Instead of tensing against the attack, Bourne willed his body to go completely limp. At the same time, instead of striking out, he drew his elbows into his side and, at the moment when his body was at its most slack, he reared up onto them, twisting his torso. As he hurled himself around, he struck out and up with the edge of his hand. He gasped air into his lungs as the weight came off. Water streamed across his face, blurring his vision, so that he could see only the outline of his assailant. He struck out at him but connected with nothing but air.
His assailant vanished as quickly as he had appeared.
Khan, gasping and retching as he scrambled down the streambed, tried to force air past the spasming muscles and bruised cartilage of his throat. Stunned and enraged, he gained the underbrush and was soon lost within the tangle of the forest. Trying to force himself to breathe normally, he gently massaged the tender area Webb had struck. That had not been a lucky blow but a calculated, expert counterattack. Khan was confused, a tinge of fear creeping through him. Webb was a dangerous man—far more than any academic had any right to be. He had been shot at before; he could trace a bullet’s trajectory, could track through wilderness, fight hand-to-hand. And at the first sign of trouble he had come to Alexander Conklin. Who was this man? Khan asked himself. One thing was certain, he would not underestimate Webb again. He would track him, regain the psychological advantage. Before the inevitable end, he wanted Webb to be afraid of him.
Martin Lindros, Deputy Director of the CIA, arrived at the Manassas estate of the late Alexander Conklin at precisely six minutes past six. He was met by the ranking Virginia State Police detective, a harried, balding man named Harris who was trying to mediate the territorial dispute that had sprung up between the state police, the county sheriff’s office and the FBI, all of whom had begun vying for jurisdiction as soon as the identities of the deceased had been discovered. When Lindros emerged from his car, he counted a dozen vehicles, three times that number of people. What was needed was a sense of order and purpose.
As he shook hands with Harris, he looked him straight in the eye and said, “Detective Harris, the FBI is out. You and I will be working this double homicide ourselves.”
“Yessir,” Harris said crisply. He was tall and, perhaps in compensation, had developed a slight stoop, which along with his large watery eyes and lugubrious face made him seem as if he had run out of energy long ago. “Thanks. I’ve got some—”
“Don’t thank me, Detective, I guarantee you this is going to be one bitch of a case.” He dispatched his assistant to deal with the FBI and the sheriff’s personnel. “Any sign of David Webb?” He’d gotten word from the FBI when he’d been patched through to them that Webb’s car had been found parked in Conklin’s driveway. Not Webb, really. Jason Bourne. Which was why the Director of Central Intelligence had dispatched him to take over the investigation personally.
“Not yet,” Harris said. “But we have the dogs out.”
“Good. Have you established a cordon perimeter?”
“I tried to send my men out, but then the FBI…” Harris shook his head “I told them time was of the essence.”
Lindros glanced at his watch. “Half-mile perimeter. Use some of your men to work another cordon at a radius of a quarter-mile. They might pick up something useful. Call in more personnel if you have to.”
While Harris was talking on his walkie-talkie, Lindros eyed him appraisingly. “What’s your first name?” he asked when the detective was through giving orders.
The detective gave him an abashed look. “Harry.”
“Harry Harris. You’re kidding, right?”
“No, sir. I’m afraid not.”
“What were your parents thinking?”
“I don’t think they were, sir.”
“Okay, Harry. Let’s take a look at what we have here.” Lindros was in his late thirties, a smart sandy-haired Ivy Leaguer who had been recruited to the Agency out of Georgetown. Lindros’ father had been a strong-willed man who spoke his mind and had his own way of doing things. He instilled this quirky independence in young Martin, along with the sense of duty to his country, and Lindros believed it was these qualities that had caught the attention of the DCI.
Harris brought him into the study but not before Lindros had marked the two old-fashioned glasses on the cocktail table in the media room. “Anyone touch these, Harry?”
“Not to my knowledge, sir.”
