Robert Ludlum: Bourne 7 – The Bourne Deception

— Just lie still, Jason. I’m calling for help .

— Tell them I’m dead , Bourne says just before losing consciousness…

Jason Bourne awoke from his recurring dream, sweating like a pig through the bedsheets. The warm tropical night was clouded by the mosquito netting tented around him. Somewhere high in the mountains it was raining. He heard the thunder like hoofbeats, felt the sluggish, wet wind on his chest, bare where the wound was in the latter stages of healing.

It had been three months since the bullet struck him, three months since Moira followed his orders to the letter. Now virtually everyone who knew him believed him to be dead. Only three people other than him knew the truth: Moira; Benjamin Firth, the Australian surgeon whom Moira brought him to in the village of Manggis; and Frederick Willard, the last remaining member of Treadstone, who had revealed Leonid Arkadin‘s Treadstone training to Bourne. It was Willard, contacted by Moira at Bourne‘s behest, who had begun reconditioning Bourne as soon as Dr. Firth allowed it.

— You‘re damn lucky to be alive, mate, Firth said when Bourne had regained consciousness after the first of two operations. Moira was there, having just returned from making very public arrangements for Bourne‘s — body

to be shipped back to the States. -In fact, if it weren‘t for a congenital abnormality in the shape of your heart, the bullet would have killed you almost instantly. Whoever shot you knew what he was doing.

Then he‘d gripped Bourne‘s forearm and flashed a bony smile. -Not to worry, mate. We‘ll have you right as rain in a month or two.

A month or two. Bourne, listening to the torrential rain come closer, reached out to touch the double ikat cloth that hung beside his bed, and felt calmer. He remembered the long weeks he‘d been forced to remain in the doctor‘s surgery on Bali, both for health and for security reasons. For a number of weeks after the second operation it was all he could do just to sit up. During that syrupy time Bourne discovered Firth‘s secret: He was an inveterate alcoholic. The only time he could be counted on to be stone-cold sober was when he had a patient on the operating table. He proved himself to be a brilliant cutter; any other time, he reeked of arak , the fermented Balinese palm liquor. It was so strong, he used it to wipe down his operating theater when he occasionally forgot to refill his order of pure alcohol. In this way, Bourne unlocked the mystery of what the doctor was doing hidden far away from everything: He‘d been canned from every hospital in Western Australia.

All at once Bourne‘s attention turned outward as the doctor entered the room across the compound from the surgery.

— Firth, he said, sitting up. -What are you doing up at this time of night?

The doctor moved over to the rattan chair by the wall. He had a noticeable limp; one leg was shorter than the other. -I don‘t like thunder and lightning, he said as he sat down heavily.

— You‘re like a child.

— In many ways, yes. Firth nodded. -But unlike many blokes I met back in the bad old days, I can admit it.

Bourne switched on the bedside lamp, and a cone of cool light spread over the bed and lapped at the floor. As the thunder rumbled closer, Firth leaned into the light, as if for protection. He was carrying a bottle of arak by its neck.

— Your faithful companion, Bourne said.

The doctor winced. -Tonight, no amount of liquor will help.

Bourne held out his hand, and Firth handed him the bottle. He waited for Bourne to take a swig, then took possession of it. Though he sat back in the chair, he was far from relaxed. Thunder cracked overhead and all at once the downpour hit the thatch roof with the bang of a shotgun. Firth winced again, but he didn‘t take more arak . It appeared that even he had a limit.

— I‘m hoping I can convince you to throttle back your physical training.

— Why would I do that? Bourne said.

— Because Willard pushes you too hard. Firth licked his lips, as if his body was dying for another drink.

— That‘s his job.

— Maybe so, but he‘s not your doctor. He hasn‘t taken you apart and stitched you back together. He finally put the bottle down between his legs.

— Besides, he scares the bejesus out of me.

— Everything scares you, Bourne said, not unkindly.

— Not everything, no. The doctor waited while a crack of thunder shuddered overhead. -Not torn-up bodies.

— A torn-up body can‘t talk back, Bourne pointed out.

Firth smiled ruefully. -You haven‘t had my nightmares.

— That‘s all right. Bourne once again saw himself in the dirt and the blood of Tenganan. -I have my own.

For a time nothing more was said. Then Bourne asked a question, but when the only answer forthcoming was a brief snore, he lay back in the bed, closed his eyes, and willed himself to sleep. Before the soft morning light woke him, he had returned, unwillingly, to Tenganan, where the heat of Moira‘s cinnamon musk mingled with the odor of his own blood.

Do you like it? Moira held up the cloth woven in the colors of the gods Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva: blue, red, and yellow. The intricate pattern was of interlocking flowers, frangipani, perhaps. Since the dyes used were all natural, some water-based, others oil-based, the threads took eighteen months to two years to finish. The yellow-the personification of Shiva, the destroyer-would take another five years to slowly oxidize and reveal its final hue. In double ikats the pattern was dyed into both the warp and weft threads so that when it was woven all the colors would be pure, unlike the more common single ikat weaving in which the pattern was only in one set of threads, the other being a background color such as black. The double ikat was part of every Balinese home, where it hung on a wall in a place of honor and respect.

— Yes, Bourne had replied. -I like it very much.

He was about to go into the surgery for the first of his two operations.

— Suparwita said it was important I get a double ikat for you. She leaned closer. -It‘s sacred, Jason, remember? Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva together will protect you from evil and illness. I‘ll make sure it‘s near you all the time.

Just before Dr. Firth wheeled him into the surgery, she leaned even closer, whispered in his ear: — You‘ll be fine, Jason. You drank the tea made from kencur .

Kencur, Bourne thought as Firth applied the anesthetic. The resurrection lily .

He dreamed of a temple high in the Balinese mountains while Benjamin Firth cut him open with little hope of his survival. Through the carved red gates of the temple rose the hazy pyramidal shape of Mount Agung, blue and majestic against the yellow sky. He was gazing down at the gate from a great height and, looking around, he realized that he was on the top step of a steep triple staircase, guarded by six ferocious stone dragons, whose bared teeth were easily seven inches long. The bodies of these dragons undulated upward on both sides of the three staircases, creating banisters whose solidity appeared to carry the stairs upward to the plaza of the temple proper.

As Bourne‘s gaze was drawn again to the gates and Mount Agung, he saw a figure silhouetted against the sacred volcano, and his heart began to pound in his chest. The setting sun fell upon his face, and he shaded his eyes with one hand, straining to identify the figure, who now turned toward him. At once, he felt searing pain and pleasure.

At that precise moment Dr. Firth came across the curious abnormality in Bourne‘s heart and began to work, knowing that he now had a chance to save his patient.

Just over four hours later, Firth, exhausted but cautiously triumphant, wheeled Bourne into the recovery room, adjacent to the surgery, that would become Bourne‘s home for the next six weeks.