Robert Ludlum's (TM) The Bourne Ascendancy (11 page)

K
halifa’s powerboat,
a beautifully sleek thirty-three-foot pleasure craft with a water-level aft platform for diving, was waiting for them at the head of the artificial river that had brought them to Red Pearl.

As she was pulled aboard, Sara finally understood that the trajectory of her investigation in Doha had been preordained, that she had been led to this moment from the instant she stepped over Hassim’s threshold.

And in fact, here was Hassim himself, because this powerboat belonged to him, not to Colonel Khalifa. He did not speak to her, could not even meet her gaze. He busied himself piloting the boat down the river and out into freer water.

It was no surprise to her that they were not headed back to Doha. Not yet, anyway. Certain matters had to be resolved, and she had no doubt the colonel was going to do his best to resolve them.

The Persian Gulf was vast, its dark waters here and there spotted with oil tankers lumbering to or from the straits that led out into the Gulf of Oman and thence to the Arabian Sea. This was the major route for bringing Middle Eastern oil to the West. Out here, there was no one to see them, no small craft to intercept them or question the powerboat being in these waters. And if there were, the two men aboard would only have to exert a fraction of their authority to exempt themselves from official scrutiny.

“Please sit,” Khalifa ordered, leading her to a white vinyl cushion. Turning to Hassim, he said, “Slow it down now. We’re in the deep water.”

Sara knew what that meant. They were going to drown her.

To her surprise, Khalifa sat down beside her, as if the two of them had embarked on a nighttime pleasure cruise just as he’d falsely promised at Red Pearl.

“It’s peaceful out here, no?” He lifted an arm in a sweeping gesture. “We’re cut off from everyone and everything. No one need ever know what will transpire here tonight.” He smiled at her. “Every word, every deed…Everything will be lost, hidden, drowned for all time. As far as the three of us are concerned, tonight will become a mystery, a page torn out of history and destroyed.”

He turned his head, spoke again to Hassim. “That’s enough now. Power down and drop anchor.”

He rose, opened one of the storage lockers, dragged out a set of thick chains. Sara shuddered. She could already feel the cold links being wrapped around her like an industrial cocoon. With that weight, she would plummet a long way into the black depths of the gulf. No chance to escape; no way out. She crossed one leg over the other, bent down to grope for the gold Star of David attached to the thin gold necklace wound around her left ankle. Just the touch of it comforted her, but it was cold comfort. She had nearly died once; she had no desire to repeat the process to its conclusion.

Having turned off the engine, Hassim unbolted the anchor and heaved it over the side. The boat rocked gently. Apart from the slap of the waves against the hull, all was silent. Not a single bird flew overhead; all the gulls were tucked in safely for the night.

More than I can say for myself, Sara thought. Lucky gulls!

The horizon was suddenly lit up with blinding electricity, but it was only heat lightning. No sound accompanied it, making it seem unreal, as if it belonged to another world. In the same vein, Sara could feel herself standing apart from her body as her mind retreated from what she knew was going to happen.

The end of all things, at least for her.

Hassim turned from his chores. “What now, Khalifa?”

The colonel smacked his hands together to rid them of the thin layer of muck from the chains, which were old, rusty, looking like they had been salvaged from a bombed-out garage.

“Now,” he said, drawing a CZ-99 semiautomatic pistol, “we deal with people who cannot be trusted.”

Colonel Khalifa pulled the trigger.

In the chaos, Bourne lunged for Furuque, but he was thwarted by the flood of young men attempting to flee the lavatory. All were in a panic—all except Furuque, who, slithering like a serpent, managed to reach the rear wall of the lavatory, break out the window with an elbow, and crawl through in a clatter of glass shards.

Semiautomatic fire was now a steady crackle on the other side of the door. Cries and shouts were intermittently audible, but these eventually fell away, then ceased altogether.

Bourne grabbed one of the two young men Furuque had been haranguing and, pulling him by the back of his shirt, dragged him against the lessening tide, toward the back wall. Boosting him through the window, he leaped up, quickly following him.

