Текст книги "The Bourne Sanction (Санкция Борна)"

Автор книги: Eric Van Lustbader

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 29 страниц)

“I need to contact him,” Bourne said.

“He’s now at the Federal Anti-Narcotics Agency.” The voice recited a local number

before abruptly hanging up.

That explained the attitude, Bourne thought. The Federal Anti-Narcotics Agency was

headed up by Viktor Cherkesov. But many believed he was much more than that, a

silovik running an organization so powerful that some had taken to calling it FSB-2.

Recently an internal war between Cherkesov and Nikolai Patrushev, the head of the FSB,

the modern-day successor to the notorious KGB, had sprung up within the government.

The silovik who won that war would probably be the next president of Russia. If Karpov

had gone from the FSB to FSB-2, it must be because Cherkesov had gotten the upper

hand.

Bourne called the office of the Federal Anti-Narcotics Agency, but he was told that

Karpov was away and could not be reached.

For a moment he contemplated calling the man who had picked up Baronov’s Zil in

the Crocus City parking lot, but he almost immediately thought better of it. He’d already

gotten Baronov killed; he didn’t want any more deaths on his conscience.

He walked on until he came to a tram stop. He took the first one that appeared out of

the gloom. He’d used the scarf he’d bought at the boutique in Crocus City to cover up the

mark the wire had made across his throat. The small seepage of blood had dried up as

soon as he’d hit the frigid air.

The tram jounced and rattled along its rails. Crammed inside with a stinking, noisy

crowd, he felt thoroughly shaken. Not only had he discovered a Kazanskaya assassin

waiting in Tarkanian’s apartment, but his contact had been murdered by an NSA assassin

sent to kill him. His sense of apartness had never been more extreme. Babies cried, men

rustled newspapers, women chatted side by side, an old man, big-knuckled hands curled

over the head of his walking stick, clandestinely ogled a young girl engrossed in a manga

comic. Here was life, bustling all around him, a burbling stream that parted when it came

to him, an immovable rock, only to come together when it passed him, flowing on while

he remained behind, still and alone.

He thought of Marie, as he always did at times like this. But Marie was gone, and her

memory was of little solace to him. He missed his children, and wondered whether this

was the David Webb personality bubbling up. An old, familiar despair swept through

him, as it hadn’t since Alex Conklin had taken him out of the gutter, formed the Bourne

identity for him to slip on like a suit of armor. He felt the crushing weight of life on him, a life lived alone, a sad and lonely life that could only end one way.

And then his thoughts turned to Moira, of how impossibly difficult that last meeting

with her had been. If she had been a spy, if she had betrayed Martin and meant to do the

same with him, what would he have done? Would he have turned her over to Soraya or

Veronica Hart?

But she wasn’t a spy. He would never have to face that conundrum.

When it came to Moira, his personal feelings were now bound up in his professional

duty, inextricably combined. He knew that she loved him and, now, in the face of his

despair, he understood that he loved her, as well. When he was with her he felt whole, but

in an entirely new way. She wasn’t Marie, and he didn’t want her to be Marie. She was

Moira, and it was Moira he wanted.

By the time he swung off the tram in Moscow Center, the snow had abated to veils of

drifting flakes whirled about by stray gusts of wind across the huge open plazas. The

city’s lights were on against the long winter evening, but the clearing sky turned the

temperature bitter. The streets were clogged with gypsy cabbies in their cheap cars

manufactured during the Brezhnev years, trundling slowly in bumper-to-bumper lines so

as to not miss a fare. They were known in local slang as bombily-those who bomb-

because of the bowel-loosening speed with which they bombed around the city’s streets

as soon as they had a passenger.

