Bourne 4 - The Bourne Legacy Page 5

  Bathed in the failing light of a spring evening, Bourne knew that he had been thrust into the same kind of situation now. He was in a red zone—an area controlled by the enemy. The trouble was, he had no idea who the enemy was or what he intended. Was Bourne even now being herded as he apparently had been when he had been fired upon at Georgetown University, or had his enemy moved on to a new phase of his plan?

  Far off, he heard the baying of dogs, and then, startlingly close at hand, the crisp, clear sound of a twig snapping. Had it been made by an animal or the enemy? His immediate objective had been altered. He still had to avoid the net of the police cordon but now, at the same time, he had to find a way to turn the tables on his attacker. The trouble was he had to find his assailant before he attacked Bourne again. If it was the same person as before, then he was not only a crack shot but also an expert at jungle warfare. In a way, knowing this much about his adversary heartened Bourne. He was getting to know his opponent. Now to avoid being killed before he could get to know him well enough to surprise him...

  The sun had slipped below the horizon, leaving the sky the color of a banked fire. A cool wind caused Bourne to shiver in his wet clothes. He rose and began to move, both to get the stiffness out of his muscles and to warm himself. The forest was cloaked in indigo, and yet he felt as exposed as if he were in a treeless expanse beneath a cloudless sky. He knew what he would do if he were in Tam Quan: He'd find shelter, a place to regroup and consider options. But finding shelter in a red zone was tricky; he might be putting his head in a trap. He moved through the forest slowly and deliberately, his eyes scanning tree trunk after tree trunk until he found what he was looking for. Virginia creeper. It was too early in the year for flowers, but the shiny five-lobed leaves were unmistakable. Using the switchblade, he carefully peeled off long lengths of the sturdy vine.

  Moments after he was finished, his ears pricked up. Following a faint sound, he soon came to a small clearing. There. He saw a deer, a mid-sized buck. Its head was up, its black nostrils scenting the air. Had it smelled him? No. It was trying to find—

  The deer took off, and Bourne with him. He ran lightly and silently through the forest paralleling the deer's path. Once, the wind shifted and he had to alter his course in order to remain downwind of the animal. They had covered perhaps a quarter of a mile when the deer slowed. The ground had risen, become harder, more compact. They were quite some distance from the stream and on the extreme edge of the estate. The deer leaped easily over the stone wall marking the northwestern corner of the property. Bourne clambered over the wall in time to see that the deer had led him to a salt lick. Salt licks meant rocks and rocks meant caves. He recalled Con-klin telling him that the northwestern edge of the property abutted a series of caves honeycombed with chimneys, natural vertical holes the Indians had once used to vent their cooking fires. Such a cave was just what he was hoping for—a haven to temporarily hide in that, by virtue of its two egresses, would not become a trap.

  Now I have him, Khan thought. Webb had made a huge mistake—he'd entered the wrong cave, one of the few without a second exit. Khan crept out from his hiding place, crossing the small clearing in silence and in stealth, entering the black mouth of the cave. Creeping forward, he could sense Webb in the darkness up ahead. Khan knew by the smell that this one was shallow. It did not have the damp, sharp scent of built-up organic matter of a cave that went deep into the bedrock.

  Up ahead, Webb had switched on the flashlight. In a moment he would see that there was no chimney, no other way out. The time to attack was now! Khan launched himself at his adversary, struck him flush in the face.

  Bourne went down, the flashlight hitting the rock, the light bouncing crazily. At the same time, he could feel the rush of air as the balled fist flew toward him. He allowed it to strike him and, as the arm was extended to the fullest, chopped down hard on the exposed and vulnerable biceps.

  Lunging forward, he jammed his shoulder into the sternum of the other body. A knee came up, connected with the inside of Bourne's thigh, and a line of nerve pain flashed through him. He seized a handful of clothes, jerked the body against the rock face. The body bounced back, rammed into him, bowling him off his feet. They rolled together, grappling at each other. He could hear the other's breathing, an incongruously intimate sound, like listening to a child's breath beside you.

