Robert Ludlum's (TM) The Bourne Ascendancy (31 page)

“Dollars will be fine.”

Borz opened up a map. “No matter how many times you’ve been to Singapore, Yusuf, I can guarantee you’ve never been here.”

Bourne looked at the tattered blueprint, but it did not have its corner torn off. It was not a plan of the Thoroughbred Club’s drainage system. It was a detailed architectural plan of the club itself.

“What am I looking at?” Bourne said, though he knew quite well what it was.

“The stands of the Singapore Thoroughbred Club.” Borz’s forefinger stabbed out. “Look here. On the roof of the stands is the lighting array for the night races. It’s new, elaborate, state of the art—sodium lights. The best lighting, but also the most delicate. It needs constant tending. That’s where we come in. We’re going to tweak the lighting array, give it an off-the-grid update.” He laughed.

“We’re only going to be there about four minutes. That’s how long it’s going to take us to deal with the security guards stationed there, plant explosives, and make our way out. A press of a key on my mobile will do the rest.”

He slapped the seat’s armrest. “We’re going to blow up the Thoroughbred Club while the president of the United States and the heads of Palestine and Israel are attending the races.”

B
ut first,” Islam said.
“This.”

He must have made some sort of signal Sara didn’t catch, because just then the door into the warehouse opened and a jihadist came out. He was as slim as Islam, but shorter. His face was wrapped in his headscarf so only his eyes were visible. He carried a cheap plastic briefcase, which he set down beside Islam’s chair, then turned and left without uttering so much as a word.

Islam snapped open the briefcase, removed a laptop, which he fired up, then plugged a small rectangle with a depression on the top into a USB port.

“Give me your right forefinger,” he said. When she complied, he pressed it into the depression, then looked at the biometric readout on the screen. “Well,” he said, sitting back. “You are something of a mystery, after all. Your prints don’t show up on any international database.”

No they don’t, Sara thought, once again grateful for Mossad’s ingenuity. “So this is all about trust.”

“We don’t know who you are—or even if Ellie Thorson is your real name. You gave us two pieces of product on Mossad, both good. But so what? They might be bait—the solid intel allowing you entrée into the cadre.”

Sara said nothing. In view of their rising suspicion, anything she said would now be construed wrongly. Best to sit tight, monitor her breathing, and try like hell to relax. To help her with this, she leaned forward and began to pluck up bits of the food. Eating always helped to calm her down.

He watched her with a curious expression on his face. “We need assurance. Something concrete that cannot be faked.”

Time to join in; time to get what she needed out of him. “Something you see with your own eyes.”

“Yes.”

“I understand completely. I’d do the same if I were you.”

“Then we’re agreed.”

He made to rise, but she stopped him. “Not quite, Islam.” She waited until he slouched back into his chair. “I require some assurances, too.”

He stiffened. “I don’t think you’re in a position to—”

“Tell me, Islam. Am I a potential prisoner, or a potential asset? But how could I be the former? I am El Ghadan’s emissary, yes?”

He nodded, frowning. “You are.”

“Well, then, assurances.”

For the first time since she laid eyes on him, he seemed unsure of himself, as if he had suddenly lost control of the situation. Clearly, he did not like that, but just as clearly he didn’t appear to know what to do about it.

“Perhaps you want to call El Ghadan?” Her honeyed tone, devoid of all sarcasm, tempered her meaning. The last thing she needed was for him to get pissed off. “But really there’s no reason to, right?” Saved him face, shifted their relationship—how much she had yet to discover.

Never taking his eyes off her, he reached into the briefcase, placed a SIG Sauer on the table between them. “Now you will have to make your decision.”

Sara deliberately kept her eyes off the handgun, even though it was like a magnet, trying to draw her gaze.

“That is for me?” she said.

“As I told you. The value of our guests has been diminished in a major way.”

Sara felt her pulse in her throat. With an effort, she kept all thoughts of Soraya and Sonya out of her mind. “Are the woman and her daughter no longer of any use to El Ghadan?”

“That has yet to be determined.”

“By me.”

His dark eyes did not flicker even for an instant. “Pick up the gun, Ellie.” He rose. “Pick up the gun and we will confront them.”

Bourne buckled himself in. “Why are you doing this?”

Borz, clicking his seat belt in preparation for landing, looked at Bourne with a degree of scorn. “Does it matter?”

