Karpov, how do I know you?" The Russian let loose with a booming laugh.
"Gospadin
Bourne, I see the rumors about your memory are true." He put his arm around Bourne's waist, half supporting him. "Do you remember—? No, of course you don't. Well, the truth is, we've met several times. The last time, you saved my life, in fact." He laughed again at Bourne's bewildered expression. "It's a fine tale, my friend. A suitable story to tell over a bottle of vodka. Or maybe two, eh? After a night like this, who knows?"

"I'd be grateful for some vodka," Bourne acknowledged, "but there's someone I need to find first."

"Come," Karpov said, "I'll contact my men to clean up this garbage and we'll do together whatever needs to be done." He grinned hugely, dissolving the brutality of his features. "You stink like a week-old fish, you know that? But what the hell, I'm used to all sorts of foul odors!" He laughed again. "What a pleasure to see you again! One doesn't make friends easily, I've discovered, especially in our line of work. And so we must celebrate this event, this reunion, no?"

"Absolutely."

"And who must you need to find, my good friend Jason Bourne, that you cannot take a hot shower and a well-deserved rest first?"

"A young man named Khan. You've met him, I assume."

"Indeed," Karpov said as he led Bourne down another corridor. "A most remarkable young man. D'you know he never left the dying Chechen's side? And she, for her part, never let go of his hand until the end." He shook his head. "Most extraordinary." He pursed his ruby lips. "Not that she deserved his attention. What was she, a murderer, a destroyer? You only have to see what they were attempting here to understand what kind of a monster she was."

"And yet," Bourne said, "she needed to hold his hand."

"How he put up with it I'll never know."

"Perhaps he needed something from her, as well." Bourne gave him a look. "Still think she was a monster?"

"Oh, yes," Karpov said, "but then the Chechens have trained me to think that way."

"Nothing changes, does it?" Bourne said.

"Not until we wipe them out." Karpov gave him a sideways glance. "Listen, my idealistic friend, they have said about us what other terrorists have said about you Americans, 'God has declared war on you.' We have learned from bitter experience to take such pronouncements seriously."

As it happened, Karpov knew just where Khan was—in the main restaurant, which was, after a fashion, up and running again with a severely limited menu.

"Spalko's dead," Bourne said to cover the rush of feeling he felt when he saw Khan. Khan put down his hamburger and studied the stitches on Bourne's swollen cheek.

"Are you hurt?"

"More than I already am?" Bourne winced as he sat down. "It's only minor." Khan nodded but didn't take his eyes off Bourne.

Karpov, sitting down beside Bourne, called out to a passing waiter for a bottle of vodka. "Russian," he said sharply, "not that Polish swill. And bring with it large glasses. We're real men here, a Russian and heroes who are almost as good as Russians!" Then he returned his attention to his companions. "All right, what am I missing?" he said cannily.

"Nothing," Khan and Bourne said together.

"Is that so?" The Russian agent's caterpillar eyebrows lifted. "Well, then, there's nothing left but to drink.
In vino, veritas.
In wine, there is truth, so the ancient Romans believed. And who should disbelieve them? They were damn fine soldiers, the Romans, and they had great generals, but they would've been even better if they'd drunk vodka instead of wine!" He laughed raucously until the other two had no choice but to join in. The vodka came then, along with water glasses. Karpov waved the waiter away.

"One must open the first bottle oneself," he said. "It's tradition."

"Bullshit," Bourne said, turning to Khan. "It's a habit from the old days when Russian vodka was so poorly refined there was often fuel oil in it."

"Don't listen to him." Karpov pursed his lips, but there was a twinkle in his eye. He filled their glasses and very formally placed them in front of them. "To share a bottle of fine Russian vodka is the very definition of friendship, fuel oil notwithstanding. Because over that bottle of fine Russian vodka we talk of old times, of comrades and enemies who have passed."

He lifted up his glass and they followed suit.

"Na Sdarovye!"
he cried, taking an enormous swallow.

"Na Sdarovye!"
they echoed, following suit.

