Текст книги "The Bourne Sanction (Санкция Борна)"

Автор книги: Eric Van Lustbader

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approached the intersection near the bank, she used the time to pick a likely target. A

shiny Zil limousine, not a speck of snow on its hood or roof, was heading slowly toward

the intersection at right angles to her.

At the appointed time she accelerated forward. The bombila’s tires, which she and

Bourne had checked when they’d returned to Lorraine’s, were nearly bald, their treads

worn down to a nub. Gala braked much too hard and the Zhig shrieked as the brakes

locked, the old tires skidding along the icy street until its grille struck the front fender of the Zil limo.

All traffic came to a screeching halt, horns blared, pedestrians detoured from their

appointed rounds, drawn by the spectacle. Within thirty seconds three police cruisers had

converged on the site of the accident.

As the chaos mounted, Bourne slipped through the revolving door into the ornate lobby

of the Moskva Bank. He immediately crossed the marble floor, passing under one of the

three huge gilt chandeliers that hung from the vaulted ceiling high above. The effect of

the room was to diminish human size, and the experience was not unlike visiting a dead

relative in his marble niche.

There was a low banquette two-thirds of the way across the vast room, behind which

sat a row of drones, their heads bent over their work. Before approaching, Bourne

checked everyone inside the bank for suspicious behavior. He produced Popov’s

passport, then wrote down the number of the safe-deposit box on a small pad kept for that

specific purpose.

The woman glanced at him, took his passport and the slip of paper, which she ripped

off the pad. Locking her drawer, she told Bourne to wait. He watched her walk over to

the rank of supervisors and managers, who sat in rows behind identical wooden desks,

and present Bourne’s documentation. The manager checked the number against his

master list of safe-deposit boxes, then he checked the passport. He hesitated, then reached for the phone, but when he noticed Bourne staring at him, he returned to receiver to its

cradle. He said something to the woman clerk, then rose and came over to where Bourne

stood.

“Mr. Popov.” He handed back the passport. “Vasily Legev, at your service.” He was an

oily Muscovite who continually scrubbed his palms together as if his hands had been

somewhere he’d rather not reveal. His smile seemed as genuine as a three-dollar bill.

Opening a door in the banquette, he ushered Bourne through. “It will be my pleasure to

escort you to our vault.”

He led Bourne to the rear of the room. A discreet door opened onto a hushed carpeted

corridor with a row of square columns on either side. Bad reproductions of famous

landscape paintings hung on the walls. Bourne could hear the muted sounds of phones

ringing, computer operators inputting information or writing letters. The vault was

directly ahead, its massive door open; to the left a set of marble stairs swept upward.

Vasily Legev showed Bourne through the circular opening and into the vault. The

hinges of the door looked to be two feet long and as thick around as Bourne’s biceps.

Inside was a rectangular room filled floor-to-ceiling with metal boxes, only the fronts of

which could be seen.

They went over to Bourne’s box number. There were two locks, two keyholes. Vasily

Legev inserted his key in the left-hand lock, Bourne inserted his into the right-hand lock.

The two men turned their keys at the same time, and the box was free to be pulled out of

its niche. Vasily Legev brought the box to one of a number of small viewing rooms. He

set it down on a ledge, nodded to Bourne, then left, pulling the privacy curtain behind

him.

Bourne didn’t bother sitting. Opening the box, he discovered a great deal of money in

American dollars, euros, Swiss francs, and a number of other currencies. He pocketed ten

thousand Swiss francs, along with some dollars and euros, before he closed the box,

pulled aside the curtain, and emerged into the vault proper.

Vasily Legev was nowhere to be seen, but two plainclothes cops had placed

themselves between Bourne and the doorway to the vault. One of them aimed a Makarov

handgun at him.

The other, smirking, said, “You will come with us now, gospadin Popov.”

Arkadin, hands in his pockets, strolled down the crescent beach, past a happily barking

dog whose owner had let it off the leash. A young woman pulled her auburn hair off her

face and smiled at him as they passed each other.