“Call me Martin. We’re going to get to know each other fast.” He looked up and smiled, to further put the other at ease. The manner in which he had thrown around the Agency’s weight was deliberate. In cutting out the other law enforcement agencies, he had drawn Harris into his orbit. He had a feeling he was going to need a compliant detective. “Have your forensics people dust both glasses for prints, will you?”
“Right away.”
“And now let’s have a word with the coroner.”
High atop the road that snaked along the ridge bordering the estate, a heavyset man stood peering at Bourne through a pair of powerful night-vision glasses. He had a wide melon face distinctly Slavic in character. The fingertips of his left hand were yellow; he smoked constantly, compulsively. Behind him, his large black SUV was parked in a scenic turnout. To anyone passing, he would look like a tourist. Tracking backward, he found Khan creeping through the woods on Bourne’s trail. Keeping one eye on Khan’s progress, he flipped open his tri-band cell phone, punched in an overseas number.
Stepan Spalko answered at once.
“The trap has been sprung,” the heavyset Slav said. “The target is on the run. So far he has eluded both the police and Khan.”
“Goddammit!” Spalko said. “What is Khan up to?”
“Do you want me to find out?” the man asked in his cold, casual manner.
“Keep as far away from him as possible. In fact,” Spalko said, “get out of there now.”
Staggering to the stream bank, Bourne sat down, slicked his hair back from his face. His body ached and his lungs felt as if they were on fire. Explosions went off behind his eyes, returning him to the jungles of Tam Quan, the missions David Webb had undertaken at Alex Conklin’s behest, missions sanctioned by Saigon Command yet disavowed by them, insane missions so difficult, so deadly that no American military personnel could ever be associated with them.
Bathed in the failing light of a spring evening, Bourne knew that he had been thrust into the same kind of situation now. He was in a red zone—an area controlled by the enemy. The trouble was, he had no idea who the enemy was or what he intended. Was Bourne even now being herded as he apparently had been when he had been fired upon at Georgetown University, or had his enemy moved on to a new phase of his plan?
Far off, he heard the baying of dogs, and then, startlingly close at hand, the crisp, clear sound of a twig snapping. Had it been made by an animal or the enemy? His immediate objective had been altered. He still had to avoid the net of the police cordon but now, at the same time, he had to find a way to turn the tables on his attacker. The trouble was he had to find his assailant before he attacked Bourne again. If it was the same person as before, then he was not only a crack shot but also an expert at jungle warfare. In a way, knowing this much about his adversary heartened Bourne. He was getting to know his opponent. Now to avoid being killed before he could get to know him well enough to surprise him…
The sun had slipped below the horizon, leaving the sky the color of a banked fire. A cool wind caused Bourne to shiver in his wet clothes. He rose and began to move, both to get the stiffness out of his muscles and to warm himself. The forest was cloaked in indigo, and yet he felt as exposed as if he were in a treeless expanse beneath a cloudless sky.
He knew what he would do if he were in Tam Quan: He’d find shelter, a place to regroup and consider options. But finding shelter in a red zone was tricky; he might be putting his head in a trap. He moved through the forest slowly and deliberately, his eyes scanning tree trunk after tree trunk until he found what he wa
s looking for. Virginia creeper. It was too early in the year for flowers, but the shiny five-lobed leaves were unmistakable. Using the switchblade, he carefully peeled off long lengths of the sturdy vine.
Moments after he was finished, his ears pricked up. Following a faint sound, he soon came to a small clearing. There. He saw a deer, a mid-sized buck. Its head was up, its black nostrils scenting the air. Had it smelled him? No. It was trying to find—
The deer took off, and Bourne with him. He ran lightly and silently through the forest paralleling the deer’s path. Once, the wind shifted and he had to alter his course in order to remain downwind of the animal. They had covered perhaps a quarter of a mile when the deer slowed. The ground had risen, become harder, more compact. They were quite some distance from the stream and on the extreme edge of the estate. The deer leaped easily over the stone wall marking the northwestern corner of the property. Bourne clambered over the wall in time to see that the deer had led him to a salt lick. Salt licks meant rocks and rocks meant caves. He recalled Conklin telling him that the northwestern edge of the property abutted a series of caves honeycombed with chimneys, natural vertical holes the Indians had once used to vent their cooking fires. Such a cave was just what he was hoping for—a haven to temporarily hide in that, by virtue of its two egresses, would not become a trap.
