PETER MARKS FLOATED in and out of consciousness like a swimmer caught in a rip current. One moment, his feet seemed to be on solid footing, the next they were sliding away as a wave crashed over him, taking him off his feet, spinning him down into a reddish darkness distinguished by vertigo and pain.
He heard his own groans and the voices of unfamiliar people, but these seemed to be either at a great remove or filtered through layers of gauze. Light hurt his eyes. The only thing he could get down was baby food, and this only occasionally. He felt as if he were dying, as if he lay suspended between life and death, an unwilling citizen of a gray limbo. At last he understood the phrase bed of pain.
And yet, there came a time when his pain lessened, he ate more, and, blessedly, limbo faded into the realm of dreams, only half remembered, receding as if he were on a train speeding away from a dreadful place in which it had been stalled.
He opened his eyes to light and color. He took a deep breath, then another. He felt his lungs fill and empty without the crushing pain that had gripped him for what seemed like forever.
“He’s conscious.” A voice from above, as if an angel were hovering, beating its delicate wings.
“Who…” Peter licked his lips. “Who are you?”
“Yo, it’s Tyrone, Chief.”
Peter’s eyes felt gluey, there were coronas around everything he looked at, as if he were hallucinating. “I… Who?”
“Tyrone Elkins. From CI.”
“CI?”
“I picked you up offa tha street. You were fucked up.”
“I don’t remember…”
The black head turned. “Yo, Deron, yo, yo, yo.” Then Tyrone turned back and spoke to Peter again. “The ambulance. Remember the ambulance, Chief?”
Something was forming out of the haze. “I…”
“The bogus EMS guys. You got yourself outta the ambulance, shit, still don’t know how.”
The memory started to form like a cloud building on the horizon. Peter remembered the garage at the Treadstone building, the explosion, being hustled into the ambulance, the realization that he wasn’t being taken to the hospital, that these attendants were the enemy.
“I remember,” he murmured.
“That’s good, that’s very good.”
Another face along with Tyrone’s. Tyrone had called him Deron. A handsome black man with an upper-class British accent.
“Who are you?”
“You remember Tyrone? He’s from CI. A friend of Soraya’s.” The handsome man smiled down at Peter. “My name’s Deron. I’m a friend of Jason’s.”
Peter’s brain took a moment to click into gear. “Bourne?”
“That’s right.”
He closed his eyes, blessing the good luck that had landed him in the safest place in DC.
“Peter, do you know who those people were in the ambulance?”
Peter’s eyes popped open. “Never saw them before.” He felt his heart beating and sensed that it had been working hard for some time, working to keep him alive. “I don’t know…”
“Okay, okay,” Deron said. “Save your breath.” He turned to Tyrone. “Can you get on this? There must be a police report on the shootings. Use your creds and see if you can get IDs on the dead men.”
Tyrone nodded and took off.
Deron picked up a plastic glass of water with a bendy straw in it. “Now,” he said, “let’s see if we can get some more liquid in you.”
Placing one hand behind Peter’s head, he lifted it gently and offered him the straw. Peter sipped slowly, even though he was parched. His tongue felt swollen to twice its size.
“Tyrone told me the whole story,” Deron said, “at least as much as he knew.” He took the straw out of Peter’s mouth. “It sounds like you were being kidnapped.”
Peter nodded.
“Why?”
“I don’t…” Then Peter remembered. He’d done intensive research on Roy FitzWilliams and the Damascus-based El-Gabal, to which Fitz had had ties. Hendricks had been absolutely paranoid about security on the issue of Roy FitzWilliams. Peter groaned.
“What is it? Are you in pain?”
“No, that would be too simple,” Peter said with a gritty smile. “I fucked up, Deron. My boss warned me to be careful and I did some back-door research on a company computer, which runs through the government server.”
“So whoever was tapping in got scared and sent the extraction team.”
“Well, they tried to kill me first.” Peter described the explosion in the garage. “The extraction team was there as a backup.”
“Which speaks both of meticulous planning and an organization with influence and deep pockets.” Deron rubbed his jaw. “I would say you’ve got big problems, except for the fact that Ty tells me you’re director of Treadstone. You’ve got plenty of firepower yourself.”
“Sadly, no,” Peter said. “Soraya and I are still getting Treadstone back on its feet. Most of our current personnel are overseas. Our domestic infrastructure is still hollowed out.”
Deron sat back, forearms on his knees. Losing his English accent, he said, “Damn, homey, you done washed up at da right place.”
Bourne took the Vespa around a corner, speeding after the gunman. He could see him up ahead on the white Vespa, weaving in and out of traffic as he followed the road along the waterfront, heading south. It was difficult to make up ground, but slowly, by running the bike full-out, Bourne was gaining. The gunman had not looked behind him; he didn’t know that someone was on his tail.
