Robert Ludlum's the Bourne Imperative (22 page)

Halevy sighed, longing for a shwarma whose delicious muttony grease he could dribble over a pile of Israeli couscous. He hated the Nordic countries—Sweden in particular. He hated their women, blond, blue-eyed, upholding the abhorrent Aryan ideal of the superman. There wasn’t a Swedish runway model he didn’t feel compelled to kick in her perfect, chiseled face. Give him a dark-skinned, darkhaired Amazon with Mediterranean features any day.

He was still enmeshed in these sour thoughts when he saw the late-model Volvo draw up to the building under his surveillance. Rebeka stepped out, crossing the pavement to the front door. He was about to emerge from his car when he saw Bourne striding after her.

Why the hell are they still together?
he asked himself.
She’s working with him?
He ground his teeth in fury and sat back against the seat, forcing himself to wait. A familiar state for him, but sometimes, as now, it maintained its power to drive him crazy.

Along the E4 motorway, Christien turned off into a fast-food and gas lay-by. Since stopping off briefly at Rebeka’s apartment, they had been heading steadily north out of Gamla Stan, where Christien had picked them up. Bourne wondered where they were going.

Sovard, the bodyguard-messenger, handed a slim packet to his boss as soon as he had parked in a spot away from other cars.

“Two tickets,” Christien said, handing the packet to Bourne.

Rebeka accepted hers with a certain reluctance. “Where to?”

Fishing an iPad out of Sovard’s briefcase, Christien used the touch screen to access a video. “In this instance, Sweden’s fetish for surveillance has served us well,” he observed.

The three of them watched a video that had obviously been quickly and roughly spliced together from several fixed CCTV cameras at various locations. In the beginning there was nothing of much interest: a swath of tarmac, overalled workers with ear-dampening headphones in small motorized carts heading back and forth. Arlanda airport.

Then, in a flurry of activity, a sudden backwash sent people scurrying. A moment later, the disguised SteelTrap copter descended into view, settling onto the ground. Almost immediately, the side door slid back and three men clambered down. One of them was clearly Harry Rowland. He hustled between the two men, moving left to right, vanishing out of camera range.

Jump-cut to another camera in another area of the airport. Three men were seen hustling across the tarmac. Though the view was from farther away, it was clear from their gait that these were the same three men from the SteelTrap copter. A long-range private jet was waiting for them. An immigration official checked their passports, stamped them, and nodded them up the mobile stairs.

Another jump-cut, this time a different angle on the same scene, closer up, probably through a telephoto lens, judging by the jittery images. One by one, the men bent down, disappearing into the belly of the jet.

A final jump-cut to the jet rolling down the runway, gathering speed. When it lifted off out of the frame, Christien stopped the video and stowed the iPad.

“The pilot was required to file a flight plan with the tower at Arlanda. The plane is headed to Mexico City via Barcelona.” Christien smiled. “It so happens that Maceo Encarnación, the president of SteelTrap, has his main residence in Mexico City.”

“Nice work,” Bourne acknowledged.

Christien nodded. “Your AeroMexico flight will be following virtually the same route as the SteelTrap jet, but they’ll have a two-hour head start. Jason, I know you have a passport. Rebeka?” 

“Don’t leave home without it,” she said with a wry smile. 

He nodded. “Good. We’re set then.”

Putting the Volvo in gear, he rolled out of the lay-by, back onto the E4, heading for the Arlanda airport.

Sovard was on his way back from security, to which he had accompanied Christien’s VIP guests when a man asked him for the time. The moment he glanced at his watch, he felt an immense pain at the nape of his neck. As he pitched forward, the man caught him under the arms and half-dragged him into an airline lost-luggage office. It was currently unlighted and unmanned, beyond its hours of operation. In his current semi-paralyzed state, Sovard had no idea how he had gotten into the locked office. In any event, he was set down against a pile of suitcases, duffel bags, and backpacks. His equilibrium shot, he teetered. As he did so, he caught a glimpse of the livid scars on the man’s neck. When he tried to right himself, the man delivered a massive blow to both ears that caused Sovard’s eyes to roll up in their sockets. He felt sick, incapable of stringing two thoughts together, let alone trying to figure a way out of his imprisonment.

