The Bourne Deception

8





NAGORNO-KARABAKH was in the west of Azerbaijan, a hotly contested area of the country ever since Joseph Stalin tried to ethnically cleanse this part of the former Soviet Union of Armenians. The advantage for Arkadin of staging a strike force in Azerbaijan was that it bordered on the northwestern edge of Iran. The advantage of choosing this particular area was threefold: It was rugged terrain, identical to that of Iran; it was sparsely populated; and the people here knew him because hed made more than a dozen runs for Dimitri Maslov and then Semion Icoupov, trading semi-automatic rifles, grenades, rocket launchers, and so forth to the Armenian tribal leaders who were waging a continuous guerrilla war against the Azerbaijani regime, just as they had against the Soviets until the fall of the Soviet empire. In exchange, Arkadin received packets of brownish morphine bricks of exceedingly high quality, which he transported overland to the port city of Baku, where they were loaded onto a merchant ship that would take them due north across the Caspian Sea to Russia.

All in all, Nagorno-Karabakh was as secure a place as Arkadin could possibly find. He and his men would be left alone, and the tribesmen would protect him with their lives. Without the weapons provided by him and the people he worked for they would have been beaten into the dry red dirt of their homeland, exterminated like vermin. Armenians had settled here, between the Kura and Araxes rivers, during Roman times and had remained here ever since. Arkadin understood their fierce homeland pride, which was why hed decided that Nagorno-Karabakh was the place to commence trading. It was a politically savvy move as well. Since the weapons sold to the Armenian tribesmen helped destabilize the country and thus gave it a rude shove back toward Moscows orbit, the Kremlin was all too happy to turn a blind eye to the trades.

Now his strike force was going to train here.

It was hardly a surprise that when he arrived the leaders greeted him like a conquering hero.

Not that this homecoming of sorts was simply pleasant; nothing in Arkadins life was simple. Possibly he had misremembered the landscape or perhaps something had changed inside him. Either way, the moment he drove into the Nagorno-Karabakh area it was as if hed been hurled back into Nizhny Tagil.

The camp had been set up precisely to his specifications: Ten tents made of camouflage material ringed a large oval compound. To the east was the landing strip where his plane had touched down. At the other end of it was a short L-shaped extension on which was sitting a Air Afrika Transport cargo plane. The tents had an aspect he hadnt anticipated: They reminded him of the ring of high-security prisons that girdled Nizhny Tagil, the town in which hed been born and raised, if you could call living with psychotic parents being raised.

But again, memory was not a simple matter. Twenty minutes after arriving, having entered one of the tents that had been set up as his command station, he was inspecting the impressive array of weaponry hed had transshipped: AK-47 Lancasters, AR15 Bushmasters and LWRC SRT 6.8mm assault rifles, World War II US Marine M2A1-7 flamethrowers, armor-piercing grenades, shoulder-fired FIM-92 Stinger missiles, mobile howitzers, and, the key to his mission, three AH-64 Apache helicopters loaded with AGM-114 Hellfire missiles with specially made dual-charge nose cones of depleted uranium, unconditionally guaranteed by the seller to penetrate even the most heavily armored vehicle.

Dressed in camo fatigues, armed with a metal baton on one hip and an American Colt .45 on the other, Arkadin emerged from the largest of the tents and was met by Dimitri Maslov, the head of the Kazanskaya, the most powerful family of the Moscow mob. Maslov looked like a street fighter who was calculating how to pin you in the least amount of time and with the maximum pain. His hands were large, thick, and broad, and looked like they could wring the neck of anyone and anything. His muscular legs ended in outlandishly dainty feet, as if theyd been grafted on from someone elses body. Hed grown his hair since the last time Arkadin had seen him and, dressed in lightweight camo fatigues, had something of the anarchic air of Che Guevara.

Leonid Danilovich, Maslov said with false heartiness, I see youve wasted no time in putting our war matériel to use. Well, good, it cost a f*cking fortune.



With Maslov were two no-neck bodyguards, their fatigues sporting immense sweat rings, clearly out of their element in this hot climate.

