The Bourne Betrayal (63 page)

Now he turned his attention to Karim.

The plane had come to a stop on the tarmac; the engines whined down. Bourne, taking the pilot with him, went down the cabin aisle, opened the door, and lowered the stairs for Tyrone, who had driven up beside the jet.

Tyrone came up the stairway, dropping the black leather case at Bourne’s feet.

“Hey, Tyrone. Thanks.”

“Yo, need some light in here, yo. Can’t see a thing.”

“That’s the point.”

Tyrone was peering at him. “Yo look like a fuckin’ Arab.”

Bourne laughed. He pulled the bag up, went over to a set of facing seats, opened it up. Tyrone became aware of the Arab pilot, a dark-skinned, bearded man who glowered at him, half defiant, half fearful.

“Who the fuck is this?”

“Terrorist,” Bourne said simply. He paused in unloading the bag long enough to drink in the situation. “You want to get a taste?”

Tyrone laughed. “Killed two of ‘em was about to do for Miss Spook.”

“Now, who would that be?”

Tyrone’s dark eyes flashed. “I know yo an Deron are close, but doan fuck wid me.”

“I’m not fucking with you, Tyrone. Excuse me for this, but I’m on a deadline.” Bourne turned on one of the overhead seat lights, opened his cell, and brought up the photos he’d taken of Fadi’s face. Then he set about opening small pots, jars, tubes, and various oddly shaped prosthetics. “Would you please tell me what you’re talking about?”

Tyrone hesitated for a minute, studying Bourne to see if he was still fucking with him. Apparently, he decided he’d been wrong. “Talkin’ ‘bout Miss Spook. Soraya.”

Bourne, glancing at the photos of Fadi, placed several prosthetics in his mouth and worked his jaws around experimentally. “Then I owe you a thank-you.”

“Yo, what the fuck happened to yo voice, man?”

Bourne said: “As you can see, I’m becoming a new man.” He continued with his transformation, finding a thick beard from the pile inside the case, shaping it with a scissors so that it was the exact replica of Fadi’s. He applied the beard, took a look at himself in the magnifying mirror he pulled from the case.

He handed his cell to Tyrone. “Do me a favor, would you? How much do I look like the man in these photos?”

Tyrone blinked, as if he couldn’t believe what Bourne had asked of him. Then he looked at the photos one by one. Before moving on to the next one, he studied Bourne’s face.

“Fuck me,” he said finally. “Yo, how yo do that shit, man?”

“It’s a gift,” Bourne said, meaning it. “Now, look. I need you to do me another favor.” He glanced at his watch. “In just over eleven minutes, this bastard Soraya’s been after is going to be coming here. I want you out of the way. I need you to take care of something for me. Something important. In the next cabin is my friend, Martin Lindros. He’s dead. I want you to contact a mortuary. His remains need to be cremated. Okay? Will you do that for me?”

“Got my cycle, so I gots t’sling him across my lap, that okay?”

Bourne nodded. “Treat him with respect, Tyrone, okay? Now take off. And don’t use the front entrance.”

“Never do.”

Bourne laughed. “I’ll see you on the other side.”

Tyrone looked at him. “The otha side a what?”

DRIVING
INTO
Virginia, Karim called Abd al-Malik at the mortuary.

“I need three men at the Sistain Labs location at once.”

“That will leave us with no one to spare.”

“Do it,” Karim said shortly.

“One moment, sir.” After a slight pause. “They’re on their way.”

“Is the DCI’s body prepared?”

“Forty minutes, possibly a bit more, sir. This isn’t your normal embalming job.”

“How does he look? That’s what’s most important.”

“Indeed, sir. His cheeks are rosy.” Abd al-Malik made a pleased sound in the back of his throat.

“Believe me, security will be convinced he’s still alive.”

“Good. As soon as you’re finished, get him into the limo. The timetable has been accelerated. Fadi wants the CI building taken out as soon as humanly possible. Call me when you’re in position.”

“It will be done,” Abd al-Malik said.

Karim knew it would. Abd al-Malik, the most accomplished member of his sleeper cell in the district, and its leader, had never failed him.

Traffic was light. It took him thirty-eight minutes to arrive at the main entrance, on the western side of the Sistain Labs property. The place was deserted. He’d had to restrain himself twice on the drive down here-once when a kid in what the Americans called a muscle car cut him off; again when a trucker had come up behind him, sounding his air horn. Both times, he’d pulled out his Glock, was ready to pull the trigger, when he’d caught himself.