He went into a cybercafй, paid for fifteen minutes at a computer terminal, typed in

Kitaysky Lyotchik. Kitaysky Lyotchik Zhao-Da, the full name-or The Chinese Pilot in its

English translation-turned out to be a throbbing elitny club at proyezd Lubyansky 25. The

Kitai-Gorod metro stop let Bourne out at the end of the block. On one side was a canal,

frozen solid; on the other, a row of mixed-use buildings. The Chinese Pilot was easy

enough to spot, what with the BMWs, Mercedeses, and Porsche SUVs, as well as the

ubiquitous gaggle of bombily Zhigs clustered on the street. The crowd behind a velvet

rope was being held in check by fierce-looking face-control bullies, so that waiting

partygoers spilled drunkenly off the pavement. Bourne went up to the red Cayenne,

rapped on the window. When the driver scrolled the window down, Bourne held out three

hundred dollars.

“When I come out that door, this is my car, right?”

The driver eyed the money hungrily. “Right you are, sir.”

In Moscow, especially, American dollars talked louder than words.

“And if your client comes out in the meantime?”

“He won’t,” the driver assured Bourne. “He’s in the champagne room till four at the

earliest.”

Another hundred dollars got Bourne past the shouting, unruly mob. Inside, he ate an

indifferent meal of an Oriental salad and almond-crusted chicken breast. From his perch

along the glowing bar, he watched the Russian siloviki come and go with their diamond-

studded, mini-skirted, fur-wrapped dyevochkas-strictly speaking, young women who had

not yet borne a child. This was the new order in Russia. Except Bourne knew that many

of the same people were still in power-either ex-KGB siloviki or their progeny lined up

against the boys from Sokolniki, who came from nothing into sudden wealth. The

siloviki, derived from the Russian word for “power,” were men from the so-called power

ministries, including the security services and the military, who had risen during the Putin era. They were the new guard, having overthrown the Yeltsin-period oligarchs. No

matter. Siloviki or mobster, they were criminals, they’d killed, extorted, maimed,

blackmailed; they all had blood on their hands, they were all strangers to remorse.

Bourne scanned the tables for Gala Nematova, was surprised to find half a dozen dyevs

who might have fit the bill, especially in this low light. It was astonishing to observe

firsthand this wheat field of tall, willowy young women, one more striking than the next.

There was a prevalent theory, a kind of skewed Darwinism-survival of the prettiest-that

explained why there were so many startlingly handsome dyevochkas in Russia and

Ukraine. If you were a man in his twenties in these countries in 1947 it meant that you’d

survived one of the greatest male bloodbaths in human history. These men, being in the

vast minority, had their pick of women. Who had they chosen to marry and impregnate?

The answer was obvious, hence the acres of dyevs partying here and in every other

nightclub in Russia.

Out on the dance floor, a crush of gyrating bodies made identification of individuals

impossible. Spotting a redheaded dyev on her own, Bourne walked over to her, gestured

if she wanted to dance. The earsplitting house music pumped out of a dozen massive

speakers made small talk impossible. She nodded, took his hand, and they shoved,

elbowed, and squeezed their way into a cramped space on the dance floor. The next

twenty minutes could have substituted for a vigorous workout. The dancing was nonstop,

as were the colored flashing lights and the chest-vibrating drumming of the high-octane

music spewed out by a local band called Tequilajazz.

Over the top of the redhead Bourne caught a glimpse of yet another blond dyev. Only

this one was different. Grabbing the redhead’s hand, Bourne eeled deeper into the

gyrating pack of dancers. Perfume, cologne, and sour sweat mixed with the raw tang of

hot metal and blazing monster amplifiers.

Still dancing, Bourne maneuvered around until he was certain. The blonde dyev

dancing with the broad-shouldered mobster was, indeed, Gala Nematova.

It’ll never be the same,” Dr. Mitten said.

“What the hell does that mean?” Anthony Prowess, sitting in an uncomfortable chair in

the NSA safe house just outside Moscow, barked at the ophthalmologist bent over him.

“Mr. Prowess, I don’t think you’re in the best shape to hear a full diagnosis. Why not

wait until the shock-”

“A, I’m not in shock,” Prowess lied. “And B, I don’t have time to wait.” That was true

enough: Having lost Bourne’s trail, he needed to get back on it ASAP.

Dr. Mitten sighed. He’d been expecting just such a response; in fact, he would’ve been

surprised at anything else. Still, he had a professional responsibility to his patient even if he was on retainer to the NSA.