Looking past the human weapons, Arkadin eyed the grupperovka chief with a kind of impersonal distrust. Ever since hed defected from being the Kazanskayas main enforcer to working exclusively for Semion Icoupov, he wasnt sure where he stood with the man. That they were doing business now meant nothing; a combination of compelling circumstance and powerful partner thrust them together. Arkadin had the impression that they were two pit bulls deciding how to finish the other off. This was borne out when Maslov said, I still havent gotten over the loss of my Mexican pipeline. I cant help feeling that if youd been available, I wouldnt have lost it.

Now I believe youre exaggerating, Dimitri Ilyinovich.

But instead you dropped out of sight, Maslov continued, deliberately ignoring Arkadin. You were unreachable.

Arkadin thought hed better pay attention now. Did Maslov suspect that he had taken Gustavo Morenos laptop, a prize that Arkadin was certain Maslov thought was rightfully his

Arkadin thought it best to change the subject. Why are you here

I always like to see my investments firsthand. Besides, Triton, the man coordinating the entire operation, wanted a firsthand report on your progress.

Triton need only have called me, Arkadin said.

Hes a cautious man, our Triton, or so Ive heard. Ive never met him myselffrankly, I dont know who he is, only that hes a man with deep pockets and the wherewithal to mount this ambitious project. And dont forget, Arkadin, it was I who recommended you to Triton. Theres no one better to train these men, I told him in no uncertain terms.

Arkadin thanked Maslov, even though privately it pained him to do so. On the other side of the ledger, it warmed him to know that Maslov had no idea who Triton was or who he worked for, whereas he himself knew everything. Maslovs amassed millions had made him overconfident and sloppy, which in Arkadins opinion made him ripe for the slaughter. That would come, he told himself, in time.

When Maslov had phoned him with the proposition laid out by Triton, hed at first refused. Now that he was the power behind the Eastern Brotherhood he neither needed nor wanted to hire himself out as a free-lancer. When Maslovs flattery, describing Arkadin and the Black Legions crucial part in the plan, had failed to move him, the twenty-million-dollar fee was dangled in front of his face. Still, he hesitated, until hed learned that the target was Iran, the objective to overthrow the current regime. Then the dazzling prospect of Irans oil pipeline danced through his head: untold billions, untold power. This prize took his breath away. He was canny enough to know, though Maslov was careful not to mention it, that Tritons aim must be the pipeline, too. His endgame was to double-cross Triton at the last minute, to snatch the pipeline for himself, but to do that he needed to properly assess his enemys resources. He needed to know who Triton was.

He saw someone emerge from the interior of the jeep that hed been warned by tribal lookouts had brought Maslov and his thugs here. At first the heat rising from the freshly laid tarmac obscured the mans face. Not that it mattered; Arkadin recognized that easy, loping gait, so deliberately like Clint Eastwoods in A Fistful of Dollars.

Whats he doing here Arkadin struggled to keep the sharp edge out of his voice.

Who Oserov Maslov said in all innocence. Vylacheslav Germanovich is now my second in command. He shook his head ingenuously. Did I fail to mention that I would have if Id been able to get hold of you to protect my Mexican interests. He shrugged. But, alas

Oserov was smiling now, in that half-ironic, half-condescending expression that had been tattooed into Arkadins brain in Nizhny Tagil. Was graduating Oxford a license to act superior to every other grupperovka member in Russia Arkadin didnt think so.

Arkadin, really Oserov said in British English. Bloody shocking youre still alive.

Arkadin hit him hard on the point of the chin. Oserov, that vile smile still stitched to his face, was already on his knees, his eyes rolling, by the time Maslovs bodyguards stepped in.

Maslov held up one hand to stay them. Nevertheless, his face was dark and congested with anger. You shouldnt have done that, Leonid Danilovich.

You shouldnt have brought him.

Unmindful of the weapons drawn on him, Arkadin knelt beside Oserov. So here you are in the blazing Azerbaijani sun, so far from home. How does it feel

Oserovs eyes were bloodshot and a thin trail of pink drool descended like a strand of a spiders web from one corner of his mouth, but he never stopped smiling. All at once, he reached out and grabbed Arkadin by his shirtfront, jerking him closer.