When he was fairly near Heinrich, Arkadin kicked off his shoes, peeled off his socks,

and, rolling up his trousers, picked his way down to the surf line, where the sand turned

dark and crusty. He moved at an angle, so that as he ventured into the surf he was within

earshot of the courier.

Sensing someone near him, Heinrich turned and, shading his eyes from the sun,

nodded at Arkadin before turning away.

Under the pretext of stumbling as the surf rolled in, Arkadin edged closer. “I’m

surprised that someone besides me likes the winter surf.”

Heinrich seemed not to hear him, continued his contemplation of the horizon.

“I keep wondering what it is that feels so good about the water rushing over my feet

and pulling back out.”

After a moment, Heinrich glanced at him. “If you don’t mind, I’m trying to meditate.”

“Meditate on this,” Arkadin said, sticking a knife very carefully in his side.

Heinrich’s eyes opened wide. He staggered, but Arkadin was there to catch him. They

sat down together in the surf, like old friends communing with nature.

Heinrich’s mouth made gasping sounds. They reminded Arkadin of a fish hauled out of

the water.

“What… what?”

Arkadin cradled him with one hand as he searched beneath his poplin jacket with the

other. Just as he thought, Heinrich had the package on him, not trusting it to be out of his sight for an instant. He held it in his palm for a moment. It was in a rolled cardboard

cylinder. So small for something with that much power.

“A lot of people have died for this,” Arkadin said.

“Many more will die before it’s over,” Heinrich managed to get out. “Who are you?”

“I’m your death,” Arkadin said. Plunging the knife in again, he turned it between

Heinrich’s ribs.

“Ah, ah, ah,” Heinrich whispered as his lungs filled with his own blood. His breathing

turned shallow, then erratic. Then it ceased altogether.

Arkadin continued to shelter him with a comradely arm. When Heinrich, nothing more

than deadweight now, slumped against him, Arkadin held him up as the surf crashed and

ebbed around them.

Arkadin stared out at the horizon, as Heinrich had done, certain that beyond the

demarcation was nothing save a black abyss, endless and unknowable.

Bourne went willingly with the two plainclothes policemen out of the vault. As they

stepped into the corridor, Bourne slammed the edge of his hand down on the cop’s wrist,

causing the Makarov to drop and slide along the floor. Whirling, Bourne kicked the other

cop, who was flung back against the edge of a square column. Bourne grabbed hold of

the arm of the first cop. Lifting it, he slammed his elbow into the cop’s rib cage, then

smashed his hand into the back of his neck. With both cops down, Bourne hurried along

the corridor, but another man came sprinting toward him, blocking the way to the front of

the bank, a man who fit Yakov’s description of Harris Low.

Reversing course, Bourne leapt up the marble staircase, taking the steps three at a time.

Racing around the turn, he gained the landing of the second floor. He’d memorized the

plans Baronov’s friend had procured for him and had planned for an emergency, not

trusting to chance that he’d get in and out of the bank without being identified. It was

clear Vasily Legev, having recognized gospadin Popov, would blow the whistle on him

while he was inside the safe-deposit viewing cubicle. As Bourne broke out into the

corridor he encountered one of the bank’s security men. Grabbing him by the front of his

uniform, Bourne jerked him off his feet, swung him around, and hurled him down the

stairs at the ascending NSA agent.

Racing down the corridor, reached the door to the fire stairs, opened it, and went

through. Like many buildings of its vintage this one had a staircase that rose around an

open central core.

Bourne took off up the stairs. He passed the third floor, then the fourth. Behind him, he

could hear the fire door bang open, the sound of hurried footsteps on the stairs behind

him. His maneuver with the guard had slowed down the agent, but hadn’t stopped him.

He was midway to the fifth and top floor when the agent fired on him. Bourne ducked,

hearing the spang! of the ricochet. He sprinted upward as another shot went past him.

