The Bourne Deception - By Robert Ludlum & Eric van Lustbader Page 0,57

submachine guns beside them. Beyond the dun-colored hills lay Iran, and all at once Arkadin was homesick for Moscow. He missed the cobblestone streets, the onion domes, the late-night clubs where he reigned supreme. Most of all, he missed the endless array of tall, blond, blue-eyed dyevs in whose perfumed flesh he could lose himself, blotting out the memory of Devra. Though he had loved her, he hated her now, because she wasn’t really dead. Like a specter, she haunted him night and day, driving him to revenge himself on Jason Bourne, the last link to her life—and her murder. To make matters even worse, it was also Bourne who’d killed Mischa, Arkadin’s mentor and best friend. If it hadn’t been for Mischa Tarkanian, Arkadin doubted he’d ever have survived his ordeal in Nizhny Tagil.

Mischa and Devra, the two most important people in his life, both dead because of Jason Bourne. Bourne had a lot to pay for, Christ, did he ever.

The men were almost finished with the grave. A pair of vultures, black shadows against the dimly glimmering sky, turned in lazing circles. I’m like those vultures, he thought. Patiently waiting for my moment to strike.

Perched on his rock, knees drawn up, he turned his satellite phone over and over in the palm of his hand. Amazingly, several good things had happened because of Willard’s call. Willard was a mole, not a field man, and he’d made a fatal mistake: His ego had gotten the better of him. He should have quietly taken Ian Bowles apart, buried the pieces, and gone on with his business. Of course he’d wanted to know who’d sent Bowles, but his mistake was in announcing himself to Arkadin—worse, in warning him—because he’d as much as told Arkadin that Bourne was still alive. Why else would he be at Dr. Firth’s compound? Why else would he have killed Bowles? Now Arkadin had proof that Bourne was still alive, though how Bourne managed to survive a shot to the heart was something that nagged at him. Whatever else he might be, Bourne was no superman. Why hadn’t he been killed?

With a sharp shake of his head, Arkadin set the imponderable aside for the moment. He dialed a number on his phone. Bowles had been nothing more than a temporary stopgap, someone to make a survey and report back. He’d failed; now it was time to bring in the big guns.

The men unceremoniously threw Farid into the grave. Sweaty and ill tempered, they had long ago lost patience with their normally solemn task. Farid had violated the laws of the group; he was no longer one of their own. Good, Arkadin thought, lesson learned.

The line was ringing.

“Are you set up with the job?” Arkadin said as soon as the familiar voice answered. “Good. Because I’ve decided to play it your way, and now the clock is ticking. I’ll be sending you the last-minute details within the hour.”

Two men began to shovel dirt over the body; the others spat into the grave.

The DCI shook her head. “Moira, I’m afraid I’m just not feeling it.”

The cords of Moira’s neck stood out. How long had she waited for this confrontation? “Did you feel it when you gave me up in Safed Koh?” Safed Koh was the local name for the White Mountains in eastern Afghanistan, where the notorious Tora Bora caves tunneled their way across the border into terrorist-controlled western Pakistan.

Hart spread her hands. “I never gave you up.”

“Really?” Moira advanced on her. “Then please tell me how I was taken prisoner in the dead of night and held hostage for six days on Mount Sikaram with nothing to eat and only polluted water to drink.”

“I have no idea.”

“Whatever bacteria was in that water put me out of commission for three weeks after that”—Moira kept coming closer to the front edge of Hart’s desk—“during which time you led my mission—”

“It was a Black River mission.”

“—that I’d planned for, trained for. A mission I’d wanted more than anything.”

Hart tried for a smile, missed. “That mission was a success, Moira.”

“Meaning it wouldn’t have been a success if I’d been in charge?”

“You said it, I didn’t.”

“You thought I was a hothead.”

“That’s right,” Hart acknowledged, “I do.”

The deliberate present tense brought Moira up short. “So you still think—”

The DCI spread her hands. “Look at yourself. What would you think if you were me?”

“I’d be wanting to know how Moira Trevor could help me take down my one true nemesis.”

“And who would that be?”

She said