It was Bourne, not these poor fools, he wanted to kill. His rage-the Desert Wind he’d inherited from his grandfather-was running high, giving him hair-trigger responses to stimuli. But this wasn’t the desert; he wasn’t among Bedouins who would know better than to antagonize him.

It was Bourne; it was always Bourne. Bourne had murdered innocent Sarah, the pride of the family. Karim had forgiven her her impious views, her unexplained absences, her wanting her independence, putting those things down to the same English blood that pulsed through his veins. He’d overcome his Western blood, which was why he had embarked on a program to reeducate her in the ways of the desert, the Saudi ethos that was her true heritage.

Now Bourne had killed Fadi, the public figurehead. Fadi, who had relied so heavily on the planning and the funds of his older brother, just as Karim had counted on his younger brother to protect him. He’d forgiven Fadi his hot blood, his excesses, because these traits were vital to a public leader, who drew the faithful to him with both his fiery rhetoric and his incendiary exploits.

They were both gone now-the innocent and the commander, one the tower of moral strength, the other of physical. He, of all of Abu Sarif Hamid ibn Ashef al-Wahhib’s children, remained. Alive, but alone. All that was left were the memories he held close to him of Fadi and Sarah ibn Ashef. The same memories held by his father-maimed, paralyzed, helplessly bound to his bed, needing a special harness to get into the wheelchair he despised.

This was the end for Bourne, he vowed. This was the end for all the infidels.

He made his way through the long, curving drives that skirted the low, sleek green-glass and black-brick lab buildings. A final swing around to the left brought the airfield into sight. Just beyond the parked jet was the fat gray-blue crescent of water adjacent to Occoquan Bay.

Nearing the landing strip, he slowed, took a long, careful survey of the area. The jet sat alone on the tarmac, near the far end of the runway. No vehicles were in sight. No boat plied the wintry waters of Belmont Bay. No helicopters hovered anywhere in the vicinity. Yet Fadi was dead, and Bourne sat inside the jet in his place.

Of course there wouldn’t be anyone here. Unlike him, Bourne had no support to back him up. He pulled the car over out of sight of the jet, lit a cigarette, waited. Quite soon the black Ford carrying his men arrived, pulling up alongside him.

He got out and gave them their instructions, telling them what to expect and what they should do. Then he leaned against the front fender of the car, smoking still as the Ford drove onto the tarmac.

When it reached the plane, the door swung inward and the stairway was lowered. Two of the three men got out, trotted up the stairs.

Karim spat the butt from his mouth, ground it beneath the heel of his shoe. Then he climbed into the rental car and headed back along the drive to the lab building hunkered eerily alone, on the northern fringe of the property, hard against the waste dump.

I can help you, Soraya,” Peter Marks said, his cell to his ear, “but I think we should meet.”

“Why? You have to be my eyes and ears at HQ. I need you to keep track of the impostor.”

“I don’t know where Lindros is,” Peter said. “He isn’t in his office. In fact, he’s nowhere in the building. He didn’t check out with his assistant. Is this an epidemic?”

He heard the sharpness of Soraya’s indrawn breath. “What is it?”

“Okay,” Soraya said. “I’ll meet you, but I pick the place.”

“Whatever you want.”

She gave him the address of the mortuary on the northeast edge of Rock Creek Park. “Get there,”

she said, “fast as you can.”

Marks checked out a CI vehicle, making the trip in record time. He pulled up across the street and down the block from the rear of the mortuary, then sat in his car as Soraya had directed. Before leaving headquarters, he’d toyed with the idea of contacting Rob Batt, of getting permission to take several agents with him, but the urgency of the meet made it imperative that he not take the time to persuade Batt to divert personnel.

Soraya tapping on the glass of the passenger window caused him to jump. He’d been so wrapped up in his thoughts that he hadn’t seen her approach. This made him doubly nervous, because he was out in the field where she had the distinct advantage over him. He’d been nothing but a desk jockey his entire career-which, he supposed, was the real reason he hadn’t wanted to take anyone with him. He had something to prove to his rabbi.

He unlocked the doors and she slipped into the passenger’s seat. She certainly didn’t look as if she’d cracked.