“I’m a rational man, Borz. I’m not a fanatic or an ideologue. I made that clear from the start. Of course it matters.”

“It’s theater, Yusuf. All acts of terror are theater.”

With a whine, the hydraulic landing gear clicked into place. The wing flaps extended, slanted down.

“That’s not enough of an answer.”

“Well, Yusuf, it’ll have to do.”

“I disagree in the strongest possible terms.”

Borz stared at him. Then he drew a pistol. “Or I can kill you right here.”

“Now you’re speaking like a madman,” Bourne said. “You may be many things, but crazy isn’t one of them. You’re a businessman, plain and simple. Whatever you choose to do you do for money.”

“Shut up.”

They hit the ground, bumped, and began to taxi furiously along the runway, Musa braking hard to decelerate.

“Who’s your patron? Who’s paying you to kill wholesale?”

“I said shut up!”

Slowed considerably, the jet now rolled calmly toward the freight terminal. A member of the ground personnel in overalls, ears protected, light baton swinging rhythmically, guided Musa through the final phase of taxiing.

Borz turned to Bourne. “Why do you care who’s paying the freight, Yusuf? What’s it to you?”

“I don’t kill people lightly. I need a reason.”

“Well, well, a sniper with a conscience. You need a reason to shoot individuals with the long gun?”

“I usually work for myself, so, yes, I need a reason for every kill, so maybe I don’t make as much money as you do, but at least I sleep at night.”

“I sleep just fine, Yusuf.”

“Listen, Borz, you don’t want to tell me, that’s fine. It’s your prerogative, but then count me out. I’ll get off here and be on my way.”

Borz gripped his wrist. “You’re not going anywhere.”

“Are we actually going to discuss this? Then put the gun away.”

The plane had come to a stop. Chocks had been kicked against its wheels, the engines switched off, mobile stairs had been set in place by ground personnel, and the door had been opened. No one got out of their seats, no one even unbuckled themselves. They sat, waiting for their leader to make the first move. But their leader wasn’t going anywhere—not at the moment, anyway. He was locked in a battle of wills with Yusuf.

Borz, having waited long enough to save face, holstered the gun. How he was going to get into Singapore with it was anyone’s guess.

“If you want me to stay,” Bourne said with a quiet menace, “then you need me. If you need me, then we negotiate.”

Borz shrugged, affecting disinterest. “What is there to negotiate?”

“I want a hundred thousand.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“Or I walk.”

“I’ll turn you over to the Singapore authorities.”

“And risk blowing your cover? I don’t think so.” Bourne stared out the window. “Look, Borz, it’s a beautiful night. Why don’t we go out together and enjoy it?”

No sooner had Anselm returned to his room after having his itch scratched in every imaginable way, as well as one or two that had never been on his radar, than there was a pounding on his door. Suffused with a delicious postcoital lassitude, he was just about to order room service, and was disinclined to rise from the edge of the bed where he had plunked himself in a mist of delirium. It was like one of those wet dreams you never want to end, he thought. Only this was real.

The pounding came again, more insistent this time, impelling him to rise and cross the room.

“POTUS,” one of the Secret Service agents said when Anselm flung open the door. “Now.”

Cursing under his breath, Anselm padded across the corridor in his stocking feet, entering Magnus’s immense suite without knocking.

POTUS turned at the sound. “Ah, there you are, Howard.” He had been staring out the window at the lights of the city, myriad as the invisible stars in a sky turned every shade of colored neon.

“Where is Camilla?” POTUS said. “I told you I wanted to see her.”

Anselm was alarmed to feel a tiny trickle of sweat roll down his side. “Camilla’s undercover, Bill. I thought I made that clear to you.”

“And I told you I don’t care.” He waved his arms. “We’re on the other side of the world, for Christ’s sake, Howard. What could happen?”

“Bill, do I really have to remind you that the president of the United States takes the world with him wherever he goes?”

As it was wont to do when he was forced to face reality in private, POTUS’s face fell. He suddenly looked gray and lined, as if he had aged five years in five minutes. Coming away from the window, he collapsed onto a plush chair, scrubbed his face with the heels of his hands.

“Jesus, Howard, what am I to do?” He looked up at his chief of staff. “I need to see her, to touch her, to…” He shook his head. “She’s all I can think of.”

