Robert Ludlum's (TM) The Bourne Ascendancy (7 page)

T
here was a cloud,
black and oily, hanging over Damascus as they descended onto an open runway. Zizzy’s pilot had told them that they had twice been advised by the control tower to change runways. One of them had a smoking crater along one side.

Tracers filled the air, rattling the airport buildings, most of which had had the glass of their windows shattered. Soldiers with assault rifles were everywhere, and the smell of cordite and building rubble was muddled with the stench of human sweat and fear.

“Not to worry,” the pilot said as he ushered them across the short expanse of tarmac to the arrivals terminal, “most of the city is still intact.”

But temporary redoubts of sandbags were everywhere. Bullets whined like mosquitoes, then abruptly vanished.

“Call me when you want to go home,” the pilot said, just short of the terminal. “Hopefully the plane will still be in one piece.” He laughed, but they all knew it was only half a joke.

Inside, the air-conditioning was kaput. The electricity was barely working. A harried-looking immigration official took their passports, along with the wad of money Zizzy handed him. He spirited the baksheesh away and stamped their passports without bothering to look at them. Fear seemed to have exhausted him.

“Each day that dawns, the rebels become bolder,” their taxi driver told them. “The city is totally divided.” He was a thin man in his mid-fifties with a burned face and a Syrian’s blue eyes. “I’ve seen everything here, but the last year has been hell on earth.” He swerved to avoid a pair of burned-out cars. One had slammed into a tree whose foliage had burned away. A body still lay half out of the vehicle. The stench of roasted human flesh was nauseating.

“Take my advice,” their driver said, “turn around and fly out of here while you still can.”

The hotel Shahakbik was nice enough—or at least it had been until a shelling had damaged one wing. Still, the rest of the establishment seemed to be running more or less normally. It had a generator that was called upon four or five times a day when the electricity ceased to function.

Bourne and Zizzy were shown adjoining rooms, which overlooked an inner courtyard, lush with fig and lime trees, bougainvillea, and fragrant rose bushes. Intricate latticework balustrades curled around the circumference of the courtyard. Sunlight slanted down, then was obscured by foaming black smoke. Occasionally, the thump of artillery shells detonating could be heard. Prints shuddered against walls; a bit of plaster fell onto the rug.

Bourne lay down, clothes and all, and stared at the ceiling until at last his eyes closed and he passed into merciful sleep.

Soraya’s head snapped up as a blaze of lights blinded her. In the absolute darkness, she had fallen into an exhausted doze, a shallow sleep in which her senses never let go of her daughter. Beside her, Sonya awoke with a squall of terror.

“Sonya!” Soraya did not want to shout, did not want to give her captors the satisfaction of hearing her give voice to her fear. But she was a mother now, and her child was her only concern. Her will to live rose and fell on Sonya’s future.

Please God, she silently prayed, give Sonya a long, happy life, and do with me what you will. This was the prayer she had repeated over and over again ever since the darkness came down, ever since there was nothing else to think about.

“What do you want with us?” she said now. She could see nothing beyond the blinding light. “Why are you keeping us here?”

The only reply was the insectlike whirr of machinery. Then someone emerged from the absolute darkness into the dazzling light. He went not to her, but to Sonya.

“What are you doing?” she said in alarm. “Don’t you dare hurt her!”

But a moment later, Sonya was plopped into her lap.

“Mommy! Mommy!” Sonya’s hot, damp body pressed against her, the little arms thrown around her neck. Sonya’s cheek, wet with tears, sliding against her face, brought Soraya’s own tears welling up. She would die—offer herself—if only they would spare her daughter. Then she caught herself. She couldn’t die; she needed to keep Sonya safe.

With Sonya squirming against her, she gathered all her strength, whispered in her daughter’s ear, “This is a game, muffin, so we must both play along. Because, you see, if we play along we’ll be fine. Everything will turn out all right. We’ll be able to go home and everything will be as it was.”

“But what about Daddy?” Sonya whispered back. “Daddy won’t come back with us, will he?”

My daughter is too smart for her own good, Soraya thought. I must teach her how to harness that amazing intellect of hers. And just like that a new wave of terror and despair washed over her: What if I don’t make it out of here? What if
we
don’t make it out of here?

“Mommy, what is it? Why are you shaking?”

“I’m…” Soraya grew fierce, gathering herself for the sake of her child. “Mommy’s just a bit cold.”

“Here,” Sonya said, “I’ll hold you closer, Mommy. I’ll warm you up.”

