Robert Ludlum's (TM) The Bourne Ascendancy (20 page)

K
han Abdali was
a cadaver of a man—tall and impossibly thin, with bony shoulders and long, ropy arms. His skin was as dark as stained teak, thick-looking, grained and lined as leather. It was impossible to tell his age; he could have been anywhere from fifty to seventy. He was dressed in white robes and loose trousers over which he wore a blue vest embroidered with tribal emblems. His gold-c
olore
d turban was as large as his head. But it was his eyes, dark, deeply inset in his face, hard as marbles, that caused him to fill up any room he entered or occupied.

The chief malik met them at the outskirts of the village. He was flanked by six of his heavily armed men, bearded, turbaned, all with black vests over white robes, all with assault rifles The village behind them was nothing more than a loosely grouped selection of concrete boxes, some whitewashed, some not, surrounded by pockmarked concrete walls. There were lines of dust-caked trucks, looking the worse for wear, having been driven hundreds of miles over the rocky terrain. Children climbed in the backs of the trucks, and above them, on a dusty promontory, two solitary sentinels, AR-15s at the ready, peered mistrustfully down from behind semicircular stone emplacements.

Bourne spoke the traditional greeting, right hand over his heart. Khan Abdali, clearly surprised, came forward and returned the greeting.

“You know our land?” he said.

“I spent three years here,” Bourne said.

“And why did you leave?”

“Over a woman.”

“Oho!” Khan Abdali threw his head back and laughed. “And did you take her?”

“From a malik of the Tori Khels.”

“Bah! I spit on all Tori Khels!” And Khan Abdali did just that, hawking and spitting a huge glob onto the earth to one side. “And did this accursed malik come after you?”

“I let him,” Bourne said.

Khan Abdali’s shaggy eyebrows raised. “Did you now?”

“Yes. I confronted him. I told him I was a djinn. I told him I had put a spell on his woman and that if he did not leave us both alone I would put a spell on him and he would die a long, slow, agonizing death.”

Now Khan Abdali was fairly shaking with laughter. Indeed, tears were streaming from his eyes and he could scarcely catch his breath. Gasping, he was finally able to say, “My dear Yusuf, you are a man of rare courage and imagination. I am grateful to welcome you into our village, despite the fact you are in the company of this impossibly rude Chechen.”

Tea, preserved olives, and a sweetish flatbread were served in Khan Abdali’s own house, the living quarters strewn with afghan rugs and Turkish brass oil lamps, any one of which could have held Bourne’s fictional djinn. The walls were covered with black-and-white blowups of what appeared to be the chief malik’s men and children. There were no photos of the village’s women, which came as no surprise to Bourne, whose knowledge of the Waziri was such that he knew they valued their women above their religion. These people were not fanatics; they therefore did not understand the fanatics who had infested their mountains and valleys and did not much like them. It was only because the tribes were too busy with their internecine warfare that they did not unite to drive the fanatics out. Besides, Waziristan was vastly underpopulated. A couple of hundred fanatics made little difference to them, unless they became a nuisance. Or asked for favors.

“Your children are magnificent, Khan Abdali,” Bourne said, being deliberately overeffusive. “My hearty congratulations.”

The chief malik smiled, showing two gold teeth and more than one space between them. “Children and grandchildren, Yusuf, my brother.”

“Truly Allah has blessed you.”

“May his beneficent light be ever upon us.”

The three men sat on one of the rugs, cross-legged, eating and drinking. Aashir lounged against one wall, burning eyes taking everything in, no matter how minuscule, while Bourne continued to chat with the chief malik, gaining information about the current state of tribal warfare in this part of Waziristan. He could tell that Borz was growing impatient, especially because he could not understand the conversation. When Borz began to fidget, Bourne felt compelled to admonish him to remain calm.

“Your friend has a harsh face,” Khan Abdali said. “It complements his impatient manner.”

“These Chechen,” Bourne said. “Impatience is in their blood.”

Khan Abdali, refilling Bourne’s cup from a copper kettle, nodded sagely. “Such is the tragedy of men, always rushing headlong to their doom.” He tipped his head discreetly. “And the young Arab?”

“His name is Aashir Al Kindi, and he has been kind to me,” Bourne said. “That is all I know about him.”