Youll live to regret this insult, Leonid Danilovich, now that Mischa is no longer alive to protect you.

Arkadin sprang away and rose to his feet. I told you what Id do to him if I saw him again.

Maslovs eyes narrowed. His face still had that congested look. That was a long time ago.

Not for me, Arkadin said.

Now he had made his stand, made an unequivocal statement that Maslov couldnt ignore. Nothing would be the same between them, which came as a distinct relief to Arkadin, who had the captives innate horror of inaction. To him, change was life. Dimitri Maslov had always thought of Arkadin as a workman, someone he hired and then forgot about. That perception needed to change. Maslov had to be made aware that the two men were now equals. Arkadin didnt have the luxury of time to finesse his new, elevated status.

As Oserov regained his feet, Maslov threw his head back and laughed, but he sobered quickly enough. Get back to the car, Vylacheslav Germanovich, he said under his breath to Oserov.

Oserov was about to say something, but changed his mind. With a murderous look at Arkadin, he turned on his heel and stalked away.

So, youre a big man now, Maslov said in an easy tone that didnt quite mask the undertone of menace in his voice.

Which meant, Arkadin understood, I knew you when you were nothing but a ragged fugitive from Nizhny Tagil, so if you mean to come after me, dont.

There are no big men, Arkadin replied with equanimity, only big ideas.

The two men stared at each other in total silence. Then, as one, they began to laugh. They laughed so hard, the bodyguards looked at each other questioningly and holstered their handguns. Meanwhile, Arkadin and Maslov punched each other lightly, then embraced as brothers. But for Arkadin, he knew he had to be even more wary of a knife being slipped between his ribs or a bit of cyanide in his toothpaste.


Bourne made his way down the steep hillside from the warung at the summit of the rice paddies. Down below, two adolescents were just visible exiting their family compound to go to school in Tenganan village.

He continued to descend the steep, rocky path at an almost breathtaking pace, passing the compound where the two teens had come from. A mandoubtless their fatherwas chopping wood, and a woman was stirring a wok-like pan over an open flame. Two skinny dogs came out to observe Bournes passing, but the adults couldnt have cared less.

The path flattened out quickly now, becoming packed dirt, somewhat wider, with the occasional rock and pile of cow manure to circumnavigate. This was the path that he and Moira had been forced to take by the beater who had cleverly herded them toward the killing ground in Tenganan.

Passing through the arched gateway, he picked his way past the school and the empty badminton court. Then all at once he was in the sacred open space occupied by the three temples. Unlike the first time he had been here, the temples were empty. High above, curlicue clouds tumbled across the cerulean sky. A small breeze stirred the treetops. His steps, light and virtually silent, caused little or no stir among the herd of cows and their calves lounging against the cool stone walls of the temple at the far end, the one dappled in shade. Save for the animals, the glade was deserted.

As he cut between the central temple and the one on the right he experienced an eerie sense of dislocation. He passed the patch of dirt where he had lain in his own blood while Moira, her face pinched with horror, had knelt over him. Time seemed to stretch into infinity, then, as he moved on, to snap back like a rubber band.

Leaving the rear walls of the temples behind him, he soon found himself back on steeply pitched land. The forest rose like a thick green wall above him, like a many-pagodaed temple complex, reaching toward the sky. This was where the shooter must have been lying in wait for him.

Just inside the lowest fringe of the dense forest sat a small stone shrine, its flanks wrapped in the traditional black-and-white-checked cloth, the whole protected by a small yellow parasol. The local spirit was in residence, and so was someone else. Seeing a small movement out of the corner of his eye, Bourne lunged into the foliage, wrapped his hand around a thin, brown arm, and drew out of the shadows the eldest daughter of the family that owned the warung.

For a long moment, they stood staring silently at each other. Then Bourne knelt down so he was at her eye level.

Whats your name he asked her.

Kasih, she said at once.

He smiled. What are you doing here, Kasih

The girls eyes were deep as pools, dark as obsidian. She had long hair that came down past her narrow shoulders. She wore a coffee-colored sarong with a pattern of frangipani blossoms just like his double ikat. Her skin was silky and unblemished.

