The Bourne Betrayal (39 page)

“Who or what?”

The
DCI
sliced into his eggs and neatly piled a third of a strip of bacon on top. “It has lately come to my attention through certain back channels that I have an enemy inside the Beltway.”

“After all these years,” Karim al-Jamil observed, “there has to be a list of some size.”

“Of course there is. But this one’s special. I ought to warn you to be exceedingly careful; he’s as powerful as they come.”

“I trust it’s not the president,” Karim al-Jamil said, joking.

“No, but damn close.” The Old Man was perfectly serious. “Secretary of Defense Ervin Reynolds Halliday, known as Bud to everyone who kisses his ass. I very much doubt he has anything approaching real friends.”

“Who does, in this town?”

The
DCI
emitted a rare chuckle. “Just so.” He stuffed the forkful of food into his mouth, transferred it to one cheek in order to continue talking. “But you and I, Martin, we’re friends. Close as, anyway. So this little deal is between us.”

“You can count on me, sir.”

“I know I can, Martin. The best thing I’ve done in the past decade is bring you along to the top of the CI ladder.”

“I appreciate your trust in me, sir.”

The
DCI
gave no indication he’d heard the other’s remark. “After Halliday and his faithful pit bull, LaValle, tried to ambush me in the War Room, I made some inquiries. What I’ve discovered is that the two of them have been quietly setting up parallel intelligence units. They’re moving into our turf.”

“Which means we have to stop them.”

The Old Man’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, it does, Martin. And unfortunately they’re making their overt move at the worst possible time: when Dujja is attempting a major attack.”

“Maybe that’s deliberate, sir.”

The
DCI
thought about the ambush in the War Room. There was no doubt that both Halliday and LaValle were trying to embarrass him in front of the president. He thought again of the president sitting back, watching the thrust and parry unfold. Was he already on the defense secretary’s side?

Did he want CI taken over by the Pentagon? The Old Man shuddered at the thought of the military in control of human intelligence. There was no telling what liberties LaValle and Halliday would take with their newfound power. There was a good reason for the separation of power of the Pentagon and CI. Without it, a police state was just a shot away.

“What are you looking for?”

“Dirt.” The
DCI
swallowed. “The more the merrier.”

Karim al-Jamil nodded. “I’ll need someone-”

“Anyone. Just say the name.”

“Anne Held.”

The
DCI
was taken aback. “My Anne Held?” He shook his head. “Choose someone else.”

“You said discreet. I can’t use an agent. It’s Anne or nothing.”

The
DCI
eyed him to see if he could spot the hint of a bluff. Apparently, he couldn’t. “Done,” he conceded.

“Now tell me about Matthew Lerner.”

The Old Man looked him in the eye. “It’s Bourne.”

After a long, awkward moment during which all that could be heard was the whirring of wheels propelled by twelve tiny gerbil feet, Karim al-Jamil said quietly, “What does Jason Bourne have to do with Matthew Lerner?”

The
DCI
put down his knife and fork. “I know what Bourne has meant to you, Martin. You have a certain, though inexplicable, rapport with him. But the simple fact is that he’s the worst kind of poison for CI. Consequently, I’ve dispatched Matthew Lerner to terminate him.”

For a moment, Karim al-Jamil could not believe what he was hearing. The
DCI
had sent an assassin to kill Bourne? To take from him and his brother the satisfaction of a long-held and meticulously plotted revenge? No. He wouldn’t have it.

The killing rage-what his father had called the Desert Wind-took possession of his heart, heated it, beat it down until it was like a forged blade. All that could be discerned of this grave inner turmoil was the briefest flare of his nostrils-which in any event his companion, having taken up his cutlery, failed to notice.

Karim al-Jamil cut into his eggs, watched the yolks run. One of them had a blood spot on its glassy surface.

“That was a radical move,” he said when he was in full control of his emotions. “I told you I’d severed him.”

“I thought about it and decided it wasn’t the proper solution.”

“You should have come to me.”

“You’d only have tried to talk me out of it,” the
DCI
said briskly. Clearly he was pleased with how well he’d handled a tricky situation. “Now it’s too late. You can’t stop it, Martin, so don’t even try.”

He wiped his lips. “The good of the group supersedes the desires of the individual. You know that as well as anyone.”

