The Bourne Deception - By Robert Ludlum & Eric van Lustbader Page 0,9

brown feet were bare.

After breakfast, Moira and Bourne had mounted a rental motorbike and headed into the lush, green countryside, to a thatched-roof house at the end of a narrow dirt path in the jungle, the home of the Balinese holy man named Suparwita who, she claimed, could find out something of Bourne’s lost past.

Suparwita had greeted them warmly and without surprise as they approached, as if he had been expecting them. Gesturing for them to come inside, he had served them small cups of Balinese coffee and freshly made fried banana fritters, both sweetened with palm sugar syrup.

“If my birth certificate is wrong,” Bourne said now, “can you tell me when I was born?”

Suparwita’s expressive brown eyes had not stopped their mysterious calculations. “December thirty-one,” the holy man said without hesitation. “You know our universe is overseen by three gods: Brahma, the creator, Vishnu, the preserver, Shiva, the destroyer.” He pronounced Shiva as all Balinese did, so that it sounded like Siwa. He hesitated a moment, as if unsure whether to proceed. “After you leave here you will find yourself at Tenganan.”

“Tenganan?” Moira said. “Why would we go there?”

Suparwita smiled at her indulgently. “The village is known for double ikat weaving. Double ikat is sacred, it provides protection from the demons of our universe. It is woven in three colors only, the colors of our gods. Blue for Brahma, red for Vishnu, yellow for Shiva.” He handed Moira a card. “You will buy a double ikat here, at the best weaver.” He gave her a hard look. “Please do not forget.”

“Why would I forget?” Moira asked.

As if her question did not merit an answer, he returned his attention to Bourne. “So you understand completely, the month of December—your birth month—is ruled by Shiva, the god of destruction.” Suparwita paused here, as if out of breath. “But please remember that Shiva is also the god of transformation.”

The holy man now turned to a low wooden table on which was set a series of small wooden bowls, which were variously filled with powders and what looked like nuts or perhaps dried seedpods. He chose one of these pods, ground it in another bowl with a stone pestle. Then he added a pinch of yellow powder and dumped the mixture into a small iron kettle, which he set over a small wood fire. A cloud of fragrant steam perfumed the room.

Seven minutes of brewing passed before Suparwita took the kettle off the fire and poured the liquid into a coconut shell cup inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Without a word, he handed the cup to Bourne. When Bourne hesitated, he said, “Drink. Please.” His smile lit up the room again. “It is an elixir made of green coconut juice, cardamom, and kencur. Mainly, it is kencur. You know kencur? It is also called resurrection lily.” He gestured. “Please.”

Bourne drank the mixture, which tasted of camphor.

“What can you tell me about the life I can’t remember?”

“Everything,” Suparwita said, “and nothing.”

Bourne frowned. “What does that mean?”

“I can tell you nothing more now.”

“Apart from my real birth date, you haven’t told me anything.”

“I have told you everything you need to know.” Suparwita cocked his head to one side. “You aren’t ready to hear more.”

Bourne was growing more impatient by the second. “What makes you say that?”

Suparwita’s eyes engaged Bourne’s. “Because you do not remember me.”

“I’ve met you before?”

“Have you?”

Bourne got to his feet, pent-up anger erupting from him. “I was brought here for answers, not more questions.”

The holy man looked up at him mildly. “You came here wanting to be told what you must discover for yourself.”

Bourne took Moira’s hand, pulled her up. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go.”

As they were about to step out the door, the holy man said in a casual tone: “You know, all this has happened before. And it will happen again.”

That was a waste of time,” Bourne said as he took the keys from Moira.

She said nothing, climbed on the bike behind him.

As they were heading back down the narrow dirt path the way they had come, a compact Indonesian man with a weathered face the color of old mahogany on a souped-up motorbike broke out of the forest ahead of them, coming straight toward them. He drew a handgun and Bourne spun them around, then headed farther up into the hills.

This was far from a perfect place for an ambush. He’d taken a look at the local map and knew that in a moment they’d break out of the trees