Bourne, leaping a fall of soft glass, almost lost his balance. He staggered, repositioned the Chechen on his shoulder, and pressed on. He could see plumes of black smoke rising into the sky now; they were almost there. Then as he rushed through a last wall of flames his robe caught fire.
Laying Borz down, he threw himself onto the ground, rolling in the blackened dirt, smothering the flames. He returned to the Chechen, whose eyes were fluttering open. Borz’s bodyguards came at a run, knelt on either side of their fallen leader.
“He’s just shaken up,” Bourne said. “He’ll be fine.”
“Go get the medic,” one of the men shouted, and the other hurried off.
Standing, Bourne took in the devastation. The C-17 was a twisted wreck, shorn in two. The landing strip was blown apart. Clods of earth lay everywhere, as if a gigantic hand had scooped out the packed dirt, tossing it every which way. The tail section of the C-17 lay in the smoking crater more or less in the center of the strip. But it was in the area surrounding the strip that the true nature of the disaster was revealed. Overhung by titanic billows of black smoke, swirled now with the winds off the mountains, the scene was one of blood and ash. The cries of the wounded rose and fell with the oily smoke.
Borz’s Chechens, along with the remnants of Faraj’s people, were recovering bodies, laying them out side by side. Bourne rose, moved toward the workforce. He counted a hundred bodies, some without limbs or with great holes carved out of their torsos. Moving closer, he recognized Eisa, his face black, his eyes frozen in amazement.
Bourne’s gaze moved from face to face, counting as he did. His heart sank. So far as he could determine, every one of the American recruits was dead. And now the Chechens were brandishing mobile phones, taking photos of the overall scene before crouching to snap photos of the individual faces. Though their expressions were grim, they hardly seemed traumatized.
One of Faraj’s men Bourne hadn’t seen before was crouched over Eisa’s corpse. When he felt Bourne beside him he looked up. He was very young. There were tears on his cheeks
“Allahu Akbar,” he intoned. Allah is great. “Are you hurt?”
“Alhamdulillah wa shukru lillah,” Bourne returned. Praise and thanks to Allah. “No.” He crouched down beside him. “I met Eisa in Damascus. Did you know him?”
“We never met, and yet we were friends.” He glanced at Bourne. “I am Aashir Al Kindi.” He was a tall, dark young man of no more than twenty. His questing eyes were deep-set on either side of his hawk’s nose. The corners of his lips were perpetually curved up, giving him a friendly, gently mocking air.
“Yusuf Al Khatib,” Bourne said.
“You’re the sniper Faraj picked up at the last moment in Damascus, yes? There’s been a lot of chatter about you.” He had returned his gaze to Eisa.
“Good chatter, I trust.”
“I hear you can take off a lark’s beak at a thousand yards.”
“News travels fast.” Part of Bourne’s mind was still on the dead Americans, especially Eisa. “Perhaps we can bury our friend together.”
Aashir was silent a moment, then he nodded. Together they took the body to the side. Aashir scrounged up a couple of shovels and they began to work.
“There is no cloth to wrap him in,” Aashir said. “No one to say the prayers.”
“I’ve buried many comrades,” Bourne said. “I know the prayers.”
Aashir paused in his digging. “Thank you, Yusuf.”
They returned to their work.
“Was Faraj hurt?” Bourne asked after a time.
“Left shoulder,” Aashir said. “It’s nothing compared to what happened to—” But he stopped, unable to go on.
They finished their work and Bourne said the prayers. Then they covered Eisa.
Returning to where Borz still lay, Bourne saw the medic was almost finished tending to him. He was running a series of simple eye tests to determine if Borz had sustained a concussion. But when Borz saw Bourne, he waved the medic away. His bodyguards helped him to sit up, and Bourne crouched down in front of him.
“Thank you,” he said in Russian, then, remembering, in Arabic. “I wouldn’t have made it out without you.”
“Your desk saved both our lives.” Bourne gestured with his head. “All the recruits are dead, the C-17 is destroyed. What happened?”