Reaching the door to the roof at last, he opened it, and slammed it shut behind him.

Harris Low was furious. With all the personnel at his disposal Bourne was still at large.

That’s what you get, he thought as he raced up the stairwell, when you leave the details to the Russians. They were great at brute force, but when it came to the subtleties of

undercover work they were all but useless. Those two plainclothes officers, for instance.

Over Low’s objections they hadn’t waited for him, had gone into the vault after Bourne

themselves. Now he was left with mopping up the mess they’d made.

He came to the door to the roof, turned the handle, and banged it open with the flat of

his shoe. The tarred rooftop, the low winter sky glowered at him. Walther PPK/S at the

ready, he stepped out onto the roof in a semi-crouch. Without warning, the door slammed

shut on him, driving him back onto the small landing.

Up on the roof, Bourne pulled open the door and dived through. He struck Low three

blows, directed first at the agent’s stomach and then at his right wrist, forcing Low to let go of the gun. The Walther flew down the stairwell, landing on a step just above the

fourth floor.

Low, enraged, drove his fists into Bourne’s kidney twice in succession. Bourne

collapsed to his knees, and Low kicked him onto his back then straddled his chest,

pinning Bourne’s arms. Low gripped Bourne’s throat, squeezing as hard as he could.

Bourne struggled to get his arms free, but he had insufficient leverage. He tried to get a

breath, but Low’s grip on him was so complete that he was unable to get any oxygen into

his system. He stopped trying to free his arms and pressed down with the small of his

back, providing a fulcrum for his legs, which he drew up, then extended toward his head.

He brought his calves together, sandwiching Low’s head between them. Low tried to

shake them off, violently twisting his shoulders back and forth, but Bourne held on,

increasing his grip. Then, with an enormous effort, Bourne spun them both to the left.

Low’s head hit against the wall, and Bourne’s arms were free. Unwinding his legs, he

slammed the palms of his hands against Low’s ears.

Low shouted in pain, kicked away, and scrambled back down the stairs. Bourne, on his

knees, could see that Low was heading for the Walther. Bourne rose. Just as Low reached

it, Bourne launched himself down and across the air shaft. He landed on Low, who

whipped the Walther’s short but thick barrel into Bourne’s face. Bourne reared back, and

Low bent him over the railing. Four floors of air shaft loomed below, ending in an

unforgiving concrete base. As they locked in their struggle, Low slowly, inexorably,

brought the muzzle of the Walther to bear on Bourne’s face. At the same time, the heel of

Bourne’s hand was pushing Low’s head up.

Low shook loose from Bourne’s grip, lunged at him in an effort to pistol-whip him into

unconsciousness. Bourne bent his knees. Using Low’s own momentum, he slid one arm

under the agent’s crotch, and lifted him up. Low tried to get a fix on Bourne with the

Walther, failed, swung his arm back to deliver another blow with the barrel.

Using all his remaining strength, Bourne hefted him up and over the banister, dumping

him down the air shaft. Low plummeted, a tangle of arms and legs, until he hit the

bottom.

Bourne turned, went back out onto the roof. As he loped across it, he could hear the

familiar rise and fall of police sirens. He wiped blood off his cheek with the back of his

hand. Reaching the other side of the roof, he climbed atop the parapet, leapt across the

intervening space onto the roof of the adjoining building. He did this twice more until he

felt that it was safe for him to return to the street.

Twenty-Five

SORAYA HAD NEVER understood the nature of panic, despite the fact that she grew

up with an aunt who was prone to panic attacks. When the attacks came on her aunt said

she felt as if someone had put a plastic dry-cleaning bag over her head; she felt as if she were being smothered to death. Soraya would watch her huddled in a chair or curled up

on her bed and wonder how on earth she could feel such a thing. There weren’t even any

plastic dry-cleaning bags allowed in the house. How could a person feel as if she were

suffocating when there wasn’t anything on her face?

Now she knew.