“I have seen him here before. He has better manners than the Chechen.”

“I have no doubt,” Bourne said.

“Perhaps you will teach him to speak our language.”

“If we both find the time, I certainly will.”

The chief malik nodded, apparently satisfied. “What is it the Chechen wants from me, Yusuf, my brother?”

“He requires safe passage for himself and his men.”

“Direction?”

“Due west, into Afghanistan.”

Khan Abdali heaved a great sigh. “I have no love for the Afghans, especially the Taliban who, due to the meddling of the Americans, have tightened their stranglehold on the country. I cannot abide their abhorrent views. They have warped religion into a cudgel with which to beat senseless those around them.”

“My friend considers the Taliban his enemy,” Bourne said, “of that I can assure you.”

Khan Abdali cocked his head as he gazed at Borz. “Will he kill Taliban when he reaches Afghanistan with our help?”

Bourne turned to Borz. “It seems he wants you to go to war with the Taliban.”

“What?”

“That’s his price for safe passage into Afghanistan. He wants Taliban heads.”

Borz snorted.

“Watch yourself,” Bourne cautioned.

“I am on a deadline. I cannot spare the time, Yusuf.”

“I urge you to make the time, Borz. He won’t budge, otherwise.”

Borz considered a moment. “Tell him okay.”

Bourne eyed him. “I won’t do that if you’re ordering me to lie to him.”

“How the fuck is he going to know what we do once we’re out of his accursed country?”

“Waziristan has sheltered you, kept you safe, even tolerated you bringing the American drones in. You will give your word and we will take Taliban heads.”

Borz gave Bourne a murderous glare. “You said these people lie. So what is the problem?”

Bourne wanted to slam his hand into Borz’s face. He set that impulse aside for another day. “I said they might lie in order not to be bested. These are honorable people, Borz. They’re not extremists. They have tolerated you, but that could change at any moment. Frankly, Khan Abdali doesn’t much care for you. If not for me you would have been sent packing.”

Expelling a long held breath, Borz nodded. “All right, and damn him to the lowest level of hell.”

Bourne turned back to the chief malik. “Khan Abdali, my brother, my friend is in many ways uncivilized. Nevertheless, he means well and is honorable. He gives you his word that after crossing over into Afghanistan, he will take many Taliban heads.”

The chief malik stroked his beard thoughtfully. “I agree, Yusuf, my brother, the Chechen is uncivilized. On the other hand, he has you as a friend. I will agree to the safe passage, but I will have two of my best hunting maliks guide you. They will make the crossing with you. They will help you take Taliban heads.”

And make sure Borz keeps to his word, Bourne thought, with a smile and the requisite effusive show of thanks to Khan Abdali.

Before departing, Khan Abdali took Bourne aside. “Yusuf, my brother,” he said softly but intensely, “I fear treachery on every side of you.” His breath was redolent of dates and preserved olives. “I wish you a long life.” He took hold of Bourne’s right hand, turned it palm upward. “To that end, I give you this.” He placed something small but heavy in Bourne’s palm, closed Bourne’s fingers around it in order to hide it. “It is a
ch
ī
lai
—a bracelet. It is both a talisman and a weapon. Inside is a
mangèr
.”

“A serpent?”

Khan Abdali smiled a curious smile. “This snake is only as long as your fingernail. But, Yusuf, my brother, it is coated with a fast-acting poison. The
mangèr
will keep you safe in times of extreme darkness, yes?”

“Thank you, Khan Abdali.” Bourne slipped the bracelet over his left wrist. “You are most generous—and most wise.”

The chief malik nodded. “Safe travels, my brother.”

The dust cloud the jeep threw up upon its rattling departure soon obscured the village and all its inhabitants.

Vincent Terrier sat in a windowside booth in Jake’s World, a chromium-clad diner in rural Virginia with fifties-era aqua trim and picture windows overlooking the ashy parking lot and the interstate. From the parking lot, it looked like a vintage jukebox lying on its side. The outdoor lights were on as twilight was shouldered aside by the coming night.