They found themselves in a narrow concrete canyon that had once been used to stack crates but was now thick with rubble. On the far wall was a metal ladder leading up to ground level. The kid headed for it, but Bourne pushed him back, flattened him against the wall of the club. Just in time, too, as a powerful handheld searchlight probed the canyon, picked up the shattered window, then the ladder, and, with a raised shout from just behind it, winked out. The sound of pounding boots slowly receded, replaced by the grinding of gears as various heavy vehicles pulled out.

When the night had returned to an uneasy silence, Bourne signaled to the young man. They picked their way across the blasted ground. He went up the ladder first, poking his head over the top, taking in the immediate environment. It was as deserted as it had been when he had arrived. No one would know what had taken place just below—unless one was unlucky enough to enter the underground club, strewn with the dead and dying. They were just kids. Now their short lives had been snuffed out.

Looking over his shoulder, he gestured for the recruit to follow him. He gained the surface, reached down, hauled the young man up the last several rungs.

They crouched in the scraggly tufts of grass for long moments. Bourne listened, watched a dog snuffle its way among the rubble, then lift its hind leg, urinate on a lump of concrete. It scented, turned its narrow head, its yellow eyes, in their direction. It growled, then padded on, forgetting all about them.

But someone else remembered, and he came at them now out of the shadows, striking Bourne a full body blow. They were both cast backward to the edge of the concrete canyon.

Bourne smelled him, felt him, saw him at last in the feeble light dribbling out of the lavatory window below them.

It was Furuque, the sniper.

The roar of the pistol was momentarily deafening.

Sara lurched to one side, but it was Hassim who received a bullet through the heart, not her.

“Good God!” she cried. “Why did you kill him?”

“A man who can be turned is a man who cannot be trusted.” The colonel holstered his pistol. “A trader in secrets who cannot be trusted must be killed.”

Sara remembered Khalifa’s discourse at dinner on how he divided people into three categories. She couldn’t say that he hadn’t warned her. It was simply that she had been too out of touch to get it. Silently, she berated herself for her stupidity, vowed it would never happen again. Her operational edge was coming back, fast. But was it already too late?

He came and sat with her again, but this time she was acutely aware of the gun in his armpit. She watched Hassim’s body roll back and forth, with each pass spreading more blood across the deck. Khalifa appeared indifferent to the mess.

“So,” he said with a heavy sigh, “there is the matter of what to do with you.”

Sara almost said, What do you mean? But that would have been stupid, and she had already made enough stupid mistakes this evening. “What did Hassim tell you?”

“That you’re a Jew.” Khalifa’s broad shoulders lifted and fell. “That’s the most important thing, isn’t it?”

To these fanatics, she thought bitterly, it always was.

The colonel’s gaze turned toward Hassim. “You know, this man would still be alive now if not for you.”

“You shot him.”

“Because you turned him into a spy.”

“He did that himself.”

“Did he?” The colonel fairly spat out the words. “Get up now and drag him aft.”

Sara did as she was told. Khalifa pushed with his shoe while she hauled Hassim’s corpse onto the aft platform.

“Now get back here.”

There was no question of jumping ship; this far out she’d never survive. She did contemplate rushing Khalifa, but that was precisely what he wanted her to do; she could see the wicked desire in his eyes. She was damned if she was going to make this any easier for him.

“I never used coercion,” she said now.

“Of course not. You people never do.” He pursed his sensual blood-darkened lips as he shoved her back onto the bench. “Filthy Jews! You’ve taken everything from us, and then, as if that weren’t enough of an affront, you brought the Americans to our doorstep to kill our men, women, and children. The Americans are like an infection, crawling into everything, corrupting it, debasing it.” He hawked onto the deck, his spittle turning pink as it mingled with Hassim’s blood. “I’ve hated you Jews all my life, but never as much as I do at this moment.”

“Too bad for you.”