As she drove out of the NSA safe house without Tyrone, as the high reinforced metal

gates swung closed behind her, her hands trembled on the wheel, her heart felt as if it was jumping painfully inside her breast. There was a film of sweat on her upper lip, under her

arms, and at the nape of her neck. Worst of all, she couldn’t catch her breath. Her mind

raced like a rat in a cage. She gasped, sucking ragged gulps of air in to her lungs. She felt, in short, as if she were being smothered to death. Then her stomach rebelled.

As quickly as she was able she pulled to the side of the road, got out, and stumbled into

the trees. Falling to her hands and knees, she vomited up the sweet, milky Ceylon tea.

Jason, Tyrone, and Veronica Hart were now all in terrible jeopardy because of rash

decisions she’d made. She quailed at the thought. It was one thing to be chief of station in Odessa, quite another to be director. Maybe she’d taken on more than she could handle,

maybe she didn’t have the steel nerve that was required to make tough choices. Where

was her vaunted confidence? It was back there in the NSA interrogation cell with Tyrone.

Somehow she made it to Alexandria, where she parked. She sat in the car bent over,

her clammy forehead pressed to the steering wheel. She tried to think coherently, but her

brain seemed encased in a block of concrete. At last, she wept bitterly.

She had to call Deron, but she was petrified of his reaction when she told him that she

had allowed his protйgй to be captured and tortured by the NSA. She had fucked up big

time. And she had no idea how to rectify the situation. The choice LaValle had given her-

Veronica Hart for Tyrone-was unacceptable.

After a time, she calmed down enough to get out of the car. She moved like a

sleepwalker through crowds of people oblivious to her agony. It seemed somehow wrong

that the world should spin on as it always had, utterly indifferent and uncaring.

She ducked into a little tea shop, and as she rummaged in her handbag for her cell

phone she saw the pack of cigarettes. A cigarette would calm her nerves, but standing out

in the chilly street while she smoked would make her feel more of a lost soul. She

decided to have a smoke on the way back to her car. Placing her cell phone on the table,

she stared down at it as if it were alive. She ordered chamomile tea, which calmed her

enough for her to pick up her phone. She punched in Deron’s number, but when she

heard his voice her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth.

Eventually, she was able to get out her name. Before he could ask her how the mission

went she asked to speak with Kiki, Deron’s girlfriend. Where that came from, she had no

idea. She’d met Kiki only twice. But Kiki was a woman and, instinctively, with an

atavistic clannishness, Soraya knew it would be easier to confess to her than to Deron.

When Kiki came on the line, Soraya asked if she could come to the little tea shop in

Alexandria. When Kiki asked when, Soraya said, “Now. Please.”

The first thing you have to do is stop blaming yourself,” Kiki said after Soraya had

finished recounting in painful detail what had happened at the NSA safe house. “It’s your

guilt that’s paralyzing you, and believe me you’re going to need every last brain cell if

we’re going to get Tyrone out of that hole.”

Soraya looked up from her pallid tea.

Kiki smiled, nodding. In her dark red dress, her hair up in a swirl, hammered-gold

earrings depending from her earlobes, she looked more regal, more exotic than ever. She

towered over everyone in the tea shop by at least six inches.

“I know I have to tell Deron,” Soraya said. “I just don’t know what his reaction is

going to be.”

“His reaction won’t be as bad as what you fear,” Kiki said. “And after all, Tyrone is a

grown man. He knew the risks as well as anyone. It was his choice, Soraya. He could’ve

said no.”

Soraya shook her head. “That’s just it, I don’t think he could, at least not from the way

he sees things.” She stirred her tea, more to forestall what she knew she had to say. Then

she looked up, licked her lips. “See, Tyrone’s got a thing for me.”

“Doesn’t he ever!”

Soraya was taken aback. “You know?”

“Everyone who knows him knows, honey. You just have to look at him when the two

of you are together.”

Soraya felt her cheeks flush. “I think he would’ve done anything I asked of him no

matter how dangerous, even if he didn’t want to.”

