Free Robert Ludlum's the Bourne Imperative by Eric Van Lustbader Page B

returning to the dreadful present, the worst had happened. Now she had to tell him. It was the only way for them to stay together, to ensure their relationship continued uninterrupted.
    She opened her mouth to do it but, instead, her mind rebelled. Is this what I’ve reduced the baby to—a pawn? An immediate wave of disgust overwhelmed her and, leaning forward, she grabbed his wastepaper basket and vomited into it.
    “Soraya?” He hurried toward her. “Are you ill?”
    “I don’t feel well,” she whispered thickly.
    “I’ll call a taxi.”
    She waved away his words. “I’ll be all right soon enough.” She had to tell him, she knew she had no choice, but another wave rose up into her throat, gagging her, clogging her throat, and she thought, Not today. Just give me a day’s respite .
    An hour before he was set to embark with Alef for Sadelöga, Bourne had a dream. In the dream, he had been shot, pitched into the storm-dark waters of the Mediterranean, but instead of losing consciousness, as he had when this had occurred many years ago, he remained alert to the electric bolts of pain transfiguring his head into a short-circuiting engine.
    As he struggled in the darkness, he became aware that he was not alone. There was a presence eeling its way up from the depths of the sea, long and thin, a monstrous sea snake of some sort. It wrapped its long length around him while its fanged mouth darted in toward him. Again and again, he fought it off, but with each second that ticked by strength passed out of him, dissipating into the inky water. And as his strength waned, so the monster’s strength waxed, until it reared back, opened its mouth, and said, “You’ll never know who I am. Why don’t you stop trying?”
    It unwound itself from him, slipping away even as he grabbed for it, even as his desire to know it became unbearable...He woke up.
    Sweating heavily, he threw the covers off his naked body and padded into the bathroom, stepping into the shower even before he turned on the taps. The icy water hit him like a fist, which is what he wanted, to get away from the last coiling tendrils of the dream as quickly and completely as he could. It wasn’t the first time he’d had that dream. It always ended the same way. He knew the sea eel was his past, lurking in the deepest depths of his unconscious, coiling and uncoiling, but never revealing itself to him. If the sea eel was to be believed, it never would.
    When he was shaved and dressed, he sat on the edge of his bed and called Soraya, using his new satphone. They had an arrangement to check in with each other periodically, which worked well for both of them. Often they were able to swap intel to their mutual advantage.
    It was the middle of the night in DC, and it was clear that he had woken her up.
    “Are you all right?” her asked.
    “I’m perfectly fine. I just had a long, difficult day.”
    At once he knew she wasn’t telling him the whole truth, even though she insisted nothing was wrong. He kept at her until she admitted that the concussion she had gotten in Paris had become worse. That was all she would say, other than that she was being closely monitored by her doctor. Then she mentioned Nicodemo, and Bourne told her about his conversation with Christien, that Nicodemo was somehow involved with Core Energy and, specifically, its CEO, Tom Brick.
    “You mean Nicodemo is real?” she said when he had finished.
    “Christien and Don Fernando certainly think so. Can you do some digging into Core Energy and Brick for me?”
    “Of course.”
    “Take care of yourself, Soraya.”
    There was a slight hesitation before she said, “You, too.”
    Ninety minutes later, with the sky clearing in the east, the last clots of night gathered like refuse in the street gutters, he and Alef were in one of Christien’s cars, heading out of Stockholm toward Sadelöga.
    “You don’t look too good,” Alef said as they hit the highway and hurtled down it at breakneck