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
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 shore his nerves became a jittery flame, the nightmare of Armageddon always with him, because a disaster aboard the
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 passengers-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
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 assuming a different identity, 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.