“American drone strike,” Borz said, wincing as he gestured for his men to raise him to his feet. “You buried one of the Americans.”
“He was a friend of Aashir’s.”
“Still, you took him out of the line. You shouldn’t have done that.” Then he shrugged. “Let’s get inside.”
They proceeded in a halting manner to the last building of the five, which had come through the attack unscathed. It looked like a combination of schoolroom and barracks, with wooden desks and chairs in the front half, steel-framed bunk beds in the rear.
The bodyguards drew out two chairs and Borz lowered himself into one. Bourne took the other. Borz was given water and a couple of pills by the harried-looking medic, who after administering a superficial check of Bourne’s faculties and reflexes scuttled back outside to do what he could for the wounded. Borz drank the water, threw the pills onto the floor, grinding them to dust beneath the heel of his combat boot.
When he spoke again his voice was steadier, more assured. “What happened is what was supposed to happen.”
Bourne shook his head. “I don’t understand.”
“Precise coordinates were leaked to the Americans, as well as a precise date and time. A drone strike, Yusuf, with me as the target. The one thing I didn’t count on was them sending in two drones. The bastards wanted to make sure they got me. They might have, too, if it hadn’t been for you.”
At once, Bourne understood why Borz had dismissed the possibility of Bourne being an American spy: They never would have sent one of their own into ground zero of a drone strike.
“You wanted this destruction?”
Borz smiled. “You’re a clever man, Yusuf. Provide your own answer.”
And then Bourne recalled the Chechens frantically taking photos of the dead recruits. They were going to disseminate those photos, proof that an American drone had killed a hundred young American boys. The fallout would be massive. The drone program, already under attack in the United States, would be dead, and the president’s stature would take a major hit.
“Dupe the Americans into killing their own young men. The plan was brilliant,” Bourne said, sickened by the utter barbarity of it. Eisa and those other kids never had a chance. They had been recruited as cannon fodder, as exhibit A in a PR stunt of Machiavellian cunning. Credit where credit is due, Bourne thought. He was up against two brilliant tacticians.
“It was,” Borz acknowledged, “and from every angle. Listen, as far as the Americans were concerned, they traveled a long distance because they believed absolutely in our cause. ‘To serve is to die,’ as the Iranians say. That’s what we promised them. They drank the sweet nectar of martyrdom.”
“You know Iranians?”
“Does anyone know them?” Borz shrugged. “I do business with them from time to time. But only sporadically. They’re—how to put it?—unreliable. They always have their own inscrutable agenda.”
He turned away. Clearly, he had more important things on his mind. “Unfortunately, we had to sacrifice the plane,” he said. “It was a necessity, but it will also present some difficulties for us. Namely, we’re going to have to leave here on foot, and to do that in complete safety we’re going to have to gain the permission of Khan Abdali, the local tribal leader.”
“That’s a problem?” Bourne said.
Borz laughed his weird laugh. “Problem would be an understatement. Abdali is a son of a bitch, one fucking nasty piece of work. He could easily turn us down out of spite. The predominant language here in the valley is a form of Pashto. I was hoping Faraj would bring someone who spoke Abdali’s godforsaken dialect, but—”
“Not to wor
ry,” Bourne said. “As it happens, I speak Wazirwola.”
* * *
“Rampant consumerism,” Hunter said, rapid-fire. “That is capitalism’s end. That is where America is now.”
The rain had lessened to a drizzle. Above them, the sky was scrubbed clean, the last of the clouds shredded like gauze. They rode side by side, like companions in a Hollywood western. Six-shooters holstered on their hips were all that were missing.
“You have only to listen to the country’s economists, who to a man shout at the tops of their lungs that since the Great Recession the only path to renewed prosperity is for the American consumer to consume more and more. Always more.”
The sun, a red disk throwing off light but not heat, seemed to throb in the sky like a giant heart. A bluebird screamed a warning, headed for the safety of the trees, while high up a hawk circled lower. As if by mutual consent, the women slowed their mounts to a walk.
