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The stream, when they came upon it, was as slow-moving as the cows that had been up on the pasture all day. With a seductive ripple, it curved indolently away from them. Hunter settled them on a wide grassy knoll. She opened the basket, which was indeed filled with food, along with plates, glasses, utensils, and a bottle of wine with a twist-off cap.
“I’m not hungry yet. How about you?” Hunter said without caring about Camilla’s reply.
“What are you doing?” Camilla said as she watched Hunter shrug off her denim jacket, start to unbutton her shirt.
“Going for a swim.” She shucked off her jeans. “I’m hot and sweaty, aren’t you?”
She wore no underwear. Her body was lean, muscular as a teenage boy’s. She had narrow hips, a narrower waist. A constellation of pale freckles arced across her chest, just above her small, hard breasts. Her thighs were powerful in the way of all athletes.
Hunter half slid off the knoll, then turned back. “What’s the matter? Are you frightened of a little nudity?”
The splash of her compact body was small and sharp, like her words.
Camilla pondered a moment. This was 180 degrees from what she had expected. Still, she didn’t think she had a choice. Stay on the bank and she would leave the Dairy without Hunter’s aegis. Bad for her status no matter what she decided to do in Singapore.
She piled her clothes next to Hunter’s. In doing so, she had to move Hunter’s jeans. Feeling something in the back pocket, she slipped it out, unfolded it, and tipped it toward the orange-yellow corona of the sunset.
It was a photo of herself, a copy of the one taken when she had arrived at the Dairy. It was much creased, molded to the shape of Hunter’s buttock, but otherwise well preserved. Carefully and thoughtfully, Camilla slid it back into the pocket of Hunter’s jeans.
She started when Hunter yelled, “Are you coming, or what?”
Sliding down the edge of the knoll, she dropped the two feet or so into the stream. The cold water bit hard, forcing a gasp out of her. She surfaced, pushed her hair back off her face. Her skin was raised in goose bumps and her nipples were hard. She saw Hunter near her, and she felt heat rise up into her throat and cheeks.
“I thought you’d chickened out.”
Cupping her hands in the water, Hunter splashed her, laughing as Camilla splashed her in return. They bounced around like girls at summer camp, and Camilla’s hardheartedness began to slip away before she realized what was happening. She had been drawn closer to Hunter again, despite everything she now knew about her. Even more alarming, at the height of their innocent play, she felt the urgent rise of erotic need.
What is happening to me? she asked herself, just before Hunter took hold of her and kissed her hard on the lips. It was a different kiss than the one they had exchanged in the copse of trees, longer, both more erotic and more impassioned, so that Camilla found herself helpless to resist it. Maybe she didn’t want to. She liked the taste of Hunter’s lips and tongue—cinnamon and nutmeg (wasn’t nutmeg a hallucinogen?). She liked even better the press of her naked body—its perfect balance of softness and firmness, which spoke of both dependability and determination.
She was being seduced. She knew it, and didn’t care. At this precise moment, as Hunter bent to gently take her nipple between her even, white teeth, she wanted the other woman as much as she had wanted anything.
They toppled into the shallows, mud-spattered, entwined, and laughing. Camilla cupped the back of Hunter’s neck as she drew her head up, kissed her with open lips and a questing tongue. Along with the lust she felt rising in her the anger she had been unconsciously tamping down. The two rose and fell in concert—light and dark, yin and yang.
Alpha and omega.
* * *
A reptile, sensing danger, absorbs sounds via the ground to detect the number and movements of its enemies. Bourne, lying on the floor of the cave near its mouth, listened for the vibrations of the Taliban. He pressed his ear to the earth, trying to shut out the explosive cracks of automatic fire.
The Taliban were in the deepest recesses of the cave, where, he surmised, a passage must lead up and out into the open air. This no doubt was where they had crept in. But how did they know the cadre had sheltered here? Had the cadre been under surveillance from the moment they had been led through the mountain pass into Afghanistan?