He went through a light as it was turning red. Bourne, hunched over the handlebars, judged the vectors of the cross-traffic and, with a twist to the left, then the right, shot through the intersection.
Down the block the gunman had pulled over to the curb behind a black van. He popped open the rear doors and, with the help of the van’s driver, hoisted the Vespa into the interior. Then he slammed the doors, and both men climbed into the front. Bourne was still going full-out, and as the van pulled out into the flow of traffic he was no more than two car lengths behind.
The van soon turned off the sea road, heading into Cadiz itself. It followed a tortuous path down the city’s narrow, crooked streets. At length, the van pulled over and stopped along a street of warehouses. The driver got out and unlocked a door that rolled up electronically, then returned to the van. Bourne ditched the Vespa and sprinted as the van drove through into the interior. The door rattled down and Bourne dived through with just enough room to spare.
He lay on a bare concrete floor that stank of creosote and motor oil. The only illumination came from the van’s headlights. Doors slammed as the two men jumped down onto the concrete. They didn’t bother to unload the Vespa. Bourne rose to one knee, hiding behind an enormous metal barrel. The gunman must have gone to a switch box, because a moment later light flooded the interior from a pair of overheads, capped with green shades. There seemed to be nothing in the warehouse except more of the barrels and two stacks of wooden crates. The driver switched off the headlights, then the two men crossed to the crates.
“Is she dead?” the driver said in Moscow-accented Russian.
“I don’t know, everything happened too fast.” The gunman laid his pistol down on top of one of the crates.
“It is unfortunate that you didn’t stick to the plan,” the driver said with a tone of lamentation only Russians could exhibit.
“She came outside,” the gunman protested. “The temptation was too great. Hit her and run. You would have done the same.”
The driver shrugged. “I’m just happy I’m not in your shoes.”
“Fuck you,” the gunman said. “You’re the other half of this team. If I missed her it’s going to fall on both our shoulders.”
“If our superior finds out,” the driver said, “our shoulders won’t be supporting anything worth talking about.”
The gunman picked up his weapon and reloaded it. “So?”
“So we find out if she’s dead.” The driver squared on his companion. “And if not, we rectify your error together.”
The two men stepped behind the stack and opened a narrow door. Before he went through into what Bourne surmised might be the office, the gunman extinguished the lights. Bourne crept to the van, carefully opened the driver’s door, and rummaged around until he found a flashlight. In the rear, he went through a box of tools and picked out a crowbar. Then he stepped to the stack and squatted down so that the crates were between him and the rear door. Switching on the flashlight, he played the beam over the crates. The wood was an odd greenish color, smooth and virtually seamless. The beam slid across the surface, and he felt his heart rate accelerate. The crates were marked with their origin, Don Fernando’s oil company in Colombia.
Boris felt his blood run cold. “Cherkesov came here to meet with Ivan?” He shook his head. “This I cannot believe.”
The heavyset man signaled to one of the men along the wall, who stepped forward. Boris tensed as the acolyte reached into his robes, but all he brought out was a set of grainy black-and-white photos, which he held out to Boris.
“Go on, take a look,” the heavyset man said. “Because of the lighting, you’ll be able to tell that they were not doctored in any way.”
Boris took the photos and stared down at them, his mind working a mile a minute. There were Cherkesov and Ivan speaking together. A bit of the Mosque’s interior could be seen behind them. He took note of the date the camera had printed in the lower left-hand corner of the photos.
He looked at the heavyset man kneeling on the prayer rug. He hadn’t budged since Boris had been shown into the room. “What were they talking about?”
A smile formed on the lips of the heavyset man. “I know who you are, General Karpov.”
Boris stood very still, his gaze not on the kneeling man, but on his acolytes. They seemed to have as little interest in him as they had before. “Then you are one up on me.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I don’t know who you are.”
The smile broadened. “Ah, curiosity! But it is far better for you that you don’t know.” He unlaced his fingers. “We must concentrate on the matter at hand: Cherkesov and Volkin.” He locked his red lips. “I am, shall we say, acutely aware that FSB-2, of which you are now the head, and SVR are locked in a deadly power struggle.”
Boris waited out the silence. He was getting to know this nameless man, his predilection for dramatic pauses and declarations, the way he meted out information in precise bits and pieces.
“But that power struggle,” the man continued, “is far more complicated than you know. There are powers lining up on either side that far surpass those of FSB-2 and SVR.”
“I assume you’re referring to Severus Domna.”
The heavyset man raised his eyebrows. “Among others.”
Boris’s heart skipped a beat. “There are others?”
“There are always others, General.” He gestured with a hand. “Excuse my poor manners. Come. Sit.”
Boris stepped onto the prayer rug, careful to sit in the same position as his host, though it pained his hips and flexor muscles.
“You asked me what Cherkesov and your friend Volkin were talking about,” the heavyset man said. “It was the Domna.”
“Do you know that Cherkesov left FSB-2 to join the Domna?”