The colonel grunted. “I’m not the one who is about to die, Jewess.” He stood up abruptly, drew his gun. “Take off your clothes.”

“I only get naked for gentlemen.”

Khalifa dealt her a backhanded blow with the barrel of the gun. It was both casual and devastating, knocking her clear off the bench and onto her knees. The metal bit into her flesh cruelly, drawing blood. He unwound the short jacket from around her, flicked the straps off her shoulders.

“And take it slow, rotate your hips.”

“Really, Colonel, I’m one hundred percent kosher.” She righted herself, would not wipe the blood off her cheek. It dripped off her chin onto the dress. “I’m too pure for the likes of you.”

Growling, he grabbed her elbow, his fingers digging painfully into bone as he hauled her to her feet. He brandished the gun. “No more talk. Just do it.”

“Or what? You’ll shoot me?” Her eyes appeared luminescent as she glowered at him. “That seems preferable to whatever you have planned.”

“Not if I put a bullet into your knees, one after another. I’ll shatter them, then go after your other joints. That is a long, slow, painful death, I can assure you.”

Sara could imagine this wasn’t the first time he had made that same threat—or carried it out. She did nothing for a moment, to give herself one last bit of dignity. She stood still as a statue, her shoulders and back bare.

“Now roll those hips,” Khalifa said. “Swivel them like you mean it.”

“Your own private porno film.”

“Snuff film is more like it.” He kissed the side of his pistol. “Your time pretending to be a lady is at an end. Get it going, filthy Jewess. You know how. You’re nothing more than an animal anyway.”

With a sigh, she moved and the dress fell away from her torso, pooled onto her hips. The freshening wind caused her nipples to stiffen. With a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, she pushed the dress over her hips. It cascaded around her ankles.

Now Khalifa could not disguise his lust. “No underwear.”

“In this heat what’s the point?”

She had meant to distract him, even for a moment, but she needn’t have bothered. Khalifa was no longer looking at her. She turned, following his gaze aft.

She gave a little scream as Hassim’s body jerked and shuddered, as if it had been reanimated. Was he still alive? It couldn’t be; he had taken a bullet through the heart. Then he jerked again, his body drawn farther aft, and she saw the triangular dorsal fin. Hassim lay on his side, his left arm in the water. The shark came up and snapped at the arm. The corpse was now half in the water, writhing as the enormous, prehistoric jaws ripped hunks of flesh from him. Blood spread in the water, attracting the shark’s brethren. Hassim was slowly being turned into chum.

“Poor Hassim. Look what you’ve done to him.” Khalifa’s gaze returned to Sara. “Step out of the dress,” he ordered. He grabbed her elbow again, half dragging her down onto the aft platform. The last of Hassim vanished into the churning water; there was still plenty of him to go around. He walked her to the edge.

“In you go.”

Sara cast a fearful glance behind her. “No. You can’t do this.” Now she did prepare to strike out at him, but she had left it too late. “I’ll dance—”

The flat of Khalifa’s hand struck her between the breasts so hard it took her off her feet. She screamed as she crashed into the water. She came up spluttering, only to see the colonel crouched above her like a grinning god.

Grasping her hair, he forced her head back down beneath the water, where the great shadows writhed in the blood-clouded water and bits of flesh floated past her.

Then the side of a shark—a monstrous twelve-foot bull shark—struck her a powerful blow, sandpaper skin abrading her flesh, adding her own blood to the widening feeding frenzy. The shadows converged on the blood and sinew, the bones, muscle, and fat. They were coming for her.

T
he shark came directly
at Sara, its mouth already half open, bloody ribbons of what had once been Hassim’s calf trailing from between its teeth. Sara grabbed one of Hassim’s femurs, almost entirely stripped of flesh, and thrust it through the water, timing and point of impact more important than speed. The knob of the bone struck the shark square on its snout, hurting it as well as startling it. Whipping around, it turned tail, in search of a meal that wouldn’t fight back.

