Robert Ludlum - Bourne 7 – The Bourne Deception

Soraya went down to the sea, visiting eight of the dive companies, one by one, crossing them off her list as she went. With each she boarded their boats, interviewed the skippers and crew, looked at the customer logbooks for the past three weeks. Sometimes, she had to wait for the boats to return. Other times, the owner was kind enough to ferry her out to the dive sites. After four hours of frustrating work asking the same questions and getting the same answers, she was faced with the reality: This was an impossible task. It was like looking for a needle in an endless line of haystacks. Even if the terrorists had used this method to enter Egypt, there was no assurance that the dive operators would know. And how in the world would they have explained a crate large enough to house the Kowsar 3? Once again, she was plagued with doubts about Amun‘s story, with a dread that he had been involved in the downing of the airliner.

What am I doing here? she thought. What if Amun and al Mokhabarat are the real culprits?

Despairing, she decided to can the entire enterprise after she was through interviewing the personnel at the ninth dive shop. She was ferried out to its boat by a grizzled Egyptian who constantly spat over the side. It was exceptionally hot, the sun beating down on her head; the only breath of wind came from the movement of the boat through the listless air. Even through her sunglasses, everything appeared washed out in the glare. The brine of the sea filled her nostrils, heady and mineral. The repetition had sapped her of keen interest, otherwise she would have marked the young man with the tousled dirty-blond hair edging away from her as she was introduced by the dive shop owner. She began her interviews, asking the same questions: Have you noticed any out-of-place faces in the last three weeks? Any group of seeming Egyptians who came from another boat and who went ashore the same day? Any unusually large packages? No, no, and no, what else did she expect?

She didn‘t see the young man with the tousled hair gather up equipment as he backed away, and it was only when he jumped overboard that she awoke from her bored lethargy. Running down the length of the boat, she stripped off her handbag, kicked off her shoes, and dived into the sea after him. He had pulled on a mask and an air tank before going over the side, and she saw him below her. Even though he lacked fins, he was diving deep where he must have suspected that she-not being similarly equipped-would not follow.

He was wrong about both her ability and her resolve. Her father had thrown her into a pool on her first birthday, much to her mother‘s horror, and had taught her endurance, stamina, and speed, all of which had served her well throughout high school and college, when she‘d won every award imaginable. She could have made the Olympic team, but by that time the intelligence system had engaged her and she had more important things on her agenda.

Now she powered down, slicing her way through the water, but as she neared him, he turned, startled that she had drawn so close, so quickly, and raised his spear gun. He was cocking the mechanism that drew back the barbed bolt when she struck him. He tenaciously maintained his grip on the weapon, successfully readying it to fire even as she twisted his body backward. He brought the butt of the spear gun down against her temple and as her hands came off him, he lowered the barb until it was aimed at her chest.

She scissored her legs in a powerful kick just before he pulled the trigger, and the bolt shot by her. Then she made a grab for him. Now she was uninterested in the weapon or in his hands and feet. Her sole imperative was to pull off his mask, to even the playing field between them, because her lungs were beginning to burn and she knew she couldn‘t stay under for much longer.

Her pounding heart beat off the seconds, one, two, three, as they struggled, until at last she managed to rip off his mask. Water flooded against his face and, though he twisted to the left and right, she pulled the mouthpiece out and inserted it into her mouth, taking a couple of breaths before she kicked upward, holding him in an armlock. She spat out the mouthpiece as they bobbed to the surface.

The captain had raised the anchor while they‘d been underwater, and now the boat maneuvered close enough for hands to reach down and pull them both aboard.

— Get my handbag, Soraya said breathlessly as she sat on the young man‘s back, pinning him to the deck. She took deep, even breaths, smoothed her hair back from her face, and felt the water already warmed by the sun trickling over her shoulders.

— Is this the one you‘re looking for? the owner asked anxiously as he handed over the bag. -He‘s been here for three days, no more.

Shaking her hands to dry them, Soraya rummaged for her phone. She opened it, slowed her breathing even more, and punched in Chalthoum‘s number. When he answered, she told him where she was.

— Good work. I‘ll meet you on the dock in ten minutes, he said.

Putting her cell away, she glanced down at the young man beneath her.

— Get off me, he panted. -I can‘t breathe.

Sitting on his diaphragm wasn‘t helping, she knew, but she could summon up no sympathy.

— Sonny, she said, — you are in a world of hurt.

Bourne awoke into a web of shadows. The soft, intermittent hiss of traffic drew his eyes to a shaded window. Outside, streetlights shone through the darkness. He was lying on his side on what felt like a bed. Moving his head, he looked around the bedroom, which was small and comfortably furnished but didn‘t feel well lived in. Beyond an open doorway a slice of living room was visible. He stirred, sensing he was alone. Where was he? Where was Tracy?

In answer to his second question, he heard the front door open in the living room and recognized Tracy‘s sharp, quick gait as she came across a wooden floor. When she entered the bedroom, he tried to sit up.

— Please don‘t, you‘ll only aggravate your wound, she said. She put down some packages and sat beside him on the bed.

— My back was barely scratched.

She shook her head. -A bit deeper, but I‘m talking about the wound in your chest. It‘s started seeping. She unpacked items she had obviously bought at the local pharmacy: alcohol, antibiotic cream, sterile pads, and the like. -Now hold still.

As she went to work stripping the old bandage and cleaning the wound, she said, — My mother warned me about men like you.

— What about me?

— Always getting into trouble. Her fingers worked quickly, nimbly, surely. -The difference is that you know how to get yourself out of whatever mess blows up around you.

He grimaced at the pain but didn‘t flinch. -I have no choice.

— Oh, I don‘t think that‘s true. She bunched up a wad of soiled sterile pads, then took up another, soaking it in alcohol and applying it to the reddened flesh. -I think you go looking for trouble, I think that‘s who you are, I think you‘d be unhappy-and, worse for you, bored-if you didn‘t.

Bourne laughed softly, but he didn‘t think she was far off the mark.

She examined the newly cleaned wound. -Not so bad, I doubt you‘ll need a fresh round of antibiotics.

— Are you a doctor?

She smiled. -On occasion, when I have to be.

— That answer requires an explanation.

She palpated the flesh around his wound. -What the hell happened to you?

— I got shot, don‘t change the subject.

She nodded. -Okay, as a young woman-a very young woman-I spent two years in West Africa. There was unrest, fighting, horrible atrocities perpetrated. I was assigned to a field hospital where I learned triage, how to dress a wound. One day we were so overloaded with wounded and dying, the doctor put an instrument in my hand and said, ‗There‘s an entry wound but no exit wound. If you don‘t get the bullet out right away your patient will die.‘ Then he went off to work on two other patients at once.