Robert Ludlum's (TM) The Bourne Initiative (Jason Bourne series)(79)

As the leader had correctly anticipated, Bourne swung around him, making for the truck, which was yawing back and forth in ever widening arcs. Inside the cab he glimpsed the Angelmaker struggling to regain control from Arthur Lee. He hoped she was grinding the gears into neutral in preparation for turning off the ignition. She knew they had to get out of the cab before it became an inferno, trapping them inside.

Just as Bourne passed the leader’s bike, he felt a flash of agony in the side of his head. The biker had thrown his sawed-off at Bourne, striking a direct blow. Black spots danced in front of Bourne’s eyes; his hands went slack on the handlebars. One foot slipped off the rest, and he swayed, close to taking a fall.

The leader was coming at him, his Colt out and at the ready. He was close enough for the kill shot, but he was a careful man. Closer still, and even with the erratic motion of the Harleys, he couldn’t miss. His forefinger, tightened on the trigger, began to squeeze, and then with a deafening roar his head exploded, drenching Bourne in brains and bone. The driverless V-Rod wobbled, then jumped the road, struck the top of the guardrail, flipped like a pinwheel going over.

Bourne didn’t get to see the end result. He heard it, though, a great booming, a grinding of hot metal and scorched tires. Then out of the chaos, Jimmy Lang’s vehicle appeared beside him. A strong arm grabbed him, settling him back on the saddle.

“You didn’t think I was going to let you have all the fun,” Jimmy said, grinning.

“Arthur’s truck,” Bourne said, still slightly disoriented.

“Not to worry,” Jimmy said. “They’re both out.”

At that moment, Arthur Lee’s truck went up like a screaming, rageful fireball.





PART THREE





Dima





30



It was an ill-omened day in her life when Fran?oise was obliged to seek out her brother unannounced. She spent a fruitless but necessary twenty minutes surveilling the area in and around the marina, making certain it was clean. She was sure Gora’s people had already done this, but years in the field had ingrained certain routines so deeply she performed them even when logic dictated they were redundant. Fieldwork had proved time and again that logic had little to do with being captured and either killed or put under articulated interrogation.

So it was that forty-five minutes after dawn on the morning after Morgana’s dramatic revelation concerning Larry London, she found herself progressing down toward her brother’s boat, which lay peacefully at anchor just as it had been when he had summoned her some days ago.

The wind plucked rigging like the strings on a double bass, tap-tap-tapping them against masts. Clouds scudded by overhead, and the new day’s sunlight slanted in, warming the back of her neck. There was something jolly and at the same time peaceful about a marina—boats rocking gently in their slips, people going about their deck work with a particular serenity. No one hurried, no one ran, no one shouted. Often, as now, it was all but deserted. And yet the marina remained alive, moving to the pulse of the tide.

Two of Gora’s men stood guard at the head of the metal gangway. One, who was new and therefore didn’t know her, barred her way. But the other, Sigi, was an old hand, and he waved her aboard. She found Gora below, in the galley, in a silk robe. He was frying eggs and the kind of bacon you could only purchase in America. An aromatic waft of coffee came to her, making her mouth water.

A young blond woman, naked to the waist, was seated at the built-in table, a sheet twisted around her loins. She turned, startled at Fran?oise’s abrupt appearance, but she made no attempt to hide her nakedness.

“Who’s she?” she asked in Swedish-accented English.

“Get dressed,” Gora said to her, turning the strips of bacon. “And get out of here.”

The blonde pouted. “What about the breakfast you promised me?”

Gora threw a fistful of bills on the table, and said, “Go on. Beat it.”

When she reached for them, he swept them onto the floor.

Fran?oise took a step toward the woman. “Gora, there’s no need—”

“Keep still,” he said in Russian.

The blonde, trembling, crouched to gather them up.

Brother and sister confronted each other warily. Not a word was exchanged until the woman hastily dressed, hopping on one high heel while trying desperately to slip on the other, and crossed the cabin. She shot Fran?oise a glare as full of hatred as it was of jealousy before flouncing out onto the deck, where Sigi took her in hand.

“Breakfast?” Gora said then, as if the woman had never existed. “It’s one hundred percent American.”

“So I see.”

“Go ahead, sis. Pour yourself some coffee.” He eyed her. “You look like you need it.”

He lifted the bacon strips out of their own fat, laid them carefully on a sheet of paper towel; about some things he was meticulous. When she had a mug in her hands and had taken the first sip, he said, “I assume it’s important.”

“Urgent, more like.”

His eyebrows rose like a pair of ravens lifting off a tree branch. Using a spatula, he transferred the fried eggs, two at a time, onto plates. Then he meted out the bacon in identical portions. Crossing to the table, which was already laid with two places, he set down the plates. No toast; he hated toast.