Then Sonya’s arms were being pulled away from her, Sonya screamed, and Soraya said, “Remember what I told you, muffin.” And at once Sonya stilled herself. She allowed herself to be set on her mother’s lap, facing the lights.

“Hold still,” a harsh voice ordered, but Soraya did not know whether it was directed at Sonya or herself.

She became aware of the rustling of paper, and, squinting, she saw the ghostly silhouette of someone holding a newspaper in front of her face. Another silhouette, barely glimpsed. Someone else was taking a photo of first the front page of the newspaper, then of her with Sonya. Her mind struggled to clear itself from the fog of terror and lack of sensory input.

“Speak,” the voice said.

Her head turned from her daughter and she looked into the camera. “Listen, we are being—”

“That’s enough!”

Proof of life, she thought suddenly, and with that knowledge came the reason for their incarceration. Ransom seemed too far-fetched to even consider. Which left only one possibility: Her captors wanted someone to do something for them. But who? Who did she know who would be important enough for them to kidnap her and her family? And then she understood. Her husband’s murder had been an object lesson, proof positive of her captors’ seriousness, intent, and control.

Again, who would they want to coerce?

And then the answer bloomed in her mind, as bright as the lights illuminating her and her daughter for the camera.

Bourne.

Bourne didn’t return to consciousness until the western sunlight, striking the windowpane, crept across his face like a stealthy insect. He had dreamed of darkness falling, of eyes in the dark, of feeling an overwhelming urge to get away as they closed in, but he couldn’t—he was bound in wires. And then the light snapped on and he saw that he was in a spider’s cocoon of high-tension wires. A buzzing began, like a swarm of bees, rising in both volume and pitch. Then the pain hit him, arching his back and taking away his ability to breathe…

He opened his eyes, anchored himself in the hotel room, in reality. As he sat up, he glanced at the mobile El Ghadan had given him. A message had come in while he was asleep.

At midnight, he had been dead to the world.

He watched the short video that had been sent him. He saw the newspaper’s date, then, as the paper was whipped away, Soraya and Sonya. Soraya looked dazed, her face sweat- and tear-streaked, haggard and careworn. The baby was crying. Then, all of a sudden, the sound switched on. He heard a rough, commanding voice, Soraya’s response, before she was cut off. Then the screen went black.

He sat for a moment, thoughts chasing themselves down a black hole. Then he gathered himself, forced himself to play the video again. This time, he looked at the edges, searching for some detail that might give him a clue as to where they were being held, but the camera was so tight on the newspaper and faces that there was virtually nothing to see.

Then he plugged in the pair of earbuds that had come with the burner phone. He listened from the instant the audio came on to the instant it was switched off with the video.

He threw the mobile onto the bed as if it had bitten him. As he rose, about to pad into the bathroom, the mobile buzzed. He scooped it up, knowing who would be on the other end.

“What are you doing in Damascus?” El Ghadan asked.

“Looking for the right bomb maker,” Bourne said.

“Ah, that’s how you’re going to do it?”

Bourne turned to the window, stared out at the sun-bleached city. It was already afternoon; he had slept right through breakfast and lunchtime. Fighter jets screamed overhead. He could see their contrails writhing like sky serpents. “I don’t work well with someone looking over my shoulder.”

“Get used to it,” El Ghadan said. “I’m tracking your every move.”

Bourne tossed the mobile back onto the rumpled bed, shed his clothes, and stood in the shower for fifteen minutes. He tried to empty his mind, to think of nothing, but the image of Soraya and Sonya refused to be driven away. The image brought up anger, the anger made him want to return to Doha immediately, find out where they were being kept, and…and then what? That way lay only death for them. Hot water ran down him, inundating his face and head, pounding his shoulders and back. Patience, the told himself. Be patient. Because patience was the only thing that could save them now.

T
hirty minutes later,
Bourne showed up at Zizzy’s room.

“The proof of life came in at midnight,” he said, brandishing the mobile.

“Right on time. They’re both all right?”

Bourne nodded.

While Zizzy scared up Minister Hafiz, Bourne took his rucksack into the bathroom. Inside was an odd-looking vest. His entire complement of theatrical makeup and prosthetic devices were sewn into the lining. He removed his clothes so as not to mar them with the makeup he was about to apply.

He paused as a mortar shock wave caused the building to tremble. That was close, he thought. Zizzy popped his head in. “We’re on. An hour from now. That give you enough time?”

Bourne nodded, and Zizzy’s head vanished. A moment later, tinny music from the radio began to blare, drowning out the sporadic bursts of small-arms fire.

Twenty minutes later, he emerged from the bathroom, transformed. He was dressed in robes and patterned headscarf. He no longer had need of a fake beard, as his own had filled in enough.

