Robert Ludlum's (TM) The Bourne Initiative (Jason Bourne series)(110)
“But you can’t stay here,” Morgana said. “It’s far too dangerous. You’ve been seen boarding Gora’s boat multiple times. The police are going to be looking for you.”
“I can’t leave my son, Morgana.”
“Then that wasn’t a line.”
Natalie smiled. “No. I’m not going anywhere without Karl.” She squeezed Morgana’s arm. “Don’t look so alarmed. This is my country. I know how to get around. I know how to evade the police.” She laughed. “I’ve been doing it almost all my life.”
“This is different,” Morgana said. “You know it is. Three people dead, my God. I’ll take you and Karl back to the States with me.”
“So I can do what, exactly?” Natalie shook her head. “Thanks, but no thanks. Sweden’s my home. I’m not leaving.”
With her hand on the door handle, she turned back. “Morgana, I know I fucked up.” Her brows knit together. “Why aren’t you angry with me?”
“I know what Gora did to you, how far he pushed you, how he humiliated you.”
Natalie bowed her head. “Thank you.” And she was out the door, walking down the street before Morgana had a chance to say anything more.
—
As it turned out, it was just as well Natalie didn’t want to come back to D.C. with her. Inside the Dreadnaught plane, as it was readying to take off, Soraya’s voice buzzed in her ear. “Sat phone. Now.”
“Change of plans,” Soraya said when Morgana had dialed in on the sat phone. “I hope you’re not homesick, because you’re not coming back to Washington, at least not right away. Things are still too hot and everything is happening so fast now I haven’t had a chance to smooth the way for your return.”
The plane had taxied to the head of the runway. The engines were revving up.
“Where are you sending me?” Morgana asked as she strapped herself in.
The plane hurtled down the runway and lifted off. With a hum of hydraulics, the wheels retracted.
“Somalia,” Soraya said. “I want you to keep an eye on the arms dealer, Keyre, whose mobile number you found on Gora’s boat. There’s been an awful lot of chatter surrounding him all of a sudden. The storage lockers are filled with a wide range of arms and electronic listening devices; use anything you need. I want to know what’s going on.”
“Will do.”
“And Morgana. Keep your distance, at all costs. I can’t overemphasize the danger this man represents.”
“I hear you.”
“I mean it,” Soraya said before signing off. “Keyre’s a fucking nightmare.”
—
The filthy air enveloped them, soot fell from the sky and turned the snow black before it hit the ground, cinders crunched under their soles, and evil-smelling eruptions belched from the immense smokestacks of hapless Kapotnya. As Bourne and Savasin picked their way along the sidewalks, the sky was so low it was impossible to tell whether it was composed of clouds or smoke. The sunless afternoon had slid unnoticed into turbulent twilight. Street lights—those that worked—cast a dim and fitful illumination on the sulphurous atmosphere.
Vehicles crawled slowly forward, then stopped for long minutes. The hellacious traffic had forced them to abandon the Zil. The sidewalks were bloated with people making their way home. Old men sat on icy stoops with their heads in their hands, exhausted simply by breathing. Teenagers zigzagged through the crowds, picking pockets or selling the latest iterations of cheap and dangerous drugs. No music, no car horns tonight, only small noises that constituted a deathly silence.
Bourne let Savasin lead the way. He was torn between needing to get to Dima as soon as possible and his instinct to continually scan the immediate vicinity for Konstantin’s people, although how Savasin’s brother could know where they were now that he had crushed the life out of the GPS, he could not imagine. Still, several times he guided the first minister into a doorway to observe the pedestrians coming up from behind them. He found nothing suspicious, and each time they continued their journey, hurrying now, shouldering their way through the crowds, stepping into the gutter when their way was blocked by knots of people too dense to push through without drawing attention to themselves.
“Next block,” Savasin announced. “Ekaterina, Dima’s daughter, gave me instructions on how to approach and enter the building.” He pointed to their left, and they turned a corner. “It has a back entrance, of course, but there’s also a side entrance, a small door, painted green, that the concierge uses on occasion. This way.”
The side street, too narrow for vehicles of any sort, was nearly deserted, and they picked up their pace. It was faced by blank brick walls, nearly black from the soot and the dismal weather.
Bourne saw the green door coming up on their right. It was, indeed, narrow, hidden by shadows, so that it was easy to miss. Savasin stepped up to it, turned the crusty handle. Nothing happened; the door remained closed.
“Ekaterina didn’t give you a key?”
Savasin shook his head. “She said it would be open.”
Moving the first minister aside, Bourne examined the door. It was made of metal, much dented and as beaten up as a boxer. Here and there slashes of red could be seen, vestiges of an earlier coat of paint. An old lock was rusted into uselessness. Putting his shoulder to the door, he slammed into it once, twice, and with a soft shriek it gave grudging way. It was a poor fit for the frame, the bottom flange scraping the concrete floor of the gloomy hallway within.