Against her instinct, she let herself sink down into the bloody maelstrom, and, just as she had hoped, felt Khalifa let go of her hair. At once, she reached up, grabbed his forearm before he could withdraw it from the water, and hauled herself up.

Her head broke the surface. Khalifa, who had been in the process of leaning back, bent down again to shove her once more under the waves. As he did so, Sara launched herself upward. She still had hold of her Star of David. Its six gold points shed water, glittered in starlight, and she buried it, point first, into his right eye.

Throwing his head back, he roared in pain. Sara, clinging to his arm, rose up with him, her feet scrabbling on the slippery hull, then gaining purchase until she was on board. He came at her, maddened as a wounded bull. She knew at once his momentum would drive all the wind out of her. Still, she waited until the very last instant before sweeping her leg across his leading ankle. Thrown off balance, his momentum too great to break, he struck the gunwale, his upper body starting to go over.

He grabbed her, determined to use her as ballast to bring him back onto the deck, or, as a last resort, to pull her in with him. She jammed her thumb into his ruined eye, then jerked hard on the gold chain, extracting the star, along with the vitreous humor of his eye. He screamed again, groping more desperately for her.

Dancing away, she lowered her shoulder and, using the full weight of her body, rammed him at just above the height of the gunwale.

Over he went. She heard the splash, saw a fountain of seawater, then the dorsal fin, cutting through the water toward him. He tried to rise up, but his sodden clothes weighed him down, and he could get only his head and one shoulder out of the water.

“Help me!” he cried.

She stared down at him without pity. Her cheek and side burned like fire.

“Fuck you,” she said. “Fuck you.”

“Ahhhgh, no!”

His body convulsed as the leading shark took its first bite out of him. He shrieked, his body shaking violently as the shark whipped its head back and forth.

Then the others nosed in, claiming their own portions of the feast. For a short time, Colonel Khalifa was visible, one arm upraised, fist clenched against the agony as more chunks of flesh were torn off him. The water began to boil, he vomited blood, and was borne under, never to reappear.

Furuque was on top of Bourne, his weight pressing down on Bourne’s rib cage. Bourne’s mind rushed back to the hotel conference room in Doha, wires strapped around his chest, while the low-voltage current from the car battery constricted his breathing, on the way to asphyxiating him. He gasped, a blackness boiling at the periphery of his vision, where Soraya and Sonya sat, incarcerated, helpless, surely terrified.

Furuque was pounding him with a fury beyond the rational. It was the fanatic’s release, his justification for all he said and did. He was motivated by rage—the particular rage of the oppressed, the person who believed everything had been taken from him, the person who had nothing, and therefore had nothing to lose but a life in the service of Allah.

This ideology made Furuque a particularly dangerous opponent, especially for an emotionally and physically depleted Bourne. El Ghadan had bested him. Worse, he had managed to burrow into Bourne’s head, having successfully exploited his weakness.

All this went through Bourne’s mind while Furuque, in his single-minded rage, was inflicting great damage with his balled fists. Bourne found his head and shoulders hanging over the concrete edge of the canyon, the rubble-strewn floor yawning below him. Clearly, Furuque was determined to shove him over, to watch him break his back on the canyon’s twists of metal and jagged lumps of concrete.

Furuque’s furious countenance was just above him. Bits of food clung to his thick, curly beard like spiders to their web. The exhalations from his mouth were vile, as if the accumulated bile of dogma was eating through the lining of his stomach.

Bourne’s hands, pinioned at his sides by Furuque’s knees, were for the moment useless. He let his head drop over the open space, and Furuque, gloating, let his own head follow Bourne’s down until they were almost nose to nose. Without warning, Bourne slammed his forehead into Furuque’s nose, splitting the cartilage beneath the skin, driving it into his sinus passages.

As Furuque reared back in shock and pain, Bourne twisted his shoulders. Furuque’s position was upended, and Bourne, taking immediate advantage, shoved him over. For an instant, the sniper, blood pouring from his ruined nose, teetered on the brink, as Bourne had moments before. Bourne shoved him again. But as Furuque was about to fall, he grabbed Bourne’s shirt front and held on.

