Bourne 4 - The Bourne Legacy (49 page)

She got out at last, her agitation causing her to look up and down the block for the battered green Opel before she caught herself and with a grunt of irritation went through the front door of the clinic.

Inside, the setup was just as Bourne had described it to her. She wondered where he'd gotten his information in such short order. She had to hand it to him; he had a remarkable ability for ferreting out information.

Passing through the metal detector, she was stopped on the other side, was asked to open her purse so the officer could peer through its contents. Following Bourne's instructions to the letter, she approached the high marble bank, smiled at one of the three attendants who looked up long enough to acknowledge her presence.

"My name is Annaka Vadas," she said. "I'm waiting for a friend." The attendant nodded, went back to her work. The two others were either on the phone or inputting data into a computer workstation. Another phone rang and the woman who'd smiled at Annaka, picked up the receiver, spoke into it for a moment, then, astonishingly, beckoned her over.

When Annaka approached the bank, the attendant said, "Miss Vadas. Dr. Morintz is expecting you." She glanced briefly at Annaka's driver's license, then handed her a white plastic ID tag. "Please wear that at all times, Miss Vadas. The doctor is waiting for you in his laboratory."

She pointed the way and Annaka, baffled, followed her direction down a corridor. At the first T-junction, she turned left and ran right into a man in a white lab coat.

"Oh, excuse me! What... ?" She'd looked up to see Jason Bourne's face. On his lab coat was a green plastic ID tag with the name Dr. Lenz Morintz printed on it, and she started to laugh. "Oh, I see, a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Morintz." She squinted. "Even though you don't look all that much like your photo."

"You know how those cheap cameras are," Bourne said, taking her by the elbow and leading her back to the corner she'd just turned. "They never do you justice." Peering around the corner, he said, "Here comes the CIA, right on schedule." Annaka saw Kevin McColl showing his credentials to one of the attendants. "How'd he get his gun past the metal detector?" she asked.

"He didn't," Bourne said. "Why d'you think I directed you here?" Despite herself, she looked at him with admiration. "A trap. McColl's here without a gun." He was clever indeed, and this realization caused her a spark of concern. She hoped Stepan knew what he was doing.

"Look, I discovered that Schiffer's former partner, Peter Sido, works here. If anyone knows where Schiffer is, it's Sido. We need to speak with him, but first we've got to take care of McColl once and for all. Are you ready?"

Annaka took a second look at McColl and, shuddering, nodded in assent.

Khan had used a taxi to tail the battered green Opel; he hadn't wanted to use the rental Skoda in case it had been made. He waited for Kevin McColl to pull into a parking space, then he had the taxi go past, and when the CIA agent got out of his Opel, he paid the driver and started after the other on foot.

Last evening, following McColl from Annaka's, he had called Ethan Hearn and read him off the license plate of the green Opel. Within the hour Hearn had gotten him the name and number of the rental car location McColl had used. Posing as an Interpol agent, he'd obtained from the suitably cowed attendant, McColl's name and address in the States. He hadn't left a local address, but as it had turned out, with typical American arrogance, he'd used his real name. It had been a simple matter, then, for Khan to call another number, where a contact of his in Berlin had run McColl's name through his data banks and come up with CIA.

Up ahead, McColl turned the corner onto Hattyu utca, entering a modern gray stone building at 75 that had more than a passing resemblance to a medieval fortress. It was fortunate that Khan waited a moment, as was his habit, because just then McColl ducked out. Khan watched him, curious, as he went to a trash bin. Looking around to make sure no one was paying him any attention, he drew out his gun, placed it quickly and carefully into the bin.

Khan waited until McColl had returned inside, then continued on, passing through the steel and glass door into the lobby. There, he observed McColl throwing around his Agency credentials. Observing the metal detector, Khan realized why McColl had gotten rid of his weapon. Was it coincidence or had Bourne set a trap for him? It's what Khan himself would've done.

As McColl was given an ID tag and went down the corridor, Khan passed through the metal detector, showed the Interpol ID he'd picked up in Paris. This, of course, alarmed the attendant, especially after seeing the Agency man, and she wondered aloud whether she should either alert the clinic's security or call the police, but Khan calmly assured her that they were on the same case and were only here for interview purposes. Any interruption in that process, he warned her sternly, could only lead to un-forseen complications, which he knew she didn't want. Still slightly nervous, she nodded and waved him through.