“But you know he wanted to.”

It was true, Soraya thought. He’d been excited. Nervous, but definitely excited. She

knew that ever since Deron had taken him under his wing he’d chafed at being cooped up

in the hood. He was smarter than that, and Deron knew it. But he had neither the interest

nor the aptitude for what Deron did. Then she came along. He’d told her he saw her as his

ticket out of the ghetto.

Yet she still had a knot in her chest, a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. She could

not get out of her head the image of Tyrone on his knees, hooded, arms held behind him

on the tabletop.

“You just turned pale,” Kiki said. “Are you all right?”

Soraya nodded. She wanted to tell Kiki what she had seen, but she couldn’t. She

sensed that to talk about it would give it a reality so frightening, so powerful it would

throw her back into panic.

“Then we ought to go.”

Soraya’s heart tripped over itself. “No time like the present,” she said.

As they went out the door, she pulled out the pack of cigarettes and threw it in a nearby

trash can. She didn’t need it anymore.

As planned, Gala picked up Bourne in Yakov’s bombila and together they returned to

Lorraine’s apartment. It was just past 10 AM; his meet with Maslov wasn’t until noon.

He needed a shower, a shave, and some rest.

Lorraine was kind enough to provide the necessities for all three. She gave Bourne a

set of towels, a disposable razor, and said if he gave her his clothes she’d wash and dry

them for him. In the bathroom Bourne stripped, then opened the door enough to hand the

dirty clothes to Lorraine.

“After I put these in the wash, Gala and I are going out to get food. Can we bring you

anything?”

Bourne thanked her. “Whatever you’re having will be fine.”

He closed the door, crossed to the shower, turned it on full force. Opening the

medicine cabinet, he took out rubbing alcohol, a gauze pad, surgical tape, and antibiotic

cream. Then he went back to the toilet, put the seat cover down, and cleaned his abraded

heel. It had taken a lot of abuse and was red and raw looking. Squeezing the cream onto

the gauze, he placed it over the wound and taped it up.

Then he took his cell phone off the edge of the sink where he’d placed it when

undressing, and dialed the number Boris Karpov had given him.

Would you mind going without me?” Gala said, as Lorraine reached into the hall closet

for her fur coat. “All of a sudden I’m not feeling well.”

Lorraine walked back to her. “What is it?”

“I don’t know.” Gala sank onto the white leather sofa. “I’m kind of dizzy.”

Lorraine took hold of the back of her head. “Bend over. Put your head between your

knees.”

Gala did as she was told. Lorraine crossed to the sideboard, took out a bottle of vodka,

and poured some into a glass. “Here, take a drink. It’ll settle you.”

Gala came up as gingerly as a drunk walks. She took the vodka, threw it down her

throat so fast she almost choked. But then the fire hit her stomach and the warmth began

to spread through her.

“Okay?” Lorraine asked.

“Better.”

“All right. I’m going to buy you some hot borscht. You need to get some nourishment

into you.” She drew on her coat. “Why don’t you lie down?”

Once again Gala did as she was told, but after her friend left, she rose. She’d never

found the sofa comfortable. Making sure of her balance, she went down the hall. She

needed to crash on a proper bed.

As she was passing the bathroom, she heard a sound like talking, but Bourne was in

there by himself. Curious, she moved closer, then put her ear to the door. She could hear

the rushing of the shower more clearly, but also Bourne’s voice. He must be on his cell

phone.

She heard him say “Medvedev did what?” He was talking politics to whoever was on

the other end of the line. She was about to take her ear away from the door when she

heard Bourne say, “It was bad luck with Tarkanian… No, no, I killed him… I had to, I

had no other choice.”

Gala pulled away as if she’d touched her ear to a hot iron. For some time, she stood

staring at the closed door, then she backed away. Bourne had killed Mischa! My God, she

said to herself. How could he? And then, thinking of Arkadin, Mischa’s best friend, My

God.