  Locked in an elemental struggle, Bourne was close enough to smell a complex melange rising off the other like steam from a sunlit swamp that made the jungle of Tarn Quan rear up once more in his mind. In that instant, he felt a bar against his throat. He was being hauled backward.

  "I won't kill you," a voice said in his ear. "At least not yet." He jabbed backward with an elbow, was rewarded with a knee to his already aching kidney. He doubled over but was hauled painfully erect by the bar against his windpipe.

  "I could kill you now, but I won't," the voice said. "Not until there is enough light so that I can look into your eyes while you die."

  "Did you have to kill two innocent decent men just to get to me?" Bourne said.

  "What are you talking about?"

  "The two people you shot to death back at the house."

  "I didn't kill them; I never kill innocents." There was a chuckle. "On the other hand, I don't know that I could call anyone associated with Alexander Conklin an innocent."

  "But you herded me here," Bourne said. "You shot at me so I'd run to Conklin, so you could—"

  "You're talking nonsense," the voice said. "I merely followed you here."

  "Then how did you know where to send the cops?" Bourne said.

  "Why would I even call them?" the voice whispered harshly. Startling though this information was, Bourne was only half-listening. He had relaxed a little during this conversation, leaning backward. This left the smallest bit of slack between the bar and his windpipe. Bourne now turned on the balls of his feet, dropping one shoulder as he did so, so that the other was obliged to focus his attention on keeping the bar in place. In that instant, Bourne used the heel of his hand to deliver a quick strike just below the ear. The body fell hard; the bar rang hollowly as it struck the rock floor. Bourne took several deep breaths to clear his head, but he was still woozy from loss of oxygen. He took up the flashlight, illuminated the spot where the body had fallen, but it wasn't there. A sound, barely a whisper, came to him and he raised the beam. A figure sprang into the light against the mouth of the cave. As the light struck him, he turned, and Bourne got a glimpse of his face before he vanished into the trees. Bourne ran after him. In a moment he heard the distinct snap and whoosh! He heard movement up ahead, and he pushed through the undergrowth to where he had set his trap. He had woven the Virginia creeper into a net and tied it to a green sapling he had bent almost double. It had caught his assailant. The hunter had become the prey. Bourne pushed forward to the base of the trees, prepared himself to face his attacker and cut the creeper netting down. But the net was empty.

  Empty! He gathered it up, saw the rent his quarry had cut into its upper section. He had been quick, clever and prepared; he would be even more difficult to take by surprise again.

  Bourne looked up, playing the cone of the flashlight beam in an arc across the maze of tree limbs. Despite himself, he experienced a fleeting twinge of admiration for his expert and resourceful adversary. Snapping off the flashlight, he was plunged into night. A whippoorwill cried out and then, in the lengthening silence, an owl's hoot echoed mournfully through the pine-clad hills.

  He leaned his head back and took a deep breath. Against the screen of his mind's eye the flat planes, the dark eyes of the face was limned, and in a moment he was certain that it matched up with one of the students he had seen on his way to the university classroom the sniper had used. At last, his enemy had a face as well as a voice.

  "I could kill you now, but I won't. Not until there is enough light so that I can look into your eyes while you die."

  CHAPTER THREE

  .Humanistas, Ltd., an intern
ational human-rights organization known the world over for its worldwide humanitarian and relief work, was headquartered on the deep green western slope of Gellért Hill in Budapest. From this magnificent vantage point, Stepan Spalko, peering through the huge angled plate-glass windows, imagined the Danube and the entire city genuflecting at his feet.

  He had come around from behind his huge desk to sit on an upholstered chair facing the very dark-skinned Kenyan president. Flanking the door were the Kenyan's bodyguards, hands tucked at the smalls of their backs, the blank look endemic to all such government personnel etched on their faces. Above them, molded in bas-relief on the wall, was the green cross held in the palm of a hand that was Humanistas' well-marketed logo. The president's name was Jomo and he was a Kikuyu, the largest ethnic tribe of Kenya, and a direct descendant of Jomo Kenyatta, the Republic's first president. Like his famous forebear, he was a Mzee, Swahili for a respected elder. Between them was an ornate silver service dating back to the 1700s. Fine black tea had been poured, biscuits and exquisitely turned-out small sandwiches artfully arranged on a chased oval tray. The two men were talking in low, even tones.

