Robert Ludlum's (TM) The Bourne Ascendancy (10 page)

“And you were the logical choice?”

Hunter smiled archly. “I’ve made a few mistakes in my life—youthful indiscretions, you might say—while I was a marine pilot.”

“He’s blackmailing you?”

Hunter barked a laugh. “Blackmail is one of Howard’s least egregious sins, believe me.”

They had come to the edge of a dense stand of trees. Neither horse seemed inclined to enter the thick-limbed interior, where night still dwelt and shadows flung themselves in an eerie dance. The women did not feel compelled to press on either. By unspoken mutual consent, they headed back to the racing oval.

Camilla, bent over Starfall, dug her heels into his flanks, experienced a fleeting moment of joy at the immense power of him as they galloped home.

B
ourne called Zizzy.
“Meet me at the Bab Sharqi entrance to the Medhat Pasha Souq.”

He was tired and hungry beyond imagining; he could not remember when he had last eaten a proper meal. He longed to see Sara, but his mind, for once playing cruel tricks on him, was atremble with the crush of asphyxiation, the images of Soraya’s vacant stare, the child’s tears, Alain’s head, made grotesque by the bullet’s devastating impact.

The roiling clouds, their underbellies livid with the reflection of rocket bursts, swirled above emptied-out streets quivering with the concussions. Small-arms fire had started up again, a firefight somewhere in an adjacent neighborhood.

Bourne picked his way through the rubble-strewn streets and avenues, lanes and back alleys, some still smoldering, others picked clean by both man and dog, toward the great souq. He could see its lights rising, a benevolent glow amid the flaring iron-blue malevolence shredding the city.

Zizzy was waiting for him, a nighttime silhouette against the electric energy of the market. Without a word, they passed into the souq, wending their way between spice stalls, candy makers, leather crafters, and, of course, Damascus-steel purveyors. Near the center, they found a café, half filled with old men arguing the merits of the war. Some were loyalists, others not, but to a man they bemoaned the invasion of their beloved country by jihadists.

Bourne and Zizzy took seats near the rear, where they were afforded an excellent view of passersby as well as the people entering and exiting the café. A waiter was at their table at once. They ordered plates of meze, and mint tea, Moroccan-sweet.

Zizzy glanced at Bourne, but said nothing of his ragged state. “Pity Hafiz is in a coma. He might have provided the proof you needed that Qabbani leaked your information to El Ghadan.”

“I doubt that,” Bourne said after a time.

The food came, a flurry of small plates, and they dug in. They ate silently, with an economy of motion, as soldiers will do in the field.

“Qabbani had nothing to do with it,” Bourne said at length. “But your old friend Hafiz did.”

“What?”

“The shot came from the mosque’s minaret,” Bourne said.

Zizzy seemed not to care. “How d’you know Hafiz was guilty of betraying you?”

“He was working me over like a pro,” Bourne said, still studying the street out in front of the café. “Leading me toward Qabbani, away from himself.”

“What if Hafiz was telling the truth?”

“No one here tells the truth.” He returned to his food. “Recall I was hired by Qabbani. Hafiz of course didn’t know that. He had no way of knowing that I was aware of Qabbani’s private motivations for attending the summit. Qabbani had to tell me, since I was impersonating him.”

“I don’t get that,” Zizzy said. “Why would Qabbani confide anything in you?”

“Because in Doha I was going to be him. He had a side deal going with the minister from Yemen.”

Zizzy’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of a side deal?”

“Qabbani was an arms dealer. He was supplementing his government income.”

“As if that wasn’t enough!” Zizzy snorted.

“For people like Qabbani,” Bourne said, “nothing was ever enough.”

“But doesn’t that put him squarely in your sights vis-à-vis El Ghadan?”

“Just the opposite,” Bourne said. “Qabbani was using the summit as cover. The last thing he’d want is for it to be disrupted and for his business partner to be killed.” He put down his knife and fork, pushed his plate away. “What’s the long-range prognosis on Hafiz?”

Zizzy shrugged. “Doctors. Once they tell you something you realize how little they know.”

“Go back to the hospital,” Bourne said. “When Hafiz wakes up, I want you there to ask questions.”

“
If
he wakes up,” Zizzy said morosely.