Kevin McColl saw Annaka Vadas up ahead and knew that Bourne had to be close by. He was certain she hadn't made him, but in any event he fingered the small plastic square attached to the wristband of his watch. Inside was a length of nylon line retracted onto a tiny reel hidden within the plastic housing. He'd have preferred to complete the Bourne sanction with a gun because it was quick and clean. The human body, no matter how powerful, couldn't fight off a bullet to the heart or lungs or brain. Other methods using surprise and brute force, which the presence of the metal detector was forcing him into using, took longer and were more often than not messy. He understood the increased risk, as well as the possibility that he would have to kill Annaka Vadas as well. That thought alone caused him a pang of regret. She was a handsome, sexy woman; it went against the grain to kill such beauty.

He saw her now, headed he was quite sure toward a rendezvous with Jason Bourne; there was no other reason he could imagine for her to be here. He hung back, tapping the plastic square lying against the inside of his wrist as he waited for his opportunity.

From his position inside a supply room, Bourne saw Annaka pass by. She knew precisely where he was, but to her credit she didn't even turn her head a fraction as she passed his vantage point. His keen ears detected McColl's tread before he even came into view. Everyone had a way of walking, a certain stride that unless they deliberately altered it became unmistakable. McColl's was heavy and solid, ominous, without doubt the gait of a professional stalker.

The primary issue here, Bourne knew, was timing. If he moved too quickly, McColl would see him and react, negating the element of surprise. If he waited too long, he'd be forced to take a couple of steps to catch up to him and would risk McColl hearing him. But Bourne had taken the measure of McColl's strides and so was able to accurately anticipate when the CIA assassin would be in just the right spot. He pushed from his mind the aches and pains in his body, most especially his cracked ribs. He had no idea what a handicap they would place on him, but he had to be confident in the triple binding Dr. Ambrus had used to protect them.

He could see Kevin McColl now, large and dangerous. Just as the agent passed the partly open door to the supply room, Bourne leaped out and delivered a massive twohanded blow to McColl's right kidney. The agent's body canted over toward Bourne, who grabbed him and began to drag him into the supply room.

But McColl whirled and, with a grimace of pain, exploded a massive fist into Bourne's chest. Pain pinwheeled and, as Bourne staggered back, McColl drew out the nylon line, lunging at Bourne's neck. Bourne used the edge of his hand to land two fierce blows that must have caused McColl a great deal of pain. Still, he came on with reddened eyes and a grim determination. He looped the nylon line around Bourne's neck, pulled so tight that for the first instant Bourne was lifted off his feet.

Bourne fought for breath, which only allowed McColl to tighten the line further. Then Bourne realized his mistake. He ceased to worry about breathing, concentrating on freeing himself. His knee came up, making sharp contact with McColl's genitals. All the breath went out of McColl, and for an instant his grip loosened enough for Bourne to get two fingers between the nylon line and the flesh of his throat.

McColl, though, was a bull of a man, and he recovered more quickly than Bourne could've imagined. With a grunt of rage, he drew all his energy into his arms, jerking the nylon line more tightly than ever. But Bourne had managed to gain the advantage he needed, and his two fingers curled, twisting as the line tightened, and it snapped just as a powerful fish can exert enough torque to break the line on which it's caught. Bourne used the hand that had been at his neck to strike out and up, catching McColl under the jaw. McColl's head snapped back against the doorjamb, but as Bourne closed with him, he used his elbows, spinning Bourne into the supply room. McColl came after him, snatched up a box cutter, swung with it, slicing through the lab coat. Another swipe and, though Bourne leaped back, the blade cut into his shirt so that it hung open, revealing his bound ribs.

A grin of triumph lit up McColl's face. He knew a vulnerability when he saw it, and he went after it. Switching the box cutter to his left hand, he feinted with it, then lowered a massive blow toward Bourne's rib cage. Bourne wasn't fooled and was able to block the blow with his forearm.