Finally his friend’s anguish pierced the pink cloud on which Anselm had floated back to his room. “All right.” He sat down on a chair facing POTUS. “I’ll tell you what. There is an hour between races tomorrow. You have no more than half that before your entrance into the presidential box. I’ll take you to see her.” He lifted a warning finger. “But, now listen to me, Bill. She’ll be working; you can’t interfere with that—we can’t afford to have her cover blown.”

Magnus blinked. “Thirty minutes won’t do it.”

“It will have to do. The Singapore president won’t tolerate tardiness.”

“What the hell’s his name, anyway?”

The two of them had a good laugh at that one. Anselm rose, crossed to a sideboard, poured himself two fingers of the special bourbon Magnus liked, and downed it. With the fire streaking down to his belly, he turned.

“Bill—”

“No, no.” Magnus waved away his words. “I read the brief. I know precisely what Camilla will be doing there tomorrow.” He sighed. “Do your best, Howard.” He rose, went to his chief of staff, gripped his shoulder. “But then I have no worries. You always do.”

T
ell me, Islam,”
Sara said, “how long have you been shuttered here with El Ghadan’s guests?”

“Days,” the young jihadist said noncommittally.

She cocked her head. “That must be hard for you, being a man of action.”

The courtyard was silent. The sun was down and the bird had flown; the leaves of the fig tree were still. The ground, baking in the last of the afternoon heat, seemed to absorb all sound. Only the dust remained, floating in the air in listless patterns.

“Everything is hard for us,” Islam said.

“Of course,” Sara said. “Otherwise there would be no reason for you to live.”

He seemed to glare at her, but it might only have been the way the sunlight struck his face. He tapped the gun lying between them amid the plates of food.

“Decision time,” he said.

Sara waited a moment, then took up the SIG. She ejected the magazine, which was empty. So was the chamber.

Islam smiled at her, a hard line in the sand. “But you knew it would not be loaded.”

“It would have been foolish to have thought otherwise.”

“Still, your decision concerning the disposition of our guests must be made.”

She nodded. “Let’s do it, then.”

They rose and he led her back inside. At the end of the hotel-like corridor stood another steel door with a slot into which he slid his magnetic key card. The door opened with a sigh, as if the area beyond had been hermetically sealed. He ushered her down another, far more utilitarian hallway, past doors clearly marked
TOILETS
and
SHOWERS
in both Arabic and English.

At length he stopped in front of a locked door. “In here,” he said, turning a key in the lock, but as he made to move forward, she stopped him.

“I go in alone, Islam.” She held his gaze, unblinking. “This is the way it’s going to be.”

He acquiesced far too quickly, confirming her suspicion that he would be spying on her via video or audio, possibly both.

“Just knock when you’re finished,” he said.

She entered the room and the door closed behind her. Ten minutes later, she pounded on the door, and it swung open.

The moment she stepped out, he said, “Well? What is your decision?”

She was aware of him scrutinizing her face. Her expression betrayed nothing, but seeing Soraya, and especially Sonya, whom she had never before met, was like a dagger twisted into her heart. Brave didn’t begin to cover what those two were. In the moment before she raised her fist to pound on the door she despised El Ghadan and Islam more than she ever could have imagined. There was an instant when she lost her professional perspective, when everything became personal, but with a colossal effort she was able to pull herself back from that perilous brink.

“You can ask El Ghadan after I’ve spoken with him,” she said flatly, and strode back down the hall with him trailing helplessly behind.

Camilla looked down at her mobile, saw that Hunter was calling, and didn’t pick up. Standing in the stables with Ohrent and the stamping horses, she had no desire to speak to Hunter. Being on the other side of the world had a way of clarifying issues you were too close to at home.

“The horses are restless,” she said.

“They’re always like this before a race.” Ohrent had his hand on Jessuetta’s mane. “Eager for the track.” His mouth twitched. “It’s a good thing. When they’re not like this is the time to worry.”

He came away from Jessuetta’s stall, stood by her side, looking out at the velvet night. Beyond the Thoroughbred Club’s environs the sky was lit up as if with the northern lights.

“It’s beautiful,” she said softly.

“Just another evening in Singapore.” Behind them a horse snorted, others answered it. One of them bumped its hindquarters against a stall. “What are you going to do?” His voice was lower than hers had been.