Karim al-Jamil considered the extreme danger of what the
DCI
had set in motion. In addition to being a threat to their personal revenge, Lerner’s presence in the field was a wild card, one that he and Fadi hadn’t taken into consideration. The altered scenario menaced the execution of their plan. He had learned from Fadi-via a scrambled channel piggybacked onto CI’s own overseas communications-that he had knifed Bourne. If not dealt with, Lerner could become aware of this, and he’d quite naturally become interested in finding out the identity of who had done it. Alternatively, if he discovered that Bourne had already been killed, he’d want to know who the killer was. Either way, it would lead to dangerous complications.

Pushing back from the table, Karim al-Jamil said, “Have you considered the possibility of Bourne killing Lerner?”

“I brought Lerner aboard because of his rep.” The Old Man picked up his cup, saw the that tea had gone cold, set it back down. “They don’t make men like him anymore. He’s a born killer.”

So is Bourne, Karim al-Jamil thought with a bitterness that burned like acid.

Soraya, noticing the drip of fresh blood on the car seat, said, “It looks as if you popped a stitch or two. You’re never going to make it without immediate medical attention.”

“Forget it,” Bourne said. “We both need to get out of here now. The police cordon is only going to draw tighter.” He looked around the port. “Besides, where am I going to get medical attention here?”

“The port maintains a Polyclinic.”

Soraya drove through Ilyichevsk and parked at the side of a three-story building, next to the latemodel Skoda Octavia RS. She was aware of how badly Bourne winced as he got out of the car.

“We’d better use the side entrance.”

“That’s not going to take care of security,” he said. Opening up the lining of his coat, he took out a small packet sealed in plastic. Ripping it open, he produced another set of ID documents. He leafed through them briefly, though on the plane ride he’d memorized all the documents Deron had forged for him. “My name is Mykola Petrovich Tuz. I’m a lieutenant general in
DZND
, the SBU’s Department for National Statehood Protection and Combating Terrorism.” He came up to her, took her arm. “Here’s the drill. You’re my prisoner. A Chechnyan terrorist.”

“In that case,” Soraya said, “I’d better put this cloth over my head.”

“No one will even look at you, let alone ask you questions,” Bourne said. “They’ll be dead afraid of you.”

He opened the door and pushed her rudely ahead of him. Almost at once an orderly called for a security guard.

Bourne held out his
DZND
credentials. “Lieutenant General Tuz,” he said brusquely. “I’ve been knifed, and am in need of a doctor.” He saw the guard’s eyes slide toward Soraya. “She’s my prisoner. A Chechnyan suicide bomber.”

The security guard, his face drained of color, nodded. “This way, Lieutenant General.”

He spoke into his walkie-talkie, then led them down several corridors into a spare examination room typical of hospital ERs.

He indicated the examination table. “I’ve contacted the Polyclinic’s administrator. Make yourself comfortable, Lieutenant General.” Clearly unnerved by both Bourne’s status and Soraya’s presence, he drew his pistol. Aimed it at Soraya. “Stand over there, so the lieutenant general can be seen to.”

Bourne let go of Soraya’s arm, giving her an almost imperceptible nod. She went to the corner of the room and sat on a metal-legged chair as the guard tried to keep an eye on her without actually looking at her face.

A lieutenant general in
SBU
,” the Polyclinic administrator said from behind his desk. “This can’t be your man.”

“We’ll be the judge of that,” Matthew Lerner said in passable Russian.

Dr. Pavlyna shot him a wicked look before turning to the administrator. “You did say he’s suffering from a knife wound.”

The administrator nodded. “That’s what I’ve been told.”

Dr. Pavlyna rose. “Then I think I should see him.”

“We’ll both go,” Lerner said. He’d been standing near the door, a kind of invisible electricity coming off him in waves, like a racehorse in the starting gate.

“That wouldn’t be wise.” The deliberateness with which Dr. Pavlyna said this held significant emphasis for Lerner.

“I agree.” The administrator got up and came around his desk. “If the patient really is who he says he is, I’ll take the brunt of the breach in protocol.”

“Nevertheless,” Lerner said. “I’m going to accompany the doctor.”