“What it means,” he said, “is that you’ll never see out of that eye again. At least, not in any way that’ll be useful to you.”

Prowess sat with his head back, his damaged eye numbed with drops so the damn

ophthalmologist could poke around. “Details, please.”

Dr. Mitten was a tall, thin man with narrow shoulders, a wisp of a comb-over, and a

neck with a prominent Adam’s apple that bobbed comically when he spoke or swallowed.

“I believe you’ll be able to discern movement, differentiate light from dark.”

“That’s it?”

“On the other hand,” Dr. Mitten said, “when the swelling goes down you may be

completely blind in that eye.”

“Fine, now I know the worst. Just fix me the hell up so I can get out of here.”

“I don’t recommend-”

“I don’t give a shit what you recommend,” Prowess snapped. “Do as I tell you or I’ll

wring your scrawny little chicken neck.”

Dr. Mitten puffed out his checks in indignation, but he knew better than to talk back to

an agent. They seemed born with hair-trigger responses to everything, which their

training further honed.

As the ophthalmologist worked on his eye, Prowess seethed inside. Not only had he

failed to terminate Bourne, he’d allowed Bourne to permanently maim him. He was

furious at himself for turning tail and running, even though he knew that when a victim

gains the upper hand you have to exit the field as quickly as possible.

Still, Prowess would never forgive himself. It wasn’t that the pain had been

excruciating-he had an extremely high pain threshold. It wasn’t even that Bourne had

turned the tables on him-he’d redress that situation shortly. It was his eye. Ever since he was a child, he had a morbid fear of being blind. His father had been blinded in an

accidental fall getting off a transit bus, when the impact had detached both his retinas.

This was in the days before ophthalmologists could staple retinas back in place. At six

years old the horror of watching his father deteriorate from an optimistic, robust man into a bitter, withdrawn nub had imprinted itself forever in his mind. That horror had kicked

in the moment Jason Bourne had dug his thumb deep into his eye.

As he sat in the chair, brooding amid the chemical smells emitted by Dr. Mitten’s

ministrations, Prowess was filled with determination. He promised himself he’d find

Jason Bourne, and when he did Bourne would pay for the damage he’d inflicted, he’d pay

dearly before Prowess killed him.

Professor Specter was chairing a chancellors’ meeting at the university when his

private cell phone vibrated. He immediately called a fifteen-minute break, left the room,

strode down the hall and outside onto the campus.

When he was clear, he opened his cell, and heard Nemetsov’s voice buzzing in his ear.

Nemetsov was the man Baronov had called to switch cars with at Crocus City.

“Baronov’s dead?” Specter said. “How?”

He listened while Nemetsov described the attack in the car outside Tarkanian’s

apartment building. “An NSA assassin,” Nemetsov concluded. “He was waiting for

Bourne, to garrote him as he did Baronov.”

“And Jason?”

“Survived. But the assassin escaped as well.”

Specter felt a wave of relief wash over him. “Find that NSA man before he finds Jason,

and kill him. Is that clear?”

“Perfectly. But shouldn’t we also try to make contact with Bourne?”

Specter considered a moment. “No. He’s at his best when working alone. He knows

Moscow, speaks Russian fluently, and he has our fake IDs. He’ll do what must be done.”

“You’ve put your faith in this one man?”

“You don’t know him, Nemetsov, otherwise you wouldn’t make such a stupid

statement. I only wish Jason could be with us permanently.”

When, sweaty and entangled, Gala Nematova and her boy toy left the dance floor, so

did Bourne. He watched as the couple made their way to a table where they were greeted

by two other men. They all began to guzzle champagne as if it were water. Bourne waited

until they’d refilled their flutes, then swaggered over in the style of these new-style

gangsters.

Leaning over Gala’s companion, he shouted in her ear, “I have an urgent message for

you.”

“Hey,” her companion shouted back with no little belligerence, “who the fuck’re you?”

“Wrong question.” Glaring at him, Bourne pushed up the sleeve of his jacket just long

enough to give him a glimpse of his fake Anubis tattoo.

