The Bourne Sanction

“Not good enough,” Icoupov said. “She may be traveling under a pseudonym.”

“All right then, I’ll go on board and check everyone’s passports.” Holger was sitting in the front seat. Now he swiveled around to look at Icoupov. “If I find that this woman, Moira Trevor, is on board, what would you have me do?”

“Take her off the plane,” Sever said at once.

Holger looked inquiringly at Icoupov, who nodded. Icoupov’s face was gray again, and he was having more difficulty keeping the pain at bay.

“Bring her here to us,” Sever said.

Holger had taken their diplomatic passports, passed them quickly through security. Now the Mercedes was sitting just off the tarmac. The 747 with the NextGen logo emblazoned on its sides and tail was at rest, still being loaded from the Kaller Steelworks truck. The driver had pulled up so that the truck shielded them from being seen by anyone boarding the plane or already inside it.

Holger nodded, got out of the Mercedes, and walked across the tarmac to the rolling stairs.

Kriminalpolizei,” Arkadin said as he stopped the police car at the freight terminal checkpoint. “We have reason to believe a man who killed two people this afternoon has fled here.”

The guards waved him past Customs and Immigration without asking for ID; the car itself was proof enough for them. As Arkadin rolled past the parking lot and onto the tarmac, he saw the jet, crates from the NextGen truck being hoisted into the cargo bay, and the black Mercedes idling some distance away from both. Recognizing the car at once, he nosed the police cruiser to a spot directly behind the Mercedes. For a moment, he sat behind the wheel, staring at the Mercedes as if the car itself were his enemy.

He could see the silhouettes of two male figures in the backseat; it wasn’t a stretch for him to figure that one of them was Semion Icoupov. He wondered which of the handguns he had with him he should use to kill his former mentor: the SIG Sauer 9mm, the Luger, or the.22 SIG Mosquito. It all depended on what kind of damage he wanted to inflict and to what part of the body. He’d shot Stas Kuzin in the knees, the better to watch him suffer, but this was another time and, especially, another place. The airport was public space; the adjacent passenger terminal was crawling with security perso

Unlike the moment of Kuzin’s demise, Arkadin was fully aware of this moment, keyed in to the importance of the son overtaking the father, of revenging himself for the psychological and physical advantages an adult takes with a child. That he hadn’t, in fact, been a child when Mischa had sent Semion Icoupov to resurrect him never occurred to him. From the moment the two had met, he had always seen Icoupov as a father figure. He’d obeyed him as he would a father, had accepted his judgments, had swallowed whole his worldview, had been faithful to him. And now, for the sins Icoupov had visited on him, he was going to kill him.

When you didn’t show for your scheduled flight, I had a hunch you’d show up here.” Noah stared at her, completely ignoring Bourne. “I won’t allow you on the plane, Moira. You’re no longer a part of this.”

“She still works for NextGen, doesn’t she?” Bourne said.

“Who is this?” Noah said, keeping his eyes on her.

“My name is Jason Bourne.”

A slow smile crept over Noah’s face. “Moira, you didn’t introduce us.” He turned to Bourne, stuck out his hand. “Noah Petersen.”

Bourne shook his hand. “Jason Bourne.”

Keeping the same sly smile on his face, Noah said, “Do you know she lied to you, that she tried to recruit you to NextGen under false pretenses?”

His eyes flicked toward Moira, but he was disappointed to see neither shock nor outrage on her face.

“Why would she do that?” Bourne said.

“Because,” Moira said, “like Noah here, I work for Black River, the private security firm. We were hired by NextGen to oversee security on the LNG terminal.”

It was Noah who registered shock. “Moira, that’s enough. You’re in violation of your contract.”

“It doesn’t matter, Noah. I quit Black River half an hour ago. I’ve been made chief of security at NextGen, so in point of fact it’s you who isn’t welcome aboard this flight.”

Noah stood rigid as stone, until Bourne took a step toward him. Then he backed away, descending the flight of rolling stairs. Halfway down, he turned to her. “Pity, Moira. I once had faith in you.”

She shook her head. “The pity is that Black River has no conscience.”

Noah looked at her for a moment then turned, clattered down the rest of the stairs, and stalked off across the tarmac without seeing the Mercedes or the police car behind it.

Because it would make the least noise, Arkadin decided on the Mosquito. Hand curled around the grips, he got out of the police car, stalked to the driver’s side of the Mercedes. It was the driver-who doubtless doubled as a bodyguard-he had to dispense with first. Keeping his Mosquito out of sight, he rapped on the driver’s window with a bare knuckle.

When the driver slid the glass down, Arkadin shoved the Mosquito in his face and pulled the trigger. The driver’s head snapped back so hard the cervical vertebrae cracked. Pulling open the door, Arkadin shoved the corpse aside and knelt on the seat, facing the two men in the backseat. He recognized Sever from an old photograph when Icoupov had showed him the face of his enemy. He said, “Wrong time, wrong place,” and shot Sever in the chest.

As he slumped over, Arkadin turned his attention to Icoupov. “You didn’t think you could escape me, Father, did you?”

Icoupov-who, between the sudden attack and the unendurable pain in his shoulder, was going into delayed shock-said, “Why do you call me father? Your father died a long time ago, Leonid Danilovich.”

“No,” Arkadin said, “he sits here before me like a wounded bird.”

“A wounded bird, yes.” With great effort, Icoupov opened his greatcoat, the lining of which was sopping wet with his blood. “Your paramour shot me before I shot her in self-defense.”

“This is not a court of law. What matters is that she’s dead.” Arkadin shoved the muzzle of the Mosquito under Icoupov’s chin, and tilted upward. “And you, Father, are still alive.”

“I don’t understand you.” Icoupov swallowed hard. “I never did.”

“What was I ever to you, except a means to an end? I killed when you ordered me to. Why? Why did I do that, can you tell me?”

Icoupov said nothing, not knowing what he could say to save himself from judgment day.

“I did it because I was trained to do it,” Arkadin said. “That’s why you sent me to America, to Washington, not to cure me of my homicidal rages, as you said, but to harness them for your use.”

“What of it?” Icoupov finally found his voice. “Of what other use were you? When I found you, you were close to taking your own life. I saved you, you ungrateful shit.”

“You saved me so you could condemn me to this life, which, if I am any judge, is no life at all. I see I never really escaped Nizhny Tagil. I never will.”

Icoupov smiled, believing he’d gotten the measure of his protйgй. “You don’t want to kill me, Leonid Danilovich. I’m your only friend. Without me you’re nothing.”

“Nothing is what I always was,” Arkadin said as he pulled the trigger. “Now you’re nothing, too.”

Then he got out of the Mercedes, walked out on the tarmac to where the NextGen perso