“You’ll force me to call security,” the administrator said sternly. “The lieutenant general won’t know who you are or why you’re there. In fact, he could order you held or even shot. I won’t have anything like that in my facility.”

“Stay here,” Dr. Pavlyna said. “I’ll call you as soon as I’ve determined his identity.”

Lerner said nothing as Dr. Pavlyna and the administrator left the office, but he had no intention of cooling his heels while the doctor took charge. She had no idea why he was in Odessa, why he was after Jason Bourne. He didn’t for a minute believe that the patient was anyone but Bourne. A lieutenant general of the Ukrainian secret police here with a knife wound in his side? No chance.

He wasn’t going to allow Dr. Pavlyna to fuck things up. The first thing she would tell Bourne was that Lerner had been dispatched from D.C. to find him. That would set off instant alarm bells in Bourne’s head. He’d be gone before Lerner could get to him. And this time, he’d be far more difficult to locate.

The immediate problem was that he didn’t know where the patient was. He went out the door, accosted the first person he saw, asked where the lieutenant general was being treated. The young woman pointed the way. He thanked her and walked on down the corridor with such concentration that he failed to see her pick up the receiver of an intraclinic phone on the wall, asking to speak to the administrator.

Good afternoon, Lieutenant General. I’m Dr. Pavlyna,” she said the moment she entered the examination room. To the administrator, she added, “This is not our man.”

Bourne, sitting on the examination table, saw nothing in her eye to tell him she was lying, but when he saw her glance over at Soraya, he said, “Stay away from my prisoner, Doctor. She’s dangerous.”

“Please lie back, Lieutenant General.” As Bourne complied, Dr. Pavlyna donned surgeon’s gloves, slit open Bourne’s bloody shirt, and began to peel back the bloody bandage. “Is she the one who gave you the knife wound?”

“Yes,” Bourne said.

She palpated around the wound, judging Bourne’s pain level. “Whoever sutured you did a first-rate job.” She looked into Bourne’s eyes. “Unfortunately, you’ve been a bit too active. I’ll have to resuture the part that’s torn open.”

On cue, the administrator showed her where the paraphernalia was, opening the locked cupboard where the drugs were stored. She selected a box from the second shelf, counted out fourteen pills, wrapped them in a twist of sturdy paper. “Also, I want you to take this. One twice a day for a week. It’s a powerful wide-spectrum antibiotic to guard against infection. Please take them all.”

Bourne accepted the packet, stowed it away.

Dr. Pavlyna brought a bottle of liquid disinfectant, gauze pads, a needle, and suture material to the table. Then she loaded up a syringe.

“What’s that?” Bourne said warily.

“Anesthesia.” She inserted the needle into his side, depressed the plunger. Once again, her eyes caught Bourne’s. “Don’t worry, Lieutenant General, it’s just a local. It’ll take the pain away but will in no way impair your physical or mental acuity.”

As she began the procedure, the phone on the wall burred discreetly. The administrator picked up the receiver and listened for a moment. “All right, I understand. Thank you, Nurse.” He put back the receiver.

“Dr. Pavlyna,” he said. “It seems your friend couldn’t contain his impatience. He’s on his way here.” He went to the door. “I’ll take care of him.” Then he slipped out.

“What friend?” Bourne said.

“Nothing to worry about, Lieutenant General,” Dr. Pavlyna said. She gave him another significant look. “A friend of yours from headquarters.”

On his way to the room where the patient was being treated, Lerner passed three examination rooms. He took the time to peer into each one. Having determined that they were identical, he memorized the layout: where the examining table was, chairs, cabinets, sink . . . Knowing Bourne’s reputation, he didn’t think he’d get more than one chance to blow his brains out.

He took out his Glock, screwing the silencer onto the end of the barrel. He would have preferred not to use it, because it cut down on both the range and the accuracy of the gun. But in this environment he didn’t have a choice. If he was to accomplish his mission and get out of the building alive, he had to kill Bourne in the quietest way possible. From the moment the
DCI
had given him his assignment, he knew he’d never be able to torture intel out of him-not in a hostile environment, and possibly not at all. Besides, the best way to take Bourne out was to kill him as quickly and efficiently as possible, giving him no possibility of a counterattack.

At that moment, the administrator rounded the corner up ahead, carrying a disapproving look on his face.