  "One doesn't know where to begin to thank you for the generosity you and your organization have shown us," Jomo said. He was sitting up very straight, his ramrod back pulled a little away from the comfort of the chair's plush back. Time and circumstance had combined to rob his face of much of the vitality it had held in his youth. There was, beneath the high gloss of his skin, a grayish pallor. His features had been compressed, ossified into stone by hardship and perseverance in the face of overwhelming odds. In short, he had the aspect of a warrior too long at siege. His legs were together, bent at the knee at a precise ninety-degree angle. He held in his lap a long, polished box of deepgrained bubinga wood. Almost shyly, he presented the box to Spalko. "With the heartfelt blessings of the Kenyan people, sir."

  "Thank you, Mr. President. You are too kind," Spalko said graciously.

  "The kindness is surely yours, sir." Jomo watched with keen interest as Spalko opened the box. Inside was a flat-bladed knife and a stone, more or less oval in shape, with a flattish bottom and top.

  "My God, this isn't a githathi stone, is it?"

  "It is, indeed, sir," Jomo said with obvious delight. "It is from my birth village, from the kiama to which I still belong."

  Spalko knew Jomo was referring to the council of elders. The githathi was of great value to tribal members. When a dispute arose within the council that could not otherwise be settled, an oath was taken on this stone. Spalko gripped the knife's handle, which was carved from carnelian. It, too, had a ritualistic purpose. In cases of life or death disputes, the blade of this knife was first heated, then laid onto the tongues of the disputants. The extent of the tongues' subsequent blistering determined their guilt or innocence.

  "I wonder, though, Mr. President," Spalko said with the hint of an impish tone,

  "whether the githathi comes from your kiama or your njama*" Jomo laughed, a rumble deep in his throat that made his small ears quiver. It was so rare he had cause to laugh these days. He could not remember the last time. "So you have heard of our secret councils, have you, sir? I would say your knowledge of our customs and lore is formidable, indeed."

  "The history of Kenya is long and bloody, Mr. President. I am a firm believer that it is in history we learn all our most important lessons."

  Jomo nodded. "I concur, sir. And I feel compelled to reiterate that I cannot imagine what state the Republic would be in without your doctors and their vaccines."

  "There is no vaccine against AIDS." Spalko's voice was gentle but firm. "Modern medicine can curtail the suffering and deaths from the disease with drug cocktails, but as for its spread, only the stringent application of contraceptives or abstinence will be effective."

  "Of course, of course." Jomo wiped his lips fastidiously. He detested coming hat in hand to this man who had already so generously extended his help to all Kenyans, but what choice did he have? The AIDS epidemic was decimating the Republic. His people were suffering, dying. "What we need, sir, is more of the drugs. You have done much to alleviate the level of suffering in my country. But there are thousands yet to receive your help."

  "Mr. President." Spalko leaned forward, and with him, Jomo as well. His head was now in the sunlight streaming in through the high windows, lending him an almost preternatural glow. The light also threw into prominence the shiny poreless skin on the left side of his face. This accentuation of his disfigurement served to provide a slight shock to Jomo, jolting him out of his predetermined pattern. "Humanistas, Ltd. is prepared to return to Kenya with twice the number of doctors, double the amount of drugs. But you—the government—must do your part."

  It was at this point that Jomo realized that Spalko was asking of him something quite apart from promoting safe-sex lectures and distributing condoms. Abruptly, he turned, dismissing his two bodyguards from the room. When the door had closed behind them, he said, "An unfortunate necessity in these dangerous times, sir, but even so one sometimes wearies of never being alone."

  Spalko smiled. His knowledge of Kenyan history and tribal customs made it impossible for him to take the president lightly, as others might. Jomo's need might be great, but one never wanted to take advantage of him. The Kikuyu were prideful people, an attribute made all the more important since it was more or less the only thing of value they possessed.

