The Bourne Sanction Part 42

Within five minutes the rolling stairs had been removed and the 747 was taxiing to the head of the runway. A moment later the control tower cleared it for takeoff. The brakes were let out, the engines revved up, and, with increasing velocity, the jet hurtled down the runway. Then it lifted off, its wheel retracted, flaps were adjusted, and it soared into a sky filled with the crimson and gold of the setting sun.

Forty-Three.

IS HE DEAD?" Sever stared up at Bourne, who was cleaning his chest wound.

"You mean Semion?"

"Yes. Semion. Is he dead?"

"Icoupov and the driver, both."

Bourne held Sever down while the alcohol burned off everything that could cause the wound to suppurate. No organs had been struck, but the injury must be extremely painful.

Bourne applied an antiseptic cream from a tube in the first-aid kit. "Who shot you?"

"Arkadin." Tears of pain rolled down Sever's cheeks. "For some reason, he's gone completely insane. Maybe he was always insane. I thought so anyway. Allah, that hurts!" He took several shallow breaths before he went on. "He came out of nowhere. The driver said, 'A police car has pulled up behind us.' The next thing I know he's rolling down the window and a gun is fired point-blank in his face. Neither Semion nor I had time to think. There was Arkadin inside the car. He shot me, but I'm certain it was Semion he'd come for."

Intuiting what must have happened in Kirsch's apartment, Bourne said, "Icoupov killed his woman, Devra."

Sever squeezed his eyes shut. He was having trouble breathing normally. "So what? Arkadin never cared what happened to his women."

"He cared about this one," Bourne said, applying a bandage.

Sever stared up at Bourne with an expression of disbelief. "The odd thing was, I think I heard him call Semion 'Father.' Semion didn't understand."

"And now he never will."

"Stop your fussing; let me die, dammit!" Sever said crossly. "It doesn't matter now whether I live or die."

Bourne finished up.

"What's done is done. Fate has been sealed; there's nothing you or anyone else can do to change it."

Bourne sat on a seat opposite Sever. He was aware of Moira standing to one side, watching and listening. The professor's betrayal only went to prove that you were never safe when you let personal feelings into your life.

"Jason." Sever's voice was weaker. "I never meant to deceive you."

"Yes, you did, Professor, that's all you know how to do."

"I came to look upon you as a son."

"Like Icoupov looked upon Arkadin."

With an effort, Sever shook his head. "Arkadin is insane. Perhaps they both were, perhaps their shared insanity is what drew them together."

Bourne sat forward, "Let me ask you a question, Professor. Do you think you're sane?"

"Of course I'm sane."

Sever's eyes held steady on Bourne's, a challenge still, at this late stage.

For a moment, Bourne did nothing, then he rose and, together with Moira, walked forward toward the c.o.c.kpit.

"It's a long flight," she said softly, "and you need your rest."

"We both do."

They sat next to each other, silent for a long time. Occasionally, they heard Sever utter a soft moan. Otherwise, the drone of the engines conspired to lull them to sleep.

It was freezing in the baggage hold, but Arkadin didn't mind. The Nizhny Tagil winters had been brutal. It was during one of those winters that Mischa Tarkanian had found him, hiding out from the remnants of Stas Kuzin's regime. Mischa, hard as a knife blade, had the heart of a poet. He told stories that were beautiful enough to be poems. Arkadin had been enchanted, if such a word could be ascribed to him. Mischa's talent for storytelling had the power to take Arkadin far away from Nizhny Tagil, and when Mischa smuggled him out past the inner ring of smokestacks, past the outer ring of high-security prisons, his stories took Arkadin to places beyond Moscow, to lands beyond Russia. The stories gave Arkadin his first inkling of the world at large.

As he sat now, his back against a crate, knees drawn up to his chest in order to conserve warmth, he had good cause to think of Mischa. Icoupov had paid for killing Devra, now Bourne must pay for killing Mischa. But not just yet, Arkadin brooded, though his blood called out for revenge. If he killed Bourne now, Icoupov's plan would succeed, and he couldn't allow that, otherwise his revenge against him would be incomplete.