Terrier dug into a slice of indifferent apple pie, sipped impoverished coffee, and thought of
Nighthawks
, Edward Hopper’s iconic painting of the Depression-era patrons of a New York City diner. The painting perfectly captured the existential emptiness of Terrier’s life, a life begun in the filthy tenements of Detroit, where his father had been an autoworker before being laid off, his emptied plant a symbol of Middle America’s creeping death. And what of young Terrier himself: product of a negligent public school education, a state college where he was high all the time, and then…work? Not on your life. Not a decent job to be had for a hundred miles around, though he washed dishes for a time and was a gravedigger for a cemetery sadist for barely six months. Otherwise, his needle was stuck on empty.

With no prospects and no future, Terrier had joined the armed forces, where he served three tours of duty in the Horn of Africa, Iraq, and, latterly, Afghanistan. It was in the Afghan mountain strongholds of the enemy that he received his Saul of Tarsus moment. The people he discovered in the caves high up in the mountains were women and children, some no more than a year old, ragged and perpetually starving. Their eyes were the eyes of old men who had seen too much of a life without either prospects or future.

As Terrier harked back to his own bankrupt beginnings, he at last understood how easy it was for the extremists to recruit these children before they even became men. The clever bastards gave the kids both prospects and a future, the only future available to them: They were fed, clothed, housed, armed, and all the while the poison of indoctrination was being pumped into them. For these kids it was a matter of survival, nothing more or less. Hate gave them a reason for being alive; the prospect of martyrdom, a promise that their deaths would be meaningful to both themselves and their families.

Terrier returned from Afghanistan a changed man, but not in the manner of many of his fellow soldiers. He applied to the DOD, and was immediately snatched up both because of his experience and his innate intelligence. He trained for six months at the Farm, then another three months at the Dairy, before being dispatched as a fieldman, returned to the hot spots of the Middle East with which he was so familiar. He spoke the lingo, he knew the minds of the people. He was the perfect weapon.

To the delight of his handlers and their masters, he unfailingly accomplished the objectives of his briefs. At some point, he came to the attention of Marty Finnerman, who, with his keen eye for talent, appropriated Terrier as his own dog in the hunt, running him on brief after brief, collecting invaluable product on the movements and the ever-morphing tactics of the elusive enemy.

Which was how Terrier had come to be brought by his handler into the West Wing to brief POTUS.

The lights in the diner shone off Terrier’s empty plate, with its last bits of lard-soaked crust. Outside, a monstrous midnight-blue ’72 Chrysler Imperial, in cherry condition, turned into the parking lot. Terrier raised a hand, called over the waitress, and ordered two coffees.

The searchlight headlamps of the Imperial were switched off. The wide grille reflected the diner’s neon glow. He watched the figure exit the car, trot up the concrete steps, and enter the building.

Hunter looked around, spotted Terrier, and slid into the other side of his booth just as the coffee was brought to the table. She wore stained jeans, cowboy boots, and a denim shirt under a suede jacket, which she did not bother to take off.

“All that’s missing is fringe on your jacket,” he said with a wry tone.

“And fuck you too,” Hunter said with a small laugh.

“Couldn’t you come in a less conspicuous vehicle?” he said. “Like a Honda or a Chevy, maybe?”

Hunter sipped her coffee. “You love my Imperial.”

And it was true, he did. It was a symbol of what America had been at its height and now was no more. It gave him a warm feeling in the pit of his stomach, a reaffirmation of the correctness of the path they had chosen.

“How are things at the Dairy?” he said.

“My, aren’t you coy this evening.” Hunter eyed him critically. “Your performance went down a storm. Camilla believed it completely.”

“And have you taken advantage?”

“What d’you think?”

“So.” He put his hands on the table. “What is your assessment?”

“She’s going to be fine. She has precisely the right background, as you know, since you whispered her name in Finnerman’s ear. That fucking father of hers embodies everything that’s wrong with the consumerist imperium America has become.”

“Kudos to her for seeing the truth,” Terrier said. He drank off half his coffee, which was already cool. “Tell me she’ll be ready by the time she’s shipped off to Singapore.”

“Stop worrying.”

Hunter pushed her cup away; Terrier could scarcely blame her.

“Camilla is a very accomplished young woman; her ability to learn and absorb is astonishing.”

Now it was Terrier’s turn to eye her critically. “So that’s how it is.”