Now McColl saw his opening and swung in with the box cutter, directly toward Bourne's exposed neck.

Having heard the first sounds of engagement, Annaka had turned, but she'd immediately spotted two doctors coming toward the junction in the corridor beyond which Bourne and McColl were locked together. Neatly interposing herself between them and the doctors, she asked the doctors a barrage of questions, all the while moving them along until they were past the junction.

Extricating herself as quickly as she could, she hurried back. By that time she saw that Bourne was in trouble. Remembering Stepan's admonishment to keep Bourne alive, she rushed back down the corridor. By the time she arrived, the two combatants were already inside the supply room. She swung in through the open door just in time to see McColTs vicious attack at Bourne's neck.

She hurled herself at him, knocking him off stride just enough so that the box cutter blade, flashing in the light, flew by Bourne's neck, sparking off the metal corner of a shelf stanchion. McColl, aware of her now in the periphery of his vision, whirled, his left elbow high and cocked, and he smashed it back into her throat.

Annaka gagged, reflexively grabbed at her neck as she began to sink down onto her knees. McColl came at her with the box cutter, slashing at her coat. Bourne took the length of nylon still gripped in one hand and lashed it around McColl's neck from behind. McColl arched back, but instead of grasping for his throat, he jammed an elbow into Bourne's cracked ribs. Bourne saw stars, but still he held on, inching McColl backward, away from Annaka, hearing his heels dragging on the floor tiles as McColl flailed at his ribs with ever-increasing desperation.

The blood pooled in McColl's head, the cords stood out on the sides of his neck like taut ropes, and soon thereafter, his eyes began to bulge in their sockets. Blood vessels burst in his nose and cheeks and his lips pulled back from his pallid gums. His swollen tongue swirled around his gasping mouth, and still he had it in him to deliver one last blow to Bourne's side. Bourne winced, his grip faltered slightly, and McColl began to regain his balance.

That's when Annaka recklessly kicked him in the stomach. McColl grabbed her raised knee and, twisting violently, brought her back against him. His left arm whipped around her neck, the heel of his right hand positioned itself against the side of her head. He was about to break her neck.

Khan, observing all this from the vantage point of the small darkened office across and slightly down the corridor, watched Bourne, at great risk to himself, let go of the nylon cord he'd so expertly wrapped around McColl's neck. He slammed the assassin's head against a shelf, then drove a thumb into his eye.

McColl, about to scream, found Bourne's forearm between his jaws, and so the sound rattled in his lungs, dying inside him. He kicked out and flailed, refusing to die or even to go down. Bourne withdrew his ceramic gun, smashed the butt into the soft spot over McColl's left ear. Now he was on his knees, his head shaking, his hands moving to press themselves tightly to his ruined eye. But it was only a ruse. He used his hands to trip Annaka, to bring her down to his level. His murderous hands grasped her, and Bourne, without any other recourse, pressed the muzzle of the gun against McColl's flesh and pulled the trigger.

There was very little noise, but the hole in McColl's neck was impressive. Even dead, McColl wouldn't let go of Annaka, and Bourne, putting away the gun, was obliged to pry his fingers one by one off her flesh.

Bourne reached down, pulled her up, but Khan could see his grimace, saw one hand press against his side. Those ribs. Were they bruised, broken, or something in between?

he wondered.

Khan moved back into the shadows of the empty office. He'd caused that injury. He could remember in vivid detail the power he'd put behind the blow, the feel of his hand as it made contact, the almost electric jarring that had passed through him, as if from Bourne. But, curiously, the feeling of hot satisfaction never materialized. Instead, he was forced to admire the strength and tenacity of the man to hold on, to continue his titanic struggle with McColl, despite the beating he was taking in his most vulnerable spot. Why was he even thinking these thoughts? he asked himself angrily. Bourne had done nothing but reject him. In the face of mounting evidence, he adamantly refused to believe that Khan was his son. What did that say about him? For whatever reason, he'd chosen to believe that his son was dead. Didn't that mean that he'd never wanted him in the first place?

"The support staff arrived just a few hours ago," Jamie Hull said to the DCI over their secure video linkup. "We've familiarized them with everything. All that's lacking is the principals."