The Bourne Objective (Цель Борна)

He raced around a corner, into the short corridor leading to the rear door. But the Severus Domna gunman pushed through it. They were alone in the back corridor. The gunman had his overcoat draped over his right arm and hand, which held the silenced pistol. He aimed it at Bourne, who was still sprinting.

Bourne went down, sliding on his backside along the marble floor as a shot whizzed by overhead. He barreled into the gunman with the soles of his shoes, knocking him over. The pistol flew out of his grip. Bourne rolled over, slammed his knee into the point of the gunman’s chin. His body went slack.

Voices echoed down the corridor from just around the corner. Scrambling to his feet, Bourne scooped up the pistol, then dragged the gunman out the rear door, down the steps, and deposited him behind a thick boxwood hedge. He pocketed the pistol and continued along the university pathways at a normal pace. He passed fresh-faced students, laughing and chatting, and a dour professor, huffing as he scurried, late for his next lecture. Then Bourne was out onto St Giles’ Street. In typical English fashion, the afternoon had turned gloomy. A chill wind swept across the gutters and storefronts. Everyone was bent over, shoulders hunched, dashing like boats fleeing an oncoming storm. Bourne, blending in as he always did, hurried to his car.

Go,” Moira said, when she was out of recovery and had gained full consciousness.

Soraya shook her head. “I’m not leaving you.”

“The worst has already happened,” Moira said quite rightly. “There’s nothing left here for you to do.”

“You shouldn’t be alone,” Soraya insisted.

“Neither should you. You’re still with Arkadin.”

Soraya smiled, somewhat sadly, because everything Moira said was true. “Still and all-”

“Still and all,” Moira said, “someone’s coming to look after me, someone who loves me.”

Soraya was slightly taken aback. “Is it Jason? Is Jason coming for you?”

Moira smiled. She had already drifted off to sleep.

Soraya found Arkadin waiting for her. But first she needed to speak with the young neurosurgeon, who was, in his own way, optimistic in his prognosis.

“The main thing in instances like these where nerves and tendons are involved is how quickly the patient receives medical attention.” He spoke formally, as if he were Catalan, rather than a Mexican. “In this respect, your friend is extremely fortunate.” He tipped his hand over, palm down. “However, the wound was ragged rather than clean. Plus, whatever she was cut with wasn’t clean. As a result, the procedure took longer, and was both more delicate and more complicated than it might otherwise have been. Again, fortunate that you called me. I don’t say this out of self-aggrandizement. It’s a matter of record, a fact. No one else could have managed the procedure without botching or missing something.”

Soraya sighed with relief. “Then she’ll be fine.”

“Naturally, she’ll be fine,” the neurosurgeon said. “With a proper course of rehab and physical therapy.”

Something dark clutched at Soraya’s heart. “She’ll walk naturally, won’t she? I mean, without a limp.”

The neurosurgeon shook his head. “In a child, the tendons are elastic enough that it might be possible. But in an adult that elasticity-or rather a good part of it-is gone. No, no, she’ll have a limp. How noticeable it will be depends entirely on the outcome of her rehab. And of course, her will to adapt.”

Soraya thought for a moment. “She knows all this?”

“She asked and I told her. It’s better that way, believe me. The mind needs more time to adapt than the body does.”

“Can we get out of here now?” Arkadin said, after the neurosurgeon had vanished down the corridor.

Shooting him a murderous look, Soraya brushed past him, striding through the bustling lobby and out onto the street. Puerto Peñasco looked as strange as a dream, as unfamiliar as if it were located in a Bhutanese valley. She looked at the people passing by as slowly as sleepwalkers. She saw their Aztec or Mixtec or Olmec features and thought of beating hearts carved from the chests of living sacrifices. She felt as if she were covered in congealed blood. She wanted to run, but felt paralyzed, rooted to the spot as if by the hands of all the sacrificial dead buried beneath the ground.

Then she felt Arkadin close beside her and shuddered as if waking from one nightmare into another. She wondered how she could stand to be near him, to talk to him after what he’d done to Moira. If he had exhibited even an iota of remorse, she might have felt differently. But all he had said was, “She’s the enemy.” Which meant, of course, that she herself was also the enemy, that the same thing, or worse, could happen to her.

Without a word being exchanged between them, he herded her back to his car, and soon enough they set off back to the convent.

“What do you want from me now?” she asked him in a dull voice.

“The same thing you want from me,” he said. “Destruction.”

The moment they entered the convent, Arkadin began to pack. “While you were going through your hand-wringing, I made reservations for us.”

“For us?”

“Yes,” he said without missing a beat. “You and I are going to Tineghir.”

“If I go anywhere with you I’ll be sick to my stomach.”

He paused and turned to face her. “I think you’ll be useful to me when I get to Morocco, so I don’t want to kill you. But I will if you give me no other choice.” He went back to his methodical packing. “Unlike you, I know when to cut my losses.”

It was at that moment that Soraya caught sight of the laptop, which, for her, had taken on a mythical significance. He was right, in his own way, she thought. As right as Moira had been. It was time to get past her personal abhorrence at his actions. It was time to return to acting like a professional. Time to cut her losses.

“I’ve always wanted to see the High Atlas Mountains,” she said.

“You see?” He tucked away the laptop. “That wasn’t so difficult, was it?”

Jalal Essai, sitting in an anonymous car he had boosted early this morning, watched Willard emerge from the Monition Club. As Essai observed, he did not move as if he had been defeated by the receptionist, or had waited in vain to be seen by a member of the club. Rather, he descended the stairs as Fred Astaire might, lightly and trippingly, as if to music playing in his head. This jaunty attitude disturbed Essai. It also raised the hackles on the back of his neck, which was far worse.

Essai, whose life was in constant jeopardy ever since his home had been invaded by Severus Domna, knew from being on the other side that a passive response, such as flight, would only result in his eventual death. The organization would come after him again and again, until someway, somehow, somewhere it succeeded in terminating his life. Under these extreme circumstances, there was only one way to stay alive.

Willard turned a corner and stopped, looking to flag down a taxi. Essai pulled over to the curb and rolled down the passenger’s-side window.

“Need a lift?” he said.

Willard, startled, drew back as if affronted. “No, thank you,” he said, and returned to sca

“Mr. Willard, please get into the car.”

When Willard looked back, he saw the man holding a wicked-looking EAA 10mm Hunter Witness pistol, aimed at his face.

“Come, come,” Essai said, “let’s not make a scene.”

Willard opened the door and slid into the passenger’s seat without a word.

“How, may I ask, are you going to drive this vehicle and at the same time keep me under control?”

In answer, Essai slammed the barrel of the Hunter Witness against the side of Willard’s head just above his left ear. Willard sighed as his eyes rolled up. Essai leaned the unconscious body against the window and returned the pistol to its shoulder holster. Then he put the car in gear, waited for a gap, and slid out into traffic.