“I have little time.” The man touched Sovard on a nerve bundle behind his right ear, and a firework of pain exploded in Sovard’s brain. “Where are they going?”

Sovard stared up at him blankly. A sliver of drool escaped the corner of his mouth, discolored his shirt. It was pinkish with his own blood.

“I will only ask you one more time.” Again, the Babylonian used only one finger, this time stopping the flow of blood through Sovard’s carotid artery, then released it. “You have ten seconds to answer my question. After that, I will bring you to the point of unconsciousness, over and over until you beg me to kill you. Frankly, I’d like that, but I’m thinking altruistically, I’m thinking of you.”

He repeated the procedure twice more before Sovard lifted a trembling hand. He’d had enough. The Babylonian leaned forward. Sovard opened his mouth and spoke two words.

Eighty minutes later, Bourne and Rebeka were settling into their first-class seats, accepting hot towels and flutes of champagne from the flight attendant.

“Feel nostalgic?” Bourne said, his gaze following the attendant back down the aisle.

Rebeka laughed. “Not at all. My life as a flight attendant seems like a lifetime ago.”

Bourne stared out the window as the crew made its last-minute preparations, then they strapped themselves in. The massive engines revved as the jet taxied toward the head of the runway. Over the intercom the captain announced that the plane was number two for takeoff.

“Jason,” she said softly, “what are you thinking?”

It was the first time she had called him anything but Bourne. That made him turn toward her. There was a softness—almost a vulnerability—in her eyes he hadn’t seen before.

“Nothing.”

She watched him for a moment. “Do you ever ask yourself whether it’s time to get out?”

“Get out of what?”

“Don’t do that. You know. The great game.”

“And do what?”

“Find an island in the sun, kick back, drink a beer, eat fresh-caught fish, make love, sleep.”

The plane slowed, turning onto the runway, strings of yellow lights running away in front of it.

“And then?”

“Then,” she said, “do it all over again the next day.”

“You’re joking.”

There was a silence, broken by the soft push forward as the brakes came off, and the jet hurtled down the runway. They lifted off, the wheels retracted, they rose higher.

Rebeka put her head back against the seat and closed her eyes. “Of course I’m joking.”

During the meal service, she pushed away her tray, unsnapped her seat belt, rose, and went forward, standing out of the flight attendants’ way. When she made no move to use the restroom after the occupied light flicked off and a middle-aged woman emerged, Bourne followed her. A sense of melancholy, sharp as the scent of burning leaves, seemed to have enveloped her.

They stood side by side, shoulders pressed together in the cramped space. Neither of them spoke until Rebeka said, “Have you been to Mexico City?”

“Once that I can remember.”

She had wrapped herself in the protection of her own arms. “It’s a fucking snake pit. A gorgeous snake pit, admittedly, but a snake pit nonetheless.”

“It’s gotten worse in the last five years.”

“The cartels are no longer underground since they’ve integrated with the Colombians. There’s so much money that all the right officials, even the police, are in on the action. The drug trade is out of control. It’s threatening to inundate the entire country, and the government doesn’t have either the will or the inclination to stem the rising tide. Anyway, any time someone in authority pops up trying to take charge, he gets his head lopped off.”

“Not much incentive to swim against the tide.”

“Unless you’re swinging the hammer of God.”

Another silence descended, as if from the high, clear sky through which they were flying. Bourne listened to her soft, even breathing, as if he were lying in bed next to her. Despite this, he was acutely aware of how separate from her—from everyone—he felt. And, abruptly, he understood what she was trying to get out of him. Was he incapable of feeling any deep emotion about anyone? It seemed to him now that each death, each parting he had memory of, had inoculated him over and over, until he was now fully anaesthetized, incapable of doing anything more meaningful than putting one foot in front of the other in the darkness. There was no escape for him, and Rebeka knew it. That was why she had brought up the notion of an island in the sun. Leaving the darkness behind was not an option for him. He had spent so many years negotiating its mysterious byways that he would only be blinded in the sunlight. This realization, he understood, was what had saddened her, wrapping her in melancholy. Whether it was because she had seen herself in him or because she actually desired the exile for herself remained to be seen.