The man bit his lip and sat back down as Bourne reached over, pulled Gala Nematova

away from the table.

“We’re going outside to talk.”

“Are you crazy?” She tried to squirm away from his grip. “It’s freezing out there.”

Bourne continued to steer her by her elbow. “We’ll talk in my limo.”

“Well, that’s something.” Gala Nematova bared her teeth, clearly unhappy. Her teeth

were very white, as if scrubbed to within an inch of their lives. Her eyes were a remote

chestnut, large with uptilted corners that revealed the Asian blood in her ancestry.

A frigid wind swept off the canal, blocked only partially by the gridlock of expensive

cars and bombily. Bourne rapped on the Porsche’s door and the driver, recognizing him,

unlocked the doors. Bourne and the dyev piled in.

Gala, shivering, hugged her inadequately short fur coat around her. Bourne asked the

driver to turn up the heat. He complied, sank down in his fur-collared greatcoat.

“I don’t care what message you have for me,” Gala said sullenly. “Whatever it is, the

answer’s no.”

“Are you sure?” Bourne wondered where she was going with this.

“Sure I’m sure. I’ve had it with you guys trying to find out where Leonid Danilovich

is.”

Leonid Danilovich, Bourne said to himself. There’s a name the professor never

mentioned.

“The reason we keep hounding you is he’s sure you know.” Bourne had no idea what

he was saying, but he felt if he kept running with her he’d be able to open her up.

“I don’t.” Now Gala sounded like a little girl in a snit. “But even if I did I wouldn’t rat him out. You can tell Maslov that.” She fairly spat out the name of the Kazanskaya’s

leader, Dimitri Maslov.

Now we’re getting somewhere, Bourne thought. But why was Maslov after Leonid

Danilovich, and what did any of this have to do with Pyotr’s death? He decided to

explore this link.

“Why were you and Leonid Danilovich using Tarkanian’s apartment?”

Instantly he knew he’d made a mistake. Gala’s expression changed dramatically. Her

eyes narrowed and she made a sound deep in her throat. “What the hell is this? You

already know why we were camped out there.”

“Tell me again,” Bourne said, improvising desperately. “I’ve only heard it thirdhand.

Maybe something was left out.”

“What could be left out? Leonid Danilovich and Tarkanian are the best of friends.”

“Is that where you took Pyotr for your late-night trysts?”

“Ah, so that’s what this is all about. The Kazanskaya want to know all about Pyotr

Zilber, and I know why. Pyotr ordered the murder of Borya Maks, in prison, of all places-

High Security Prison Colony 13. Who could do that? Get in there, kill Maks, a

Kazanskaya contract killer of great strength and skill, and get out without being seen.”

“That’s precisely what Maslov wants to know,” Bourne said, because it was the safe

comment to make.

Gala picked at her nail extensions, realized what she was doing, stopped. “He suspects

Leonid Danilovich did it because Leonid is known for such feats. No one else could do

that, he’s sure.”

Time to press her, Bourne decided. “He’s right on the money.”

Gala shrugged.

“Why are you protecting Leonid?”

“I love him.”

“The way you loved Pyotr?”

“Don’t be absurd.” Gala laughed. “I never loved Pyotr. He was a job Semion Icoupov

paid me handsomely for.”

“And Pyotr paid for your treachery with his life.”

Gala seemed to peer at him in a different light. “Who are you?”

Bourne ignored her question. “During that time where did you meet Icoupov?”

“I never met him. Leonid served as intermediary.”

Now Bourne’s mind raced to put the building blocks Gala had provided into their

proper order. “You know, don’t you, that Leonid murdered Pyotr.” He didn’t of course

know that, but given the circumstances it seemed all too likely.

“No.” Gala blanched. “That can’t be.”

“You can see how it must be what happened. Icoupov didn’t kill Pyotr himself, surely

that much must be clear to you.” He observed the fear mounting behind her eyes. “Who

else would Icoupov have trusted to do it? Leonid was the only other person to know you

were spying on Pyotr for Icoupov.”