Faraj had another idea. He ran past where Bourne lay, heading directly toward Khan Abdali’s men, crouched and firing back at the Taliban. He screamed and they turned just in time to receive facefuls of bullets from his AR-15.
Borz leaped up. “You fucking Arab idiot, what have you done?”
Faraj turned to him. “I did what you should’ve done the moment we set out.”
“Really?” Borz stepped forward and shot him twice through the heart.
Faraj fell where he stood, his head in the lap of one of the Waziri, a fitting place for him to find his mythical angels.
Bourne, watching this interplay with fierce interest, shouted to Borz, “You’ve got to kill Faraj’s men before they shoot your people.”
Borz, it seemed, agreed wholeheartedly. He turned his attention from what was left of the Taliban and began to take down the remnants of Faraj’s men as if they were pigeons in a shooting gallery.
Grabbing Aashir, Bourne pulled him around behind him, then pitched in, keeping his attention on the three remaining Taliban. “I have your back,” he shouted to Borz. He advanced on the Taliban, the last request of Khan Abdali to take their heads echoing in his mind.
Then Aashir was beside him, gunning down an attacking Taliban, who had been coming at Borz from his left side. Bourne shot the second man, but the third took cover deeper inside the cave, beyond the firefight between Faraj’s people and the Chechens. Both sides were fearless, but the jihadists, without their leader and in hostile territory, were vulnerable. One by one, the Chechens picked them off while sustaining a minimum of casualties. Still, many of them had been killed in the Taliban’s initial surprise fusillade.
Aashir ran through the melee after the last remaining Taliban soldier. Bourne shouted at him to come back, but Aashir called, “Let me do this, Yusuf. I’ll get him.”
The young man wanted to bloody himself in the age-old ritual of becoming a man. As a result, he could get himself killed. Bourne took off after him, brushing past Chechens, bringing down a jihadist on his left, then another on his right. The Chechens laughed, tried to pat him on the shoulder or back as he and Aashir flew by. They were clearly impressed by the young man’s courage and fortitude against the Taliban. After all, he had saved their leader.
He reached the stygian inner recesses of the cave without encountering either Aashir or the Taliban soldier. He had only a penlight Borz had given him. The pea-sized beam was worse than useless: Illuminating next to nothing, it yet served to pinpoint his precise location as accurately as a laser. He didn’t turn it on.
Fingertips on rocks, feeling his way forward, he noticed the black turned to charcoal, then, in spots, to light gray. The cave roof was dotted with fissures through which light seeped down. This unearthly illumination allowed him to proceed forward with a good measure of confidence. Shortly, the sounds of soft footfalls against the pumice-like floor of the cave reached him.
The floor sloped down, even as the way tapered until it had narrowed to a width of perhaps two young boys standing side by side. Bourne paused for a moment, listening intently, but now that the firefight behind him had come to its bloody end, a ringing silence reigned, punctured now and again by echoes of questioning voices.
Not much farther on, Bourne identified Aashir’s voice. Who was he with? Bourne had heard no gunshots, no moans of pain.
Despite the presence of light, he picked his way even more cautiously. Several times, hearing a pebble or small rock bounce along the floor, he froze, his entire mind tuned to the sounds. Always he continued on, into the silence, deeper and deeper into the living rock.
“Yusuf.”
He stopped, waited.
“Yusuf, are you there?”
“Yes,” Bourne said, and moved.
“Yusuf, please, I’m injured.”
“What happened?” Bourne said, moving again.
“It’s my leg. But I got him. The Taliban is dead.”
He was sure now; it wasn’t Aashir’s voice. Was Aashir dead? Bourne looked around, found a ledge onto which he laid his penlight. “Tell me where you are, Aashir, and I’ll come get you.” He turned on the penlight, quickly moved aside.
A burst of automatic fire splintered the ledge, disintegrating the light. But Bourne was already on the move, sprinting forward. A bit of white material caught the light, then a sleeve. He leaped, driving his left shoulder into the Taliban soldier. They both tumbled backward onto the floor. Having dropped his assault rifle, the Taliban reached up, gripped Bourne’s throat with his two hands, and gave a mighty squeeze.