Sara had plenty of time, wending her way back to her table where Khalifa waited, to work out what she must do next. There was no question in her mind that Hassim owned Red Pearl. Was it coincidence that this was the restaurant Khalifa had chosen for their dinner? Long experience in the field had taught her that in the shadow world she inhabited there was no such thing as coincidence.

From this non-coincidence, she deduced that Hassim and Khalifa knew each other. Were they also business partners? What worried her most was that Hassim had lied to her. Perhaps he had nothing to do with El Ghadan. But why had he led her to Khalifa? And, most ominous of all, did that mean Hassim had blown her cover? Did Khalifa know he was dining with a Mossad agent? If so, her life was in imminent danger.

This was one of the reasons why a field agent’s life was so hazardous: Contacts, loyal for so long, needed constant attention—flattery, money, whatever would ease their particular insecurity. Without that attention, their insecurity was in danger of growing to proportions they could not tolerate. Then they’d break, and when they did the opposition was always there to welcome them with open arms if they were still worth anything, terminate them if they weren’t.

It seemed unlikely that anyone was going to kill Hassim, no matter what he had done in the past. He was far too influential, knew too many secrets not to be of use to someone. In this case, that someone looked to be Khalifa Al Mohannadi.

The colonel was waiting patiently, staring at a lithe young model type as she passed along the opposite side of the lagoon. Sara had deliberately chosen a route where she could observe him unseen until the last moment when she had to break out of the crowd and head directly for his table. It was often instructive, she had been taught, to observe a target or a prospective contact in a moment of relaxation, the better to read his frame of mind by his expression and the movement of his eyes.

Khalifa was utterly at ease, and this told her much of what she needed to know: He had none of the swagger and arrogance that burst upon a man’s face when he’s sure he’s bagged a beautiful young woman. He had none of the tension that comes into a man’s body when he is anticipating having sex with a new conquest. To the contrary, Khalifa had the look of a man who was in the right place at the right time. A premonition caught in Sara’s throat, almost making her choke. He knew who she was, all right, and Hassim was the only one who could have told him.

He was drinking black coffee so strong she could smell it while she was still a table’s length away.

“Pour me some, would you?” she said to the waiter, who had sidled up beside her and was now hovering with the unctuous attention of an undertaker.

“At once, madam.”

The coffee was already poured by the time she sat down.

“I was just musing,” Khalifa said. “I have a speedboat. I’ve been waiting for the full moon to take it out at night.” His head swung toward her, a smile hooked onto his face like the visor of an Ottoman helmet. “How pleasant, is my thought, to be on the water with you, Martine.”

At once, a fist of ice formed in the pit of Sara’s stomach, its fingers opening, spreading a certain queasiness through her.

Her eyes brushed over her watch. “It’s getting late.”

That masklike smile stayed firmly in place. “I would consider it a personal favor.”

“I have several early meetings tomorrow.”

“Come, come.” With a flourish, he rose. “I haven’t even told you my promised stories.” He extended a hand across the table. “They’re worth a late night. You will be greatly entertained, I promise.”

Sara rose. “Don’t you need to get the check?”

“All taken care of.”

Did that mean the transaction had taken place while she was away from the table, or that he had no need of paying here?

The moment she slipped her hand in his, she felt the strength of him pulling her along. She came around the side of the table and they walked out, him never letting go of her hand.

Camilla was brushing down Starfall, crooning softly to him in a sure sign the two had bonded. Hunter moved along the stalls, out into an afternoon now sprinkled with sunlight pierced by racing clouds, the last of the gloomy morning swept away like so much dust.

“It’s us against them.” Hunter turned, looking back at Camilla. “You know that, don’t you?”

Camilla, finished with her grooming, gave Starfall a nuzzle, then, wiping off her hands, she came toward Hunter over the packed earth and straw.

“Tell me,” she said.

Hunter sighed. “Men. They’re always trying to take advantage of us, to pull the wool over our eyes, make us look the fool.”

“I’ve had my fair share of bad encounters, but—”

“It’s to prove their superiority,” Hunter said over her. “Especially now when we’re beginning to flex our muscles, so to speak, all over the world.” She took a deep breath of the piney air. “D’you think the rise in gang rapes in India and elsewhere is a coincidence?” She shook her head. “Men are frightened. Men were always frightened of women, but until now they always had ways—laws, even—to keep women in check, to keep them beneath them, subservient.”

Camilla thought about this for a time. “Why do we frighten them so?”