The truth of what he said was written on Gala’s face like a road sign appearing out of

the fog. While she was still in shock, Bourne said, “Please tell me Leonid’s full name.”

“What?”

“Just do as I tell you,” Bourne said. “It may be the only way to save him from being

killed by the Kazanskaya.”

“But you’re Kazanskaya.”

Pushing up his sleeve, Bourne gave her a close-up look at the false tattoo. “A

Kazanskaya was waiting for Leonid in Tarkanian’s apartment this evening.”

“I don’t believe you.” Her eyes widened. “What were you doing there?”

“Tarkanian’s dead,” Bourne said. “Now do you want to help the man you say you

love?”

“I do love Leonid! I don’t care what he did.”

At that moment, the driver cursed mightily, turned in his seat. “My client’s coming.”

“Go on,” Bourne urged Gala. “Write his name down.”

“Something must’ve happened in the VIP,” the driver said. “Shit, he looks pissed. You

gotta get outta here now.”

Bourne grabbed Gala, opened the street-side door, nearly burying it in the fender of a

hurtling bombily. He flagged it down with a fistful of rubles, made the transfer from

Western luxury to Eastern poverty in one stride. Gala Nematova broke away from him as

he was entering the Zhig. He clutched her by the back of her fur coat, but she shrugged it

off, began to run. The cabbie stepped on the gas, the stench of diesel fumes foaming up

into the interior, choking them so badly Bourne had to crank open a window. As he did

so, he saw two men who’d been at her table come out of the club. They looked right and

left. One of them spotted Gala’s running figure, gestured to the other one, and they took

off after her.

“Follow those men!” Bourne shouted to the cabbie.

The cabbie had a flat face with a distinctly Asian caste. He was fat, greasy, and spoke

Russian with an abominable accent. Clearly, Russian wasn’t his first language. “You’re

joking, yes?”

Bourne thrust more rubles at him. “I’m joking, no.”

The cabbie shrugged, crashed the Zhig into first gear, depressed the gas pedal.

At that moment the two men caught up with Gala.

Twenty

AT PRECISELY that moment, Leonid Danilovich Arkadin and Devra were deciding

how to get to Haydar without Devra’s people knowing about it.

“Best would be to extract him from his environment,” Arkadin said. “But for that we

need to know his habitual movements. I don’t have time-”

“I know a way,” Devra said.

The two of them were sitting side by side on a bed on the ground floor of a small inn.

The room wasn’t much to look at-just a bed, a chair, a broken-down dresser-but it had its

own bathroom, a shower with plenty of hot water, which they’d used one after the other.

Best of all, it was warm.

“Haydar’s a gambler,” she continued. “Almost every evening he’s hunkered down in

the back room of a local cafй. He knows the owner, who lets them play without imposing

a fee. In fact, once a week he joins them.” She glanced at her watch. “He’s sure to be

there now.”

“What good is that? Your people are sure to protect him there.”

“Right, that’s why we aren’t going to go near the place.”

An hour later, they were sitting in their rented car on the side of a two-lane road. All

their lights were off. They were freezing. Whatever snow had seemed imminent had

passed them by. A half-moon rode in the sky, an Old World lantern revealing wisps of

clouds and bluish crusty snowbanks.

“This is the route Haydar takes to and from the game.” Devra tilted her watch face so it

was illuminated by the moonglow coming off the banked snow. “He should show any

minute now.”

Arkadin was behind the wheel. “Just point out the car, leave the rest to me.” One hand

was on the ignition key, the other on the gearshift. “We have to be prepared. He might

have an escort.”

“If he’s got guards they’ll be in the same car with him,” Devra said. “The roads are so

bad it will be extremely difficult to keep him in sight from a trailing vehicle.”

“One car,” Arkadin said. “All the better.”

A moment later the night was momentarily lit by a moving glow below the rise in the

road.

“Headlights.” Devra tensed. “That’s the right direction.”

“You’ll know his car?”

“I’ll know it,” she said. “There aren’t many cars in the area. Mostly old trucks for

carting.”

