Robert Ludlum's (TM) The Bourne Initiative (Jason Bourne series)(113)

“I can’t tell you anything,” Bourne said between thickened lips. “Boris didn’t leave me anything.”

“Liar!” She was in his face now. “He left you his boat. You were on it. You must have searched it, don’t tell me you didn’t.”

“Of course I did, but if he left anything for me I didn’t find it.”

The disconcerting smile again, more teeth showing this time. “Sorry, gospodin, but no one believes you.”

“It’s the truth, whether you believe it or not.”

“I don’t. None of us does. Which is where Konstantin comes in.” She rose. “I’ll leave you to his not-so-tender mercies.” The smile turned crooked, like the expression on a jack-o’-lantern. “Are you familiar with the fizzy drink trick? You will be soon enough.”

Her laugh drifted after her as she left the room and closed the door. It was only then that Bourne realized that he was in a small, windowless room off to one side of the atelier. The door was reinforced metal and had a peephole at eye height. He barely had time to register these details before Konstantin and one of his men entered. The man was carrying a funnel and a case of thirty-two-ounce bottles of soda. He put the case down by the left side of Bourne’s chair, then stood at attention. He held the funnel as if it were his Uzi: it had a long, curved snout.

“Wicked looking thing, isn’t it?” Konstantin said. “I don’t really like to use it. Court of last resort. But that’s where you find yourself, Bourne. And time is rapidly running out.”

He sat down in the chair Ekaterina had vacated, a buff-colored folder on his lap. “I’m not going to ask you nicely the way Katya did because I know you won’t answer. So we’ll just start the process further along the line.”

“I know this trick,” Bourne said. “It won’t work.”

“Oh, I know,” he said, grinning like a jackal. “But one has to have a bit of fun now and then.” He picked up the folder, waved it in front of Bourne’s face. “In any case, I’ve read your file.”

“What file?”

“Your Treadstone file, gospodin Bourne.” Konstantin fluttered the folder like a fan. “I know every bit of your training.”

“You’re lying. All Treadstone files are buried so deep—”

Opening the folder, Konstantin read out several lines to verify his claim, then he closed it with a slap of his palm. “One has to have friends in high places.” He shrugged. “Otherwise what’s the point.”

He gestured with his head. “Vlad.”

Vlad took a rubberized bung out of his pocket. It was an obscene shade of pink. He pried open Bourne’s jaws and crammed it into Bourne’s mouth, even as Bourne shook his head violently from side to side. The moment the rubber came in contact with his saliva it expanded, filling his mouth so completely he had only his nose to breathe through.

Vlad inserted the end of the funnel into Bourne’s left nostril, pushing it down through his sinuses. Bending, he drew up a bottle of soda from the case, unscrewed its top.

“Here we go, Bourne,” Konstantin said. “We’re dropping you into the Marianas Trench. Be sure to let me know how you like it.”

Vlad tipped the bottle, poured the carbonated water into the funnel. That was hellish enough, when the carbon dioxide hit the back of Bourne’s throat and burned its way down his esophagus and into his stomach, but Vlad kept pouring.

Bourne jerked and twisted. His insides felt as if they were being fried and then turned inside out. His head felt as if it were about to explode. All this was experienced by the outer part of him, while the inner part, the one that had been busy limiting the damage Cerberus had done to him, worked assiduously to bring feeling back first into his spine and then to his left side. He had been trained well. The only way to survive articulated interrogation was to wall off a part of your mind so securely that nothing could breach its defenses. That accomplished, one form of torture was pretty much like the next, or the one before it, for that matter. Whatever agonizing indignities were perpetrated on the body, that part of the mind remained safe, keeping you sane in the face of a thousand dark paths to insanity.

Bourne’s body gagged, got hold of itself, gagged again. The other Bourne, the inner one, stared up at the ceiling, turning it into blue sky with birds wheeling freely. And Vlad kept pouring, and Bourne kept gagging so vociferously that once the bung bulged out of his mouth before Vlad rapped it back in with his knuckled fist. More fizzy water, more agony. Bourne’s eyes watered; the whites turned red. He was drenched in sweat, and the muscles in his extremities trembled uncontrollably. And still, Bourne’s gaze never wavered from the birds high above. As they breathed, he breathed. As they lived, he lived. They spoke to him, soothed him, circling, circling…





43



Until from far away he heard Konstantin say: “Enough.”

And then, “Unplug him, Vlad. Bring him back to the surface.”

When Bourne came to, Timur Savasin was standing in front of him. He had no memory of vomiting up an entire bottle of soda, but the evidence was all around him. The floor, his shoes and socks, the bottoms of his pants legs were sopping wet.

Konstantin clucked his tongue. “Look at you, Bourne. Back from the dead, yes, but looking the worse for wear. Did you enjoy your little vacation?”