The Bourne Betrayal (16 page)

Lindros was not a person to be affected by the temptation to reach out from his isolation, to become friends. Lindros had never made friends easily; he found that it was far easier to be a loner. In fact, his father had encouraged it. Being a loner was an asset if you aspired to be a spy, Oscar had said. This tendency had also been noted in Lindros’s personnel file when he’d gone through the grueling monthlong vetting process thought up by the sadistic CI psych wonks just before his acceptance into the agency.

By now he knew very well what Abbud ibn Aziz wanted from him. It had come as something of a mystery to him that the terrorist sought information on a mission CI had mounted years ago against Hamid ibn Ashef. What did Hamid ibn Ashef have to do with Abbud ibn Aziz?

They had wanted more from him, of course. Much more. And despite Abbud ibn Aziz’s apparent single-mindedness, Lindros had noted with interest that the interrogation about the CI mission against Hamid ibn Ashef occurred only when Abbud was alone with him.

From this, he had deduced that this particular line of questioning was a private agenda that had nothing at all to do with Dujja’s reason for kidnapping him.

“How are you feeling today?”

Abbud ibn Aziz stood in front of him. He had brought two identical plates of food. He put one in Lindros’s hands. When it came to food, Lindros knew his way around the Quran. All food fell into one of two categories: haram or halal, forbidden or allowed. All the food here was, of course, strictly halal.

“No coffee today, I’m afraid,” Abbud said. “But the dates and buttermilk curds are fine.”

The dates were a bit on the dry side, and the curds had a strange taste. These things were small but, in Lindros’s world, significant. The dates were drying up, the curds turning, and the coffee was gone. No more supplies were being delivered. Why?

They both ate with their right hands, their teeth bared as they bit into the dark flesh of the dates. Lindros’s mind was racing.

“How is the weather?” he asked at length.

“Cold, and the constant wind makes it colder still.” Abbud shivered. “Another front is coming in.”

Lindros knew that he was used to hundred-plus-degree temperatures, sand in his food, the moltenwhite glare of the sun, the blessed cool relief of a star-strewn night. This endless deep freeze was intolerable, to say nothing of the altitude. His bones and his lungs must be protesting like old men on a forced march. Lindros watched as he switched his Ruger semiautomatic in the crook of his left arm.

“Being here must be painful for you.” Lindros’s question was not mere banter.

Abbud’s shrug ended as another shiver.

“It’s more than the desert you miss.” Lindros put his plate aside. Taking an almost constant beating day after day did terrible things to the appetite. “It’s the world of your fathers that you miss, isn’t it?”

“Western civilization is an abomination,” Abbud said. “Its influence on our society is like an infectious disease that needs to be wiped out.”

“You’re afraid of Western civilization, because you don’t understand it.”

Abbud spat out a date pit, white as a baby’s bottom. “I would say the same of you Americans.”

Lindros nodded. “You wouldn’t be wrong. But where does that leave us?”

“At each other’s throats.”

Bourne surveyed the interior of the bar. It was much like the outside: the walls bare stone and wood, mortared together by wattle. The floor was hard-pressed dung. It smelled of fermentation, of both the alcoholic and human variety. A dung fire roared in the stone hearth, adding heat and a particular odor. There were a handful of Amhara inside, all in varying degrees of drunkenness. Otherwise Bourne’s appearance in the doorway would have kicked up more of a stir. As it was, it caused barely a ripple.

He tromped up to the bar, trailing snow. He ordered a beer, which, promisingly, came in a bottle. While he drank the thin, oddly brackish brew, he took the measure of the place. In truth, there wasn’t much to see: just a rectangular room with a scattering of rude tables and backless chairs more like stools. Nevertheless, he marked them all in his memory, making of the area a sort of map in his head, should danger raise its head or he need a quick escape. Not long after that, he spied the man with the maimed leg. Zaim was sitting by himself in a corner, a bottle of rotgut in one hand and a filthy glass in the other. He was beetle-browed, with the burned, crusty skin of the mountain native. He looked at Bourne vaguely as the other approached his table.

Bourne hooked a boot around one of the stool legs, pulled it out, sat down across from Alem’s father.

“Get away from me, you fucking tourist,” Zaim muttered.

“I’m no tourist,” Bourne responded in the same dialect.