Now I have him, Khan thought. Webb had made a huge mistake—he’d entered the wrong cave, one of the few without a second exit. Khan crept out from his hiding place, crossing the small clearing in silence and in stealth, entering the black mouth of the cave.
Creeping forward, he could sense Webb in the darkness up ahead. Khan knew by the smell that this one was shallow. It did not have the damp, sharp scent of built-up organic matter of a cave that went deep into the bedrock.
Up ahead, Webb had switched on the flashlight. In a moment he would see that there was no chimney, no other way out. The time to attack was now! Khan launched himself at his adversary, struck him flush in the face.
Bourne went down, the flashlight hitting the rock, the light bouncing crazily. At the same time, he could feel the rush of air as the balled fist flew toward him. He allowed it to strike him and, as the arm was extended to the fullest, chopped down hard on the exposed and vulnerable biceps.
Lunging forward, he jammed his shoulder into the sternum of the other body. A knee came up, connected with the inside of Bourne’s thigh, and a line of nerve pain flashed through him. He seized a handful of clothes, jerked the body against the rock face. The body bounced back, rammed into him, bowling him off his feet. They rolled together, grappling at each other. He could hear the other’s breathing, an incongruously intimate sound, like listening to a child’s breath beside you.
Locked in an elemental struggle, Bourne was close enough to smell a complex mélange rising off the other like steam from a sunlit swamp that made the jungle of Tam Quan rear up once more in his mind. In that instant, he felt a bar against his throat. He was being hauled backward.
“I won’t kill you,” a voice said in his ear. “At least not yet.”
He jabbed backward with an elbow, was rewarded with a knee to his already aching kidney. He doubled over but was hauled painfully erect by the bar against his windpipe.
“I could kill you now, but I won’t,” the voice said. “Not until there is enough light so that I can look into your eyes while you die.”
“Did you have to kill two innocent decent men just to get to me?” Bourne said.
“What are you talking about?”
“The two people you shot to death back at the house.”
“I didn’t kill them; I never kill innocents.” There was a chuckle. “On the other hand, I don’t know that I could call anyone associated with Alexander Conklin an innocent.”
“But you herded me here,” Bourne said. “You shot at me so I’d run to Conklin, so you could—”
“You’re talking nonsense,” the voice said. “I merely followed you here.”
“Then how did you know where to send the cops?” Bourne said.
“Why would I even call them?” the voice whispered harshly.
Startling though this information was, Bourne was only half-listening. He had relaxed a little during this conversation, leaning backward. This left the smallest bit of slack between the bar and his windpipe. Bourne now turned on the balls of his feet, dropping one shoulder as he did so, so that the other was obliged to focus his attention on keeping the bar in place. In that instant, Bourne used the heel of his hand to deliver a quick strike just below the ear. The body fell hard; the bar rang hollowly as it struck the rock floor.
Bourne took several deep breaths to clear his head, but he was still woozy from loss of oxygen. He took up the flashlight, illuminated the spot where the body had fallen, but it wasn’t there. A sound, barely a whisper, came to him and he raised the beam. A figure sprang into the light against the mouth of the cave. As the light struck him, he turned, and Bourne got a glimpse of his face before he vanished into the trees.
Bourne ran after him. In a moment he heard the distinct snap and whoosh! He heard movement up ahead, and he pushed through the undergrowth to where he had set his trap. He had woven the Virginia creeper into a net and tied it to a green sapling he had bent almost double. It had caught his assailant. The hunter had become the prey. Bourne pushed forward to the base of the trees, prepared himself to face his attacker and cut the creeper netting down. But the net was empty.