Twenty-Six

DIMITRI MASLOV had the eyes of a rattlesnake, the shoulders of a wrestler, and the

hands of a bricklayer. He was, however, dressed like a banker when Bourne met him

inside a warehouse that could have doubled as an aircraft hanger. He was wearing a

chalk-striped three-piece Savile Row suit, an Egyptian cotton shirt, and a conservative

tie. His powerful legs ended in curiously dainty feet, as if they’d been grafted on from

another, far smaller body.

“Don’t bother telling me your name,” he said as he accepted the ten thousand Swiss

francs, “as I always assume they’re fake.”

The warehouse was one among many in this soot-laden industrial area on the outskirts

of Moscow, and therefore anonymous. Like its neighbors, it had a front area filled with

boxes and crates on neat stacks of wooden pallets piled almost to the ceiling. Parked in

one corner was a forklift. Next to it was a bulletin board on which had been tacked

overlapping layers of flyers, notices, invoices, advertisements, and announcements. Bare

lightbulbs at the ends of metal flex burned like miniature suns.

After Bourne had been expertly patted down for weapons and wires, he’d been

escorted through a door to a tiled bathroom that stank of urine and stale sweat. It

contained a trough with water running sluggishly along its bottom and a line of stalls. He

was taken to the last stall. Inside, instead of a toilet, was a door. His escort of two burly Russians took him through to what appeared to be a warren of offices, one of which was

raised on a steel platform bolted onto the far wall. They climbed the staircase to the door, at which point his escort had left him, presumably to go stand guard.

Maslov was seated behind an ornate desk. He was flanked on either side by two more

men, interchangeable with the pair outside. In one corner sat a man with a scar beneath

one eye, who would have been unprepossessing save for the flamboyant Hawaiian print

shirt he wore. Bourne was aware of another presence behind him, his back against the

open door.

“I understand you wanted to see me.” Maslov’s rattlesnake eyes shone yellow in the

harsh light. Then he gestured, holding out his left arm, his hand extended, palm-up, as if

he were shoveling dirt away from him. “However, there’s someone who insists on seeing

you.”

In a blur, the figure behind Bourne hurled himself forward. Bourne turned in a half

crouch to see the man who’d attacked him at Tarkanian’s apartment. He came at Bourne

with a knife extended. Too late to deflect it, Bourne sidestepped the thrust, grabbed the

man’s right wrist with his left hand, using his own momentum to pull him forward so that

his face met Bourne’s raised elbow flush-on.

He went down. Bourne stepped on the wrist with his shoe until the man let go of the

knife, which Bourne took up in his hand. At once the two burly bodyguards drew down

on him, pointing their Glocks. Ignoring them, Bourne held the knife in his right palm so

the hilt pointed away from him. He extended his arm across the desk to Maslov.

Maslov stared instead at the man in the Hawaiian print shirt, who rose, took the knife

from Bourne’s palm.

“I am Dimitri Maslov,” he said to Bourne.

The big man in the banker’s suit rose, nodded deferentially to Maslov, who handed

him the knife as he sat down behind the desk.

“Take Evsei out and get him a new nose,” Maslov said to no one in particular.

The big man in the banker’s suit pulled the dazed Evsei up, dragged him out of the

office.

“Close the door,” Maslov said, again to no one in particular.

Nevertheless, one of the burly Russian bodyguards crossed to the door, closed it,

turned and put his back against it. He shook out a cigarette, lit it.

“Take a seat,” Maslov said. Sliding open a drawer, he took out a Mauser, laid it on the

desk within easy reach. Only then did his eyes slide up to engage Bourne’s again. “My

dear friend Vanya tells me that you work for Boris Karpov. He says you claim to have

information I can use against certain parties who are trying to muscle in on my territory.”

His fingers tapped the grips of the Mauser. “However, I would be inexcusably naive to

believe that you were willing to part with this information without a price, so let’s have it.

What do you want?”