Arkadin put his head back against the edge of the crate and closed his eyes. Revenge had become like one of Mischa's poems, its meaning flowering open to surround him with a kind of ethereal beauty, the only form of beauty that registered on him, the only beauty that lasted. It was the glimpse of that promised beauty, the very prospect of it, that allowed him to sit patiently, curled between crates, waiting for his moment of revenge, his moment of inestimable beauty.

Bourne dreamed of the h.e.l.l known as Nizhny Tagil as if he'd been born there, and when he awoke he knew Arkadin was near. Opening his eyes, he saw Moira staring at him.

"What do you feel about the professor?" she said, by which he suspected she meant, What do you feel about me? What do you feel about me?

"I think the years of obsession have driven him insane. I don't think he knows good from evil, right from wrong."

"Is that why you didn't ask him why he embarked on this path to destruction?"

"In a way," Bourne said. "Whatever his answer would have been it wouldn't have made sense to us."

"Fanatics never make sense," she said. "That's why they're so difficult to counteract. A rational response, which is always our choice, is rarely effective." She c.o.c.ked her head. "He betrayed you, Jason. He nurtured your belief in him, and played on it."

"If you climb on a scorpion's back you've got to expect to get stung."

"Don't you have a desire for revenge?"

"Maybe I should I smother him in his sleep, or shoot him to death as Arkadin did to Semion Icoupov. Do you really expect that to make me feel better? I'll exact my revenge by stopping the Black Legion's attack."

"You sound so rational."

"I don't feel rational, Moira."

She took his meaning, and blood rushed to her cheeks. "I may have lied to you, Jason, but I didn't betray you. I could never do that." She engaged his eyes. "There were so many times in the last week when I ached to tell you, but I had a duty to Black River."

"Duty is something I understand, Moira."

"Understanding is one thing, but will you forgive me?"

He put out his hand. "You aren't a scorpion," he said. "It's not in your nature."

She took his hand in hers, brought it up to her mouth, and pressed it to her cheek.

At that moment they heard Sever cry out, and they rose, went down the aisle to where he lay curled on his side like a small child afraid of the dark. Bourne knelt down, drew Sever gently onto his back to keep pressure off the wound.

The professor stared at Bourne, then, as Moira spoke to him, at her.

"Why did you do it?" Moira said. "Why attack the country you'd adopted as your own."

Sever could not catch his breath. He swallowed convulsively. "You'd never understand."

"Why don't you try me?"

Sever closed his eyes, as if to better visualize each word as it emerged from his mouth. "The Muslim sect I belong to, that Semion belonged to, is very old-ancient even. It had its beginnings in North Africa." He paused already out of breath. "Our sect is very strict, we believe in a fundamentalism so devout it cannot be conveyed to infidels by any means. But I can tell you this: We cannot live in the modern world because the modern world violates every one of our laws. Therefore, it must be destroyed.

"Nevertheless . . ." He licked his lips, and Bourne poured out some water, lifted his head, and allowed him to drink his fill. When he was finished, he continued. "I should never have tried to use you, Jason. Over the years there have been many disagreements between Semion and myself-this was the latest, the one that broke the proverbial camel's back. He said you'd be trouble, and he was right. I thought I could manufacture a reality, that I could use you to convince the American security agencies we were going to attack New York City." He emitted a dry, little laugh. "I lost sight of the central tenet of life, that reality can't be controlled, it's too random, too chaotic. So you see it was I who was on a fool's errand, Jason, not you."

"Professor, it's all over," Moira said. "We won't let the tanker dock until we have the software patched."

