Robert Ludlum's (TM) The Bourne Ascendancy (34 page)

B
orz took Aashir
by the elbow. “Come with me.”

The living area of the warehouse had a narrow catwalk that had once been the province of the supervisor overseeing loading and unloading, but was now rarely used. It was separated from the living area by a thin composite-board wall and a door a rat could waltz through.

When they were out on the catwalk, Borz turned to Aashir. “Yusuf has taught you to shoot the long gun.”

Aashir nodded. “He has.”

“You’re confident in your aim.”

“I am.”

“In killing people.”

“I have done so for you, Borz, have I not?”

The Chechen nodded. “That you have, and very well indeed. You handled the Taliban without fear. Today, you will need all that calmness and courage, Aashir, because once we get inside the Thoroughbred Club you’re not staying with the cadre. I have a special assignment for you, one no one else can know about.”

His gaze studied the young man’s face as if it were a specimen in a killing jar. “I’m trusting you with this assignment, Aashir.” He closed the distance between them. “Am I right in trusting you?”

“You know you are,” Aashir answered.

For a long moment Borz kept up his scrutiny of the young man’s face. Then, as if satisfied, he gave a curt nod. “Bombs are mechanical,” he said. “They sometimes don’t work, or don’t work properly. That’s where you come in. We’re leaving nothing to chance. Our intel is that all the dignitaries will be sitting in the presidential box for the second race.” A cynical smile stole across his face like a sneak thief, and was gone. “The ruling family’s horse will be running in it, and if the past is any guide it will win it.” He closed the distance again, lowered his voice to just above a whisper. “Because the ruling family will be in attendance, each race will go off at exactly the scheduled time, so everything we do has been planned out in advance, timed to precision. I will show you where to go. You’re going to be given the long gun and a roost from which to shoot. You’ll be directly across from the presidential box, far enough so the detonation will not reach you. But your role is essential, you understand?”

Aashir nodded. “Why isn’t Yusuf being given the long gun? He’s the real expert. Don’t you trust him?”

Borz sighed. “Of course I trust him; he saved my life in Waziristan. But I don’t know him the way I knew Furuque. You have been with me for some time. You’re a natural; you’re as good a shot as he is.”

He leaned in. “No one who enters the presidential box will leave it alive. That will be up to you, Aashir. Anyone left alive after the bomb goes off—or if it fails to detonate—you shoot him dead. The American president first, then the Palestinian, then the Singaporean.”

“And then the Israeli?” Aashir said into the small silence.

“The Israeli?”

“Have you forgotten, Borz? The prime minister of Israel.”

“No,” Borz said. “I haven’t forgotten him. An urgent call will summon him at the precise moment. He won’t be in the box when the bomb is detonated.”

So that’s El Ghadan’s plan, Bourne thought. Assassinate the heads of state, scuttle the peace process for all time, and blame it on the Israelis. The resulting worldwide outcry might well spell the end of Israel. An ear to the composite-board wall delivered the conversation on the catwalk as if he were out there with Borz and Aashir. But there was a further aspect to the plan he hadn’t told Aashir. Of course he hadn’t.

Bourne opened the door, stepped out onto the catwalk.

Borz turned. “Yusuf, what do you want? This is a private conversation.”

“Well, it was.” Bourne came toward the two men. “Why don’t you tell Aashir what his real role in the plan is?”

“You overheard?”

“That wall wouldn’t stop a rubber bullet,” Bourne said.

Borz’s eyes were slitted. He was fairly shaking with rage. “No, no, you deliberately listened in.”

“To protect Aashir.”

“I’ve had enough of your interference. Aashir is off-limits,” Borz said.

Bourne ignored him. “Aashir, listen to me—”

The Chechen leapt at Bourne, a knife in his left hand. Bourne evaded the first strike, struck at Borz’s wrist. The blade, only partially deflected, scored a line down the inside of Bourne’s right forearm, where blood immediately welled.