The glow brightened. Then they saw the headlights themselves as the vehicle crested

the rise. From the position of the headlights, Arkadin could tell this was a car, not a truck.

“It’s him,” she said.

“Get out,” Arkadin ordered. “Run! Run now!”

Keep moving,” Bourne told the cabbie, “in first gear only till I tell you different.”

“I don’t think-”

But Bourne had already swung open the curbside door, was sprinting toward the two

men. One had Gala, the other was turning, raising his hand, perhaps a signal for one of

the waiting cars. Bourne chopped his midsection with his two hands, brought his head

down to his raised knee. The man’s teeth clacked together and he toppled over.

The second man swung Gala around so that she was between him and Bourne. He

scrabbled for his gun, but Bourne was too quick. Reaching around Gala, Bourne went for

him. He moved to block Bourne and Gala stamped her heel on his instep. That was all the

distraction Bourne needed. With a hand around her waist, he pulled her away, delivered a

vicious uppercut to the man’s throat. Reflexively, he put two hands up, choking and

gagging. Bourne delivered two quick blows to his stomach and he, too, hit the pavement.

“Come on!”

Bourne grabbed Gala by the hand, made for the bombila, moving slowly along the

street with its door open. Bourne swung her inside, climbed in after her, slammed the

door shut.

“Take off!” he shouted at the cabbie. “Take off now!”

Shivering with the cold, Gala rolled up the window.

“My name is Yakov,” the cabbie said, craning his neck to look at them in the rearview

mirror. “You make much excitement for me tonight. Is there more? Where can I take

you?”

“Just drive around,” Bourne said.

Several blocks on he discovered Gala staring at him.

“You weren’t lying to me,” she said.

“Neither were you. Clearly, the Kazanskaya think you know where Leonid is.”

“Leonid Danilovich Arkadin.” She was still trying to catch her breath. “That’s his

name. It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

“What I want,” Bourne said, “is a meeting with Dimitri Maslov.”

“The head of the Kazanskaya? You’re insane.”

“Leonid has been playing with a very bad crowd,” Bourne said. “He’s put you in

harm’s way. Unless I can persuade Maslov that you don’t know where Arkadin is you’ll

never be safe.”

Shivering, Gala struggled back into her fur jacket. “Why did you save me?” She pulled

the jacket tight around her slender frame. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because I can’t let Arkadin throw you to the wolves.”

“That’s not what he’s done,” she protested.

“What would you call it?”

She opened her mouth, closed it again, bit her lip as if she could find an answer in her

pain.

They had reached the inner Garden Road. Traffic whizzed by at dizzying speeds. The

cabbie was about to earn his bombily name.

“Where to?” he said over his shoulder.

There was silence for a moment. Then Gala leaned forward, gave him an address.

“And where the fuck might that be?” the cabbie asked.

That was another oddity about bombily. Since almost none of them were Muscovites,

they had no idea where anything was. Unfazed, Gala gave him directions and, with a

horrific belching of diesel fumes, they lurched into the madly spinning traffic.

“Since we can’t go back to the apartment,” Gala said, “we’ll crash at my girlfriend’s

place. I’ve done it before. She’s cool with it.”

“Do the Kazanskaya know about her?”

Gala frowned. “I don’t think so, no.”

“We can’t take the chance.” Bourne gave the cabbie the address of one of the new

American-run hotels near Red Square. “That’s the last place they’ll think to look for

you,” he said as the cabbie changed gears and they hurtled through the spangled Moscow

night.

Alone in the car, Arkadin fired the ignition and pulled out. He stamped on the gas

pedal, accelerating so quickly his head jerked back. Just before he slammed into the right

corner of Haydar’s car, he switched on his headlights. He could see Haydar’s bodyguards

in the rear seat. They were in the process of turning around when Arkadin’s car made

jarring contact. The rear end of Haydar’s car slewed to the left, beginning its spin;

Arkadin braked sharply, rammed the right back door, staving it in. Haydar, who had been

struggling with the wheel, completely lost control of the car. It spun off the road, its front now facing the way it had come. Its rear struck a tree, the bumper broke in two, the trunk

collapsed, and there it sat, a crippled animal. Arkadin drove off the road, put his car in

park, got out, stalking toward Haydar. His headlights were shining directly into the

wrecked car. He could see Haydar behind the wheel, conscious, clearly in shock. Only

one of the men in the backseat was visible. His head was thrown back and to one side.