Kasih

You were hurt three full moons ago in Tenganan.

The smile Bourne kept on his face turned tissue-thin. Youre mistaken, Kasih. That man died. I went to his funeral in Manggis before his body was flown back to the United States.

The outer corners of her eyes turned up and she gave him a curious smile, as enigmatic as the expression of the Mona Lisa. Then she reached out and her fingers opened his sweat-drenched shirt, revealing the bandaged wound.

You were shot, Bapak, she said as gravely as an adult. You didnt die, but its hard for you to climb our steep hills. She cocked her head. Why do you do it

So that one day it wont be hard. He rebuttoned his shirt. This is our secret, Kasih. No one else must find out, otherwise

The man who shot you will come back.

Rocked back on his heels, Bourne felt his heartbeat accelerate. Kasih, how do you know that

Because demons always return.

What do you mean

Reverently approaching the shrine, she placed a handful of red and violet blossoms in the shrines small niche, pressing her palms together at forehead height, bowing her head in a brief prayer to protect them against the evil demons that lurked in the forests restless green shadows.

When she was finished, she stepped back and, kneeling, began to dig at the rear corner of the shrine. A moment later she plucked out of the black, volcanic earth a small package of tied banana leaves. She turned and, with a fearful look in her eyes, presented it to Bourne.

Brushing off the soft clots of dirt, he untied and peeled back the leaves, one by one. Inside, he discovered a human eyeball, made of acrylic or glass.

Its the demons eye, Bapak, she said, the demon who shot you.

Bourne looked at her. Where did you find this

Over there. She pointed to the base of an immense pule or milk wood tree not more than a hundred yards away.

Show me, he said, following her through the tall fan-like ferns to the tree.

The girl would approach no closer than three paces, but Bourne hunkered down on his hams at the spot she indicated, where the ferns were broken, trampled down as if someone had left in great haste. Cocking his head up, he eyed the network of branches.

As he made to climb up, Kasih gave a little cry. Oh, please dont! The spirit of Durga, the goddess of death, lives in the pule.

He swung one leg up, gaining a foothold on the bark, and smiled reassuringly at the girl. Dont worry, Kasih, Im protected by Shiva, my own goddess of death.

Ascending swiftly and surely, he soon came to the thick, almost horizontal branch he had spied from the ground. Arranging himself along it on his belly, he found himself peering out through a narrow gap in the tangle of trees at the precise spot where hed been shot. He rose up on one elbow, looked around. In a moment he found the small hollow in the place where the branch was thickest as it attached to the trunk. Something glinted dully there. Plucking it out, he saw a shell casing. Pocketing this, he shimmied back down the tree, where he grinned down at the clearly nervous girl.

You see, safe and sound, he said. I think Durgas spirit is in another pule tree on the other side of Bali today.

I didnt know Durga could move around.

Of course she can, Bourne said. This isnt the only pule on Bali, is it

She shook her head.

That proves my point, Bourne said. Shes not here today. Its perfectly safe.

Kasih still appeared troubled. Now that you have the demons eyeball, youll be able to find him and stop him from coming back, wont you

He knelt beside her. The demon isnt coming back, Kasih, that I promise you. He rolled the eyeball between his fingers. And, yes, with its help I hope to find the demon who shot me.


Moira was taken by the two NSA agents to Bethesda Naval Hospital, where she was subjected to a medical workup both harrowing and stultifying in its thoroughness. In this way, the night crawled by. When, just after ten the next morning, she was declared physically fit, materially unimpaired by the car crash, the NSA agents told her that she was free to go.

Wait a minute, she said. Didnt you say you were taking me in for tampering with a crime scene

We did take you in, one of the agents said in his clipped Midwestern accent. Then the two of them walked out, leaving her confused and not a little alarmed.

Her alarm escalated significantly when she called four different people at the Department of Defense and State, all of whom were either in a meeting, out of the building, or, even more ominously, simply unavailable.

She had just finished putting on her makeup when her cell buzzed with a text message from Steve Stevenson, the undersecretary for acquisition, technology and logistics at the DoD whod recently hired her.