The two plummeted down. Furuque’s shoulder blade caught the corner of a concrete block, shattering it. Bourne came down on top of him and rolled off, the small of his back slamming into the rubble. The breath shot out of him, and for a long moment he lay on his back, unable to move or even to breathe deeply.

After a short time he found the strength to roll over, gain hands and knees. In this position, he looked down at Furuque. The sniper lay with his eyes open, the pupils fixed, staring into another world. He was dead, and a brief exploration of his body turned up the reason. Bouncing off the concrete cube, Furuque had landed on a nest of twisted iron rebar, one length of which had pierced his side and kidney.

Bourne, gradually regaining himself, cursed under his breath. With Furuque dead, he had no way of discovering who the sniper worked for or why he had been assigned to assassinate Minister Hafiz.

He rose, still shaky, and slowly made his way toward the ladder leading out of the canyon. But with one hand on an iron rung, he heard a sound above his head, and, looking up, saw crouched above him the young man he had helped out of the lavatory. He was grinning at Bourne.

He held the Stechkin automatic pistol Bourne had taken off one of the terrorists in the warehouse, and was now pointing it directly at Bourne’s head.

Sara sat on the bloody deck of Hassim’s pleasure craft with the crazy thought that all the pleasure had been drained out of this one. She laughed out loud—a strained laugh that had about it the sharp edge of hysteria. It was one thing to stare death in the face, she thought, quite another to escape being eaten alive by a shiver of sharks. Drawing her knees up against her bare breasts, she wrapped her arms around her shins, rocking back and forth.

In her left hand she still held her beloved Star of David, sticky with Khalifa’s eye matter, the consistency of custard. She dearly wanted to wash it clean, to see the six points glimmering again in the starshine, but she could not get herself to move. It was at this precise moment that she realized she was trembling uncontrollably.

Far away, she heard a deep boom rolling across the bosom of the Persian Gulf. She managed to turn her head, saw in the south that the stars had been obscured by clouds, blacker than the night. Embedded within, lances of lightning split the clouds with blue-white electricity. The atmosphere had thickened, the scent of rain was like a spice sprinkled over the waves, and a heavy sea was rising from the depths of the oncoming storm, freakish at this time of the year.

Sara knew she had to weigh anchor, make for shore at all due speed, otherwise the storm would catch her in deep water. This boat was a pleasure craft, not made to withstand six-foot waves. She risked shipping too much water, or even capsizing.

These thoughts galvanized her out of her temporary paralysis. Not bothering to waste time dressing, she went to the bow, hauled up the anchor, stowed it, then went to the wheel and fired the ignition.

The powerboat coughed to life. The huge engine rumbled, as if impatient to get going. Switching on the GPS, she identified the coastline, pressed the home button, and watched as the GPS plotted her course. Then she bore down on the throttle and the powerboat leapt forward in its own brand of mechanical joy.

Oddly, this display of pure energy lifted her, and she stroked the lacquered Macassar ebony trim of the wheelhouse with genuine affection.

Running before a storm had its own pleasures, as well as its dangers, which only accelerated her exhilaration. She had cheated death, she had overcome terrible odds, and here she was, driving a million-dollar boat, splay-legged, powerful, naked as a jaybird.

A strange thought occurred to her now. She had returned to the field, where she was always closest to death. And yet it was precisely here where she felt safest. She knew the territory, and the expertise she brought to bear on navigating every square inch of it was what, for her, made life worthwhile. Away from the field, she had been asleep; here she had come fully alive again.

Behind her, the wind had picked up. Though not yet at gale force, that too was coming, along with opaque sheets of black rain that already blocked her windward quarter. But up ahead, she could make out the beckoning string of lights, like a necklace of glowing pearls, which marked the safe harbor of Doha’s coastline.

She would make it with moments to spare. Time to climb back into her dress, pull her jacket close around her. Time to clean her Star of David. Time to return to civilization.