Alem’s father opened his eyes wide, turned his head, spat on the floor. “Still, you must want something. No one dares summit Ras Dejen in winter.”

Bourne took a long swig of his beer. “You’re right, of course.” Noticing that Zaim’s bottle was nearly empty, he said, “What are you drinking?”

“Dust,” Alem’s father replied. “That’s all there is to drink up here. Dust and ash.”

Bourne went and got him another bottle, set it down on the table. As he was about to fill the glass, Zaim stayed his hand.

“There won’t be time,” he muttered under his breath. “Not when you have brought your enemy with you.”

“I didn’t know I had an enemy.” There was no point in telling this man the truth.

“You came from the Site of Death, did you not?” Zaim stared hard at Bourne with watery eyes.

“You climbed into the metal carcasses of the warbirds, you sifted through the bones of the warriors berthed inside. Don’t bother to deny it. Anyone who does gathers enemies the same way a rotting corpse gathers flies.” He flicked his free hand. His heavily callused palms and fingers were tattooed with dirt so ingrained, it could never be washed away. “I can smell it on you.”

“This enemy,” Bourne said, “is at the moment unknown to me.”

Zaim grinned, showing many dark gaps between what teeth were left in his mouth. His breath was as rank as the grave. “Then I have become valuable to you. More valuable, surely, than a bottle of liquor.”

“My enemies were in hiding, watching the Site of Death?”

“How much is it worth to you,” Zaim said, “to be shown the face of your enemy?”

Bourne slid money across the table.

Zaim took it with a practiced swipe of his clawlike hand. “Your enemy keeps watch on the Site, day and night. It’s like a spiderweb, you see? He wants to see what insects it attracts.”

“What’s it to him?”

Zaim shrugged. “Very little.”

“So there’s someone else.”

Zaim leaned closer. “We are pawns, you see. We are born pawns. What else are we good for? How else are we to scratch out a living?” He shrugged again. “Even so, one can keep the evil times at bay only so long. Sooner or later, grief comes in whatever guise will be most painful.”

Bourne thought of Zaim’s son, buried alive in the landslide. But he could say nothing; he’d promised Alem.

“I’m looking for a friend of mine,” he said softly. “He was carried onto Ras Dejen by the first warbird. His body is not at the Site of Death. Therefore, I believe he’s alive. What do you know of this?”

“I? I know nothing. Except for snatches overheard here and there.” Zaim scratched at his beard with gnarly black nails. “But there is perhaps someone who could help.”

“Will you bring me to him?”

Zaim smiled. “That is entirely up to you.”

Bourne pushed another wad of money across the stained table. Zaim took it, grunted, folded it away.

“On the other hand,” he said, “we can do nothing while your enemy watches.” He pursed his lips reflectively. “The eye of your enemy sits spread-legged over your left shoulder-a foot soldier, we would say, no one higher up.”

“Now you’re involved,” Bourne said, nodding to where the other had put the money.

Alem’s father shrugged. “I am unconcerned. I know this man; I know his people. Nothing evil will come of me talking to you, believe me.”

“I want him off my back,” Bourne said. “I want the eye to sleep.”

“Of course you do.” Zaim rubbed his chin. “Anything can be arranged, even such a difficult wish.”

Bourne slid over more money, and Zaim nodded, apparently satisfied, at least for the moment. He reminded Bourne of a Vegas slot machine: He wasn’t going to stop taking money from Bourne until Bourne walked away.

“Wait exactly three minutes-no more, no less-then follow me out the front door.” Zaim stood.

“Walk a hundred paces down the main street, then turn left into an alley, then take the first right. Of course, I cannot risk being seen to help you in this. In any event, I trust you’ll know what to do. Afterward you’ll walk away without retracing your steps. I’ll find you.”

There’s a message for you,” Peter Marks said when Soraya returned to Typhon to clean out her desk.

“You take it, Pete,” she said dully. “I’ve been bounced out of here.”

“What the hell-?”

“The acting director has spoken.”

“He’s gonna kill everything that Lindros wanted Typhon to be.”

“That seems to be the idea.”

As she was about to turn away, he took hold of her arm, swung her back. He was a young man, stocky, with deep-set eyes, hair the color of corn, a faint dry Nebraska twang. “Soraya, I just want to say for me-well, for all of us, really-no one blames you for what happened to Tim. Shit happens. In this business it’s, unfortunately, all really bad.”

