Robert Ludlum - Bourne 7 – The Bourne Deception

Oh, the hell with it, she thought. -Moira.

— Moira? Ma‘am, she‘ll need your last name.

— No, she won‘t, Moira said. -Just tell her Moira, and be damn quick about it!

The moon is out. Amun Chalthoum checked his watch. -It‘s time we talked.

Soraya had been on her satellite phone with her local Typhon agents in place. They were all running down leads on the new Iranian MIG, but so far none of them had made any progress. It was as if the group was so far underground their contacts had come up empty. Whether this was because their contacts knew nothing or were too afraid to divulge the group‘s existence was anyone‘s guess. If it was the latter, she had to admire the level of their security.

She decided to agree to Amun‘s suggestion, but not in the way he wanted. As he held the tent flap back for her, she said, — Leave your firearm here.

— Is this really necessary? he said. When she didn‘t reply he narrowed his eyes for a moment to show his displeasure then, sighing, took his pistol from its polished leather holster and set it down on a field desk.

— Satisfied?

She passed out of the relative warmth of the interior into the chill night. Some distance away the American task force was busy sifting through the wreckage for clues, but as yet Delia hadn‘t given her another update, although-as Veronica had said-the downed plane wasn‘t her primary mission. She shivered in the ascetic chill of the desert air. The moon was immense, lent a kind of grandeur by the eternal and seemingly endless sea of sand.

They began heading for the bare perimeter, where Chalthoum‘s guards should have been posted, but she saw no one, and she stopped. Though he was a pace ahead of her, he sensed something amiss, and turned back.

— What is it? he said.

— I won‘t go another step in that direction, she said. -I want to be in shouting distance. She indicated the constellation of lights on the other side of the site, safely beyond the perimeter dictated by Chalthoum, the glowing encampment of the international news media, somehow alien in the ominous night, as if it were a ship that had come to ruin on the teeth of the reef of the downed plane.

— They? he scoffed. -They can‘t protect you. My people won‘t let them past the perimeter.

She gestured. -But where are your people, Amun? I don‘t see them.

— I made certain of that. He lifted an arm. -Come, we have very little time.

She was going to refuse but something in his voice caused her to relent. She thought again about the tension she‘d first sensed in him, the leashed rage. What, really, was going on here? Now he‘d piqued her curiosity. Had he done that deliberately? Was he leading her into a trap? But to what end?

Unconsciously, her hand patted her back pocket where the ceramic switchblade rested, waiting to protect her.

They walked on in silence. The desert seemed to whisper around them, restlessly shifting, filtering between clothes and skin. The sheen of civilization ground down until only a hard nub was left, rough and primitive. Chalthoum reveled in his element. He was larger than life, which was of course why he‘d taken her out here years ago, why they were here now. The farther they moved away from the others the more he seemed to grow both in stature and in power, until he towered over her. Turning, his eyes glittered, reflecting the blue-white moonlight.

— I need your help, he said with his usual bluntness.

She almost laughed. -You need my help?

He looked away for a moment. -You‘re about the last person I‘d think of asking for help.

And with that one statement she understood how dire his circumstances must be. -What if I refuse?

He pointed to the satellite phone in her hand. -Do you think I don‘t know who you were calling with that? The whites of his eyes looked eerily blue in the monochrome light. -Do you think I don‘t know why you‘re really here? It isn‘t about this air disaster; it‘s about this new Iranian MIG.

WILLARD, standing in the center of Dr. Firth‘s compound, waited anxiously for Bourne to return. He had thought briefly of going out after him, but rejected the idea. As often happened when he thought of Bourne, his thoughts turned to his own son Oren. He hadn‘t seen or heard from Oren in fifteen years, and as for his wife, she was dead and buried. He‘d often assumed that his breach with Oren had come at the funeral, when he‘d stood dry-eyed and mute as the casket containing the mortal remains of his wife was lowered into the ground.

— Don‘t you feel anything? Oren had confronted him with an anger that had apparently been building for years. -Anything at all?

— I‘m relieved that it‘s over, Willard had said.

It was only much later that he realized telling his son the truth had been a grievous mistake. That was a time, however brief, when he‘d grown tired of lies. He never made that error again. Human beings, it became clear to him, thrived on lies; they needed them in order to survive, to be happy, even. Because the truth was often unpleasant, and people didn‘t care for that. Furthermore, it didn‘t suit many of them. They‘d much rather lie to themselves, have those around them lie to them to preserve the illusion of beauty. Reality wasn‘t pretty, that was the truth.

But now, here in Bali, he wondered whether he was like all the others, weaving a prison of lies around himself to blot out the truth. For years, he‘d tunneled his way into NSA like a mole, arriving at last at the safe house in Virginia, where all the lies were housed. For years, he‘d told himself it was his duty. Other people, even his own son, seemed like ghosts to him, part of someone else‘s life. What else did he have? he asked himself over and over as he toiled away as an NSA steward. It was duty, only duty he could connect with.

The NSA mission had been fulfilled. By necessity his cover had been blown with them, and he was free. No one inside CI had yet figured out what to do with him. In fact, so far as the new DCI was concerned, he was on a longoverdue vacation.

Now, free of the servile persona of Willard, the NSA steward, he‘d come to realize that being a steward was only a role he‘d been playing; a role that wasn‘t him at all. When Alex Conklin had begun to train him, Willard had had visions of perilous derring-do in far-off corners of the world. He‘d read all the James Bond novels countless times; he itched for the adrenaline rush of covert battles. As he became more and more accomplished, as he excelled at his teacher‘s increasingly difficult exercises, Conklin had begun to confide in him. Then the fatal mistake: As he began to learn Treadstone‘s secrets, he‘d allowed himself the fantasy of becoming Conklin‘s successor: the master manipulator. But reality had sent him crashing to earth. The Old Man had called, wanting Willard for the role in which he‘d already cast him. Willard was sent underground, into NSA, into prison with, it seemed, no chance for a reprieve.

He‘d done whatever had been asked of him, had done it well, masterfully, even. That‘s what everyone had told him. But what had he gotten out of it?

Truth, the truth: nothing, not a damn thing.

Now, at last, he had the freedom to fulfill his dream of becoming a master manipulator, of outdoing his old teacher. Because, in the end, Conklin had failed. He‘d allowed Leonid Arkadin to slip away, and then, instead of going after Arkadin and bringing him back, he‘d forgotten about the Russian and had tried to better him with Jason Bourne. But you can‘t turn your back on a creation like Arkadin. Willard knew every decision Conklin had taken with Treadstone, he was aware of every misstep. He wouldn‘t repeat the last one, which was to allow Leonid Arkadin to escape. He‘d do better, much better. He‘d fulfill Treadstone‘s final goal. He‘d succeed in creating the ultimate fighting machine.