“I wanted you to come here,” she said a bit breathlessly, “because this is the mortuary where the Old Man is.”

He listened to these words as if they were part of a dream he was having. He had wrapped his hand around his gun when she was opening the door and he was out of sight to her. Now, as if he himself were in a dream, he brought the gun to her head and said, “Sorry, Soraya, but you’re coming back to headquarters with me.”

The two terrorists who boarded the jet blinked in the semidarkness. They looked stunned when they recognized him.

“Fadi,” the taller of the men said. “Where is Jason Bourne?”

“Bourne is dead,” Bourne said. “I killed him in Miran Shah.”

“But Karim al-Jamil said he would be on board.”

Bourne held up the briefcase with the nuclear device. “As you can see, he was mistaken. There’s been a change in plan. I need to see my brother.”

“At once, Fadi.”

They didn’t search the plane, didn’t see the pilot Bourne had tied and gagged.

As they led Bourne to the black Ford, the tall man said, “Your brother is nearby.”

They all got into the Ford, Bourne in the backseat with one of the men. Bourne kept his face averted from the runway lights, the only light source. As long as he kept his face in semi-shadow, he’d be fine. These men were reacting to a familiar voice, familiar body language. These were a mimic’s most powerful weapons. You needed to convince the mind, not the eye.

The driver left the airfield, looped around to the north, stopped at the side of a black-brick building that stood some distance away from the others. Bourne could see the slag pit as they opened a huge corrugated-iron door and led him inside.

The interior was huge and empty. There were no interior walls. Oil stains on the concrete floor indicated that it was, in fact, an airplane hangar. Light came in through the door, as well as through square windows set high up in the walls, but it soon dissipated in the vastness, swallowed up by great swaths of shadow.

“Karim al-Jamil,” the tall man called, “it was your brother who was on the plane, not Jason Bourne. He’s with us, and he has the device.”

A figure appeared out of the shadows.

“My brother is dead,” Karim said.

Behind Bourne, the men tensed.

I’m not going anywhere with you,” Soraya said.

Marks was about to reply when the wall at the back of the mortuary loading bay slid down.

“What the hell-?” he said.

Soraya took advantage of his surprise and bolted out of the car. Marks was about to go after her when he saw the DCI’s limo emerge, then head down the street away from him. He forgot all about Soraya. He put his car in gear, peeling out after the limo. The Old Man was supposed to be away on personal business. What was he doing here?

As he raced after the limo, he dimly heard Soraya shouting for him to turn back. He ignored her. Of course she’d say that; she was sure the Old Man was dead.

Up ahead, the limo stopped at a red light. He pulled up alongside it, scrolled down his window.

“Hey!” he called. “Peter Marks, CI! Open up!”

The driver’s window remained in place. Marks put the car in
PARK
, got out, pounded on the window.

He pulled out his ID. “Open up, dammit! Open up!”

The window slid down. He caught an instant’s glimpse of the Old Man sitting bolt-upright in the back. Then the driver aimed a Luger P-08 at his face and pulled the trigger.

The detonation burst his eardrums. He flew backward, arms outstretched, dead before he hit the pavement.

The limo’s window slid back up and, as the light turned green, it rolled swiftly down the street.

Karim stood staring intently at Bourne. “It can’t be. Brother, I was told you were dead.”

Bourne raised the briefcase. “And yet,” he said in Fadi’s voice, “I come in the guise of destruction.”

“Let the infidel beware!”

“Truly.” Even though Bourne knew he was looking at Karim, it was unnerving to face this man who was a dead ringer for his best friend. “We’re together again, brother!”

Martin had warned him that Karim was the dangerous one. “He’s the chess player,” Martin had said, “the spider sitting at the center of the web.” Bourne held no illusions. The moment Karim asked him an intimate question, one only his brother would know, the masquerade would be over.

It didn’t take that long.

Karim beckoned. “Come into the light, brother, that I may once more look upon you after so many months.”

Bourne took a step forward; light flooded his face.

Karim stood stock-still. His head rocked a little, as if he had developed a palsy. “You’re as much a chameleon as Fadi was.”

“Brother, I’ve brought the device. How could you mistake me?”

“I overheard a CI agent say-”

“Not Peter Marks.” Bourne took a shot because it was all he had left. Marks was the only one in CI Soraya had contacted.