Out of the corner of his eye Bourne saw Aashir step in. He hit Borz on the side of the jaw, a clumsy blow that nevertheless twisted Borz’s head and enraged him. Slamming his shoulder into Bourne, Borz grabbed on to the front of Aashir’s uniform and jerked him forward, butting him with his bony forehead, them shoving him back against the railing so hard that Aashir bounced off and right into a powerful blow to the gut. As he doubled over, Borz grasped his head. He was about to pound it into the railing when Bourne buried a fist in his kidney.

Borz’s face screwed up, his torso jackknifed, and Bourne struck down his grip on Aashir. As the young man collapsed onto the catwalk, Bourne drove his knuckles hard into Borz’s ribs. Borz gasped, but still managed to stamp hard on Bourne’s instep, then deliver a one-two combination to his midsection.

Out came the bloodied knife again. He slashed inside, going for Bourne’s throat, and for a moment the two of them were very close, in a kind of tense stasis. Borz’s lips were against Bourne’s ear. “You’re fucked now, Yusuf,” he whispered. He brought his elbow against Bourne’s throat, dug it in with a vicious strength. “Lose all hope, you who enter here.”

He bent Bourne back over the railing and swept inward with the knife blade. But Bourne had worked his hands to the inside. They were now in the narrow space between his body and Borz’s. Grabbing the Chechen’s belt, he lifted him off his feet, lifted him up over his own body. Borz’s elbow was caught between the two men’s chests. He frantically tried to shift it, but Bourne blocked him, and seconds later, the elbow cracked. Bourne heard the joint go with the sound of a rifle shot.

Borz lost control of the knife as he struggled to free himself, but he was too far off the catwalk, his center of balance was too high. He was tipping over. With one last effort, he freed the knife with his good arm, tried to stab Bourne, but it was too late. He had lost his balance, he had no leverage, no power behind the strike.

Then he was upside down, raised by Bourne’s powerful arms, delivered into the air. He seemed to hang for a moment at the level of the catwalk’s railing. He flung out his arms in a vain attempt to grab on, then plummeted down onto the concrete floor of the warehouse.

His skull hit first, broke open like a ripe melon, blood and brains spilling out. Then his spine fractured as the rest of him struck the floor.

Bourne immediately knelt by Aashir’s side, gathered him in his arms. Blood leaked from Aashir’s nose and he was going in and out of consciousness until Bourne slapped his cheeks, bringing color to them and blood back into his face.

“Are you all right?” Aashir asked.

Bourne laughed. “I should be asking you that.” He grasped Aashir under the arms. “Let’s get you up.”

Aashir, struggling with his balance, leaned against the railing, holding tight. Then he looked around. “Where’s Borz?”

“He went over the side,” Bourne said. “He’s dead.”

“In fact, that’s not true.”

They turned to see that Musa had appeared on the catwalk. His eyes stared straight at Bourne. “You killed the wrong man, Yusuf. That was Nazyr, one of my lieutenants. He was in charge of the Waziristan cadre.”

“One of your lieutenants?” Aashir looked bewildered.

“Musa is the real Borz,” Bourne said. “But I’m wondering why you would want Nazyr to impersonate you?”

“Security.” Borz smiled. “The Mahsud are no different than any other Waziri tribe. They have given me no good reason to trust them. If my deal with them goes sideways I’m not there to take the fallout.”

He shrugged. “Not that any of it matters. Furuque was supposed to be our sniper at the Thoroughbred Club. Then you took over. But the moment you killed Nazyr you betrayed me and this cadre.”

Aashir threw up his hands. “Wait! What are you saying?”

There was a small, easily concealed .25 caliber pistol in Borz’s right hand, and before anyone had a chance to react or even utter another word, he shot Bourne twice in the chest.

Holstering the gun, he glanced at Aashir. “Does that answer your question?”