“I want to know what your connection is with the Black Legion?”

“Mine? I have none.”

“But you’ve heard of them.”

“Of course I’ve heard of them.” Maslov frowned. “Where is this going?”

“You posted your man Evsei in Mikhail Tarkanian’s apartment. Tarkanian was a

member of the Black Legion.”

Maslov held up a hand. “Where the hell did you hear that?”

“He was working against people-friends of mine.”

Maslov shrugged. “That might be so-I have no knowledge of it one way or another.

But one thing I can tell you is that Tarkanian wasn’t Black Legion.”

“Then why was Evsei there?”

“Ah, now we get to the root of the matter.” Maslov’s thumb rubbed against his

forefinger and middle finger in the universal gesture. “Show me the quid pro quo, to co-

opt what Jerry Maguire says.” His mouth grinned, but his yellow eyes remained as

remote and malevolent as ever. “Though to tell you the truth I’m doubting very much

there’s any money at all. I mean to say, why would the Federal Anti-Narcotics Agency

want to help me? It’s anti-fucking-intuitive.”

Bourne finally pulled over a chair, sat down. His mind was rerunning the long

conversation he’d had with Boris at Lorraine’s apartment, during which Karpov had

briefed him on the current political climate in Moscow.

“This has nothing to do with narcotics and everything to do with politics. The Federal

Anti-Narcotics Agency is controlled by Cherkesov, who’s in the midst of a parallel war

to yours-the silovik wars,” Bourne said. “It seems as if the president has already picked

his successor.”

“That pisspot Mogilovich.” Maslov nodded. “Yeah, so what?”

“Cherkesov doesn’t like him, and here’s why. Mogilovich used to work for the

president in the St. Petersburg city administration way back when. The president put him

in charge of the legal department of VM Pulp and Paper. Mogilovich promptly

engineered VM’s dominance to become Russia’s largest and most lucrative pulp and

timber company. Now one of America’s largest paper companies is buying fifty percent

of VM for hundreds of millions of dollars.”

During Bourne’s discourse Maslov had taken out a penknife, was busy paring grime

from under his manicured nails. He did everything but yawn. “All this is part of the

public record. What’s it to me?”

“What isn’t known is that Mogilovich cut himself a deal giving him a sizable portion

of VM’s shares when the company was privatized through RAB Bank. At the time,

questions were raised about Mogilovich’s involvement with RAB Bank, but they

magically went away. Last year VM bought back the twenty-five percent stake that RAB

had taken to ensure the privatization would go through without a hitch. The deal was

blessed by the Kremlin.”

“Meaning the president.” Maslov sat up straight, put away the penknife.

“Right,” Bourne said. “Which means that Mogilovich stands to make a king’s ransom

through the American buy-in, by means the president wouldn’t want made public.”

“Who knows what the president’s own involvement is in the deal?”

Bourne nodded.

“Wait a minute,” Maslov said. “Last week a RAB Bank officer was found tied up,

tortured, and asphyxiated in his dacha garage. I remember because the General

Prosecutor’s Office claimed he’d committed suicide. We all got a good laugh out of that

one.”

“He just happened to be the head of RAB’s loan division to the timber industry.”

“The man with the smoking gun that could ruin Mogilovich and, by extension, the

president,” Maslov said.

“My boss tells me this man had access to the smoking gun, but he never actually had it

in his possession. His assistant absconded with it days before his assassination, and now

can’t be found.” Bourne hitched his chair forward. “When you find him for us and hand

over the papers incriminating Mogilovich, my boss is prepared to end the war between

you and the Azeri once and for all in your favor.”

“And how the fuck is he going to do that?”

Bourne opened his cell phone, played back the MP3 file Boris had sent to him. It was a

conversation between the kingpin of the Azeri and one of his lieutenants ordering the hit

on the RAB Bank executive. It was just like the Russian in Boris to hold on to the

evidence for leverage, rather than go after the Azeri kingpin right away.