Страница 90 из 94
The second guard stood just to one side of the bottom of the staircase. He nodded disinterestedly as Bourne came down off the last step. Bourne took one step past him, swiveled, and buried the butt of the AK-74 into the guard’s belly. He doubled over and Bourne slammed the butt into the back of his neck. After dragging the body back into the shadows, he set off on a route that would take him quickly to the two stacks of spiked FN SCAR-M, Mark 20s.
He spent a precious minute blending into the swarm of men, directing a group away from Don Fernando’s crates to a stack of wooden boxes on the other side of the poured concrete floor. He had twelve cloned SIM cards, one for each crate. Don Fernando had been quite specific as to where Bourne should place the SIMs on the side of each crate. The tiny cards had sticky backs. All Bourne had to do was peel off the covering film and slap them into place. He had affixed six of them when a commanding voice called out, “You there, guard! What are you doing?”
Bourne turned to see a man who looked like Semid Abdul-Qahhar. He had stepped out from behind a wall of crates that were apparently not slated for departure tonight.
Semid’s eyes narrowed as he beckoned Bourne over. “You are unfamiliar to me.”
“I was assigned to the warehouse this morning.”
Semid nodded to two men who had come up behind Bourne. They stuck the muzzles of their AK-74s into the small of his back and marched him behind the wall of crates.
“No one was reassigned to El-Gabal this morning,” Semid said, “or any day this week.” He stepped closer as one of his men stripped Bourne of his weapon. “Who are you? More importantly, how did you infiltrate the building?” When Bourne made no reply, he smiled. “Well, we’ll deal with you the moment the loading is complete.”
Bourne grabbed the arm of the guard on his right and swiveled from the waist, taking the man off his feet. Bourne chopped down on the other guard’s wrist and, with his trigger hand clearly numb, ripped the AK-74 out of his grip and clubbed him over the head. The first guard, having reared back, charged Bourne with his head down. His face co
Bourne turned right into the muzzle of a Makarov, which Semid pushed against his teeth. Bourne was close enough to see the tiny spasm at the corner of his right eye.
“Don’t move,” Semid said softly and fiercely, “or I’ll blow the back of your head off.” He patted Bourne down with great precision and expertise. “Hands at your sides.” Finding nothing, he leaned in so that his nose was almost touching Bourne’s. The overpowering scent of cloves filled Bourne’s nose. “There is nothing more for you to do here. Five minutes from now this place will be deserted, except for the dead, which will include you.”
Time was rapidly ru
“What are you doing? Take your hand out of there.” Semid Abdul-Qahhar waved the Makarov in Bourne’s face. “Slowly.”
Bourne did as he was asked.
“Open your hand.”
Bourne did so. As Semid Abdul-Qahhar grabbed his hand, he leaned in to take a closer look, the Makarov wavered a little, and Bourne shoved one of the false teeth he had been carrying between Semid’s teeth. At almost the same instant he slammed the flat of his hand into the bottom of the other man’s chin, forcing his teeth together. The false tooth cracked and the hydrogen cyanide flooded Semid Abdul-Qahhar’s mouth. Semid swallowed convulsively in order not to choke. Instantly his eyes opened wide and he brought the Makarov to bear. Bourne was ready for him, knocking the handgun away. Semid tried to grab a handful of Bourne’s uniform to steady himself, but he slid to his knees. Bourne unknotted his fingers. A blue froth appeared at the corners of Semid’s mouth. He made sounds without words, the stuff of nightmares. Then his eyes clouded over, and Bourne kicked him, dragging him back behind a niche in the wall.
Emerging from behind the wall of crates, he affixed the last six SIM cards in place. A contingent of four men were coming in his direction. Bourne pressed 666 on the cell’s keypad. Three minutes until the building and everyone in it would be blown to atoms.
“These need to be taken onto the truck,” Bourne said to the men.
The lead man frowned. “I thought they were to stay here.”
“Change of plan,” Bourne said in the clipped voice of authority all soldiers automatically obeyed. “Orders from Semid Abdul-Qahhar himself.”
The man shrugged and beckoned to his men. They bypassed Don Fernando’s crates and started on the ones behind. Bourne was now faced with a crucial decision. If he walked out onto the loading dock, past the guards, and into the back street, he would be leaving Rebeka behind, and he could not do that.
As soon as the men hefted the first crate, Bourne turned on his heel and retraced his steps, across the floor, up the stairs, and out onto the open hallway that led to the supply room with its ladder up to the roof and the longer but preferable route to safety.
He opened the door and stepped into the room, right into a small, silver-plated .22 Beretta aimed at him. It appeared identical to the gun Viveka Norén had aimed at him in Frequencies, the Stockholm disco, years ago. Holding it was a beautiful woman with blond hair and Viveka’s light eyes. She looked exactly like Kaja, but from her formidable expression and the way she held herself he knew it couldn’t be Kaja. It was her twin sister, the dangerous multiple-personality Skara.
33
FRACTURED LIGHT FELL like daggers through the skylight, piercing the shadows, illuminating sections of her face—cheek, nose, a triangle of forehead.
“Skara.”
She frowned. “Who are you?”
“I’ve met your sister,” Bourne said. “Kaja.”
“Kaja.” She traced her oval lips with the tip of her tongue, as if tasting the name. “Isn’t she dead?”
Two minutes left. “Skara, we have to get out of here.”
“I am getting out of here. Abdul-Qahhar and I together, leaving this hellhole of a country far behind.”
She cocked her head to one side. “Hear that?” The roaring of rotors overhead. Lights played crazily across her face. Her eyes glittered. “It’s the sound of the copter landing.” She smiled viciously, baring her teeth. “It’s also the sound of your death.”
A heavy thump above their heads caused her attention to flicker, and Bourne leapt at her. She fired the Beretta, and he felt a small flame in his left shoulder. Then he had her. He tried to snatch the .22 away from her, but she was quicker and more tenacious than he expected, and she re-trained her grip on the handgun, trying to bring it to bear on his chest. He strode into her, pushing her back with his superior weight and strength so that the handgun was trapped between their bodies. The backs of her calves struck a box, and she stumbled backward. He made another grab for the .22, twisting it.
As they struggled for control of the Beretta her eyes were fierce in the dimness. There was something different about them, something familiar. “Kill me,” she cried. “Kill me now and end this.”
He tried to wrest the .22 away, but she resisted, the Beretta turned awkwardly, and her finger pulled the trigger twice in rapid succession. Blood fountained out of her, the bullets rupturing major arteries, including her aorta.
“Skara,” Bourne called as he pulled her back toward him, but she was already beyond it hearing him or anyone else.
The sleek black Sikorsky S-76C++ helicopter was waiting on the center of the target, its rotors spi