Robert Ludlum's (TM) The Bourne Initiative (Jason Bourne series)(86)

Another lightning sideways glance. “You mean the ‘inextricably tied’ bit.”

The flight attendant rolled her cart parallel to their seats, took their trays, asked if they wanted dessert, coffee, or perhaps an after-dinner drink. The Angelmaker wanted a brandy; Bourne wanted nothing more than to hear the end of the story.

After the brandy was poured and they were alone again, Bourne said, “It seems to me that in some ways Katya is an older version of yourself.”

“I can see how you’d make that mistake.” The Angelmaker took a sip of her brandy, set it down on her tray-table. Bourne had already stowed away his.

“Clarify it for me, then.”

“Mmm.” The Angelmaker bit her lower lip. “Well, for one thing Katya loves her father. For another, she loves him maybe a little too much.”

“And you?”

“You’re joking, right? You’ve met my father.”

“And your mother?” Bourne asked. “In all the time I’ve known you, neither you nor your sister ever mentioned her.”

There ensued a long silence. The Angelmaker sipped her brandy. The plane began to shudder and the FASTEN SEAT BELTS lights flashed, but they were already buckled up. The turbulence grew worse, and she held onto her glass to keep it from tumbling over.

“My mother. You want to know about my mother?” She knocked back the rest of her brandy, looked around for the flight attendant to get a refill, but they were all sitting down because of the turbulence. “Okay, for the record, she taught me how to say ‘Fuck you.’”

“But you were just a little girl.”

“There you go, then.”

The turbulence departed as quickly as it had arrived. The lights had been lowered, seats had been reclined to the horizontal, mattresses placed, along with quilts covering the passengers. A few read or watched a film, but most were taking advantage of the seat turned bed.

“One sentence can’t be the sum and substance of your mother,” Bourne said.

“Why are you so interested?” she said sharply.

“I can’t remember mine.”

She was staring at the blank TV screen ahead of her. “Did it ever occur to you that’s a blessing?”

“Not for a moment.”

Without another word the Angelmaker unbuckled herself and strode back toward the toilets.

It was several seconds before Bourne realized she had taken her brandy glass with her. Why would she do that? The glass was empty. She could simply be returning it to one of the crew, or…

Unbuckling, he followed her down the aisle. She opened the accordion door to the right-hand toilet; she was still gripping the glass. He launched himself along the aisle, at the last minute plucking a fork off a food tray the attendant had yet to clear.

Jamming it into the door, he stopped it from closing completely, kept the Angelmaker from sliding the lock all the way across.

“What are you doing?” he said softly, leaning against the door.

As an answer, he heard the sound of the glass shattering. Any moment now the blood would be spurting out of the opened vein in her wrist.

“Stop it, Mala. Stop it.”

Using the tines of the fork as a lever, he worked at prying open the door. He could tell that she had thrown her full weight against him.

“I’ve no other choice.” Her voice was dull, mechanical, as if in her mind she was already dead.

Then, in the sliver of open space, he saw her lift a shard of glass out of the sink, turn it inward. The pale skin of the inside of her wrist rested just below it.

The tines of the fork snapped off.





33



For Marshall Fulmer, a day he’d anticipated being filled like a pi?ata with all kinds of bright, shiny toys, chief among them having Jason Bourne finally, finally taken into custody had been, in a painful heartbeat, stood on its head, turned 180 degrees toward the dark side.

First, Hornden shows him the hard evidence of his dalliance with a madam, then even before he has a chance to digest that clusterfuck, that idiot Ellison calls to tell him that, no, the couple he took into custody weren’t Bourne and his companion, after all, but a couple about to set off on their twentieth anniversary celebration, of all things! And now where was Bourne—who, Fulmer knew, worked alone? No one knew, certainly not Ellison or any of his crew. Had Bourne even been at Dulles at all?

And Fulmer wouldn’t even be thinking of all the ways he could crucify Ellison had it not been for the fact that, considering what Hornden had on him, a major coup like capturing Jason Bourne would have almost made up for him quite stupidly falling into a honey trap.

Running a shaking hand across his face, he told the driver to return to the office. But Hornden said, “Hold on.”

He gave the journo a withering look. “What? Why?”

“We need to go to the VIP airstrip.” Hornden pointed. “It’s that way.”

“Fuck you,” was all Fulmer could manage, but there was no force, no venom behind it. He sat back in the seat. All the air, all the exhilaration of the now-distant morning had gone out of him.

“Sir?”

He became aware of the driver looking at him in the rearview mirror. “What?” He waved a hand as if the matter were of no import to him. “Oh, do as Mr. Hornden suggests.”