W
hen Camilla arrived
at the Singapore Thoroughbred Club with Ohrent she found it much changed. For one thing masses of flowers were everywhere. For another, a colossal specially made construct of the Singapore merlion, the half-land, half-sea beast, symbol of the city-state, had been erected in the center of the main racing oval. For still another, the club was chockablock with security personnel from the three visiting countries. Not to mention that the complement of Singaporean security personal had been beefed up to three times its usual size.

In other words, the place was alive with new faces and activity, even around the stables, which, predictably, was making the horses nervous.

Opening Jessuetta’s stall door, Camilla did her best with voice and hands to calm her to a race-ready state. That was more than could be said for Camilla herself, who had been so unnerved by the events of the previous night, she watched herself as if through someone else’s eyes. With mounting horror, she witnessed her hands trembling as she sought to gentle Jessuetta. Who will gentle me? she asked herself. But there was no one; she was entirely on her own in the field, without backup or a local control she could trust.

“I’m going to take her out for a walk around the track,” she said when Ohrent appeared at the stall.

“You don’t have much time until the weigh-in. When the ruling family is in attendance everything runs like clockwork, not a minute late.”

“Once around the stables paddock. She’s too het up to stay here.”

As she slipped the bit into Jessuetta’s mouth and slid the bridle over her face, Ohrent said in a low voice, “Camilla, come out here for a moment.”

She looked at him, at the grave expression on his face.

He led her into the deep shadows of a far corner, held out a throwing knife in a slim sheath. “Do you know how to use this?”

She nodded.

Ohrent stepped around behind her, fitted the knife between the skin of the small of her back and the waist of her jeans. He came back around, gave her a thin smile.

She studied him. “What really happened last night?”

“Ask me no questions,” Ohrent said, so softly she had to lean in to be sure she heard him.

Camilla was reminded of the parable of the man who always tells the truth and the man who always lies. How do you tell them apart?

Bourne, who had been on his stomach since being shot by Borz, rolled over, pulled himself up to a sitting position, back braced against the catwalk railing. For a moment he stared at the smear of blood on the catwalk where he had bled from the wound Nazyr’s knife had scored along his arm. He needn’t have bothered, since Borz had ducked inside almost immediately, drawn by a mobile phone call. Aashir, with a look over his shoulder at Bourne, had trailed after him. Within minutes after that, the cadre had cleared out of the warehouse.

Deep pains ricocheted through his chest with every movement he made, so he stopped, spent the next several moments concentrating on deep breathing, to reoxygenate his system. Trauma and shock robbed you of what you needed most.

He looked around for a weapon, but someone—probably Borz—had scooped up Nazyr’s fallen knife. Then he pushed two fingers through the bullet holes in his uniform tunic. Unbuttoning it revealed an aramid vest—lightweight body armor he had been wearing since Zizzy had brought him his belongings out of the hotel room in Damascus.

Reaching down, Bourne pulled out the two .25 caliber bullets, flattened now, from the fabric of the body armor. He dropped them on the catwalk, grimaced as he at last stood up. His chest felt as if he had gone fifteen rounds with a heavyweight boxer.

He staggered into the living area. He had to find a spare tunic, one that wasn’t torn apart by bullet holes, otherwise he’d never get through security at the Thoroughbred Club.

The morning, clear and blue as a marble, was scorching by the time Borz and his cadre reached the service entrance to the Thoroughbred Club in the vehicle that had been provided for them. He had meant to station members of the cadre across the street from all the entrances to the club, to shoot patrons at random as they fled, but that was only a peripheral part of the theater. Considering the main objective of the plan, that detail would not be missed. It still would be theater on the grandest of scales.

Ivan Borz had assured him as much. He had been in contact with the real Ivan Borz, safe and sound in his headquarters, a heavily fortified medieval castle overlooking the Caspian Sea, from which he directed all his business. Borz never ventured far outside the Makhachkala area, except on his ninety-eight-foot yacht. He was something of a hermit, possibly even an agoraphobe. Musa—for that was the pilot’s real name—was another of Borz’s trusted lieutenants. He had been with Borz for over a decade, had bloodied his sword—so to speak—in numerous forays for his boss.