  Spalko leaned over, opened a humidor, offered a Cuban Cohiba to Jomo, took one himself. They rose, lighting their cigars, walked across the carpet to stand at the window, looking out at the tranquil Danube sparkling in the sunlight.

  "A most beautiful setting," Spalko said conversationally.

  "Indeed," Jomo affirmed.

  "And so serene." Spalko let go a blue cloud of aromatic smoke. "Difficult to come to terms with the amount of suffering in other parts of the world." He turned then to Jomo.

  "Mr. President, I would consider it a great personal favor if you would grant me seven days' unlimited access to Kenyan airspace."

  "Unlimited?"

  "Coming and going, landings and such. No customs, immigration, inspections, nothing to slow us down."

  Jomo made a show of considering. He puffed some on his Cohiba, but Spalko could tell that he was not enjoying himself. "I can grant you only three," Jomo said at length.

  "Longer than that will cause tongues to wag."

  "That will have to do, Mr. President." Three days was all Spalko had wanted. He could have insisted on the seven days, but that would have stripped Jomo of his pride. A stupid and possibly costly mistake, considering what was to happen. In any event, he was in the business of promoting goodwill, not resentment. He held out his hand and Jomo slipped his dry, heavily calloused hand into his. Spalko liked that hand; it was a hand of a manual laborer, someone who was not afraid to get dirty.

  After Jomo and his entourage had left, it was time to give an orientation tour to Ethan Hearn, the new employee. Spalko could have delegated the orientation to any one of a number of assistants, but he prided himself on personally making sure all his new employees were settled. Hearn was a bright young spark who had previously worked at the Eurocenter Bio-I Clinic on the other side of the city. He was a highly successful fundraiser and was well connected among the rich and elite of Europe. Spalko found him to be articulate, personable and empathetic—in short, a born humanitarian, just the sort he needed to maintain the stellar reputation of Humanistas, Ltd. Besides which, he genuinely liked Hearn. He reminded him of himself when he was young, before the incident that had burned off half the skin of his face. He took Hearn through the seven floors of offices, comprising laboratories, departments devoted to compiling the statistics the development people used in fund-raising, the lifeblood of organizations such as Humanistas, Ltd., as well as accounting, procurement, human resources, travel, the maintenance of the company's fleets of private jets, transport planes, ships and helicopters. The last stop was the development department, whe
re Hearn's new office awaited him. At the moment, the office stood empty save for a desk, swivel chair, computer and phone console.

  "The rest of your furniture," Spalko told him, "will be arriving in a few days."

  "No problem, sir. A computer and phones are all I really need." "A warning," Spalko added. "We keep long hours here, and there will be times you'll be expected to work through the night. But we're not inhuman. The sofa we provide folds out into a bed." Hearn smiled. "Not to worry, Mr. Spalko. I'm quite used to those hours." "Call me Stepan." Spalko gripped the younger man's hand. "Everyone else does."

  The Director of Central Intelligence was soldering the arm on a painted tin soldier—a British redcoat from the Revolutionary War—when the call came. At first he considered ignoring it, perversely letting the phone ring even though he knew who would be on the other end of the line. Perhaps, he thought, this was because he did not want to hear what the Deputy Director would have to say. Lindros believed the DCI had dispatched him to the crime scene because of the importance of the dead men to the Agency. This was true, as far as it went. The real reason, however, was that the DCI couldn't bear to go himself. The thought of seeing Alex Conklin's dead face was too much for him. He was sitting on a stool in his basement workshop, a tiny, enclosed, perfectly ordered environment of stacked drawers, aligned cubbyholes, a world unto itself, a place his wife—and his children when they had lived at home—were forbidden to enter. His wife, Madeleine, poked her head through the open door to the cellar. "Kurt, the phone," she said needlessly.

  He took an arm out of the wooden bin of soldier parts, studied it. He was a largeheaded man, but a mane of white hair combed back from his wide, domed forehead lent him the aspect of a wiseman, if not a prophet. His cool blue eyes were still as calculating as ever, but the lines at the corners of his mouth had deepened, pulling them down into something of a perpetual pout.