Robert Ludlum's (TM) The Bourne Ascendancy (12 page)

W
illiam Magnus,
the president of the United States, was in a low mood. It was the kind of mood no one, even Howard Anselm, dared disturb for fear of being cut down at the knees.

POTUS stood in the Oval Office, staring out one of the windows. Night had fallen on the capital, the bright lights illuminating the reinforced concrete antiterrorist barriers. Looking at them depressed him further; they made him feel like a prisoner.

He stood immobile as a sentinel, as if he were one of the many that patrolled the White House grounds inside the high black-painted fences. Half draped in the same Stars and Stripes flag with which, days ago, he wished to wrap Camilla, he tried to sort out his thoughts after a long day of meetings, phone calls, arguments, and a parade of fifteen-minute appointments.

That he hadn’t taken the opportunity to fuck her wrapped in the flag, even against her wishes, ate at him like a tapeworm. She had said no, but so what? Women always said no, it was part of their nature. It was also true in his considerable experience that with women no most often meant yes, at least when it came to sex. They liked to appear demure, chaste even, but break through that porcelain exterior and they were as wanton as any man—sometimes even more.

Magnus stood with his hands clasped at the small of his back, head up, chin jutting forward. A pussy, he thought, is like the weather. When it’s wet, it’s time to go inside.

He chuckled, and for a moment his mood lightened. But then he thought of Camilla, her unwillingness to continue what they had started. And why? He’d never had such astonishing sex with any woman before. He knew she felt the same way, so why did she want to end it? The Monica explanation? He didn’t buy it. He had plenty of safeguards in place to ensure that kind of debacle never happened to either of them. He was the most powerful man in the free world—possibly in the world, period. Women were drawn to power as men were drawn to beauty. What the fuck was Camilla’s problem?

He sighed deeply. What, then, should he do? He knew, of course, but part of him did not want to stoop to such adolescent behavior. And yet he knew he would. No thought, no counteraction would stop him.

Sighing again, he broke away from his sightless vigil, went to his desk, and sat. From a locked lower drawer, he extracted a lightweight laptop. The instant it finished booting up, he clicked on the eye icon. A CCTV picture appeared, showing him Camilla’s room at the Dairy.

And there she was, in all her naked glory. She was padding out of the bathroom in a cloud of, he imagined, fragrant steam, drying her hair with a fluffy white towel. Ah, to be that towel, he thought. His heart hurt. And it was at this moment that he sat back with an audible gasp.

It wasn’t just that he wanted to fuck Camilla—he wanted to
be
with her. He loved her! He, the president of the United States, married with two children and a dog, all beloved by the American people.

He put his head in his hands, closed his eyes in agony. His heart beat like a trip-hammer, paining him. All at once, he lashed out with his right hand, sweeping the laptop with its incriminating, reprehensible, wicked video across the room. It struck the wall, as he had meant it to, shattering to pieces.

Immediately, the Oval Office was filled with Secret Service agents.

“Get out of here!” Magnus shouted. “Get out and stay out!”

When Howard Anselm was read in on the incident ten minutes later, he began to worry in earnest.

“
As-salam alaykum
,” Bourne said. “My name is Yusuf Al Khatib.”

The young man stared down at him. Then he grinned hugely. “Eisa. Thank you for saving my life.”

Bourne climbed up the ladder. When he reached ground level, Eisa handed over the Stechkin grip first.

“You need a better weapon, Yusuf. That gun is ancient.”

Bourne put the Stechkin away. “Let’s get out of here before the Syrian army decides to take another look.”

They crossed the junkyard field surrounding the factory. Apart from the hulks of bombed-out cars, the streets were empty. Another of Damascus’s eerie silences had descended like storm clouds across the city. Sections were brightly lighted, like any other city across the globe, but here and there, entire neighborhoods were blacked out, either from a loss of electricity or from the citizens laying low, not wanting to draw attention to themselves. Then shelling began again in the outskirts of the city, lighting up the night.

Eisa kept his head down. “Why did Furuque attack you like that?”

“Blood feud,” Bourne lied. “Uncles.”

Eisa nodded. “My family, too, is split in half.” His Arabic was odd—not stilted or poor so much as spoken with a curiously flat accent.

“Where are you from?”