Sever smiled. "A good idea, but it will avail you nothing. Do you know the damage that much liquid natural gas will do? Five square miles of devastation, thousands killed, America's corrupt, greedy way of life delivered the hammer blow Semion and I have been dreaming of for decades. It's my one great calling in this life. The loss of human life and physical destruction is icing on the cake."

He paused to catch his breath, which was shallower and more ragged than ever. "When the nation's largest port is incinerated, America's economy will go with it. Almost half your imports will dry up. There'll be widespread shortages of goods and food, companies will collapse, the stock exchanges will plummet, wholesale panic will ensue."

"How many of your men are on board?" Bourne said.

Sever smiled weakly. "I love you like a son, Jason."

"You let your own son be killed," Bourne said.

"Sacrificed, Jason. There's a difference."

"Not to him." Bourne returned to his agenda. "How many men, Professor?"

"One, only one."

"One man can't take over the tanker," Moira said.

The smile played around his lips, even as his eyes closed, his consciousness fading. "If man hadn't made machines to do his work . . ."

Moira turned to Bourne. "What does that mean?"

Bourne shook the old man's shoulder, but he'd slipped into deep unconsciousness.

Moira checked his eyes, his forehead, his carotid artery. "Without intravenous antibiotics I doubt he'll make it." She looked at Bourne. "We're near enough New York City now. We could touch down there, have an ambulance waiting-"

"There's no time," Bourne said.

"I know there's no time." Moira took his arm. "But I want to give you the choice."

Bourne stared down at his mentor's face, lined and seamed, far older in sleep, as if it had imploded. "He'll make it on his own, or he won't."

He turned away, Moira at his side, and he said, "Call NextGen. This is what I need."

Forty-Four.

THE TANKER Moon of Hormuz, Moon of Hormuz, plowed through the Pacific no more than an hour out of Long Beach harbor. The captain, a veteran named Sultan, had gotten word that the LNG terminal was online and ready to receive its inaugural shipment of liquid natural gas. With the current state of the world's economies, the LNG had become even more precious; from the time the plowed through the Pacific no more than an hour out of Long Beach harbor. The captain, a veteran named Sultan, had gotten word that the LNG terminal was online and ready to receive its inaugural shipment of liquid natural gas. With the current state of the world's economies, the LNG had become even more precious; from the time the Moon of Hormuz Moon of Hormuz had left Algeria its cargo had increased in value by over 30 percent. had left Algeria its cargo had increased in value by over 30 percent.

The tanker, twelve stories high and as large as a village, held thirty-three million gallons of LNG cooled to a temperature of 260 degrees. That translated into the energy equivalent of twenty billion gallons of natural gas. The ship required five miles to come to a stop, and because of the shape of its hull and the containers on deck Sultan's view ahead was blocked for three-quarters of a mile. The tanker had been steaming at twenty knots, but three hours ago he'd ordered the engines into reverse. Well within five miles of the terminal, the ship was down to six knots of speed and still decelerating.

Within the five-mile radius to sh.o.r.e his nerves became a jittery flame, the nightmare of Armageddon always with him, because a disaster aboard the Moon of Hormuz Moon of Hormuz would be just that. If the tanks spilled into the water, the resulting fire would be five miles in diameter. For another five miles beyond that thermal radiation would burn any human to a crisp. would be just that. If the tanks spilled into the water, the resulting fire would be five miles in diameter. For another five miles beyond that thermal radiation would burn any human to a crisp.

But those scenarios were just that: nightmares. In ten years there'd never been even a minor incident aboard his ship, and there never would be, if he had anything to say about it. He was just thinking about how fine the weather was, and how much he was going to enjoy his ten days on the beach with a friend in Malibu, when the radio officer handed him a message from NextGen. He was to expect a helicopter in fifteen minutes; he was to give its pa.s.sengers-Moira Trevor and Jason Bourne-any and all help they requested. That was surprising enough, but he bristled at the last sentence: He was to take orders from them until the Moon of Hormuz Moon of Hormuz was safely docked at the terminal. was safely docked at the terminal.

