“These need to be taken onto the truck,” Bourne said to the men.
The lead man frowned. “I thought they were to stay here.”
“Change of plan,” Bourne said in the clipped voice of authority all soldiers automatically obeyed. “Orders from Semid Abdul-Qahhar himself.”
The man shrugged and beckoned to his men. They bypassed Don Fernando’s crates and started on the ones behind. Bourne was now faced with a crucial decision. If he walked out onto the loading dock, past the guards, and into the back street, he would be leaving Rebeka behind, and he could not do that.
As soon as the men hefted the first crate, Bourne turned on his heel and retraced his steps, across the floor, up the stairs, and out onto the open hallway that led to the supply room with its ladder up to the roof and the longer but preferable route to safety.
He opened the door and stepped into the room, right into a small, silver-plated .22 Beretta aimed at him. It appeared identical to the gun Viveka Norén had aimed at him in Frequencies, the Stockholm disco, years ago. Holding it was a beautiful woman with blond hair and Viveka’s light eyes. She looked exactly like Kaja, but from her formidable expression and the way she held herself he knew it couldn’t be Kaja. It was her twin sister, the dangerous multiple-personality Skara.
33
FRACTURED LIGHT FELL like daggers through the skylight, piercing the shadows, illuminating sections of her face—cheek, nose, a triangle of forehead.
“Skara.”
She frowned. “Who are you?”
“I’ve met your sister,” Bourne said. “Kaja.”
“Kaja.” She traced her oval lips with the tip of her tongue, as if tasting the name. “Isn’t she dead?”
Two minutes left. “Skara, we have to get out of here.”
“ Iam getting out of here. Abdul-Qahhar and I together, leaving this hellhole of a country far behind.”
She cocked her head to one side. “Hear that?” The roaring of rotors overhead. Lights played crazily across her face. Her eyes glittered. “It’s the sound of the copter landing.” She smiled viciously, baring her teeth. “It’s also the sound of your death.”
A heavy thump above their heads caused her attention to flicker, and Bourne leapt at her. She fired the Beretta, and he felt a small flame in his left shoulder. Then he had her. He tried to snatch the .22 away from her, but she was quicker and more tenacious than he expected, and she re-trained her grip on the handgun, trying to bring it to bear on his chest. He strode into her, pushing her back with his superior weight and strength so that the handgun was trapped between their bodies. The backs of her calves struck a box, and she stumbled backward. He made another grab for the .22, twisting it.
As they struggled for control of the Beretta her eyes were fierce in the dimness. There was something different about them, something familiar. “Kill me,” she cried. “Kill me now and end this.”
He tried to wrest the .22 away, but she resisted, the Beretta turned awkwardly, and her finger pulled the trigger twice in rapid succession. Blood fountained out of her, the bullets rupturing major arteries, including her aorta.
“Skara,” Bourne called as he pulled her back toward him, but she was already beyond it hearing him or anyone else.
The sleek black Sikorsky S-76C++ helicopter was waiting on the center of the target, its rotors spinning, whipping up a baleful wind. Bourne saw the pilot, but no one else inside. He ran, hunched over, to where Rebeka sat, her back against the rear parapet. Her eyes were closed and for a moment he thought she was dead, but when he lifted her in his arms her eyes fluttered open.
She was shivering. “You came back.” Her words were ripped away like sheets of paper by the roaring of the helicopter. Her teeth chattered.
Bourne ran, bent over, his upper body protecting her. It seemed as if she hadn’t lost much more blood. The pilot leaned over and opened the door, but as soon as he saw they weren’t his expected passengers, he drew his sidearm. Before he could aim it, Bourne shot him between the eyes with Viveka Norén’s silver-plated .22.
After placing Rebeka in the passenger’s seat, he wrapped her in a cashmere blanket he found in the back and strapped her in. He ran around and, opening the pilot’s-side door, hauled him out and climbed in, slamming the door behind him. At that moment a slew of guards erupted out of the rooftop hatch. Semid or one of the dead guards must have been discovered. The men began firing at the helicopter.
Working the controls, Bourne took off, banking toward the west. Enough adrenaline was still pumping that he didn’t yet feel any pain in his left shoulder.
High in the sky, he turned and saw the fireball erupt, blotting out the buildings behind it, as the entire El-Gabal complex was obliterated. The shock wave manhandled the shuddering Sikorsky, which dipped and spun, but Bourne managed to regain control. He flew as low as he dared. He knew within minutes Syrian fighter jets would be screaming toward the explosion, along with fire, police, army, and emergency vehicles.
Rebeka stirred and said something he couldn’t hear over the roar of the engines. Holding the steering oval steady between his knees, he leaned over, slipped a pair of headphones over her head identical to the pair he wore, then adjusted the attached microphone. Now they could speak to each other through the com center.
“Is Semid dead?” Even in pain and severely weakened by loss of blood, she had a one-track mind.
“Yes.”
“You’re sure it was him?”
“I saw the tic.”
A sigh of contentment escaped her.
He saw the pilot’s flight plan taped above his head and he stuck to it until the last minute, then headed due west.
She stirred beside him. “Where are we going?”
“Lebanon.”
“Thirty-three, thirty-two, fifty-five, sixty-four north by thirty-six, oh-two, oh-four, fifty east.”
She was giving him specific map coordinates. He punched them in and the helicopter banked left, then flew straight on.
“Radar,” she said. Her voice was thin and reedy.
“I’m going in as low as possible,” Bourne said. In the pearly light of dawn, he could make out the snaking line of barbed wire with the periodic signs warning of land mines. “Close now.”
Overhead a silver flash drew his attention. The plane was too high to see whether it was a commercial flight or a Syrian army fighter. He flew on. Only several thousand yards now. The silver flash grew in his vision as the plane commenced a steep dive. It was a Syrian army jet.
Even before he heard the first volleys of machine-gun fire, he put the helicopter into a series of daredevil evasive maneuvers. The Syrian jet was coming fast, but now the barbed wire of the border was below him. The jet sent one last volley, hoping to set off one of the land mines, and then they were through. The jet veered off, climbing steeply until it vanished into the sunrise.
“We’re in Lebanon.” Bourne glanced over. Her head was lolling.
“Rebeka?”
Her eyes opened and she drew a deep, shuddering breath. “I’m tired.”
“Rebeka, we’ve crossed over.”
A sphinx-like smile spread across her lips. “The Red Sea has parted.” Momentarily revived, she peered out through the Perspex at the arid landscape, shimmering like copper. “Head southwest. Make for Dahr El Ahmar.” She gave him the new coordinates.
Bourne saw pinpricks of blood seeping through the blanket. She must have been shaken up during his violent maneuvering. “Hold on,” he said, making the course correction. “I’ll have you down in no time.”
She started to laugh, and when Bourne looked at her, she said, “You come to the end of your life and who are you with, a virtual stranger who has saved your mission.” Her cough was thick and phlegmy, and she almost choked. “Don’t you think that’s funny?”
“You’re not going to die, Rebeka.”
“From your mouth to God’s ear.”
“I have enough experience to know. You need blood and a good surgeon.”