Hunter grinned as she pushed the sleeves of her denim shirt up her forearms. “Because they can’t understand us, and because they need us so much. Celibacy is not a natural state for man nor beast.” Her grin widened. “You only need dig into the past of virtually any priest to determine the truth of that.”

Camilla thought about Bill Magnus, and about Howard Anselm, both manipulative, devious creatures. She realized now how Magnus and Anselm were cut from the same cloth, how their loyalties were to one another, not to anyone else, most assuredly not to any female. Magnus, who was married with two beautiful children, was a serial cheater. Did he love his wife? In that kind of heady atmosphere who could tell? She doubted that Bill himself knew. He was married to Anselm, till death do them part. That was the bitter truth of it.

“If you don’t stop that little bitch crying,” said the masked jihadist, “I will.”

Soraya’s heart rate shot higher. She could feeling the pulsing of blood in her temples, in the side of her neck. “She’s hungry,” she said. “You’ve given her too little to eat.”

A slap to her face rattled her teeth.

“Feed her yourself. Let her take the tit.”

“She’s two years old. I don’t have any milk.”

“Pity.”

Soraya struggled to keep herself from falling into a rageful despair. Keep your wits about you, she admonished herself, no matter how they taunt you.

“If you want her to stop crying,” she said, “you need to give her water and food.”

She turned at the sound of the door opening. Another masked jihadist appeared in the soft light—thank God the room was in darkness only during the nighttime hours. He ordered the first jihadist out of the room, which the man did reluctantly. The second jihadist held a glass of water, which he tipped to her lips.

“Sonya first.”

She watched with grateful eyes as the glass was held up for Sonya to drink from. Then it was refilled, and she drank greedily. Moments later, a shallow bowl of boiled chickpeas, along with a round of stale flatbread, was dropped into her lap.

“Thank you,” Soraya said. She almost gagged on those two words, but they were important to say, especially now that he had done something for her. He had broken routine, even if it was in a minor way.

“How are you holding up?”

“How do you think?”

To her ears the voice held a different tone. Was that a softening, or just a figment of irrational hope? No, she said to herself, as she began to feed Sonya. Hope is never irrational. Hope is the most rational of emotions. Hope is what keeps us alive. Sometimes, as now, hope is all we have.

She looked up from feeding a ravenous Sonya and said, “Do you have children?”

“Allah has not blessed me.”

“Yes, children
are
a blessing, and still you do this to us.”

“We are under orders not to harm you or your daughter in any way.” He took the empty plate from her. “When either of you need to use the facilities, just call out.”

“What is your name?”

But the jihadist was already on the other side of the room. The door closed behind him. She winced when she heard the lock being thrown.

E
ver hear of a nightclub
called the Golden Horn, Zizzy?”

“Not here in Damascus, anyway.”

“I’m not surprised.” Bourne looked out the window of the rattletrap taxi. “Its existence has been pushed way underground.”

“Whether there’s a war on or not,” Zizzy said, “kids will be kids.”

“And jihadists will be jihadists.”

Zizzy’s head turned so quickly the bones of his neck cracked.

“The Golden Horn is where we’ll find the sniper who shot Hafiz.” He tilted his head. “We’re almost at the hospital. I’ll drop you there and we’ll rendezvous back at the hotel.”

“When?”

The taxi had stopped. Bourne leaned across Zizzy, opened the door for him. “When I get back.”

It was no wonder Zizzy had never heard of the Golden Horn. It was hidden away in a shattered neighborhood, in the basement of a bombed-out metalwork factory. No one was around to see Bourne clamber out of the taxi and pick his way across cracked concrete and tufts of weeds that, like jihadists, were too tenacious to die out.

Spotlights lit the night. The tramp of foot soldiers on the move soiled the silence of the all but abandoned neighborhood. Small-arms fire started up, at first short, sporadic bursts, then longer, sustained ones that made it clear the shooters had found their targets. A
boom!
and the ground shook, and a plume of black smoke rose lazily into the night sky, blotting out lights, turning the city darker.

Bourne had been told to enter the wreckage of the factory from the west. He could see why: All the other entrances were either blocked by brickfalls or had been obliterated entirely. A large truck lay on its side, like an extinct dinosaur. Firebombs had brought it down, tossed it into the air like so much confetti. The hulk was as bare as a skeleton picked clean by jackals. Tires, headlights, radio, steering column, engine were all gone. As he passed, a brace of yellow dogs that had made it their home reared their feral heads, bared their teeth at him, and barked hysterically.