“Democracy is gone, corrupted beyond recognition.” Hunter glanced at Camilla. “In your heart you know it even if you won’t admit it. Since 9/11, we have been living in what amounts to a police state masquerading—not very successfully, I might add—as a pseudo-democracy. The Patriot Act is nothing more than a fascistic document that tramples all over citizens’ rights. I mean, what does America export except Coca-Cola and 3-D movies? Militarism. Imperialism, colonization in the name of planting the flag of America’s consumerism everywhere. The corruption and betrayal of the people spreads and spreads. It’s got to be stopped. There is no other choice for right-minded people like you and me.”
Hunter, reaching out, put a hand on Camilla’s forearm. At once, the horses halted, snorting.
“You were betrayed by both POTUS and Anselm,” Hunter said more softly. “You’re not alone.” Her eyes searched Camilla’s. “The choice is this: After being kicked in the head, you can either lie down and take it, or you can stand up and fight back.”
Camilla’s brows knit together. “I dunno, Hunter. Against such powerful men—”
“There is a way.” Hunter’s voice, though still low, became more urgent. “For decades now America has been entangled in unwinnable wars that have drained its finances and divided its increasingly radicalized political parties. Iraq is a hotbed of al-Qaeda activity. The government has turned Islamic. The war in Afghanistan has had the unintended effect of strengthening the Taliban’s hand and making the country, along with Iran and Syria, one of the biggest exporters of jihadists. In addition, most of Benghazi has become another al-Qaeda stronghold. France and Britain are either ineffective or have withdrawn from the world stage, leaving America without effective allies. Why does the country continue on this path? What it refers to as policing the world is in reality imposing its corrupt values on other countries. Everyone sees it, except the Americans themselves.
“What passes for culture these days? Wall-to-wall Kardashians, a naked Miley Cyrus making faces at us, Jay-Z ranting at us while he rakes in millions. Adults are reading books meant for preteens. Hollywood no longer makes movies, just franchises. As for television, it’s been reduced to trafficking in human humiliation in order to survive. And everyone rushing through the streets, furiously multitasking during the day, popping pills to sleep at night. America is in the late stages of decline. The game is up. The delusion is about to evaporate.” Her grip on Camilla tightened. “You can do nothing, remain a victim of these powerful men, or you can make a difference. The choice, Cam, is yours.”
* * *
“Islam can’t be your real name,” Soraya said.
He shrugged. “What does it matter? We are all the same.”
She lifted her head. “That’s what you’re taught? That you’re all interchangeable.”
“No one individual is more or less important than the next.”
“Does that include El Ghadan?” she said. “No. El Ghadan is your leader. He is as different from you as night from day.”
He was so close that Soraya actually felt his smile through the scarf wrapped around his face.
“Are you trying to undermine his authority? Please. In the future keep your opinions to yourself.”
While he had been talking, Soraya was studying him intensely.
“Now, come,” he said. “Sonya is finished. You must eat.”
His use of her daughter’s name sent chills down Soraya’s spine. This, too, was part of their system, engendering a false intimacy. She was all too familiar with Stockholm syndrome, which had been incorporated into Treadstone’s infamous anti-interrogation program, so harsh it finally had been shut down by the powers that be. She knew how to combat their system.
“Leave me alone, Islam.”
He grunted, leaned over her. “What is the matter with you?”
“Please,” she said. “Please leave me alone.” She despised the weak, begging tone, but it was necessary. “I’m ill.”
“Ill? What do you mean?”
“I want to sleep.”
“You just woke up.”
“Yes, yes, I’m ill. I have no appetite.”
Crouching down, he stared hard into her eyes. “You’re very pale.”
She looked back at him, mute and unmoving.
“All right,” he said. “I’ll return in a couple of hours. If you’re still feeling ill or are worse I will call in a physician.” He continued to watch her, abruptly uncertain, it seemed. “You must miss your husband.”