There was blood on his face, black and glistening in the harsh light.

Haydar cringed fearfully as Arkadin made for the bodyguards. Both rear doors were so

buckled they could not be opened. Using his elbow, Arkadin smashed the near-side rear

window and peered in. One man had been caught in Arkadin’s broadside hit. He’d been

thrown clear across the car, lay half on the lap of the bodyguard still sitting up. Neither one moved.

As Arkadin moved to haul Haydar out from behind the wheel, Devra came hurtling out

of the darkness. Haydar’s eyes opened wide as he recognized her. She tackled Arkadin,

her momentum knocking him off his feet.

Haydar watched in amazement as they rolled over through the snow, now visible, now

not in the headlight beams. Haydar could see her striking him, the much larger man

fighting back, gradually gaining the upper hand by dint of his superior bulk and strength.

Then Devra reared back. Haydar could see a knife in her hand. She drove it down into

darkness, stabbing again and again.

When she rose again into the headlight beams he could see her breathing heavily. Her

hand was empty. Haydar figured she must have left the knife buried in her adversary. She

staggered for a moment with the aftereffects of her struggle. Then she made her way over

to him.

Yanking open the car door, she said, “Are you okay?”

He nodded, shrinking away from her. “I was told you’d turned on us, joined the other

side.”

She laughed. “That’s just what I wanted that sonovabitch to think. He managed to get

to Shumenko and Filya. After that I figured the only way to survive was to play along

with him until I got a chance to take him down.”

Haydar nodded. “This is the final battle. The thought that you’d turned traitor was

dispiriting. I know some of us thought your status was earned on your back, in Pyotr’s

bed. But not me.” The shock was coming out of his eyes. The old canny light was

returning.

“Where is the package?” she said. “Is it safe?”

“I handed it off to Heinrich this evening -at the card game.”

“Has he left for Munich?”

“Why the hell would he stay a minute more than he had to? He hates it here. I assume

he was driving to Istanbul for his usual early-evening flight.” His eyes narrowed. “Why

d’you want to know?”

He gave a little yelp as Arkadin loomed out of the night. Looking from Devra to

Arkadin and back again, he said, “What is this? I saw you stab him to death.”

“You saw what we wanted you to see.” Arkadin handed Devra his gun, and she shot

Haydar between the eyes.

She turned back to him, handed him the gun butt-first. There was clear defiance in her

voice when she said, “Have I proved myself to you now?”

Bourne checked into the Metropolya Hotel as Fyodor Ilianovich Popov. The night

clerk didn’t bat an eye at Gala’s presence, nor did he ask for her ID. Having Popov’s was

enough to satisfy hotel policy. The lobby, with its gilt sconces and accents, and glittering crystal chandeliers, looked like something out of the czarist era, the designers thumbing

their nose at the architecture of Soviet Brutalism.

They took one of the silk-lined elevators to the seventeenth floor. Bourne opened the

door to their room with an electronically coded plastic card. After a thorough visual

check, he allowed her to enter. She took off her fur jacket. The act of sitting on the bed

rode her mini-skirt farther up her thighs, but she appeared unconcerned.

Leaning forward, elbows on knees, she said, “Thank you for saving me. But to be

honest, I don’t know what I’ll do now.”

Bourne pulled out the chair that went with the desk, sat facing her. “The first thing you

have to do is tell me whether you know where Arkadin is.”

Gala looked down at the carpet between her feet. She rubbed her arms as if she was

still cold, though the temperature in the room was warm enough.

“All right,” Bourne said, “let’s talk about something else. Do you know anything about

the Black Legion?”

Her head came up, her brows furrowed. “Now, that’s odd you should mention them.”