Bourne drove his fist into the Taliban’s abdomen, then against the point of his sternum, cracking it. Still, the Taliban only tightened his grip. Bourne could not breathe. Stars danced at the corners of his vision. His third strike shattered the sternum completely, driving bone into the Taliban’s right lung, which immediately emptied of air and filled with blood.
Bourne pulled the hands away from his throat, bent the arms back. There was no resistance now. The Taliban was dying, drowning in his own blood. Bourne got to his feet. He wished he could take the head of this man back to Khan Abdali, to compensate him for the deaths of his warriors.
Taking up the fallen AR-15, he went in search of Aashir. As he went, he called the boy’s name, but there was no answer. Every minute that passed was a tick in the direction of Aashir being interrogated.
Bourne found him bound, gagged with a wad of filthy cloth. There was a nasty bump on the back of his head, matting down his hair with sticky blood, but he was otherwise unharmed.
“I’m sorry,” Aashir said when Bourne had pulled out the gag. “He caught me by surprise.”
“We’ll have to work on that.” Bourne severed the knots that bound the boy’s wrists.
“Thank you, Yusuf,” Aashir said as he scrambled to his feet. “No one has ever treated me…”
His words petered out, and Bourne nodded wordlessly.
Aashir ducked his head deferentially. “Now I suppose we’d best get back to the others.”
“I don’t think so.” Up ahead, Bourne could see a larger fissure of light, dazzling as a lightning bolt amid dark clouds. “I think we need to see how the Taliban got into the cave, where they came from, and if there are more of them.”
When Aashir looked at him questioningly, Bourne added. “Maybe that will tell us how they knew we were here. Are you up for it?”
“Lead the way,” Aashir said, shouldering his AWM.
37
They dined in the night air by the light of the kerosene lantern, ravenous as beasts. Camilla scarcely tasted the food, but between them they drained the bottle of wine. Camilla had felt lightheaded as they levered themselves out of the river, rinsed off what remained of the mud, and sat trembling a little as the western sky slowly lost its color.
When Hunter dried her off with her own shirt, Camilla was certain the other shoe was about to drop. She was mildly surprised when it didn’t, more surprised when Hunter didn’t bring up anything more serious than early-period Rolling Stones versus middle-period Rolling Stones. They dressed, ate their meal, guzzled their wine as if they both had things they wanted to forget, chatted some more about the state of pop music, their favorite films, even while they cleaned up.
Camilla carried the lantern, Hunter the basket. They turned back to the barn, accompanied by the swaying light. Under any other circumstances the walk would have been romantic, but Camilla was on edge. Her mind was filled with so many conflicting emotions she found it difficult to sort one from another. She was still waiting for Hunter to drop the bomb. What did they expect from her? What did they want her to do? There were less than two days left at the Dairy before she needed to be in Singapore. The suspense was just about killing her.
And yet nothing happened. They reached the barn. The horses were asleep. Camilla did not know the time, but it seemed late to her. The moon was up by the time they made the short trek to the main house. On the way, they passed the bank of bicycles, and Camilla was reminded of her frantic trip to Jake’s World, following Hunter.
Inside the main house, they said good night and parted as if nothing of an intimate nature had occurred. Camilla’s confusion was in full bloom. She could not quite grasp what had happened, let alone what was happening now.
She went to her room, performed her nightly ablutions, and got into bed. She was in the middle of John Le Carré’s Absolute Friends, and was engrossed not only in the characters but in the uncanny manner in which the underlying theme of the novel might have fit with the situation she now faced.
The lights were out in the room—only the bedside lamp illuminated a small oval encompassing the book and her hands, which held it open. She read five or six pages before her eyelids grew heavy and she found herself reading the same paragraph over and over.
She had just closed the book when she heard a soft knock on her door. She said nothing, but the door opened anyway and Hunter stepped silently in.
“Am I disturbing you?” It was almost a whisper.