“I heard as much,” the heavyset man acknowledged.
Boris didn’t believe him. He sensed his host was withholding information. “Cherkesov has ambitions that, for the moment at least, outstrip his power.”
“You think he had a plan in mind when he allowed himself to be lured away from FSB-2.”
“Yes,” Boris said.
“Do you know what it is?”
“It’s possible one of us does.”
The heavyset man’s belly began to tremble, and Boris realized that he was laughing silently.
“Yes, General Karpov, that is quite possible.” Boris’s host considered for a moment. “Tell me, have you ever been to Damascus?”
“Once or twice, yes,” Boris said, alert that the conversation had suddenly veered in a new direction.
“How did you find it?”
“The Paris of the Middle East?”
“Ha! Yes, I suppose it once was.”
“Damascus has beautiful bones,” Boris said.
The heavyset man considered this for a moment. “Yes, Damascus possesses great beauty, but it is also a place of great danger.”
“How is that?”
“Damascus is what Cherkesov was sent here to discuss with your friend Volkin.”
“Cherkesov is no longer welcome in Russia,” Boris said, “but Ivan?”
“Your friend Volkin has a number of, shall we say, business interests in Damascus.”
Boris was surprised; Ivan had let it be known that, apart from consulting, he was retired. “What kind of business interests?”
“Nothing that would keep him in good standing with the grupperovka bosses with whom he has done business for decades.”
“I don’t understand.” The moment the words were out of his mouth, Boris knew that he had made a fatal error. A key aspect of his host’s face changed radically; all its intimacy and friendliness disappeared like a puff of smoke.
“That is a pity,” the heavyset man said. “I was hoping that you could shed some light on why Damascus has become the focus of both Volkin and Cherkesov.” He snapped his fingers and the two men on either side produced Taurus PT145 Millenniums, small pistols with a big .45 punch.
Boris jumped up, but two more men, armed with Belgian FN P90 small-profile submachine guns, appeared in the doorway.
Behind them came Zachek with a death’s-head grin. “I’m afraid, General Karpov,” Zachek said, “that your usefulness is at an end.”
Bourne had just inserted the crowbar into the gap between the top and side of one of the crates when the rear door opened. He snapped off the flashlight an instant before the two Russians emerged. Before one of them could reach for the light switch, he tossed the flashlight across the warehouse. When it struck the floor, the Russians started, reached for their weapons, and ran toward the sound.
He was closer to the gunman, the driver having taken the lead. Swinging the crowbar, he slammed the end into the gunman’s hand, and his pistol dropped to the floor. The gunman howled, the driver pulled up short and turned on his heel just as Bourne flung the crowbar. It hit the driver square in the face, knocking him backward so hard his head slammed into the concrete, cracking his skull, killing him instantly.
The gunman, his fractured right hand hanging at his side, pulled out a stun baton with his left hand. It was a sixteen-incher that could deliver a nasty three-hundred-thousand-volt kick. The gunman swung it back and forth, keeping Bourne at bay while he advanced on him, pushing him back along the side of the van. His plan seemed to be to get Bourne into a corner where he would have no room to maneuver away from the baton. One touch of it and Bourne knew he would be writhing helplessly on the floor.
He retreated along the length of the van. The gunman had his eye on where he wanted Bourne to end up, so he was a beat slow in reacting as Bourne swung open one of the van’s rear doors, using it as a shield between him and the baton while he scrabbled in the toolbox.
The gunman was swinging around the end of the door when Bourne uncapped the aerosol can of enamel paint and sprayed it into the gunman’s eyes. The gunman reared back, hands to his face, gasping, and Bourne slammed the bottom of the can against the fractured bones. The gunman groaned, the pain bringing him to his knees. Bourne took the baton from him, but the gunman lunged forward, wrapping his arms around Bourne’s legs in an attempt to bring him down. His mouth opened to sink his teeth into Bourne’s thigh when Bourne connected with the side of his head. All the breath seemed to go out of him and he lay on his back, the fingers of his good hand trying to dig the paint out of his eyes.
Bourne grabbed his hand and pulled it away. “Who do you work for?”
“Go fuck your mother,” the man said in his guttural tone.
Bourne dialed down the charge on the baton and gave the gunman a shot in the side. His body arched up, the heels of his shoes drumming against the concrete.
“Who do you work for?”
Silence. Bourne raised the charge slightly and applied it again.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” The gunman coughed heavily and began to choke. His mouth was full of blood; in his frenzy he had bitten his tongue almost clear through.
“I won’t ask you again.”
“You won’t have to.”
The gunman’s jaws ground together and, a moment later, his chest convulsed. A bluish foam mingled with the blood in his mouth, bubbling over to coat his lips. Leaning over, Bourne tried to pry open the jaws, but it was too late. A distinct odor of bitter almonds wafted up to him and he reared back. The gunman had bitten open a cyanide capsule.