Showing their provided ID tags, the cadre passed through security without incident, though the heightened extent of it was perfectly clear. Inside the Thoroughbred Club complex, Musa gave his final instructions to the five members of his cadre and, with a map, sent them on their way.

Then he turned to Aashir, took him in the opposite direction, toward the side of the racetrack opposite the presidential box. The target area was at this moment devoid of anyone save members of the various national security agencies. The rest of the stands were already packed, as the first race was about to begin, and the betting had been fast and furious, as befitting a day when the ruling family was attending.

On the way to the sniper’s roost, Musa drew Aashir aside. “Are you certain you’re up to this?” he asked.

“Of course I am. Why would you ask that?”

“You became close to Yusuf during his time here, but I tell you the man was not to be trusted. It’s far better for everyone that he’s dead.”

Aashir nodded. He was holding a metal container, which contained the long gun, broken down into three sections.

They had attained the service stairs at the rear of the stands. “When you reach the top of the stairs—”

“I’ve memorized the blueprint.”

“When you reach the top of the stairs,” Musa repeated, undeterred, “do you turn left or right?”

“Left,” Aashir said. “Until I reach the vertical ladder. Then up that. The roost will be ten feet away on my right.”

Musa’s dark gaze bored into him. “All right, then.” He slapped him on the shoulder. “May Allah grant you success.”

He watched Aashir until he was out of sight. Then he turned and went on his own way, which was in fact the only operational section of the plan that mattered.

Outside, on the oval, the horses in the first race were thundering around the track.

For Kettle, Singapore was just another stop—one of many his briefs took him to. Like hotel rooms to a traveling salesman, the cities tended to blur one into another. But in some ways even he had to admit that Singapore was different. He knew if he were forced to live here he’d most likely wind up blowing his brains out. The rules and regulations, the strictures on citizenry and visitors alike were draconian, not to mention capricious. Who ever heard of an injunction against chewing gum in public? The importation of gum was banned. No swearing either. Insane. Truth be told, the quicker he finished with this brief the happier he’d be.

He had received the call informing him of an addendum to the brief. A second hit had been ordered. After rising this morning following a deep and dreamless sleep, he had carefully, lovingly taken up the long gun, which in many ways was his closest friend. His only friend. He had other weapons he felt close to, but none had the gravitas of his sniper’s rifle. The special case he had made, holding the broken-down sections, looked like nothing more than an old-fashioned physician’s bag.

Now he was here, invisible among the swirling, gesticulating throngs, making it child’s play for him to find the door marked
SECURE AREA—AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY
. It was metal, painted a bright red. It was also locked, but that proved no impediment to Kettle. He had a way with locks, even digital ones.

Fifteen seconds later, he was inside. A minute and a half after that, Camilla, walking Jessuetta, spotted him.

Kettle, in the stables area, was warming to his task. It was always this way, he thought, when the kill was near. Finnerman had texted him that Camilla Stowe was going to jockey a horse in the second race—one of Jimmie’s horses.

Jimmie is definitely getting old, he thought. Old and possibly senile. The girl had gotten to him somehow. In a stunning and, ultimately, pathetic example of breaking protocol, he had come to the mosque to beg for her life, but Kettle had been given the brief. It was his now, and he was going to carry it out to the letter as he’d done with all his previous briefs. Jimmie should have known that; clearly the girl had blinded him to good sense. Maybe he’d even lost his operational edge. In any case, he’d have to let Finnerman know; Jimmie needed to be replaced.

He was heading toward the stables themselves when his mobile vibrated. He had only to think of Finnerman and there he was. He took the call. But it wasn’t Finnerman on the other end.