Camilla honestly did not know what to say. Why was Hunter here at this hour? Did she want to crawl into Camilla’s bed, hold her as she had held her in the aftermath of their lovemaking while the stream flowed endlessly around their small island?
Misunderstanding her silence, Hunter said, “I need to speak with you.” The light from the hallway threw her into shadow. Nevertheless, her eyes glittered like an animal in the African bush.
Camilla patted the blanket. “Come sit beside me.”
Hunter glided across the room. She was wrapped in a thin robe, but her feet were bare, pink and nearly perfect, save for one toe on her left foot shorter than the others.
“I don’t want you to go,” Hunter said the moment she reached Camilla’s bedside.
Camilla was startled. “What?”
“To Singapore.” Hunter sat close to Camilla. Her body seemed to radiate heat. “Don’t go.”
“I have to,” Camilla said. “I was given a brief. I know my duty—”
“Jesus, who cares about duty?” Hunter took her hand. “Listen, these people have no loyalty to you. Why should you have any to them?”
“That’s the way I was made.”
“But if you go to Singapore you won’t come back.”
“You don’t know that, Hunter. I may be able to get to Bourne before he gets to Bill. I have to believe that. There’s always the chance—”
“No, you don’t understand.” Hunter’s voice had turned urgent. “You were never meant to leave Singapore alive. The Black Queen brief—the one you were given—was designed to fail. You and Bourne are going to be shot dead in Singapore. Finnerman has already sent a top-notch dinger—”
“A what?”
“A long-gun assassin.” Hunter’s tone had turned impatient. “Christ, don’t they teach you anything in the Secret Service?”
“We call them snipers.”
“By whatever name they’re sending in a professional in field wet work. Your presence at the Thoroughbred Club is merely a feint.” Hunter leaned in. “Don’t be pissed, Cam.”
“I’m not pissed,” Camilla lied. “I just don’t believe a word of what you’re saying.”
“When have I lied to you?”
“How could I possibly answer that?”
Hunter looked genuinely sorrowful. “Turn on your mobile.”
“Why? There’s no cell service inside the Dairy. Deliberately.”
“Indulge me. Please.”
Camilla sighed, plucked her mobile from the top drawer of the night table. She fired it up. Sure enough, the no-service icon popped up on the top row of the screen. And yet a
moment later the new email message icon appeared.
“How the hell…?” Camilla looked up at Hunter.
“Open it,” Hunter said in a voice both soft and tender. “Trust me.”
Trust me. Those words ricocheted like a pinball off the fresh wounds of betrayal in Camilla’s mind. Nevertheless, she opened the email. It had no subject line, no message either. However, two attachments had somehow already been downloaded. With no little trepidation, she opened the first one, discovered to her horror a PDF of an Eyes Only DOD file. The stamp across the covering page made it clear it came from Martin Finnerman’s office.
Heart pounding painfully in her throat, Camilla went on to the next page. There was the watermark that could not be duplicated, authenticating the file. It was a brief—a dinger brief. The dinger in question was Benjamin Landis, code name Kettle. Where did they come up with these work names? she asked herself, because she was too frightened to immediately read Kettle’s brief. But she couldn’t help looking at him. A head shot was included. He looked like any middle management drone. A nobody. Nevertheless, an unnatural chill invaded her body.
As of their own accord, her fingers turned the electronic page, and she saw laid out for her the entire brief. It was concise, succinct, and to the point. In fact, it consisted of only one sentence: You are hereby directed to terminate Jason Bourne before his final preparations for the assassination of POTUS have been completed.
“Now the second,” Hunter said, as if it were a command.
The second attachment was an MP3—an audio file, which began to play the moment she opened it. She heard Finnerman and Howard Anselm talking about adding to Kettle’s brief. They had decided to have Kettle terminate her in a way that would look like she had been killed in the line of duty.
Camilla dropped her mobile as if it were white-hot. She put her hand to her mouth; she felt sick in the pit of her stomach. Pushing Hunter aside, she leaped out of bed, ran to the bathroom, barely made it before what was left of their riverside picnic spewed out as she knelt in front of the toilet.