“We should go back to our seats,” he said.

She nodded distractedly. They left the bathroom and went back down the aisle. That was when he saw Ilan Halevy, the narrow brim of a hat pulled low, sitting in the last row of first class, reading a copy of the
Financial Times
. The Babylonian looked up over the rim of the newspaper, delivering a wicked grin.

"WHAT D’YOU MEAN I can’t see her?”

“She’s crashing, Charles.” Delia put her hands against his chest, pushing Thorne back from the recovery room.

He stood against the wall as doctors and nurses pushing stainless steel carts hurried past.

He followed them with his eyes. His mouth was half open and he seemed to have trouble breathing. “What’s happening, Delia?” 

“I don’t know.”

“You were in there.” His restless gaze lit on her. “You must know 
something
.”

“We were talking and she just collapsed. That’s all I know.” 

“The baby.” He licked his lips. “What about the baby?” 

Delia reared back. “Ah, now I get it.”

“What d’you mean?”

“Why you’re here. I get it. It’s the baby.”

Thorne appeared confused—or was that alarm on his face? “What are you talking—”

“If the baby dies, all your troubles die with it.”

He came off the wall, his eyes blazing. “Where the hell do you come off—?”

“The baby dies and you don’t have problems with Ann, do you? No explanations needed, it’s as if the baby never existed, your affair with Soraya a distant memory, far away from the press and the bloggers, looking for dirt twenty-four–seven.”

“You’re nuts, you know that? I care about Soraya. Deeply. Why can’t you accept that?”

“Because you’re a cynical, self-centered sonofabitch.” Thorne took a breath, gathering himself. His eyes narrowed. “You know, I thought we could be friends.”

“You mean you thought you could recruit me.” She produced a steely laugh. “Fuck off.”

Turning her back on him, Delia went to talk to Dr. Santiago as he emerged from Soraya’s room.

“How is she?”

“Stable,” Dr. Santiago said. “She’s being moved to the ICU.” Delia was aware that Thorne had come up behind her. She could almost hear him listening. 

“What happened?”

“A slight blockage developed at the surgical site. Rare, but it happens sometimes. We’ve cleared it and we’re giving her a low dose of

blood thinner. We’ll try to get her off it as soon as we deem it safe.” 

“Safe for her,” Delia said. “What about what’s safe for the baby?” 

“Ms. Moore is our primary patient, her life takes precedence. Besides, the fetus—”

“Her baby,” Delia said.

Dr. Santiago regarded her enigmatically for a moment. “Right. Excuse me.”

Delia, melancholy and forlorn, watched him disappear down the hallway.

Thorne sighed. “Now I see how it is between you and me, I’ll lay my cards on the table.”

“When will you learn I don’t give a shit about your cards?” 

“I’m wondering whether Amy will feel the same way.” 

Delia spun on him. “What did you say?”

“You heard me.” The challenge in his voice was unmistakable. “I have transcripts of your voicemails with Amy Brandt.”

“What?”

“Surprised? It’s a simple hack. We use a software program that imitates caller ID. It’s how we can gain access to your mobile phone—

anyone’s, really—and bypass the password protection.”

“So you have—”

“Every message you and Amy have left for each other.” He could not hide a smirk. “Some of it’s pretty hot.”

She slapped him across the face so hard he rocked back on his heels.

“You hit like a guy, you know that?”

“How the hell d’you live with yourself?”

He laughed thinly. “It’s a dirty job, but someone’s got to do it.” She eyed him warily. “If you have a point, make it.”

“We each have something on the other.” He shrugged. “Just something to remember.”

“I don’t care—”

“But Amy does, doesn’t she? In her line of work she has to be careful. A shitload of parents don’t like their kids being taught by a lesbian.”

Delia thought of several choice things to say, but at that moment a pair of grim-faced nurses wheeled Soraya out of recovery, past them, down the hall to the ICU. There was silence for a time after that. 

“So there’s our truce,” Thorne said, “laid out for you.” 

Delia turned back to him. “Did you ever care about Soraya, even for a moment?”

“She’s a hellcat in bed.”

“What’s the matter? Ann’s not enough for you?”

“Ann has sex with her job. Otherwise she’s a cold fish.”