The factory’s interior was a maze of corridors, half-hallways, offices without ceilings, sometimes without walls as well. Rubble lay strewn everywhere, and not a soul in sight. Behind him, the sky lit up a lurid red, then came the
whump!
and subsequent percussion of another rocket landing.

He found the interior staircase. Apart from an initial fall of concrete and glass, kept in place as camouflage, it had been swept clean. He descended to a square landing from which the stairs turned back on themselves. As soon as he started down again, he felt the
thump-thump-thump
of the music’s electronic backbeat. Drums kicked in, then the wisp of a melody. A heavily amplified and reverbed voice started to scream what were likely meant to be lyrics. On the other hand, the singer might have been in his death throes.

The area below him was as luridly lit as the agonized sky above the city. A series of red bulbs illuminated a concrete landing only slightly larger than the one above and a metal door so dented it looked like it had taken a beating from a charging rhino.

Standing in front of the door were two shadows, smoking. Hooded eyes regarded him. As he headed for the door, Bourne heard the click of a hammer being cocked. One of the shadows pointed a revolver at him. It looked old enough to have come from the Russian Revolution.

“Business?” the armed shadow said. Either he was thirteen or he was a natural soprano.

“Meeting Furuque.” Furuque was the name of the sniper, divulged to Bourne under extreme duress.

“Who?” said the armed shadow.

“Furuque isn’t here,” his companion said at precisely the same time.

“Shit!” one of them exclaimed.

“Get your story straight, boys,” Bourne said. “I know he’s here. I just spoke with him.” He brushed past them and opened the door so quickly they had no time to answer, let alone stop him.

Instantly he was slammed by a wall of sound, amplified to an earsplitting level. The place was packed with pogo-jumping teenagers. The unmistakable scent of pot mingled with the reek of sweat. Somewhere along the long slab of bar to his left liquor was being poured. In a country of strict rules, it was clear there were none here.

Bourne moved through the crowd. Again, patience was going to be his best friend. It was impossible to proceed quickly through a room jammed wall to wall with writhing people. He cut the space into quarters, then into eighths and sixteenths, looking for Furuque, methodically eliminating people in ones, twos, and threes.

Twenty sweat-stained minutes later, he was nowhere. He was on his way to the bar—the only section he hadn’t checked out—when the door to the men’s lavatory swung open. Two young men emerged, hand in hand, the afterglow of sex surrounding them like an air bubble. Beyond them, just before the door swung shut, Bourne saw Furuque. He was standing alongside the line of sinks, half turned away from the door, talking to two earnest-looking young men wearing knitted Muslim kufi hats. Bourne pushed the door open little by little until he could see the trio again.

He entered, went to the first sink, turned on the taps. As he washed his hands, he strained to listen to what Furuque was saying. The sniper was speaking very slowly and distinctly in order to be heard over the amplified ruckus.

Bourne heard only snatches: “disbelievers…fighting in the cause of taghut…”
Taghut
was the Islamic word for anything worshipped other than Allah—in other words, Satan. “It is the Quran that will remain unchanged, preserved for all time by its holy protectors, after all the other so-called divine books have turned to dust…The Jew, the American, the infidel has caused expulsion, destruction, and devastation…blood pouring out of Palestine must be avenged…calling you to Islam…complete submission to his laws…To right the injustices, we must pledge ourselves to death and more death until we are free of…”

Furuque was in the full throes of his jihadist manifesto, oblivious to anyone around him save the two young men. Bourne was about to grab him, when the world crashed in. The music screamed to an abrupt halt, replaced immediately by shouted orders and the tramp of military boots massing at the edge of the dance floor. In an instant, semiautomatic fire began just beyond the lavatory door. Cries of shock, shrieks of agony, the imprecations of an aborted counterattack were met only by a withering spray of bullets.

The sounds of mass hysteria could be heard beyond the closed door. Then the door was abruptly wrenched open by the stoned and sex-besotted teenagers racing out of the line of stalls as if their lives depended on it. And it did, but like lemmings they were racing directly into the jaws of death that awaited them on the bloody, corpse-strewn dance floor. The sobbing of the shocked and wounded rose, the backbeat of a new form of music, mechanized and terrible.

The Syrian army had found them and, true to its nature, was determined to leave no one alive.