Free The Bourne Betrayal by Robert Ludlum, Eric Van Lustbader Page B

jettisoned the identity of Hiram Cevik the moment he and Muta had exited the black Hummer. Muta, as previously instructed, had left the Beretta semiautomatic pistol with its ugly M9SD Suppressor on the front seat as they had tumbled onto the sidewalk. His aim had been true, but then he’d never had a doubt about Muta ibn Aziz’s marksmanship.
    They had run out of sight as the Hummer sped up again, slipped around a corner, and walked quickly up 20th Street to F Street, vanishing like wraiths inside the warmly glowing facade of the hotel.
    Meanwhile, not a mile away, Ahmad, with his load of C-4 explosives that had filled up the front foot well of the Hummer’s cabin, was already martyred, already in Paradise. A hero to his family, his people.
    “Your objective is to take out as many of them as you can,” Fadi had told him when Ahmad had volunteered to martyr himself. In truth, there had been many volunteers, with very little difference among them. All were absolutely reliable. Fadi had chosen Ahmad because he was a cousin. One of a great many, admittedly, but Fadi had owed his uncle a small favor, which this decision repaid.
    Fadi dug into his mouth and removed the porcelain tooth sheaths he’d used to widen Hiram Cevik’s jaw. Washing them with soap and water, he returned them to the hard-sided case that merchants used to transport gems and jewelry. Muta had thoughtfully placed it on the generous rim of the bathtub so that everything in it would be within easy reach: a warren of small trays and custom compartments filled with every manner of theatrical makeup, removers, spirit gums, wigs, colored contact lenses, and various prosthetics for noses, jaws, teeth, and ears.
    Squeezing a solvent onto a broad cotton pad, he methodically wiped the makeup off his face, neck, and hands. His natural, sun-darkened skin reappeared in streaks, a good decade peeled away, until the Fadi he recognized was whole again. A short time as himself, precious as a jewel, in the center of the enemy camp. Then he and Muta ibn Aziz would be gone, lifting through the clouds to their next destination.
    He dried his face and hands on a towel and went back into the sitting room of the suite where Muta stood, watching The Sopranos on HBO .
    “I find myself repelled by this creature Carmela, the leader’s wife,” he said.
    “As well you should. Look at her bare arms!”
    Carmela was standing at the open door to her obscenely huge house, watching her obscenely huge husband get into his obscenely huge Cadillac Escalade.
    “And their daughter has sex before her marriage. Why doesn’t Tony kill her, as the law dictates. An honor killing, so that he and his family’s honor won’t be dragged through the mud.” In a fit of disgust, Muta ibn Aziz went over to the TV, switched it off.
    “We strive to inculcate in our women the wisdom of Muhammad, the Quran, the true faith as their guides,” Fadi said. “This American woman is an infidel. She has nothing, she is nothing.”
    There came then a discreet knock on the door.
    “Omar,” Muta said. “Let me.”
    Fadi gave his silent assent before he slipped back into the bathroom.
    Muta crossed the plush carpet and drew open the door for Omar to enter. He was a tall, broadshouldered man of no more than forty, with a shaven head, a quick smile, and a penchant for telling incomprehensible jokes. On his shoulder was a silver tray laden with a bottle in an enormous ice bucket, two flutes, and a plate of freshly sliced fruit. Omar filled the doorway, Muta thought, much as Fadi would, for the two men were of the same approximate height and weight.
    “Your champagne,” Omar said superfluously. Crossing the room, he set his burden down on the glass top of the cocktail table. The ice made a shivery sound as he pulled the bottle free.
    “I’ll open it,” Muta said, grasping the heavy champagne bottle from the waiter.
    When Omar proffered the leather-bound folder with the chit to sign, Muta called, “Jakob, the