―Then here we go!‖
26
KHARTOUM HAD about it the air of a disreputable mortuary. The sweet rot of death was everywhere, mingled with the sharp odor of gun barrels. Baleful shadows hid men smoking as they observed the night-lit street with the inscrutable look of a hunter searching for prey. Bourne and Tracy, in a jangling three-wheeled raksha,going at a hellish speed against traffic, rushed down avenues filled with donkey-pulled carts, wheezing minibuses, men in both traditional and Western dress, and vehicles belching blue smoke.
They were both tired and on edge—Bourne had had no luck contacting either Moira or Boris, and, despite what she‘d claimed, Tracy‘s experience in Seville seemed to have made her anxious about meeting Noah.
―I don‘t want to be caught napping when I walk in the door,‖ she‘d said as they checked into a hotel in the main section of the city. ―That‘s why I told Noah I wasn‘t coming over until tomorrow morning. Tonight I need a good night‘s sleep more than I need his money.‖
―What did he say?‖
They rode up in the mirrored elevator, heading for the top floor, which Tracy had requested.
―He wasn‘t happy, but what could he say?‖
―He didn‘t offer to come here?‖
Tracy‘s nose wrinkled. ―No, he didn‘t.‖
Bourne thought that odd. If Noah was so anxious to take possession of the Goya, why wouldn‘t he offer to complete the transaction at the hotel?
They had adjoining rooms with nearly identical views of al Mogran—the junction of the Blue and White Nile rivers—and a connecting door that locked from either side. The White Nile flowed north from Lake Victoria, while the Blue Nile flowed west from Ethiopia. The Nile itself, the main river, continued north into Egypt.
The decor in the room was shabby. Judging by both the style and the wear, it certainly hadn‘t been updated since the early 1970s. The carpets stank of cheap cigarettes and even cheaper perfume. Putting the Goya on the bed, Tracy crossed directly to the window, unlocked it, and pushed it up as far as it would go. The rush of the city was like a vacuum, sucking all the hums out of the room.
She sighed as she returned to sit beside her prize. ―I‘ve been traveling too much, I miss home.‖
―Where is that?‖ Bourne asked. ―I know it‘s not Seville.‖
―No, not Seville.‖ She pushed her hair back off the side of her face. ―I live in London, Belgravia.‖
―Very posh.‖
She laughed wearily. ―If you saw my flat—it‘s a tiny thing, but it‘s mine and I love it. There‘s a mews out back with a flowering pear tree that a pair of house martins nest in come spring. And a nightjar serenades me most evenings.‖
―Why would you ever leave?‖
She laughed again, a bright, silvery sound that was easy on the ears. ―I have to earn my way in the world, Adam, just like everyone else.‖ Lacing her fingers together, she said more soberly, ―Why did Don Hererra lie to you?‖
―There are many possible answers.‖ Bourne stared out the window. The bright lights illuminated the bend in the Nile, reflections of the city dancing across the dark, crocodile-infested water. ―But the most logical one is that he‘s somehow allied with the man I‘m trying to find, the one who shot me.‖
―Isn‘t that too much of a coincidence?‖
―It would be,‖ he said, ―if I wasn‘t being set up for a trap.‖
She seemed to digest this news for a moment. ―Then the man who tried to kill you wants you to come to Seven Seventy-nine El Gamhuria Avenue.‖
―I believe so.‖ He turned to her. ―Which is why I‘m not going to be with you when you knock on the front door tomorrow morning.‖
Now she appeared alarmed. ―I don‘t know whether I want to face Noah alone. Where are you going to be?‖
―My presence will only make things dangerous for you, believe me.‖ He smiled. ―Besides, I‘ll be there, I just won‘t go in through the front door.‖
―You mean you‘ll use me as a distraction.‖
She was not only uncommonly smart, Bourne thought, but quick as well. ―I hope you don‘t mind.‖
―Not at all. And you‘re right, I will be safer if I go in alone.‖ She frowned. ―Why is it, I wonder, that people feel the need to lie altogether?‖
Her eyes found his. She seemed to be comparing him with someone else, or perhaps only with herself. ―Would it be so terrible if everyone just told each other the truth?‖
―People prefer to remain hidden,‖ he said, ―so they won‘t get hurt.‖
―But they get hurt just the same, don‘t they?‖ She shook her head. ―I think people lie to themselves as easily as—if not more easily than—they do to others. Sometimes they don‘t even know they‘re doing it.‖ She cocked her head to one side. ―It‘s a matter of identity, isn‘t it? I mean, in your mind you can be anyone, do anything. Everything is malleable, whereas in the real world, effecting change—any change—is so bloody difficult, the effort is wearying, you get beaten down by all the outside forces you can‘t control.‖
―You could adopt an entirely new identity,‖ Bourne said, ―one where effecting change is less difficult because now you re-create your own history.‖
She nodded. ―Yes, but that has it own pitfalls. No family, no friends—
unless, of course, you don‘t mind being absolutely isolated.‖
―Some people don‘t.‖ Bourne looked beyond her, as if the wall with its cheap print of an Islamic scene was a window into his thoughts. Once again, he wondered who he was—David Webb, Jason Bourne, or Adam Stone. His life was a fiction, no matter in which direction he looked. He‘d already determined that he couldn‘t live as David Webb, and as for Jason Bourne, there was always someone, somewhere in the world, hidden in the shadows of his forgotten former life, who wished him ill or wanted him dead. And Adam Stone?
He might be called a blank slate, but that would be, in practice, untrue because the people who encountered this identity reacted to him—reacted to whoever the real Bourne was. The more he was with people like Tracy, the more he learned about himself.
―What about you?‖ she said now as she joined him at the window. ―Do you mind being alone?‖
―I‘m not alone,‖ he replied. ―I‘m with you.‖
She laughed softly and shook her head. ―Listen to you, you‘ve perfected the art of answering personal questions without revealing one iota of yourself.‖
―That‘s because I never know who I‘m talking with.‖
She watched him for a moment out of the corner of her eyes as if trying to figure out the real meaning of what he‘d just said, then she stared out the window at the two Niles winding their way through North Africa, like a story you read while falling asleep.