Robert Ludlum - The Bourne Sanction

“Hang him out to dry.”

Picking up his glass, Kendall said. “Time for Plan B.”

LaValle stared into the chestnut liquid. “I always thank God for Plan B, Richard. Always.”

Their glasses clinked together. They drank in studied silence while LaValle ruminated. When, half an hour later, they’d drained their whiskeys and new ones were in their hands, LaValle said, “On the subject of Soraya Moore, I do believe it’s time to bring her in for a chat.”

“Private?”

“Oh, yes.” LaValle added a dollop of water his whiskey, releasing its complex scent. “Bring her here.”

TELL ME about Jason Bourne.”

Harun Iliev, in an American Nike jogging suit identical to the one worn by his commander, Semion Icoupov, rounded the turn of the natural ice-skating rink in the heart of Grindelwald village. Harun had spent more than a decade as Icoupov’s second in command. As a boy he’d been adopted by Icoupov’s father, Farid, after his parents had drowned when a ferry taking them from Istanbul to Odessa had capsized. Harun, at the age of four, was visiting his grandmother there. The news of the deaths of her daughter and son-in-law sent her into cardiac arrest. She died almost instantly-which everyone involved felt was a blessing, for she lacked both the strength and the stamina to care for a four-year-old. Farid Icoupov stepped in, because Harun’s father had worked for him; the two were close.

“There’s no easy answer,” Harun said now, “principally because there’s no one answer. Some swear he’s an agent of the American CI, others claim he’s an international assassin for hire. Clearly he can’t be both. What is indisputable is that he was responsible for foiling the plot to gas the attendees of the International Anti-Terrorist Conference in Reykjavik three years ago and, last year, the very real nuclear threat to Washington, DC, posed by Dujja, the terrorist group that was run by the two Wahhib brothers, Fadi and Karim al-Jamil. Rumor has it Bourne killed them both.”

“Impressive, if true. But just the fact that no one can get a handle on him is of extreme interest.” Icoupov’s arms chugged up and down in perfect rhythm to his gliding back and forth. His cheeks were apple red and he smiled warmly at the children skating on either side of them, laughing when they laughed, giving encouragement when one of them fell. “And how did such a man get involved with Our Friend?”

“Through the university in Georgetown,” Harun said. He was a slender man with the look of an accountant, which wasn’t helped by his sallow skin and the way his olive-pit eyes were sunk deep in his skull. Ice-skating did not come naturally to him as it did to Icoupov. “Besides killing people, it seems Bourne is something of a genius at linguistics.”

“Is he now?”

Even though they’d skated for more than forty minutes, Icoupov wasn’t breathing hard. Harun knew he was just getting warmed up. They were in spectacular country. The resort of Grindelwald was just under a hundred miles southeast of Bern. Above them towered three of Switzerland’s most famous mountains-Jungfrau, Mцnch, and Eiger-glittering white with snow and ice.

“It seems that Bourne’s weak spot is for a mentor. The first was a man named Alexander Conklin, who-”

“I knew Alex,” Icoupov said curtly. “It was before your time. Another lifetime, it often seems.” He nodded. “Please continue.”

“It seems Our Friend has made a play to become his new mentor.”

“I must interject here. That seems improbable.”

“Then why did Bourne kill Mikhail Tarkanian?”

“Mischa.” Icoupov’s pace faltered for a moment. “Allah preserve us! Does Leonid Danilovich know?”

“Arkadin is currently out of contact.”

“What’s his progress?”

“He’s come and gone from Sevastopol.”

“That’s something, anyway.” Icoupov shook his head. “We’re running out of time.”

“Arkadin knows this.”

“I want Tarkanian’s death kept from him, Harun. Mischa was his best friend; they were closer than brothers. Under no circumstances can he be allowed to be distracted from his present assignment.”

A lovely young woman held out her hand as she skated abreast of them. Icoupov took it and for a time was swept away in an ice dance that made him feel as if he were twenty again. When he returned, he resumed their skate around the rink. Something about the easy gliding motion of skating, he’d once told Harun, helped him to think.

“Given what you’ve told me,” Icoupov said at length, “this Jason Bourne may very well cause an unforeseen complication.”

“You can be sure Our Friend has recruited Bourne to his cause by telling him that you caused the death of-”

Icoupov shot him a warning look. “I agree. But the question we must answer is how much of the truth he’s risked telling Bourne.”

“Knowing Our Friend,” Harun said, “I would say very little, if at all.”

“Yes.” Icoupov tapped a gloved forefinger against his lips. “And if this is the case we can use the truth against him, don’t you think?”

“If we can get to Bourne,” Harun said. “And if we can get him to believe us.”

“Oh, he’ll believe us. I’ll make sure of that.” Icoupov executed a perfect spin. “Your new assignment, Harun, is to ensure we get to him before he can do any more damage. We could ill afford to lose our eye in Our Friend’s camp. Further deaths are unacceptable.”

Munich was full of cold rain. It was a gray city on the best of days, but in this windswept downpour it seemed to hunker down. Like a turtle, it pulled in its head into its concrete shell, turning its back on all visitors.

Bourne and Moira sat inside the cavernous NextGen 747. Bourne was on his cell, making a reservation on the next flight to Moscow.

“I wish I could authorize the plane to take you,” Moira said after he’d folded away the phone.

“No, you don’t,” Bourne said. “You’d like me to stay here by your side.”

“I already told you why I think that would be a bad idea.” She looked out at the wet tarmac, rainbow-streaked with droplets of fuel and oil. Raindrops trickled down the Perspex window like racing cars in their lanes. “And I find myself not wanting to be here at all.”

Bourne opened the file he’d taken from Veronica Hart, turned it around, held it out. “I’d like you to take a look at this.”

Moira turned back, put the file on her lap, paged through it. All at once she looked up. “Was it CI that had me under surveillance?” When Bourne nodded, she said, “Well, that’s a relief.”

“How is it a relief?”

She lifted the file. “This is all disinformation, a setup. Two years ago, when bidding for the Long Beach LNG terminal was at its height, my bosses suspected that AllEn, our chief rival, was monitoring our communications in order to get a handle on the proprietary systems that make our terminal unique. As a favor to me, Martin went to the Old Man for permission to set up a sting. The Old Man agreed, but it was imperative that no one else know about it, so he never told anyone else at CI. It worked. By tracking our cell conversations we discovered that AllEn was, indeed, monitoring the calls.”

“I recall the settlement,” Bourne said.

“Because of the evidence Martin and I provided, AllEn had no incentive to go to trial.”

“NextGen got a mid-eight-figure settlement, right?”

Moira nodded. “And won the rights to build the LNG terminal in Long Beach. That’s how I got my promotion to executive vice president.”

Bourne took back the file. He, too, was relieved. For him, trust was like an ill-made boat, springing leaks at every turn, threatening at any moment to sink him. He’d ceded part of himself to Moira, but the loss of control was like a knife in his heart.