Bourne 7 – The Bourne Deception - Страница 8

All at once Bourne‘s attention turned outward as the doctor entered the room across the compound from the surgery.

— Firth, he said, sitting up. -What are you doing up at this time of night?

The doctor moved over to the rattan chair by the wall. He had a noticeable limp; one leg was shorter than the other. -I don‘t like thunder and lightning, he said as he sat down heavily.

— You‘re like a child.

— In many ways, yes. Firth nodded. -But unlike many blokes I met back in the bad old days, I can admit it.

Bourne switched on the bedside lamp, and a cone of cool light spread over the bed and lapped at the floor. As the thunder rumbled closer, Firth leaned into the light, as if for protection. He was carrying a bottle of arak by its neck.

— Your faithful companion, Bourne said.

The doctor winced. -Tonight, no amount of liquor will help.

Bourne held out his hand, and Firth handed him the bottle. He waited for Bourne to take a swig, then took possession of it. Though he sat back in the chair, he was far from relaxed. Thunder cracked overhead and all at once the downpour hit the thatch roof with the bang of a shotgun. Firth winced again, but he didn‘t take more arak. It appeared that even he had a limit.

— I‘m hoping I can convince you to throttle back your physical training.

— Why would I do that? Bourne said.

— Because Willard pushes you too hard. Firth licked his lips, as if his body was dying for another drink.

— That‘s his job.

— Maybe so, but he‘s not your doctor. He hasn‘t taken you apart and stitched you back together. He finally put the bottle down between his legs.

— Besides, he scares the bejesus out of me.

— Everything scares you, Bourne said, not unkindly.

— Not everything, no. The doctor waited while a crack of thunder shuddered overhead. -Not torn-up bodies.

— A torn-up body can‘t talk back, Bourne pointed out.

Firth smiled ruefully. -You haven‘t had my nightmares.

— That‘s all right. Bourne once again saw himself in the dirt and the blood of Tenganan. -I have my own.

For a time nothing more was said. Then Bourne asked a question, but when the only answer forthcoming was a brief snore, he lay back in the bed, closed his eyes, and willed himself to sleep. Before the soft morning light woke him, he had returned, unwillingly, to Tenganan, where the heat of Moira‘s cinnamon musk mingled with the odor of his own blood.

Do you like it? Moira held up the cloth woven in the colors of the gods Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva: blue, red, and yellow. The intricate pattern was of interlocking flowers, frangipani, perhaps. Since the dyes used were all natural, some water-based, others oil-based, the threads took eighteen months to two years to finish. The yellow-the personification of Shiva, the destroyer-would take another five years to slowly oxidize and reveal its final hue. In double ikats the pattern was dyed into both the warp and weft threads so that when it was woven all the colors would be pure, unlike the more common single ikat weaving in which the pattern was only in one set of threads, the other being a background color such as black. The double ikat was part of every Balinese home, where it hung on a wall in a place of honor and respect.

— Yes, Bourne had replied. -I like it very much.

He was about to go into the surgery for the first of his two operations.

— Suparwita said it was important I get a double ikat for you. She leaned closer. -It‘s sacred, Jason, remember? Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva together will protect you from evil and illness. I‘ll make sure it‘s near you all the time.

Just before Dr. Firth wheeled him into the surgery, she leaned even closer, whispered in his ear: — You‘ll be fine, Jason. You drank the tea made from kencur.

Kencur, Bourne thought as Firth applied the anesthetic. The resurrection lily.

He dreamed of a temple high in the Balinese mountains while Benjamin Firth cut him open with little hope of his survival. Through the carved red gates of the temple rose the hazy pyramidal shape of Mount Agung, blue and majestic against the yellow sky. He was gazing down at the gate from a great height and, looking around, he realized that he was on the top step of a steep triple staircase, guarded by six ferocious stone dragons, whose bared teeth were easily seven inches long. The bodies of these dragons undulated upward on both sides of the three staircases, creating banisters whose solidity appeared to carry the stairs upward to the plaza of the temple proper.

