The Bourne Sanction

It was then that he saw Soraya walk through the front door.

Bourne almost stripped the car’s gears trying to outrun the police car on their tail.

“Take it easy,” Petra said, “or you’ll tear my poor car apart.”

He wished he’d taken a longer look at the map of the city. A street blocked off with wooden sawhorses flashed by on their left. The paving had been torn up, leaving the heavily pitted and cracked underlayer, the worst parts of which were in the process of being excavated.

“Hold on tight,” Bourne said as he reversed, then turned into the street and drove the car through the sawhorses, cracking one and scattering the others. The car hit the underlayer, jounced down the street at what seemed a reckless speed. It felt as if the vehicle were being machine-gu

Behind them, the police car was having even more difficulty keeping to a straight path. It jerked back and forth to avoid the deepest of the holes gouged in the roadbed. Putting on another burst of speed, Bourne was able to lengthen the distance between them. But then he glanced ahead. A cement truck was parked crosswise at the other end of the street. If they kept going there was no way to avoid crashing into it.

Bourne kept the speed on as the cement truck loomed larger and larger. The police car was coming up fast behind them.

“What are you doing?” Petra screamed. “Are you out of your fucking mind?”

At that moment, Bourne threw the car into neutral, stepped on the brake. He immediately changed into reverse, took his foot off the brake, and pressed the gas pedal to the floor. The car shuddered, its engine screaming. Then the transmission locked into place, and the car flew backward. The police car came on, its driver frozen in shock. Bourne swerved around it as the vehicle raced forward into the side of the cement truck.

Bourne wasn’t even looking. He was busy steering the car back down the street in reverse. Blasting past the shattered sawhorses, he turned, braked, put the car into first, and drove off.

What the hell are you doing here?” Noah said. “You should be on your way to Damascus.”

“I’m due to take off in four hours.” Moira put her hands in her pockets so he wouldn’t see that they were curled into fists. “You haven’t answered my question.”

Noah sighed. “It doesn’t make any difference.”

Her laugh had a bitter taste to it. “Why am I not surprised?”

“Because,” Noah said, “you’ve been with Black River long enough to know how we operate.”

They were walking down Kaufingerstrasse in the center of Munich, a heavily trafficked area just off the Marienplatz. Turning in at the sign for the Augustiner Bierkeller, they entered a long, dim cathedral-like space that smelled powerfully of beer and boiled wurst. The hubbub of noise was just right for masking a private conversation. Crossing the red flagstone floor, they chose a table in one of the rooms, sat on wooden benches. The person closest to them was an old man sucking on a pipe while he leisurely read the paper.

Moira and Noah both ordered a Hefeweizen, a wheat beer still clouded with unfiltered yeast, from a waitress dressed in the regional Dirndlkleid, a long, wide skirt and low-cut blouse. She had an apron around her waist, along with a decorative purse.

“Noah,” Moira said when the beers had been served, “I don’t hold any illusions about why we do what we do, but how do you expect me to ignore this intel I got right from the source?”

Noah took a long draw of his Hefeweizen, fastidiously wiped his lips before answering. Then he began to tick off points on his fingers. “First, this man Hauser told you that the flaw in the software is virtually undetectable. Second, what he told you isn’t verifiable. He might simply be a disgruntled employee trying to get revenge on Kaller Steelworks. Have you considered that possibility?”

“We could run our own tests on the software.”

“No time. There’s less than two days before the LNG tanker is scheduled to dock at the terminal.” He continued ticking off points. “Third, we couldn’t do anything without alerting NextGen, who would then turn around and confront Kaller Steelworks, which would put us in the middle of a nasty situation. And, fourth and finally, what part of the sentence We’ve officially notified NextGen that we’ve withdrawn from the project do you not understand?”

Moira sat back for a moment and took a deep breath. “This is solid intel, Noah. It could lead to the situation we were most worried about: a terrorist attack. How can you-”

“You’ve already taken several steps over the line, Moira,” Noah said sharply. “Get your tail on that plane and your head into your new assignment, or you’re through at Black River.”

It’s better for the moment that we don’t meet,” Icoupov said.

Arkadin was seething, barely holding down his rage, and only then because Devra, ca

“What about the plans?” He and Devra were sitting in a miserable, smoke-filled bar, in a run-down part of the city.

“I’ll pick them up from you now.” Icoupov’s voice sounded thin and far away over the cell phone, even though there could be only a mile or two separating them. “I’m following Bourne. I’m going after him myself.”

Arkadin didn’t want to hear it. “I thought that was my job.”

“Your job is essentially over. You have the plans and you’ve terminated Pyotr’s network.”

“All except Egon Kirsch.”

“Kirsch has already been disposed of,” Icoupov said.

“I’m the one who terminates the targets. I’ll give you the plans and then take care of Bourne.”

“I told you, Leonid Danilovich, I don’t want Bourne terminated.”

Arkadin made an anguished animal sound under his breath. But Bourne has to be terminated, he thought. Devra dug her claws deeper into his flesh, so that he could smell the sweet, coppery scent of his own blood. And I have to do it. He murdered Mischa.

“Are you listening to me?” Icoupov said sharply.

Arkadin stirred within his web of rage. “Yes, sir, always. However, I must insist that you tell me where you’ll be when you accost Bourne. This is security, for your own safety. I won’t stand helplessly by while something unforseen happens to you.”

“Agreed,” Icoupov said after a moment’s hesitation. “At the moment, he’s on the move, so I have time to get the plans from you.” He gave Arkadin an address. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

“It’ll take me a bit longer,” Arkadin said.

“Within the half hour then. The moment I know where I’ll be intercepting Bourne, you’ll know. Does that satisfy you, Leonid Danilovich?”

“Completely.”

Arkadin folded away his phone, disentangled himself from Devra, and went up to the bar. “A double Oban on rocks.”

The bartender, a huge man with tattooed arms, squinted at him. “What’s an Oban?”

“It’s a single-malt scotch, you moron.”

The bartender, polishing an old-fashioned glass, grunted. “What does this look like, the prince’s palace? We don’t have single-malt anything.”

Arkadin reached over, snatched the glass out of the bartender’s hands, and smashed it bottom-first into his nose. Then, as blood started to gush, he hauled the dazed man over the bar top and proceeded to beat him to a pulp.

I can’t go back to Munich,” Petra said. “Not for a while, anyway. That’s what he told me.”

“Why would you jeopardize your job to kill someone?” Bourne said.

“Please!” She glanced at him. “A hamster couldn’t live on what they paid me in that shithole.”

She was behind the wheel, driving on the autobahn. They had already passed the outskirts of the city. Bourne didn’t mind; he needed to stay out of Munich himself until the furor over Egon Kirsch’s death died down. The authorities would find someone else’s ID on Kirsch, and though Bourne had no doubt they’d eventually find out his real identity, he hoped by that time to have retrieved the plans from Arkadin and be flying back to Washington. In the meantime the police would be searching for him as a witness to the murders of both Kirsch and Jens.