Soraya took a breath, let it out slowly. “Thanks, Pete. I appreciate that.”

“I figured you’d been beating yourself up for letting Bourne run roughshod all over you and Tim.”

She was silent for a moment, unsure what she was feeling. “It wasn’t Bourne,” she said at last,

“and it wasn’t me. It just happened, Pete. That’s all.”

“Sure, okay. I only meant that, you know, Bourne is another outsider forced on us by the Old Man. Like that sonovabitch Lerner. If you ask me, the Old Man’s losing his grip.”

“Not my worry anymore,” Soraya said, beginning to move toward her office.

“But this message-”

“Come on, Pete. Handle it yourself.”

“But it’s marked urgent.” He held it out. “It’s from Kim Lovett.”

After Zaim left, Bourne went into the WC, which stank like the inside of a zoo. Using the Thuraya phone, he checked in with Davis.

“I have new intel that the site is being watched,” he said. “So keep a sharp lookout.”

“You, too,” Davis said. “There’s a weather front moving in.”

“I know. Is our exit strategy going to be compromised?”

“Don’t worry,” Davis assured him. “I’ll take care of things on this end.”

Exiting the filthy pit, Bourne paid his bill at the bar. Under cover of the transaction, he caught a glimpse of the “eye of his enemy,” as Zaim called him, and knew at once that he was Amhara. The man didn’t bother lowering his gaze, instead glowered at Bourne with undisguised enmity. This was his territory, after all. He was confident on his home ground and, under normal circumstances, would have every right to be.

Bourne, who’d started the three-minute clock running in his head the moment Zaim had walked out the door, realized it was time to go. He chose a path that took him directly past the Eye. He was gratified to see the man’s muscles bunch up in tension as he neared. His left hand went to his right hip, to whatever weapon he had there out of Bourne’s sight. Bourne knew then what was required of him.

He went out of the bar. As he silently measured off the hundred paces, he became aware that the Eye had followed him out onto the street. Quickening the pace so that his tail would have to hurry to catch up, he reached the corner Zaim had described to him and turned left without warning into a narrow alley clogged with snow. Almost immediately he saw the next right, and rounded it at a brisk clip.

He’d only taken two steps when he turned around, flattened himself against the icy wall, and waited until the Eye came into view. Bourne grabbed him, slammed him against the corner of the building so that his teeth clacked together sharply. A blow to the side of the head rendered him unconscious.

A moment later Zaim darted lopsidedly into the alley. “Quickly now!” he said breathlessly. “There are two others I hadn’t counted on.”

He led Bourne to the nearest intersection of alleys, turned left. At once they found themselves on the outskirts of the village. The snow lay thickly, its crust brittle. Zaim was having difficulty negotiating the terrain, especially at the pace he had set. But quite soon they came to a ramshackle outbuilding behind which three horses stood grazing.

“How are you at bareback riding?” he said.

“I’ll manage.”

Bourne put his hand on the muzzle of a gray horse, looked him in the eye, then vaulted up. Leaning over, he grabbed Zaim above the elbow, assisted him onto a brown horse. Together they turned their steeds into the wind and took off at a canter.

The wind was rising. Bourne did not need to be a native to know that a storm was coming in from the northwest, laden with the bitter taste of serious snow. Davis was going to have a hell of a time digging the copter out. He’d have to, though; there was no other way to get off the mountain quickly.

Zaim was making directly for the tree line but, glancing behind him, Bourne saw that it was already too late. The riders-no doubt the two Amhara whom Zaim was worried about-were pounding along behind them, closing the gap.

Bourne, making a quick calculation, discovered that the Amhara would overtake them several hundred meters before they’d have a chance to lose themselves in the forest. Putting his head against the horse’s mane, he kicked it hard in the sides. The gray horse leapt forward, racing toward the trees. Startled for an instant, Zaim kneed his mount, taking off after Bourne.

Halfway there, Bourne realized they weren’t going to make it. Without another thought, he squeezed his knees against the horse’s flanks and jerked its mane to the right. Without breaking stride, the gray wheeled around, and before their pursuers had time to react Bourne was galloping full-out directly at them.