Bourne's eyes watered. The vodka burned all the way down, but in a moment a warmth suffused his stomach, reaching out its fingers to assuage the constant pain he'd been in. Karpov hunkered down, his face slightly flushed from both the fiery liquor and the simple pleasure of being with friends. "Now we'll get drunk and tell all our secrets. We'll learn what it means to be friends."

He took another huge swallow and said, "I'll begin. Here's my first secret. I know who you are, Khan. Though there's never been a photo taken of you, I know you." He put his finger beside his nose. "I haven't been in the field for twenty years without honing my sixth sense. And knowing this, I steered you away from Hull, who, had he suspected, would surely have arrested you, hero status or no."

Khan shifted slightly. "Why would you do that?"

"Oho, now you would kill me? Here at this amiable table? You think that I kept you isolated for myself? Did I not say that we were friends!" He shook his head. "You've much to learn about friendship, my young friend." He leaned forward. "I kept you safe because of Jason Bourne, who always works alone. You were with him, therefore I knew you were important to him."

He took another slug of vodka and pointed at Bourne. "Your turn, my friend." Bourne stared down into his vodka. He was acutely aware of Khan's scrutiny. He knew what secret he wanted to divulge, but he was afraid that if he did, Khan would get up and walk away. But a truth was what he needed to tell them. He looked up finally.

"In the end, when I was with Spalko, I almost faltered. Spalko came close to killing me, but the truth is ... the truth is ..."

"It will be better for you to say it, yes," Karpov urged. Bourne took the vodka into his mouth, swallowed the liquid courage down and turned to his son. "I thought of you. I thought if I failed now, if I allowed Spalko to kill me, I wouldn't come back. I couldn't abandon you; I couldn't allow that to happen."

"Good!" Karpov banged his glass on the table. He pointed at Khan. "Now you, my young friend."

In the ensuing silence Bourne felt as if his heart was in danger of stopping. Blood pounded in his head and all the pain of his many wounds, so briefly anesthetized, came flooding back.

"Well," Karpov said, "has the cat got your tongue? Your friends have given themselves up to you, and now they're waiting."

Khan looked straight at the Russian and said, "Boris Illyich Karpov, I'd like to formally introduce myself. My name is Joshua. I'm Jason Bourne's son."

Many hours and liters of vodka later, Bourne and Khan stood together in the subbasement of the Oskjuhlid Hotel. It was musty down there and cold, but all they could smell were vodka fumes. There were bloodstains everywhere.

"I suppose you're wondering what happened to the NX 20," Khan said. Bourne nodded. "Hull was suspicious of the HAZMAT suits. He said they didn't find any evidence of biological or chemical weapons."

"I hid it," Khan said. "I was waiting for you to come back so that we could destroy it together."

Bourne hesitated for a moment. "You had faith I'd come back." Khan turned and looked at his father. "It seems that I've newly acquired my faith."

"Or had it restored."

"Don't tell me—"

"I know, I know, I have no business telling you what you think." Bourne ducked his head. "Some acquisitions take more time than others."

Khan moved to where he'd hidden the NX 20, inside a crumbly niche behind a broken block of concrete obscured from view by one of the huge pipes in the thermal power station. "I had to leave Zina for a moment to do it," he said, "but it couldn't be helped." He held it with understandable respect as he handed it over to Bourne. He went and took a small metal box out of the niche. "The vial with the payload is in here."

"We need a fire," Bourne said, thinking of the legend he'd read on Dr. Side's computer.

"Heat will render the payload inert."

The vast hotel kitchen was spotless. Its gleaming stainless-steel surfaces seemed even colder with the absence of personnel. Bourne had moved the skeleton staff out for the time being while he and Khan went over to the huge floor-to-ceiling ovens. They were gas-powered, and Bourne turned them up to the highest level. At once fierce flames shot through the firebrick-lined interior. In less than a minute, it was too hot even to get close to.

They donned HAZMAT suits, broke down the weapon and each one threw one half into the flames. The vial went next.