When the doors to the cargo bay were opened, Arkadin was ready, crouched behind one of the containers. As the airport maintenance team clambered aboard, he edged out, then called from the shadows for one of them to help him. When the man complied, Arkadin broke his neck, dragged him into the deepest shadows of the cargo bay, away from the NextGen containers. He stripped and donned the man's maintenance uniform. Then he stepped over to the work area, keeping the ID tag clipped to it out of full view so that no one could that see that his face didn't match that on the tag. Not that it mattered: These people were here to get the cargo off-loaded and onto the waiting NextGen trucks as quickly as possible. It never occurred to any of them that there might be an imposter among them.

In this way, Arkadin worked his way to the open bay doors, onto the loading lifts with the container. He hopped onto the tarmac as the cargo was being loaded onto the truck, then ducked away beneath the wing. Finding himself alone on the opposite side of the aircraft, he walked away at a brisk, business-like clip. No one challenged him, no one even gave him a second look, because he moved with the authority of someone who belonged there. That was the secret of a.s.suming a different ident.i.ty, even temporarily-people's eyes either ignored or accepted what looked correct to them.

As he went, he breathed deeply of the clear, salt air, the freshening breeze whipping his pants against his legs. He felt free of all the leashes that had bound him to the earth: Stas Kuzin, Marlene, Gala, Icoupov, they were all gone now. The sea beckoned him and he was coming.

NextGen had its own small terminal on the freight side of the Long Beach airport. Moira had radioed ahead to NextGen headquarters, giving them a heads-up and asking for a helicopter to be ready to take her and Bourne to the tanker.

Arkadin beat Bourne to the NextGen terminal. Hurrying now, he used the badge to open the door to the restricted areas. Out on the tarmac he saw the helicopter right away. The pilot was talking to a maintenance man. The moment they both squatted down, examining one of the runners, Arkadin pulled his cap low on his forehead, walked briskly around to the far side of the helicopter, and made himself busy there.

He saw Bourne and Moira emerge from the NextGen terminal. They paused for a moment and he could hear their argument about whether or not she should come, but they must have had it before, because the fight was hammered out in brief, staccato bursts, like shorthand.

"Face facts, Jason. I work for NextGen; without me you won't get on that copter."

Bourne turned away, and for an instant Arkadin felt a foreboding, as if Bourne had seen him. Then Bourne turned back to Moira, and together they hurried across the tarmac.

Bourne climbed in on the pilot's side, while Moira headed to Arkadin's side of the copter. With a professional smile, he held out a hand, helping her up into the c.o.c.kpit. He saw the maintenance man about to come across, but waved him off. Looking up at Moira through the curved Perspex door he thought of Devra and felt a lurch in his chest, as if her bleeding head had fallen against him. He waved at Moira, and she lifted her hand in return.

The rotors began to swirl, the maintenance man signaled for Arkadin to come away; Arkadin gave him the thumbs-up sign. Faster and faster the rotors spun, and the copter's frame began to shudder. Just before it lifted off, Arkadin climbed onto the runner and curled himself into a ball as they swung out over the Pacific, buffeted by a stiff onsh.o.r.e wind.

The tanker loomed large in the pa.s.sengers' vision as the copter sped toward it at top speed. Only one other boat could be seen, a commercial fishing vessel several miles away beyond the security limits imposed by the Coast Guard and Homeland Security. Bourne, who was sitting directly behind the pilot, saw that he was working to keep the copter's pitch at the correct angle.

"Is everything okay?" he shouted over the roar of the rotors.

The pilot pointed to one of the gauges. "There's a small anomaly in the pitch; probably the wind, it's gusting up quite a bit."

But Bourne wasn't so sure. The anomaly was constant, whereas the wind wasn't. He had an intuition what-or, more accurately, who-was causing the problem.

"I think we have a stowaway," Bourne said to the pilot. "Take it in low when you get to the tanker. Skim the tops of the containers."