bourne legacy

ROBERT LUDLUM'S
Jason Bourne
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in
A Novel by
Eric Van Lustbader
ST. MARTIN'S PRESS NEW YORK
ALSO BY ERIC VAN LUSTBADER
Nicholas Linnear Novels
Second Skin
Floating City
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TheKaisho
White Ninja
The Miko
The Ninja
China Maroc Novels
Shan
Jian
Other Novels
Art Kills
Pale Saint
Dark Homecoming
Black Blade
Angel Eyes
French Kiss
Zero
Black Heart Sirens
BY ROBERT LUDLUM
The Tristan Betrayal
The Janson Directive
The Sigma Protocol
The Prometheus Deception
The Matarese Countdown
The Apocalypse Watch
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The Road to Omaha
The Scorpio Illusion
The Bourne Ultimatum
The Icarus Agenda
The Bourne Supremacy
The Aquitaine Progression
The Parsifal Mosaic
The Bourne Identity
The Matarese Circle
The Gemini Contenders
The Holcroft Covenant
The Chancellor Manuscript
The Road to Gandolfo
The Rhinemann Exchange
The Cry of the Halidon
Trevayne
The Matlock Paper
The Osterman Weekend
The Scarlatti Inheritance
the bourne legacy. Copyright © 2004 by the Estate of Robert Ludlum. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States
of America. No part of this book m ay be used or reproduced in any m anner whatsoever without written perm ission
except in the case of brief quotations em bodied in critical articles or reviews. For inform ation, address St. Martin's
Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
www.stm artins.com
ISBN 0-312-33175-4 EAN 978-0312-33175-7
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First Edition: June 2004
10 987654321

In memory of Bob

PROLOGUE
Khalid Murat, leader of the Chechen rebels, sat still as a stone in the center vehicle of the convoy
making its way through the bombed-out streets of Grozny. The BTR-60BP armored personnel carriers
were standard Russian military issue and, as such, the convoy was indistinguishable from all the others
rumbling through the city on patrol. Murat's heavily armed men were crammed into the other two
vehicles—one in front and one behind his own. They were heading toward Hospital Number Nine, one
of six or seven different hideouts Murat used to keep three steps ahead of the Russian forces searching
for him.
Murat was darkly bearded, close to fifty, with a bear's broad stance and the fire-lit eyes of the true
zealot. He had learned early on that the iron fist was the only way to rule. He had been present when
Jokhar Dudayev had imposed Islamic Shariah law to no avail. He had seen the carnage wreaked when it
had all begun, when the Chechnya-based warlords, foreign associates of Osama bin Laden, invaded
Daghestan and executed a string of bombings in Moscow and Volgodonsk that killed some two hundred
people. When the blame for the foreigners' actions was falsely put on Chechen terrorists, the Russians
began their devastating bombing of Grozny, reducing much of the city to rubble.
The sky over the Chechen capital was blurred, made indistinct by a constant flux of ash and cinder, a
shimmering incandescence so lurid it seemed almost radioactive. Oil-fueled fires burned everywhere
across the rubble-strewn landscape.
Khalid Murat stared out the tinted windows as the convoy passed a burned-out skeleton of a building,
massive, hulking, the roofless interior filled with flickering flames. He grunted, turned to Hasan Arsenov,
his second in command, and said, "Once Grozny was the beloved home to lovers strolling down the wide
tree-lined boulevards, mothers pushing prams across the leafy squares. The great circus was nightly filled
to overflowingwith joyous, laughing faces, and architects the world over made their pilgrimage to tour the
magnificent buildings that once made Grozny one of the most beautiful cities on earth."
He shook his head sadly, slapped the other's knee in a comradely gesture. "Allah, Hasan!" he cried.
"Look how the Russians have crushed everything that was good and fine!"
Hasan Arsenov nodded. He was a brisk, energetic man fully ten years Murat's junior. A former biathlon
champion, he had the wide shoulders and narrow hips of a natural athlete. When Murat had taken over
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as rebel leader, he was at his side. Now he pointed out to Murat the charred husk of a building on the
convoy's right. "Before the wars," he said with grave intent, "when Grozny was still a major oil-refining
center, my father worked there at the Oil Institute. Now instead of profits from our wells, we get flash
fires that pollute our air and our water."
The two rebels were chastened into silence by the parade of bombed-out buildings they passed, the
streets empty save for scavengers, both human and animal. After several minutes, they turned to each
other, the pain of their people's suffering in their eyes. Murat opened his mouth to speak but froze at the
unmistakable sound of bullets pinging against their vehicle. It took him but an instant to realize that the
vehicle was being