“This is Robert Lonan, Department of Justice,” the deep voice in his ear said. “You should know that Martin Finnerman is in our custody. Your brief is hereby terminated, as is your position in DOD. You are to turn yourself in to the local authorities, who have been notified of your name and status.”

“And if I don’t?” Kettle said.

“Then you will immediately become a fugitive from justice. The full power and influence of the United States government will be directed at finding you. Clear? You have one hour to comply with this order.”

“Fuck you!” Kettle said in reply, but the line was dead. Robert Lonan, Department of Justice, was no longer in the ether.

Sensing movement to his right, he turned. “Are you Camilla Stowe?” he said to the figure that had emerged from the shadows. A horse stood by her side. The two of them seemed to be watching him.

“Can I help you?” Camilla said.

Kettle smiled, but he was having trouble getting into his legend’s skin. “Binder, Jack Binder, but my friends call me Jackie, Inverhalt Fabrications, we make all the racing silks for the jockeys.” He said all this far too quickly, speaking one long run-on sentence. What should have been a salesman’s breezy spiel came across as overeager, not to say overcaffeinated. The phone call had inflamed an anger he kept safely banked while in the field. The anger made him hurry, and in his haste he lost discipline. Appalled as he was, Kettle pressed on, the only thing to do. “Jimmie told me you’re his new jockey. Am I right?” He sidled ever closer. “I’m trying to find him.” He waved a hand. “But in all this madness, no matter how many times I come here I always get lost.” That was better, wasn’t it? he asked himself.

“You’re right. I’m jockeying the horse Jimmie trains,” Camilla said in a kind of dreamy voice. “I’ll take you to him.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

Before he could edge still closer, Camilla drew Jessuetta around so the animal was between them. Kettle immediately stepped forward, following her, but skittishly. He was clearly uncomfortable around horses, which made it a good bet he knew nothing about them.

Jessuetta stepped sideways, toward a wall she might have mistaken for her stall. It seemed she wanted to get away from Kettle as badly as Camilla did. But her movement put Camilla’s back against the wall. Camilla had nowhere to go except past Kettle. One of her hands slid behind her back, her fingers wrapping around the hilt of Ohrent’s knife.

Kettle leaned forward. “Listen,” he said. “Listen, the truth is…the reason I’m here, see, is to take your measurements, get you fitted with your own set of Ingerhalt silks.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t have time now. Maybe later.”

“But, I mean, you can’t! Wait, that is.” He pushed against Jessuetta’s side to get all the closer to her. “You’re in borrowed silks now, am I right? Jimmie won’t like that. You got to get your own, know what I mean? And ASAP.” His voice had now completely slipped the leash of his legend. Instead of overeager, it became manic, something dark and ominous. “Come on now, it won’t take but a couple minutes, promise.” As he pushed more urgently, Jessuetta stamped her hooves and snorted through widened nostrils.

Camilla hesitated a moment more, then said, “Okay. Sure.” She started to come around Jessuetta’s rear, but as Kettle all but rushed to meet her, she stepped smartly back.

Unmindful, he came on. He was behind Jessuetta when Camilla slapped the horse hard on her flank, just as Ohrent had warned her not to. The result was instantaneous and decisive. Jessuetta kicked out hard with her hind legs. One of her hooves caught Kettle in the left temple. He went down as if struck by lightning, which, in a way, he had been.

Camilla was so shocked that for a moment she felt paralyzed. Then, gathering herself, she whispered to Jessuetta, apologizing, promising her that she would never strike her again. As the horse settled, Camilla moved toward her rear, always keeping a gentling hand on her to let her know where she was.

Kettle lay where he had fallen. There was a deep indentation on his head where Jessuetta’s hoof had struck him with the force of a jackhammer. Is he, is he…? Good Lord, she thought, he’s really dead. She stood in a kind of daze, momentarily incapable of further action, not wanting to think of cause and effect.

People were running toward them, and with a spasmodic movement of self-preservation, she pushed the handle of the knife down past the waistband of her jeans, where it could not be seen.