The Bourne Imperative (Крах Борна)

Peter licked his lips. “How am I?”

“You’re fine,” Anderson said.

“Where was I shot?”

“You...” Anderson’s eyes cut to the paramedic on his right. Peter felt a sudden lurch in the pit of his stomach. “I can’t feel any thing.”

Anderson’s expression betrayed nothing. “Trauma. Doesn’t mean a thing.”

“But I can’t feel...” Peter braced himself. “Is my spine involved?” Anderson shook his head.

Better off dead, Peter thought, than a cripple.

Anderson put a hand on his shoulder. “Boss, I know what’s going through your mind, but right now nothing’s set in stone. Just relax. Keep still. A surgical team is standing by. Let them do their thing. Everything will be okay.”

Peter closed his eyes, willing his screaming brain to shut up. He needed to concentrate on this moment. Que sera sera. The future would take care of itself.

 “The man who shot me. I need to know his identity.”

“He had no ID on him, boss.”

“Fingerprints, dental records, DNA.”

“All being taken care of.”

Peter nodded. He licked his lips. “There’s something else. Richards.”

“I’m on it, boss. There was a breach of the intranet this morning. A Trojan. I called Richards in.”

Peter thought about Richards working for Tom Brick and Core Energy. “Richards may be the one who planted it. The fucker’s clever enough to get through the firewall.”

“I thought of that,” Anderson said. “I placed an electronic keylogger on the server terminal he’s using to ID and quarantine the Trojan.” “Nicely done, Sam.” Peter winced, feeling some pain now. “I don’t yet know why Brick wants to get inside Treadstone.”

“We’ll find out. Take it easy now, boss.”

He saw Anderson nod to the paramedic beside him, who slipped a needle into a vein on the inside of his elbow from which a delicious warmth drifted, washing through him.

“It’s important. It’s all important,” he said, his words already slurry. “I’ll see to it, boss.” And, good as his word, as Peter slipped into unconsciousness, Anderson punched in a number on his mobile, making the first of many calls.

Bourne, heading through the relentlessly beating heart of Mexico City, the smell of blood in his nostrils, hadn’t forgotten about the Babylonian.

He was somewhere within the brightly colored whirlpool of the city, standing in a plaza, watching, driving the same chaotic streets as Bourne, using what contacts and conduits he might have in Mexico to reestablish contact with his quarry.

Thinking about Ilan Halevy was preferable to thinking about Rebeka, who he had failed to protect adequately, who died before she could finish the mission she had assigned herself, a mission that was important enough for her to abandon Mossad and strike out on her own.

Her mission was now his own.

Bourne, heading through the city streets, the stench of fire and fear in his nostrils, looked for Halevy, wanting to find the Babylonian as badly as Halevy wanted to find him.

He drove east, toward the airport, and when he saw the radiant sign for Superama, he turned off. At Revolution 1151, Merced Gómez, Benito Juárez, he pulled into the colossal parking lot, slid the taxi into an empty slot, and got out.

Opening the trunk, he discovered a pile of rags. He used one to wipe down all the interior surfaces. He paused when he was finished and looked at Rebeka. Her shirt had been ripped open. Inside, he saw an aluminum-mesh wallet. Lifting it out with his fingertips, he wiped off the blood. Inside was her legend passport, the money she had taken from beneath the floorboards of her rental apartment in Stockholm, and a delicate silver necklace with a star of David. She had never shown the talisman to him. Leaving the wallet and its contents behind seemed like leaving a part of her to be picked over, so he took them. He knew there was nothing more he could do for her. Saying his silent goodbye, he slammed the door, using the rag, and picked his way through the lot to the store.

In the bathroom, he threw away the rag and washed her blood off his hands. Then he dumped his blood-stained coat and shirt, and went in search of a new outfit. He bought black jeans, a white shirt, and a charcoal-colored jacket.

Returning to the parking lot, he moved through the rows, looking for an older car. Behind him, he heard the throaty gurgle of a motorcycle engine. It was a large one—an Indian Chief Dark Horse. He saw it approaching out of the corner of his eye. It was traveling so slowly that he gave it scant attention, but the instant it put on a burst of speed, he turned. The driver was male, but a mirrored faceplate on his helmet obscured his face. Sunlight spun crazily off the crown of the black impact-resistant plastic.

The Indian went down a parallel row, and Bourne turned back to the car he had chosen. Unbending a wire hanger he had taken from the store where he bought his clothes, he stuck the hooked end down between the door frame and the window. The lock popped up. He was about to open the door when the Indian reappeared, coming at him very fast from the opposite side.

Bourne stood by the door, watching the motorcycle coming closer. It was almost upon him when he swung the door out. The Indian’s front wheel struck the metal with a dull clang, and the motorcycle bucked like a stallion. Its back reared up, flinging the driver out of his seat. He somersaulted up and over the car’s crumpled door, and landed on the roof.

As he slid down, Bourne grabbed him, slammed him back against the car’s side. He ripped off the helmet and saw up close the damage the flames had done to Halevy’s neck.

As the Babylonian leaped at him, Bourne drove a knee into Halevy’s crotch, then smashed a fist into the side of his head. Bourne grabbed him as he fell sideways. Halevy kicked him in the side of the knee, then, twisting free, drove his fist into the pit of Bourne’s stomach. As Bourne’s body turned, he struck the Babylonian in the kidney.

Bourne went down, Halevy on top of him. Halevy flicked out a knife, slicing a shallow arc toward Bourne’s throat. Bourne reached up, scraped his nails down the Babylonian’s fire-wounded throat. Halevy reared back, his eyes tearing with the fiery pain, and Bourne smashed his wrist against the bottom of the car. The knife clattered to the tarmac, and Bourne pressed his forearm against Halevy’s throat.

“Tell me about Ouyang.” Ouyang was the name Rebeka had spoken just before she died.

Halevy stared up at him balefully. “Who or what is an Ouyang?”

Bourne dug into the nerve bundle at the side of his neck. Halevy bared his teeth and his eyes popped. Sweat broke out on his face. The left side was scorched red, rippled and rent by the inroads the flames had made as they ate away and blackened the layers of his skin. He began to breathe hard.

“Ouyang,” Bourne prompted.

“How d’you know about Ouyang?”

Bourne did that thing again, and this time Halevy’s body arched up, his straining muscles trembling involuntarily. Little grunting noises emanated from his open mouth, like an animal caught in a trap, about to gnaw his leg off.

“Ben David deals with Ouyang.”

“Not the Director or Dani Amit?”

Halevy, blowing air through his mouth as if to cool himself off, shook his head. “This is private. It isn’t Mossad.”

“Then how do you know about it?”

“I won’t—” The Babylonian gave a silent howl as Bourne worked on him for a third time. His face was blue-white. Even his fire wound was now a pale pink, livid against the starkness of his stubble. Sweat flew off him like rain. “Okay, all right. Ouyang’s a high minister in the CSP. Ben David has something going with him, but I swear I don’t know what. Ben David recruited me to run interference with Tel Aviv, to make sure neither the Director nor Amit find out what he’s up to.” His gaze turned briefly ca