“Pittsburgh,” Eisa said. “That’s in the United States.”

A chill went through Bourne. “Was the other young man with you at the club also American?”

“Everyone at tonight’s recruitment is American,” Eisa said. “We’re true believers. We’ve come to join the jihad.”

Bourne took a moment to allow this news to sink in. “How many of you are there?”

“I don’t know. I’ll see tonight.”

Bourne was shocked. He had of course heard of Americans being recruited to the jihadist cause, but not in wholesale numbers. This was a new and horrendous development. “Furuque was recruiting you.”

“Indoctrinating, actually. I recruited myself. Well, not exactly. I made a friend through the Internet.”

“Facebook?”

“No, that’s too public. A fantasy chat room. We’re both fanatics of this game. Anyway, we got to talking about other things. He’s lonely, doesn’t have any friends.”

“Why not?”

“He says he’s a runaway. His father’s trying to find him, but he’s been ducking him for years. He’s been using a false name and everything.”

“What’s his name?”

“I shouldn’t tell you. You might be one of his father’s people. His father’s very powerful, he says.”

Bourne laughed. “You can be sure I’m not. I work for no one.”

They had come to a cross street. A traffic light blinked intermittently, only half alive, like much of the city surrounding it.

Eisa studied Bourne. “I’m going to meet him.”

“He’s in al-Nusra Front?”

“No,” Eisa said. “The Tomorrow Brigade.”

El Ghadan’s army. “Is that where Furuque was taking you? To join them?”

Eisa nodded again. “There’s a staging area in the western quarter of the city. Nairabein Park, opposite the Zee Qar Battle Square. I was supposed to go with him tonight.”

“Do you know how to get there?” Bourne asked.

Eisa shook his head. “I only arrived yesterday.”

El Ghadan’s mobile buzzed in Bourne’s pocket, reminding him that it was now midnight and with it would come another proof-of-life message. At least, he thought, continuing to move away from the factory, El Ghadan no longer knows where I am.

“I’ll take you,” Bourne said, returning to Eisa. His heart rate was accelerated. Of course he would take Eisa. “These recruiting sessions are chaotic, more often than not. Tell me your friend’s name. I’ll help you find him.”

“Aashir,” the boy said. “His name’s Aashir.”

The rain inundated Hassim’s boat. But Sara was near the dock; there would be no problem taking it in. Once again, she thanked her lucky stars she had been brought up on her father’s boat. The care and feeding of motorboats was second nature to her.

Dockside, after the boat had been lashed to its slip, she sluiced the deck free of any remaining blood, dumped the chains overboard. Then she leaned over the gunwale, washed her Star of David thoroughly in the turbulent water. As she came back up, she noticed an object lying on the deck, only visible at this extreme angle. She turned, picked it up. It was Khalifa’s mobile.

She stepped off the boat in a veritable downpour. Already wet, she was instantly soaked to the skin. From a slope-roofed building up ahead, the harbormaster emerged at a swift pace. He opened a large, windproof umbrella, hurried to her side, and ushered her into his office. He was a bald, pudgy man with the hunched back of a beetle and weather-reddened hands like lobster claws.

He bade her sit down, then grabbed two large towels from a stack possibly meant just for occasions like this one, and opened them for her until she was completely covered. Turning away, he brewed her some tea, but as soon as he brought it, he sat down opposite her and said, “Madam, what has happened?”

Sara knew she would be asked questions, perhaps many questions, but her greatest ally was the weather.

“The storm came in unexpectedly. For some reason, Hassim had forgotten to turn on the radar, maybe it needed to be fixed, I don’t know.” She took a slow sip of her tea, batted her eyes at the harbormaster, and said, “Thank you for this.”

He waved away her words, his extreme concern still on his face. From a desk drawer, he brought out a large and much-dented first aid kit, from which he extracted alcohol, an iodine compound, and bandages. He brought out a hand mirror, set it so she could see her reflection, bade her to clean the cut on her cheek. He made no move to touch her, which for him would be an unforgivable breach of etiquette. So unlike Khalifa, who had had no qualms grabbing her, hurting her, trying to kill her.

She began to clean the wound, which had already started to swell. He had not seen, and she would not show him, the scrapes along her side from her encounter with the shark. The wound burned, but the seawater had cleaned it well enough, she felt.

