The Bourne Sanction

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 hell 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?

“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 cocked 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 begi

“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, 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 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 shore his nerves became a jittery flame, the nightmare of Armageddon always with him, because a disaster aboard the 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.