She took out her mobile. “I’ve decided to trust you,” she said.

He did not reply. Instead he waited patiently, in the easy, relaxed manner she had quickly come to admire.

She brought up the extermination brief from Finnerman’s office, along with the photo of Kettle, and showed them to Ohrent.

“Huh, a DOD dinger.”

“There’s more.” She played him the MP3 file of Finnerman and Anselm adding her death to Kettle’s brief.

He shoved his hands in the back pockets of his jeans. “I think you just answered the question.” He shifted from one foot to the other. “In that event, you’d better come along home with me.” When she turned to him, he added, “You won’t be safe anywhere else.”

“I’m not going home with you and I’m not going back to my hotel.” She shook her head. “You think I’d be safe with you? Well, I wouldn’t. Until this is over I’m radioactive, and I’m not getting you involved in—”

“Camilla, I’m already involved,” he said slowly and carefully. “Plus, I’m too old and crotchety to be told by a young filly like you what to do.” His eyes crinkled. “You’re coming with me.”

“I said—”

“Pull ya head in. Not to my place. No, you’re right about that. Radioactive isn’t too dramatic a word for what you are. But I’ve got the perfect spot to take you. It’s fifty k’s south of Woop Woop.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning no-fuckin-one is going to find you there.” His smile was so very reassuring. “You’ll spend the night without having to look over your shoulder, which is just as well because you look knackered.”

She was exhausted. Running on adrenaline could only take you so far before you fell on your face. “Okay.” She returned his smile. “I am delivered into your providential hands.”

“That’s more like it. I’ll take you there, then be off.”

She frowned. “Off where?”

“Me?” Ohrent began to guide her out the back of the stables. “I’m going to find the dinger and settle his fucking hash.”

There was a space in time between the moment Rebeka left Soraya and Sonya and Islam appeared in her place when Soraya could legitimately tell herself that there was a sliver of hope for her and her daughter. She had seen these scenarios all too often in her time at the Company, and especially at Treadstone. She knew the longer they were incarcerated the slimmer their chances of coming out of this alive. She also knew that Jason was doing all he could to free her and Sonya, but though she had been witness to a number of his seeming miraculous feats she was unsure whether this would be one of them.

After all, every winning streak eventually came to an end. There was always someone stronger, better prepared, and, most crucially, smarter. Jason had not yet come up against such an adversary, but the law of averages told her that it was only a matter of time. El Ghadan was the most powerful jihadist on the planet; he commanded countless men in an array of far-flung places, and he was currently at the top of his game.

These thoughts, piling onto her like a pyramid intent on burying her beneath their weight, seemed instantly mitigated by Rebeka’s appearance. Soraya could not have been more shocked if the pope had bustled in with his white robes and gold crucifixes, censers swinging in his wake.

She had met Rebeka several times—Aaron had introduced them. Soraya had intuited Rebeka wasn’t her real name, but she didn’t care. In fact, she knew that it was far better for everyone involved if she didn’t know Rebeka’s real identity. However, the woman’s essential kindness was unmistakable, and she had liked her on the spot. Now, somehow, some way, she was here and ready to help. Had Jason sent her? Possibly, but the hows and whys mattered less than whether she would be able to free them. Right now, Soraya would settle for Rebeka taking Sonya out of here, far away from these people.

She closed her eyes, knowing she was working herself up into another bout of anxiety. To combat it she began her slow-breathing exercises, and it was when she was sunk deep into
prana
that the door was unlocked from the outside and Islam stepped in. He was carrying the video camera in one hand, a newspaper in the other. She took Sonya onto her lap; she knew the drill.

They were finished almost before she knew it. Her mind was elsewhere while the taping was taking place. She felt humiliated and sickened by the violation.

Then it was over and, tucking the newspaper under one arm, Islam unwound his headscarf, revealing his face. He was a handsome young man, she saw, his face long, bony, eyes sunken on either side of a prominent nose. And yet the sight of him immediately dispelled the effects of her yoga breathing. In fact, it sent her into a full-blown panic.

Islam showing himself to her was a threat, or maybe a harbinger—the surest sign yet that these people had made up their minds that she and Sonya would not survive. Because now she knew what he looked like, now if she were freed she would be able to identify him.

Which meant she and Sonya were not going to be freed. They were going to be killed.