Bourne 7 – The Bourne Deception

As Firth took the first drink of arak he‘d had that day, Moira approached Bourne with a mixture of elation and trepidation. She‘d been so terrified that for the last four and a half hours her heart had hurt as much as she had imagined Bourne‘s had. Gazing down into his near-bloodless but peaceful face, she took his hand in hers, squeezing hard to reestablish the physical connection between them.

— Jason, she said.

— He‘s still well under, Firth said, as if from a great distance. -He can‘t hear you.

Moira ignored him. She tried not to imagine the hole in Bourne‘s chest beneath the bandage, but failed. Her eyes were streaming tears, as they had periodically while he was in surgery, but the abyss of despair along which she had been walking was folding in on itself. Still, her breathing was ragged and she had to struggle to feel the solid ground beneath her feet, because for hours she was certain it had been about to open up and swallow her whole.

— Jason, listen to me. Suparwita knew what would happen to you, and he prepared you as best he could. He fed you the kencur, he had me get the double ikat for you. They both protected you, I know it, even if you won‘t ever believe it.

Morning broke in the soft colors of pink and yellow against the pale blue sky. Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva rose as Bourne opened his eyes. Last night‘s storm had scrubbed off the film of haze that had built up from the burning off of the rice stalks in the hillside paddies.

As Bourne sat up, his eyes fell upon the double ikat that Moira had bought for him in Tenganan. Holding its rough texture between his fingers he saw, like a flash of lightning, the silhouette standing between him and Mount Agung, framed by the temple gates, and wondered anew who it could possibly be.

3

THE COCKPIT of the American passenger airliner, Flight 891 out of Cairo, Egypt, hummed contentedly. The pilot and copilot, longtime friends, joked about the flight attendant they‘d both like to take to bed. They were in the final stages of negotiating the terms of a thoroughly adolescent contest that would involve her as a prize when the radar picked up a blip rapidly closing on the plane. Responding in proper fashion, the pilot got on the intercom and ordered all seat belts fastened, then took the plane out of its pre-planned route in an attempt at an evasive maneuver. But the 767 was too large and ungainly; it wasn‘t built for easy maneuverability. The copilot tried to get a visual fix on the object, even as he raised the Cairo airport control tower on the radio.

— Flight Eight-Niner-One, there are no scheduled flights that close to you, the calm voice from the control tower said. -Can you get a visual fix?

— Not yet. The object is too small to be another passenger plane, the copilot responded. -Maybe it‘s a private jet.

— There are no flight plans posted. Repeat: There are no flight plans posted.

— Roger that, the copilot said. -But it‘s still closing.

— Eight-Niner-One, elevate to forty-five thousand feet.

— Roger that, the pilot said, making the necessary adjustments on the controls. -Elevating to forty-five thou-

— I see it! the copilot cut in. -It‘s traveling too fast to be a private jet!

— What is it? There was a sudden urgency to the voice from Cairo. “What’s happening? Eight- Niner-One, please report!”

— Here it comes! the copilot screamed.

An instant later disaster struck as the mighty metal fist hit the jetliner in a blinding flare. An immense explosion disjointed the fuselage as a beast pulls its prey limb from limb, and the twisted, blackened remains plummeted to earth with breathtaking speed.

Deep beneath the West Wing of the White House, in a spacious room made of steel-reinforced concrete eight feet thick, the president of the United States was in a high-level security meeting with Secretary of Defense Halliday; DCI Veronica Hart; Jon Mueller, head of the Department of Homeland Security; and Jaime Hernandez, the new intelligence czar, who had taken over the NSA in the wake of the illegal waterboarding scandal that brought down his predecessor.

Halliday, a ruddy-cheeked man with dark blond hair combed straight back, a politician‘s sly eyes, and a perfect Crest smile, seemed as if he were reading from a script he might have prepared for a Senate subcommittee.

— After months of arduous prep work, judicious bribes, and discreet probing,

he said, — Black River has at last made first contact with a group of dissident, proWestern Iranis. Ever the showman, he paused, looked around the highly polished table, making eye contact with each person in turn. -This is blockbuster news, he added unnecessarily, and, with a nod to the president, — something this administration has been searching for for years, because the only known Iranian dissident group has so far proved impotent.

Halliday was at his most eloquent, and Hart thought she knew why. Though his stock had risen because of the death of Jason Bourne, for which he had agitated and for which he‘d taken credit, Hart knew Halliday needed another victory, one that was more wide ranging, that could be exploited by the president himself for political capital.

— At last a group we can work with, Halliday continued with unbridled enthusiasm as he handed around the fact sheet prepared by Black River detailing dates and places of meeting, along with transcripts of clandestinely recorded conversations between Black River operatives and leading members of the dissident group, whose names had been redacted for security reasons. All the conversations, Hart saw, underscored both their militancy and their commitment to accept aid from the West.

— They‘re unquestionably proWestern, the secretary of defense said, as if his audience required a verbal guide through the densely worded pages.

— Moreover, they‘re preparing for an armed revolution and are eager for whatever support we can supply.

— What are their real capabilities? Jon Mueller asked. Mueller had that typical ex-NSA mien of a soldier with a thousand-yard stare. He looked like a man who could break a body with the same nonchalant ease he‘d crack a