“Who the hell are you?” Zizzy said, switching off the music. “You look like a Circassian warrior.”

The ride across the city was like a fever dream. Streets of beautiful houses, mosques with slender minarets, shops selling silks and Damascus steel, then abruptly, blown-apart buildings, flattened vehicles. They passed a traffic sign so bullet-ridden it was impossible to read. A woman sat on a curb, head in her hands. Her wailing was like the scream of air-raid sirens. Smoke drifted, carrying the stench of oil and gasoline. They passed a wide boulevard filled with milling people. Bourne counted a dozen barbecued cars, blackened hulks, useless even as temporary shelters. Then they were back to neighborhoods untouched by violence and destruction. Normal life seemed to be going on here, as if in repudiation of the escalating crisis gripping the country.

Mercedes were rolling cheek by jowl with armored cars, even a tank. Traffic slowed to a crawl. Up ahead two military jeeps were parked, their heavily armed occupants checking IDs before vehicles were allowed through. To one side, a shell crater caused everyone to merge right, further slowing the proceedings.

A spray of screaming military jets winked silver across the sky.

When their time at the barrier came, invoking Minister Hafiz’s name was enough to get them waved impatiently through. With the checkpoint behind them, the taxi driver returned to his voluble self. Zizzy had called him from the hotel. The wad of cash Zizzy had waved at him had almost made his mouth water.

“Assad’s amnesty program has motivated pockets of rebels to drift back to his side now that it looks like foreign intervention is nothing but a fantasy. Meanwhile missiles, car bombs, who knows what else are killing our children all over the country, especially in Aleppo. Believe me, Damascus looks like the Garden of Eden compared to that hellpit.” He shook his head ruefully. “Every day the situation becomes more chaotic, and chaos is the mother of evil. There is no letup. What could be worse? My country is now the largest jihadist staging area in the world.”

He dropped them in front of the Ministry of Interior, of which the Ministry of Industry was a part, a blocky multistory building with a filigreed façade. It was ringed with soldiers sporting AK-47s and shoulder-fired rocket launchers. Several mortar emplacements were visible behind sandbag barriers. Off to one side, a line of gleaming Mercedes, BMWs, and motorcycles were parked, waiting for their minister masters.

Again, Zizzy invoked Hafiz’s name. They showed their IDs. Bourne was now Yusuf Al Khatib, one of the many legends whose documents were hidden within his rucksack. One of the soldiers thumbed a walkie-talkie, spoke into it, then nodded at his compatriot, who stepped aside so they could enter the ministry.

The three-story entry was as chilly as a New England winter. All that was missing was snow. They took the elevator up to the third floor, accompanied by an armed guard who eyed them with paranoiac suspicion.

Minister Hafiz, a slender, elegant man, sat behind a Louis XIV desk that looked as if it had been looted from the Louvre. A couple of chairs in the same style and a very expensive Isfahan carpet were the only other items in evidence. They were all that was required to make an impression on the average visitor. Apart from a dusting of plaster on the floor, no tangible evidence of the battle raging in the city existed here.

Hafiz leapt up when he saw Zizzy, greeted him warmly. He wore a summer-weight Western suit that somehow did not quite fit him, as if he had pulled it out of someone else’s closet this morning. Smoke-hazed sunlight slanting through the window highlighted his deep-set eyes and hawk nose. His slicked-back hair gleamed richly. Through the window a nearby mosque raised its carved minaret like a flag of victory. The call to prayer, one of five times daily, was being sung by a muezzin.

Bourne was introduced, but Hafiz did not wave them toward the chairs. Instead, he signed to them to follow him. They filed out of his office, past his secretary frowning over her computer terminal as she inputted the day’s information. Hafiz led them down the main corridor and into the fire stairwell. He waited until the metal door snapped closed. They were surrounded by bare concrete. The temperature had shot up to oven level. None of them seemed to notice.

“It’s getting sketchy out there,” Zizzy said, hooking his thumb toward where a window might be if they had still been in the minister’s office.

“Despite ruling for two decades, being Alawi has been no picnic,” Hafiz grumbled. “The Iraq war ruined the country. It disgorged thousands of Iraqi Sunni seeking refuge here. And what happened? The inevitable, that’s what. The Sunni majority became overwhelming. You think the rebels want democracy? Well, some of them, maybe. But there are a whole hell of a lot who are Iraqi Islamics, and others like the al-Qaeda-backed al-Nusra Front, Hezbollah, and El Ghadan’s Tomorrow Brigade—jihadists using the current chaos to spread more chaos.”

