Bourne 7 – The Bourne Deception

— I imagine you‘re as surprised as I am, Moira said.

Hart said nothing; instead she continued to stare into Moira‘s brown eyes, trying to read the reason for her visit. But after a moment, she abandoned the effort. It was useless to try to peer behind that stony facade, she knew that all too well.

She processed what she could get, though: Moira‘s swollen and bandaged left arm, the minor cuts and scrapes on her face and the backs of her hands. She could not help saying: — What the hell happened to you?

— That‘s what I came here to tell you, Moira said.

— No, you came here for help. Hart leaned forward, elbows on the desk.

— It‘s damn difficult being on the outside, isn‘t it?

— Jesus, Ronnie.

— What? The past is lying in wait for both of us like a serpent in the grass.

Moira nodded. -I suppose it is.

— You suppose? Hart cocked her head. -Pardon me if I don‘t wax sentimental. You were the one who made the threat. What were your actual words? She pursed her lips. -Oh, yes, ?Ronnie, I will fuck you up for this, I‘ll rain down a shitstorm on you like no other.‘ Hart sat back. -Did I leave out anything? She felt her pulse accelerating. - And now here you are.

Moira stared at her in stony silence.

Hart turned to a sideboard, poured out a tall glass of ice water, pushed it across the desk. For a moment, Moira did nothing. Perhaps, Hart thought, she didn‘t know whether taking it would be a sign of trust or of capitulation.

Moira reached out then, very deliberately swung the back of her hand against the glass, pitching it hard against the wall, where it smashed, water and tiny glass shards sparkling in the air like a burst from a cannon. By this time Moira was on her feet, her arms rigid, her fists on the desktop.

Immediately two men entered the office, their guns drawn.

— Back off, Moira. Hart‘s voice was at once low and steely.

Moira, refusing to sit back down, turned her back on Hart and stalked across the carpet to the other side of the office.

The DCI waved at the two men, who holstered their sidearms and backed out. When the door had shut behind them, she steepled her fingers and waited for Moira to cool off. After a time, she said, — Now why don‘t you tell me what the hell is going on?

When Moira turned around, she had, indeed, gathered herself. -You‘ve got it all wrong, Ronnie. I‘m the one who‘s going to help you.

While his men were burying Farid, Arkadin sat on a rock outcropping in the sapphire Azerbaijani twilight. Even without the rhythmic sound of pickaxes and the sight of the corpse sprawled in the dirt, the atmosphere would have been suffused with melancholy. The wind blew fitfully, like the panting of a dog; the tribesmen of the region had turned their faces to Mecca, on their knees in prayer, their submachine guns beside them. Beyond the dun- colored hills lay Iran, and all at once Arkadin was homesick for Moscow. He missed the cobblestone streets, the onion domes, the late-night clubs where he reigned supreme. Most of all, he missed the endless array of tall, blond, blue-eyed dyevs in whose perfumed flesh he could lose himself, blotting out the memory of Devra. Though he had loved her, he hated her now, because she wasn‘t really dead. Like a specter, she haunted him night and day, driving him to revenge himself on Jason Bourne, the last link to her life-and her murder. To make matters even worse, it was also Bourne who‘d killed Mischa, Arkadin‘s mentor and best friend. If it hadn‘t been for Mischa Tarkanian, Arkadin doubted he‘d ever have survived his ordeal in Nizhny Tagil.

Mischa and Devra, the two most important people in his life, both dead because of Jason Bourne. Bourne had a lot to pay for, Christ, did he ever.

The men were almost finished with the grave. A pair of vultures, black shadows against the dimly glimmering sky, turned in lazing circles. I’m like those vultures, he thought. Patiently waiting for my moment to strike.

Perched on his rock, knees drawn up, he turned his satellite phone over and over in the palm of his hand. Amazingly, several good things had happened because of Willard‘s call. Willard was a mole, not a field man, and he‘d made a fatal mistake: His ego had gotten the better of him. He should have quietly taken Ian Bowles apart, buried the pieces, and gone on with his business. Of course he‘d wanted to know who‘d sent Bowles, but his mistake was in announcing himself to Arkadin-worse, in warning him-because he‘d as much as told Arkadin that Bourne was still alive. Why else would he be at Dr. Firth‘s compound? Why else would he have killed Bowles? Now Arkadin had proof that Bourne was still alive, though how Bourne managed to survive a shot to the heart was something that nagged at him. Whatever else he might be, Bourne was no superman. Why hadn‘t he been killed?

With a sharp shake of his head, Arkadin set the imponderable aside for the moment. He dialed a number on his phone. Bowles had been nothing more than a temporary stopgap, someone to make a survey and report back. He‘d failed; now it was time to bring in the big guns.

The men unceremoniously threw Farid into the grave. Sweaty and ill tempered, they had long ago lost patience with their normally solemn task. Farid had violated the laws of the group; he was no longer one of their own. Good, Arkadin thought, lesson learned.

The line was ringing.

— Are you set up with the job? Arkadin said as soon as the familiar voice answered. -Good. Because I‘ve decided to play it your way, and now the clock is ticking. I‘ll be sending you the last-minute details within the hour.

Two men began to shovel dirt over the body; the others spat into the grave.

The DCI shook her head. -Moira, I‘m afraid I‘m just not feeling it.

The cords of Moira‘s neck stood out. How long had she waited for this confrontation? — Did you feel it when you gave me up in Safed Koh? Safed Koh was the local name for the White Mountains in eastern Afghanistan, where the notorious Tora Bora caves tunneled their way across the border into terrorist-controlled western Pakistan.