As Bourne‘s gaze was drawn again to the gates and Mount Agung, he saw a figure silhouetted against the sacred volcano, and his heart began to pound in his chest. The setting sun fell upon his face, and he shaded his eyes with one hand, straining to identify the figure, who now turned toward him. At once, he felt searing pain and pleasure.

At that precise moment Dr. Firth came across the curious abnormality in Bourne‘s heart and began to work, knowing that he now had a chance to save his patient.

Just over four hours later, Firth, exhausted but cautiously triumphant, wheeled Bourne into the recovery room, adjacent to the surgery, that would become Bourne‘s home for the next six weeks.

Moira was waiting for them. Her face was pale, her emotions retreated from her flesh, curled into a ball in the pit of her stomach.

— Will he live? She almost choked on the words. -Tell me he‘ll live.

Firth sat wearily on a canvas folding chair as he stripped off his bloody gloves. -The bullet went clear through him, which is good because I didn‘t have to dig it out. It is my considered opinion that he‘ll live, Ms. Trevor, with the important caveat that nothing in life is certain, especially in medicine.

As Firth took the first drink of arak he‘d had that day, Moira approached Bourne with a mixture of elation and trepidation. She‘d been so terrified that for the last four and a half hours her heart had hurt as much as she had imagined Bourne‘s had. Gazing down into his near-bloodless but peaceful face, she took his hand in hers, squeezing hard to reestablish the physical connection between them.

— Jason, she said.

— He‘s still well under, Firth said, as if from a great distance. -He can‘t hear you.

Moira ignored him. She tried not to imagine the hole in Bourne‘s chest beneath the bandage, but failed. Her eyes were streaming tears, as they had periodically while he was in surgery, but the abyss of despair along which she had been walking was folding in on itself. Still, her breathing was ragged and she had to struggle to feel the solid ground beneath her feet, because for hours she was certain it had been about to open up and swallow her whole.

— Jason, listen to me. Suparwita knew what would happen to you, and he prepared you as best he could. He fed you the kencur, he had me get the double ikat for you. They both protected you, I know it, even if you won‘t ever believe it.

Morning broke in the soft colors of pink and yellow against the pale blue sky. Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva rose as Bourne opened his eyes. Last night‘s storm had scrubbed off the film of haze that had built up from the burning off of the rice stalks in the hillside paddies.

As Bourne sat up, his eyes fell upon the double ikat that Moira had bought for him in Tenganan. Holding its rough texture between his fingers he saw, like a flash of lightning, the silhouette standing between him and Mount Agung, framed by the temple gates, and wondered anew who it could possibly be.

3

THE COCKPIT of the American passenger airliner, Flight 891 out of Cairo, Egypt, hummed contentedly. The pilot and copilot, longtime friends, joked about the flight attendant they‘d both like to take to bed. They were in the final stages of negotiating the terms of a thoroughly adolescent contest that would involve her as a prize when the radar picked up a blip rapidly closing on the plane. Responding in proper fashion, the pilot got on the intercom and ordered all seat belts fastened, then took the plane out of its pre-planned route in an attempt at an evasive maneuver. But the 767 was too large and ungainly; it wasn‘t built for easy maneuverability. The copilot tried to get a visual fix on the object, even as he raised the Cairo airport control tower on the radio.

— Flight Eight-Niner-One, there are no scheduled flights that close to you, the calm voice from the control tower said. -Can you get a visual fix?

— Not yet. The object is too small to be another passenger plane, the copilot responded. -Maybe it‘s a private jet.

— There are no flight plans posted. Repeat: There are no flight plans posted.

— Roger that, the copilot said. -But it‘s still closing.

— Eight-Niner-One, elevate to forty-five thousand feet.

— Roger that, the pilot said, making the necessary adjustments on the controls. -Elevating to forty-five thou-

— I see it! the copilot cut in. -It‘s traveling too fast to be a private jet!

— What is it? There was a sudden urgency to the voice from Cairo. “What’s happening? Eight-Niner-One, please report!”