“And Hassim?” the harbormaster said softly.

Sara sighed, summoned the memory of swimming with the sharks, and tears came to her eyes naturally. Natural was best, she had been taught.

“There, there, madam.” The harbormaster was rocking back and forth as if in prayer. “Do take your time.”

She nodded gratefully, sipped more tea, now that she had finished cleaning up her face. “There was another man on board. I was his guest, actually. We were having dinner at Red Pearl, it was getting late. Even so, he suggested we take a moonlight cruise. I…I didn’t want to, really, but he was so insistent…” She hadn’t wanted to mention Khalifa, but people had seen the two of them climb aboard Hassim’s boat. She lowered her head. “You know how men can be…”

“Yes, madam.” The harbormaster bobbed his head. “Indeed I do.” He wiped his lips. “Madam, who was the other gentleman with you and Hassim?”

“His name was Khalifa,” she said. “Khalifa Al Mohannadi.”

The harbormaster sat up straight. “Colonel Al Mohannadi?”

Sara shook her head. “He never mentioned he was a colonel, or even that he was in the army.”

“Hardly the army,” the harbormaster said under his breath.

Sara cocked her head. “What?”

“Nothing, madam.” He waved away her query. “Nothing. Please go on.”

Sara told the story she had concocted on her way in: How the storm had come up so suddenly and with such fury that the men had been taken completely by surprise. How a wave had taken Hassim clear off the deck before either Khalifa or she could do anything. Still, Khalifa, hero that he was, tried, and was swept overboard for his effort.

“This is a sad story,” the harbormaster said. “A tragedy.” He rose, refilled her glass. “Is there anyone in Doha with you? Anyone I can call?”

She pulled out Khalifa’s mobile. “I’ll do it.”

The harbormaster nodded. “As you wish.” He pointed. “I have several chores that require my attention, but I’ll be just through that door if you need me.”

“Thank you,” Sara said. “You’ve been extremely kind.”

When she was alone, she called Levi Blum. He didn’t answer, so she left an urgent voice mail for him to come fetch her at the marina.

Then, idly, she began to scroll through the list of Khalifa’s recent calls and texts made and received, and she discovered one item that made the silken hair on her arms stir.

The mobile buzzed while Levi Blum was still in bed. He did not answer it. He was not in bed alone. Darlene was with him, or, more accurately, under him. He had hooked up with Darlene almost eight months ago. They had found each other in Nite Jewel, a sumptuous club used by expats and business transients alike as a hangout—a place to get together in every sense of the word.

When Blum had first spied her, she had been with another man—a swarthy Indian Blum loathed on sight. In the way of Indians, the man was as limp as a noodle, the kind of person of ambiguous gender for whom Blum felt only contempt. On the other hand, the Indian was bloated with wealth, a peculiarity, he learned later, that Darlene considered a magnetic character trait.

She was hardly alone. In his time in Doha, Blum had encountered this type of woman again and again. Sadly for him—since he was as yet far from rich—they were gorgeous, the kind of woman he dreamed of at night, alone in his bed.

No matter how charming or witty he made himself, without the requisite wealth he struck out again and again. It was depressing on so many levels that he considered using his local network to dig up dirt on Darlene’s flabby Indian mark. But he was Mossad; he knew better than to use company assets for personal gain.

And yet he had to find a way to make his fortune—another way. He was at that moment ripe for being suborned. There were those who had become aware of him, who had been watching him as casually as a friend, but tracking him constantly. He remembered the precise moment he had cottoned on to them: a familiar face, smeared in reflection in a mall shop window. He had gone into the shop, looked around thoughtfully before picking out a shirt. By the time he paid for it, he was certain he had eyes on him.

After that, he no longer dreamed of Darlene or the other gorgeous women displayed like precious gems at Nite Jewel. He dreamed of his tailing eyes. There were five of them, on him in random shifts. This was smart tradecraft, as regular four- or six-hour shifts were too easy to spot.

So he bided his time until someone made contact, in the gentlest possible way, again, as if he were an old friend. The payment metaphorically laid on the table was far too generous for Blum to pass up. He realized that he had been given a one-in-a-thousand chance, the chance field personnel prized above all others. He was doubled, and now he would double back. A perilous game, to be sure, but it was the only one he would play.