PERRY 1HR, she read off her screen. Quickly erasing it, she applied lipstick, gathered up her handbag and checked out of the hospital.


It was twenty-three miles from the Bethesda Naval Hospital to the Library of Congress. Google Maps claimed the ride would take thirty-six minutes, but that had to have been at two in the morning. At 11 AM, when Moira took the trip by taxi, it was twenty minutes longer, which meant she got to her destination with almost no time to spare. On the way, she had phoned her office, asked for a car to meet her, giving an address three blocks from her current destination.

Bring a laptop and a burner, she said before flipping her phone closed.

It was only when she exited the taxi that she felt aches and pains spring up in all parts of her body. She felt a massive post-trauma headache coming on. Digging in her handbag, she took three Advil, swallowing them dry. The day was mild but overcast and dull, no break in the gunmetal sky, no wind to speak of. The pale pink cherry blossoms were already trampled underfoot, tulips were blooming, and there was an unmistakable earthy scent in the air as spring advanced.

Stevensons text message, PERRY, referred to Roland Hinton Perry who, at the tender age of twenty-seven, had created the Fountain of the Court of Neptune sculpture on the far west side of the entrance to the Library of Congress. It was on the pavement level, rather than at the elevated level of the porte-cochere main entrance. Set into three niches of the stone retaining wall that was flanked by the entryway staircases, the fountainwith its twelve-foot bronze sculpture of the Roman god of the sea as a fearsome centerpieceemitted a raw and restless energy that contrasted dramatically with the sedate exterior of the building itself. Most visitors to the library never even knew it existed. Moira and Stevenson did, however. It was one of the half a dozen meeting places scattered in and around the district they had agreed upon.

She saw him right away. He was in a navy-blue blazer and gray lightweight wool trousers, his shoulders hunched up around his brick-red ears. He was facing away from her, staring at the rather violent countenance of Neptune, which meant that his head was slightly thrown back, his bald spot coming into prominence.

He didnt move when she came up and stood beside him. They might have been two totally unconnected tourists, not the least because he displayed an open copy of Fodors guidebook to Washington, DC, the way a pheasant announces its presence by spreading its tail.

Not a happy day for you, is it he said without turning in her direction or even seeming to move his lips.

What the hell is going on Moira asked. No one in DoD, including you, is taking my calls.

It seems, my dear, that youve stepped in a great steaming pile of shit. Stevenson flipped a page of the guidebook. He was one of those old-school government functionaries who went to a barber for a shave every day, had a manicure once a week, belonged to all the right clubs, and made sure his opinions were held by the majority before he voiced them. No one wants to be contaminated with the stink.

Me I havent done a damn thing. Except piss off my former bosses, she said to herself.

She thought about the trouble Noah had gone to in order to get Jays cell phone and to have her detained. Because she worked that part out on the way over here. The only reason for the NSA agents to say they were taking her in for tampering at the accident site and then let her go without charging her was that for some reason Noah needed her out of commission overnight. Why Maybe shed find out once she downloaded the files on the thumb drive shed found sewn into the lining of Jays jacket, but for now her best strategy was to pretend she knew absolutely nothing.

No. Stevenson shook his head. What we have here is something more. I think someone at your company trod on a nerve. The late Jay Weston, perhaps

Do you know what Weston dug up

If I did, Stevenson said slowly and carefully, Id be roadkill by now.

That big

He rubbed his immaculate red cheek. Bigger.

What the hell is going on between the NSA and Black River she said.

Youre a Black River ex-employee, you tell me. He pursed his lips. No, on second thought, I dont want to know anything, not even speculation. Ever since the news of the jetliner explosion hit the wires, the atmosphere at DoD and the Pentagon has been shrouded in a toxic fog.

Meaning

Nobodys talking.

Nobody ever talks up there.

Stevenson nodded. True enough, but this is different. Everyones walking around on eggshells. Even the secretaries seem terrified. In my twenty years of government service Ive never experienced anything like it. Except

Moira felt a ball of ice form in her stomach. Except what

Except right before we invaded Iraq.