Robert Ludlum: Bourne 7 – The Bourne Deception

— What do you mean? Bourne said sharply.

– therefore, you were not born on the fifteenth of January.

— That‘s what my birth certificate says. Marie had researched it herself.

— You speak to me of a certificate of birth. Suparwita spoke slowly and carefully, as if each word were precious. -Which is a piece of paper only.

He smiled, and his beautiful white teeth seemed to light up the dimness. -I know what I know.

Suparwita was a large man for a Balinese, with skin dark as mahogany, perfect, unblemished and unlined, making it impossible to guess his age. His hair was thick, black, and naturally wavy. It was pushed back from his forehead by what seemed to Bourne to be the same crown-like band the pig spirit wore. He had powerful-looking arms and shoulders without the usual Western over-muscled definition. His hairless body looked smooth as glass. He was naked from the waist up; below he wore a traditional Balinese sarong of white, brown, and black. His brown feet were bare.

After breakfast, Moira and Bourne had mounted a rental motorbike and headed into the lush, green countryside, to a thatched-roof house at the end of a narrow dirt path in the jungle, the home of the Balinese holy man named Suparwita who, she claimed, could find out something of Bourne‘s lost past.

Suparwita had greeted them warmly and without surprise as they approached, as if he had been expecting them. Gesturing for them to come inside, he had served them small cups of Balinese coffee and freshly made fried banana fritters, both sweetened with palm sugar syrup.

— If my birth certificate is wrong, Bourne said now, — can you tell me when I was born?

Suparwita‘s expressive brown eyes had not stopped their mysterious calculations. -December thirty-one, the holy man said without hesitation.

— You know our universe is overseen by three gods: Brahma, the creator, Vishnu, the preserver, Shiva, the destroyer. He pronounced Shiva as all Balinese did, so that it sounded like Siwa . He hesitated a moment, as if unsure whether to proceed. -After you leave here you will find yourself at Tenganan.

— Tenganan? Moira said. -Why would we go there?

Suparwita smiled at her indulgently. -The village is known for double ikat weaving. Double ikat is sacred, it provides protection from the demons of our universe. It is woven in three colors only, the colors of our gods. Blue for Brahma, red for Vishnu, yellow for Shiva. He handed Moira a card.

— You will buy a double ikat here, at the best weaver. He gave her a hard look. -Please do not forget.

— Why would I forget? Moira asked.

As if her question did not merit an answer, he returned his attention to Bourne. -So you understand completely, the month of December-your birth month-is ruled by Shiva, the god of destruction. Suparwita paused here, as if out of breath. -But please remember that Shiva is also the god of transformation.

The holy man now turned to a low wooden table on which was set a series of small wooden bowls, which were variously filled with powders and what looked like nuts or perhaps dried seedpods. He chose one of these pods, ground it in another bowl with a stone pestle. Then he added a pinch of yellow powder and dumped the mixture into a small iron kettle, which he set over a small wood fire. A cloud of fragrant steam perfumed the room.

Seven minutes of brewing passed before Suparwita took the kettle off the fire and poured the liquid into a coconut shell cup inlaid with mother-ofpearl. Without a word, he handed the cup to Bourne. When Bourne hesitated, he said, — Drink. Please. His smile lit up the room again. -It is an elixir made of green coconut juice, cardamom, and kencur . Mainly, it is kencur . You know kencur ? It is also called resurrection lily. He gestured. -Please.

Bourne drank the mixture, which tasted of camphor.

— What can you tell me about the life I can‘t remember?

— Everything, Suparwita said, — and nothing.

Bourne frowned. -What does that mean?

— I can tell you nothing more now.

— Apart from my real birth date, you haven‘t told me anything.

— I have told you everything you need to know. Suparwita cocked his head to one side. -You aren‘t ready to hear more.

Bourne was growing more impatient by the second. -What makes you say that?

Suparwita‘s eyes engaged Bourne‘s. -Because you do not remember me.

— I‘ve met you before?

— Have you?

Bourne got to his feet, pent-up anger erupting from him. -I was brought here for answers, not more questions.

The holy man looked up at him mildly. -You came here wanting to be told what you must discover for yourself.

Bourne took Moira‘s hand, pulled her up. -Come on, he said. -Let‘s go.

As they were about to step out the door, the holy man said in a casual tone: — You know, all this has happened before. And it will happen again.

That was a waste of time, Bourne said as he took the keys from Moira.

She said nothing, climbed on the bike behind him.

As they were heading back down the narrow dirt path the way they had come, a compact Indonesian man with a weathered face the color of old mahogany on a souped-up motorbike broke out of the forest ahead of them, coming straight toward them. He drew a handgun and Bourne spun them around, then headed farther up into the hills.

This was far from a perfect place for an ambush. He‘d taken a look at the local map and knew that in a moment they‘d break out of the trees onto the terraced rice paddies that surrounded the village of Tenganan.

— There‘s an irrigation system that runs above the paddies, Moira said in his ear.

He nodded just as the terraced quilt of vivid emerald green appeared, sparkling in the brilliant sunlight. The sun blazed down on men and women with straw hats and long knives bent over the rice plants. Others walked behind teams of plodding cows, tilling sections of the paddies where the rice had been harvested, the remains burned off so that other crops-potatoes, chilies, or long beans-could be grown, ensuring that the rich, volcanic soil wouldn‘t be depleted of minerals. Still other women, their posture ramrodstraight, transported large sacks balanced on their heads. They moved like tightrope walkers, negotiating the sinuous, narrow margins between the paddies, placing one foot carefully in front of the other.

A sharp crack caused them to bend low over the motorbike, even as it brought the heads of the workers up. The Indonesian had shot at them as he‘d broken through the last stand of trees bordering the paddies.

Bourne veered off, treading the fine, serpentine line between the rice fields.

— What are you doing? Moira shouted. -We‘ll be entirely out in the open, nothing but sitting ducks!

Bourne was nearing one of the paddies where the stalks were being burned off. Smoke, pungent and thick, rose up into the clear sky.

— Grab a handful as we pass by! he called back to her.

Immediately she understood. With her right arm tight around his waist, she leaned to her left, scooped up a handful of burning rice stalks, flung them backward. Released, they flew into the air, directly in front of their pursuer.

While the Indonesian‘s vision was momentarily obstructed, Bourne veered back to his right, following the winding edge through the labyrinth of the paddies. He had to be careful; the smallest miscalculation would plunge them down into muddy water and densely packed plants, rendering the motorbike useless. Then they really would be sitting ducks.

The Indonesian took aim at them again, but a woman was in his way, and then a pair of cows, and he put his handgun away, needing both hands to negotiate the trickier path Bourne had chosen.