Empty! He gathered it up, saw the rent his quarry had cut into its upper section. He had been quick, clever and prepared; he would be even more difficult to take by surprise again.
Bourne looked up, playing the cone of the flashlight beam in an arc across the maze of tree limbs. Despite himself, he experienced a fleeting twinge of admiration for his expert and resourceful adversary. Snapping off the flashlight, he was plunged into night. A whippoorwill cried out and then, in the lengthening silence, an owl’s hoot echoed mournfully through the pine-clad hills.
He leaned his head back and took a deep breath. Against the screen of his mind’s eye the flat planes, the dark eyes of the face was limned, and in a moment he was certain that it matched up with one of the students he had seen on his way to the university classroom the sniper had used.
At last, his enemy had a face as well as a voice.
“I could kill you now, but I won’t. Not until there is enough light so that I can look into your eyes while you die.”
Chapter Three
Humanistas, Ltd., an international human-rights organization known the world over for its worldwide humanitarian and relief work, was headquartered on the deep green western slope of Gellért Hill in Budapest. From this magnificent vantage point, Stepan Spalko, peering through the huge angled plate-glass windows, imagined the Danube and the entire city genuflecting at his feet.
He had come around from behind his huge desk to sit on an upholstered chair facing the very dark-skinned Kenyan president. Flanking the door were the Kenyan’s bodyguards, hands tucked at the smalls of their backs, the blank look endemic to all such government personnel etched on their faces. Above them, molded in bas-relief on the wall, was the green cross held in the palm of a hand that was Humanistas’ well-marketed logo. The president’s name was Jomo and he was a Kikuyu, the largest ethnic tribe of Kenya, and a direct descendant of Jomo Kenyatta, the Republic’s first president. Like his famous forebear, he was a Mzee, Swahili for a respected elder. Between them was an ornate silver service dating back to the 1700s. Fine black tea had been poured, biscuits and exquisitely turned-out small sandwiches artfully arranged on a chased oval tray. The two men were talking in low, even tones.
“One doesn’t know where to begin to thank you for the generosity you and your organization have shown us,” Jomo said. He was sitting up very straight, his ramrod back pulled a little away from the comfort of the chair’s plush back. Time and circumstance had combined to rob his face of much of the vitality it had held in his youth. There was, beneath t
he high gloss of his skin, a grayish pallor. His features had been compressed, ossified into stone by hardship and perseverance in the face of overwhelming odds. In short, he had the aspect of a warrior too long at siege. His legs were together, bent at the knee at a precise ninety-degree angle. He held in his lap a long, polished box of deep-grained bubinga wood. Almost shyly, he presented the box to Spalko. “With the heartfelt blessings of the Kenyan people, sir.”
“Thank you, Mr. President. You are too kind,” Spalko said graciously.
“The kindness is surely yours, sir.” Jomo watched with keen interest as Spalko opened the box. Inside was a flat-bladed knife and a stone, more or less oval in shape, with a flattish bottom and top.
“My God, this isn’t a githathi stone, is it?”
“It is, indeed, sir,” Jomo said with obvious delight. “It is from my birth village, from the kiama to which I still belong.”
Spalko knew Jomo was referring to the council of elders. The githathi was of great value to tribal members. When a dispute arose within the council that could not otherwise be settled, an oath was taken on this stone. Spalko gripped the knife’s handle, which was carved from carnelian. It, too, had a ritualistic purpose. In cases of life or death disputes, the blade of this knife was first heated, then laid onto the tongues of the disputants. The extent of the tongues’ subsequent blistering determined their guilt or innocence.
“I wonder, though, Mr. President,” Spalko said with the hint of an impish tone, “whether the githathi comes from your kiama or your njama?”
Jomo laughed, a rumble deep in his throat that made his small ears quiver. It was so rare he had cause to laugh these days. He could not remember the last time. “So you have heard of our secret councils, have you, sir? I would say your knowledge of our customs and lore is formidable, indeed.”