Robert Ludlum's (TM) The Bourne Initiative (Jason Bourne series)(68)

—



“There is, in fact, one way you can get me into Crowcroft,” Bourne had said, an hour before. “As your prisoner.”

Arthur Lee had shaken his head. “Absolutely not. I’m not going to abet your suicide.”

“I’m hurt, Arthur. They’ll see that as soon as you point it out to them. They’ll take me to the infirmary. A doctor will look at me.”

“And then they’ll start to interrogate you.”

“Well,” Bourne replied, “I’m sure they’ll want to.”

—



“He was out for a while.” Lee said now. “In his shape he couldn’t hurt a fly.”

“Nevertheless,” Boxer said.

Baldy went through a barely conscious Bourne’s pockets, grunted disgustedly when he didn’t find anything of interest. He whipped a plastic tie from his jacket pocket, manacled Bourne’s wrists in front of him. Then he transferred Bourne to the backseat, slid in beside him, while Mirror Man stepped around the other side and climbed into the shotgun position. Boxer gave the all clear signal and Baldy said, “Okay, drive.” He pointed. “That way.” Just as if Lee were a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar ten minutes before dinner. But then federal morons like these were known to have the compassion of a weasel.

“Where are we going?” Lee asked in the servile tone honed over decades of practice.

“The infirmary,” Baldy said.

Lee suppressed a laugh; at least his heart was lighter.

—



Bourne did not look like Bourne. He hadn’t needed to use much of what he had in the satchel he had brought; he was already haggard and thinner by five pounds than when he’d stood at the bow of Boris’s boat, contemplating his coming rendezvous with the Angelmaker. But, among many other singular talents, Bourne was a master of disguise. The key was not to overdo it—a dab of makeup here, a prosthetic to change the shape of mouth and jawline, above all an altered gait, which was what most observers looked to first. It was a kind of magic, cues that nudged the observer’s keen eye in another direction. It was, when all was said and done, a form of sleight of hand. He hadn’t had enough time to dye his hair, but just enough to give himself a military high-and-tight haircut.

“We have him, yeah.” Baldy was on his mobile. “No ID anywhere on his person. Military type, mebbe ex.” He listened for a moment. “Right… Okay… Got it.”

“We’re almost at the great house,” Bourne heard Lee say.

“Keep going,” Baldy said.

“But the entrance to the infirmary is right—”

“Do as you’re told, asshole,” Baldy ordered. “Left past the big oak up there.”

They drove past the great house, stately on the outside, rotting from within. The oak tree rose up quickly, blotting out the sky, then vanished as Lee turned down a rutted cart track.

“This is the way to the firing range.” A quaver made Lee’s voice seem like he was under water.

“Park over there,” Baldy ordered.

Lee pulled over next to what had once been a horse barn and was now a storage area for his tractors and balers. The sharp odors of grease and oil were suddenly in the air.

“Don’t move,” Baldy said, as he slid off the seat.

Mirror Man grabbed Bourne and hauled him roughly out of the vehicle.

“Against the wall,” Baldy said. “We’ll do it military style.”

“Old school,” Mirror Man said, gripping Bourne tighter. “I like that.”

They both laughed.

High overhead, a trio of crows stared down with cocked heads, claws gripping a branch of a maple. As Bourne was slammed against the barn wall, they took off like rockets, cawing indignantly.

Mirror Man, palm pressed against Bourne’s chest, put his face so close to Bourne’s their noses almost touched. Baldy was directly behind him, his sidearm out, standing at a safe distance.

Mirror Man flicked open a gravity knife, brandished the narrow blade. “We’re gonna have fun with you, fucker, whoever the hell you are.”





25



A sudden burst of rain rattled the windows. Morgana looked up from her lunch. The sky was a dark bruise; the air pressure had plummeted far enough so that even here inside the building she could feel its effects. The room seemed to tilt as the air grew thick, weighing on her like a wool blanket. She felt unmoored, drifting in a limbo from which she could find no clear exit.

“Are you all right?”

London’s voice made her start. She glanced down at the cheeseburger out of which she had taken a single bite in the twenty minutes since they had begun to eat. “I’m fine.” Her stomach rumbled, but the sight of the burger grease made her want to gag. She put the burger down, wiped her hands on the wad of paper napkins that came with it.

“I want to get back to work.”

“But you’ve scarcely eaten a thing,” London pointed out.

“Morning sickness,” she said, crossing to her laptop and sitting down in front of it.

London frowned. “You’re joking, right?”

“What d’you think?”

“I think you got up on the wrong side of the web today.” He came and sat down beside her. “That was a joke.” When she didn’t respond, he swiveled his chair to face her. “Hey, hey, what’s up?”