“Please.” Soraya closed her eyes to keep back the tears.
“This is war, Soraya. He was the enemy, even if you and your daughter are not.”
Soraya’s eyes flew open. “Then let us go.”
His smile seemed to have no emotion behind it, and again she was chilled by how alien his extremist views had made this young man. In another life he could have had a good job, gone back to his family every evening for a hot meal, and, once in a while, a clandestine bout of sex with a like-minded young woman. Instead, here he was, on the brink of death, his fondest wish to die a martyr. How horrible the world has become, she thought, to allow the creation of this man and thousands just like him, an army of unfeeling golems, marching to their certain deaths without a care or a flicker of emotion.
She shuddered.
“What is it?” Islam said. “Do you feel more ill already?”
I am ill, Soraya thought, because I have been a part of this work—a willing participant—and what toll has that extracted from me? Already, her few years with Aaron seemed like a dream, a life that belonged to someone else she had once glimpsed on the street. It was her former life at Treadstone that loomed large in her memory—vivid in every detail as if she had lived it all yesterday. There was nothing about those years she had forgotten or would forget. Each decision, brief, mission, every hour of her fieldwork was etched into her brain, never to be excised until the day she died. With a sinking heart, she understood that despite her best efforts, their incarceration had begun to get to her, to play tricks with her mind. If only Sonya wasn’t with her. If only the sky was green, as in her stories about the djinn.
“Soraya?”
“It’s nothing, Islam.”
She could tell, even through his headscarf, that he didn’t believe her. And that was good: She was drawing him closer to her.
29
The stars had aligned for Sara. She had dealt harshly with Levi Blum’s controller, and, through Blum’s unorthodox but effective methodology, had inveigled her way into El Ghadan’s inner circle.
And yet her enthusiasm was curbed by her field sense, now returned to her in full force, that something was not right. Feeling like the princess atop her stack of comfy mattresses still discomfited by the presence of the pea, she walked along the windswept Corniche alone and in a kind of permanent agony for Aaron, Soraya, and their daughter. The thought of Aaron’s death and the others’ continuing incarceration gnawed at her.
Having come this far, she felt as if she were in a trap, able neither to go on, because of Bourne’s warning not to at
tempt to free Soraya and Sonya, nor to retreat, because of how near she was to her target.
With vivid clarity, she remembered her father’s repeated admonition that sailing too close to the wind, though exhilarating, could capsize your boat. That was the situation in which she now found herself. With El Ghadan she was sailing very close to the wind indeed. One false move and she could find herself without a craft, and drowning.
She was still in her Qatari robes and headscarf, not daring to be seen in public without them now. She had contacted her father via their ultra-secure line, giving him the new lay of the land. In response, he had sent her two pieces of product to pass on to El Ghadan. She was contemplating which one to lead with when a black American SUV slowed beside her.
The instant it drew to a halt, the shotgun door opened and a slim young man stepped out. He wore a Western suit and looked good in it. He didn’t look like a jihadist, but Sara supposed that was the point.
Smiling, he opened the rear door, said, “Weapons?”
“In Doha?” Sara held her arms out from her body. “You tell me.”
“Get in,” he said with the kind of contemptuousness she had become inured to in Arab men.
She came off the Corniche, ducked, and climbed into the backseat. The interior of the SUV seemed as large as a studio apartment. Across the burnished leather seat from her sat El Ghadan, looking for all the world like a sultan of the Ottoman Empire.
“Good evening, Ellie Thorson,” he said, using the name she had given him before departing Nite Jewel. “Are you well?”
She laughed. “You’re not one for small talk, are you?”
El Ghadan made a face. “What gave me away?”
“Your lack of sincerity.”
“I’ll have to work on that.”
“Don’t bother.”
The SUV pulled away from the curb, began its slow circuit of the city’s crescent harborfront. Sara could tell the driver had no particular destination in mind. Not yet, anyway.