He jammed his hands into his trouser pockets, his shoulders rising, which made the suit jacket appear even more ill-fitting. “Do you know what will happen to us Alawis if the Sunnis ever gain power? We’ll all be rounded up, set against a wall, and shot. That’s no exaggeration.”

He craned his neck, peering as far down the stairs as he could, as if he expected an enemy lurking in the shadows. Satisfied, he turned back to them. “The West hates Bashar, but do you know the current president’s history? He went to England to study and work. He was happy there. He’d washed his hands of Syria altogether. Then his older brother—the heir to their father’s rule—went and slammed his two-hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar convertible into a roundabout, totaling it and himself. Bashar was recalled under enormous pressure.”

Hafiz shrugged, his expression turning more mournful by the moment. “He was a reformer. For five years he gave the Syrian people a taste of freedom. Then the war came and, along with it, the Sunni refugees. His father’s old-line inner circle threatened him. They told him that if he didn’t clamp down on the Sunnis they would kill him. So what choice did he have? Not only were the reforms rolled back but the Iraqi Sunnis were persecuted—tortured and, in many instances, killed. Now you see the result—over one hundred thousand Sunnis killed.”

“Once the genie is out of the bottle…” Zizzy let the first part of the statement speak for itself.

“No kidding.” Hafiz’s look of disgust was unmistakable. “We’re holding on with everything we have against both the rebels and the jihadists. I’m afraid it’s a losing battle.”

“That’s the reason I came in person,” Zizzy said. “I want to get you and your family out of here before it’s too late.”

“It’s already too late,” Hafiz said. “I appreciate the offer, Zizzy, but Damascus is my home. I cannot abandon it to the ravening hordes.”

Zizzy allowed a moment of silence to underscore the gravity of the situation before he nodded. “I understand, Nazim.” He gestured toward Bourne. “However, as long as we’re here, I’m wondering if you could do me a favor.”

Hafiz spread his hands. “Anything, Zizzy. You have only to ask.”

“Actually, it’s a favor for my friend, Yusuf.”

Now Hafiz stared at Bourne with keen interest. “How can I be of assistance to you, Yusuf Al Khatib?”

“You know, I am sure, Minister Qabbani.”

Hafiz nodded. “Naturally. Though we are in different departments, we manage to cross paths now and again. Budget meetings and so forth.” His eyes narrowed. “There was a recent incident in Doha, I believe. The minister would have been killed had he not had the foresight to hire a Blacksmith.”

“You know about that,” Bourne said.

“But of course.” The ghost of a smile played around Hafiz’s wide mouth. “Qabbani fought tooth and nail to gain the funding to pay for the Blacksmith.”

Interesting, thought Bourne. “Minister, why do you think he fought so hard?” A less seasoned agent might have added, “Could he have had foreknowledge of the incident?” But Bourne wanted to see if Hafiz would come to this conclusion on his own.

“To be honest, Qabbani wanted to weasel out of the summit,” Hafiz said. “When that didn’t work, he went the Blacksmith route. He argued he’d be safer here in Damascus than at the Doha summit. As it happened, he was correct.”

“Lucky guess,” Bourne said.

“I’m not so sure it was a guess.”

“What do you mean?” Bourne said.

Hafiz returned to his recon of the lower staircase before answering. “It may be nothing, but there was some chatter—” He stopped abruptly. “You know, I’m not sure I should be repeating unattributed rumor.”

“Humor me,” Bourne said.

Hafiz appeared to consider this a moment. “Well, hall gossip had it that there was an ulterior motive behind the Doha summit.”

“Was there anything more detailed?”

Hafiz heaved a sigh. “According to the rumor, the summit had an artificial air to it, that it was planned for a specific purpose.”

“Which would be?”

Hafiz shrugged. “My best guess would be that someone here inside the ministry knew the massacre was going to happen. Ever since Qatar has been providing arms and materiel to the rebels here, it’s been on our shit list.”

Bourne shot Zizzy a quick glance before he said to Hafiz, “Could there be any hint of the foreknowledge in the ministry files?”

Hafiz frowned. “I doubt it.”

“Personal emails? Appointments? Missing periods from a minister’s calendar?”

“Who knows?” Hafiz said. “But it would be easy enough to check.”

He led them out of the fire stairs, back into the refrigerated hallway. In his office, he crossed the Isfahan on his way to his desk.

“I have access to almost every level of electronic communication,” he said. “And what I don’t have ready access to, I can obtain, no prob—”

A tinkling of window glass, a spray of blood as Hafiz’s body spun around and fell to the carpet.