“The atmosphere is toxic for you in here,” the man said. He had dark hair, long at the collar, and slicked back. Hardly a fashionable DC style. His English held a slight accent that Peter couldn’t place for the moment. “Let’s step outside, shall we?”
“I’d rather not,” Peter said, then winced as the knife point slid through his clothes to prick his skin.
The steel-gray eyes grew icy. “I’m afraid you have no choice in the matter.”
6
THERE ARE ALWAYS two sides to a story,” Rebeka said. “Except,” Bourne said, “when there are three—or four.” She smiled. “Drink your hot toddy.”
Bourne, in clean clothes, crouched by the fire and stared at Alef—
or, according to Rebeka, Manfred Weaving. Weaving was lying on a mattress Rebeka had dragged in from a spare bedroom to lay by the fire. She had cut off his frozen clothes, as she had done, quickly and professionally, with Bourne. Then she had dressed him in shirt and trousers extracted from a large cedar chest at the foot of the bed she was using, then swaddled him in a woolly striped blanket. He was breathing normally, but he was unconscious, as he had been since Bourne had dragged him out of the water a second time. Before leaving the frozen lake, Rebeka had rolled Ze’ev off the ice, into the darkness of the frozen water. He sank as purposefully as if he were wearing a diver’s lead-weighted belt.
“We should get him to a hospital.”
Rebeka sat down cross-legged beside Bourne. “That wouldn’t be wise.”
“At least let me call a friend of mine in Stockholm. He can send a—”
“No.” She said it firmly, without fear of rebuke. She was in charge here, and she knew it.
Bourne took a longer swig of the hot toddy. The Aquavit with which it was heavily laced burned a trail of fire down his throat and into his stomach. Instant warmth. He wished he could get some of it down Weaving’s throat. “We might lose him.”
“I’ve given him antibiotics.” Leaning forward, she unwrapped the bottom half of him. “A couple of toes might have to come off.”
“Who’s going to do that?”
“I will.” She rewrapped Weaving, then turned her attention to him. “I have an enormous stake in keeping him alive.”
“I’ve been meaning to ask you about that.”
They were in a fisherman’s cottage a stone’s throw from the water. Rebeka had rented it for a month, using an unholy cash sum that guaranteed the owner’s silence, as well as his generosity. Every day, he restocked the refrigerator and the larder, made the bed, and swept the floors. Neither his wife nor his children knew a thing about her. That hadn’t stopped Ze’ev from finding her, and it surely wouldn’t stop the Babylonian from finding her, too.
“We can’t stay here,” she said, handing him a plate of bread, cheese, and cold meat. “Only long enough for you to recover.”
“And Weaving?”
“He will take longer.” She looked at him almost longingly. “But if we wait until he regains consciousness, chances are all three of us will be dead.”
Bourne stared at her while he ate. He was ravenous. “Who’s coming?”
“Ben David has sent someone. According to Ze’ev, he’s already on his way.”
“I see how much you trusted Ze’ev,” he said, nearly draining his mug.
She gave a hollow chuckle. “Right. Ze’ev was totally full of shit.” She lifted a forefinger. “But it’s only logical that Ben David sent someone after me—and you. And if, in fact, it is the Babylonian, well, he’s the best Mossad has.”
Bourne ate some more, taking several moments to absorb this. “What did Ze’ev want?”
“He said he wanted to help me, but from the first I suspected his real agenda was getting to Weaving. I thought he was dead, but...” She shook her head. “I made a mess of this, Jason. Weaving was getting away and I shot him. I aimed for his shoulder.”
“You missed.” Bourne wiped his mouth and glanced over at the unconscious man. “I pulled him out of the water. I brought him back here because I thought it might jog his memory.”
Rebeka’s head snapped up, her eyes alight. “What d’you mean?”
“The shot you fired grazed the side of his head. That and the shock of falling into the water, of almost freezing to death, caused amnesia.”
“Amnesia?” Rebeka looked stunned. “My God, how...how bad?”
“He doesn’t remember anything, not even his name.” Bourne set the mug down. He shivered in the warmth. “He remembered the lake, running across it. I think he was beginning to remember you coming after him when Ze’ev began to fire.”
He looked at her. “If Ze’ev wanted to find Weaving, why did he try to kill him?”
“That’s a question I’ve been asking myself.”
“Could that have been his aim all along?”
Her brows knit together as she nodded slowly. “It’s possible, yes. But then, I’ve had all the pieces on the chessboard in the wrong places. People’s allegiances have been compromised.”
“But you must know that to be true. You must have seen what I saw in Dahr El Ahmar.”
A flash of fear crossed her face. “So you did see...?”
“After I took off, after I evaded the missile and its explosion, I overflew the encampment.”
“Have you told anyone?”
Bourne shook his head. “I have no master, Rebeka, you know that.” “A Ronin, a masterless samurai. But surely you have friends, people you trust.”
He rose abruptly, stood over Manfred Weaving. “What is so valuable about him?”
“His mind.” Rebeka stood up and went to stand beside him. “His mind is a treasure-trove of invaluable intel.”
Bourne looked at her. “What kind of intel?”
She hesitated for just a moment, then said, “I think Weaving is part of a terrorist network called Jihad bis saif.”
“Jihad by the sword,” Bourne said. “I never heard of it.”
“Neither have I, but—”
“What proof do you have?”
She touched the figure, swaddled like a newborn, lying unconscious by the fire. “I spoke to him.”
“When?”
“After the lake, in the forest. I caught up with him, briefly. We spoke for a moment or two.” She touched her shoulder. “Before he stabbed me.”
Bourne rose and took his empty plate into the kitchen, which was an area adjacent to the living room, and placed it in the sink. “Rebeka, all this is conjecture on your part.”
“Weaving found out what Mossad is doing in Dahr El Ahmar.”
“An excellent reason, then, for Ben David to send Ze’ev to kill him.”
“But there’s far more in his head.”
Bourne returned to her and to the fire. “None of this makes sense. Manfred Weaving may not even be his real name. It’s more than likely a legend.”
“Like Jason Bourne.”
“No. I am Jason Bourne now.”
“And before?”
Bourne thought of the monstrous sea snake, lying in the deepest recesses of his unconscious. “I was once David Webb, but I no longer know who he was.”
As Peter was herded out of the Blackfriar clubhouse, he felt a trickle of blood snaking its way down his side, staining his shirt.
“Pick up the pace,” the man with the steel-gray eyes said under his breath, “or more blood will be spilled.”
Peter, who had in the past several months been almost blown up by a car bomb, kidnapped, and nearly killed, had had just about enough of being pushed around. Nevertheless, he went obediently with his captor, out the entrance of the clubhouse, down the wide stairs, past duffers in sweaters and caps, and around to the side of the building.
He was prodded through a thick stand of sculpted azaleas and, behind them, a maze of dense boxwood as high as his head. Even at this time of year, the boxwood, only drowsing, gave off its peculiar scent of cat piss.
When they were hidden from anyone who might somehow be in the vicinity, the man with the steel-gray eyes said in his peculiarly accented English, “What is it you want here?”