Текст книги "The Bourne Deception (Обман Борна)"

Автор книги: Eric Van Lustbader

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She gestured at one of the contemporary chrome and black-strap chairs facing her desk. ―Take a seat.‖

He remained standing, as if he already had one foot out the door. ―I‘ve come to tell you to stop raiding our personnel.‖

―You mean you‘ve been sent like a common messenger.‖ Moira looked up, smiled with a warmth she didn‘t feel. Her uptilted brown eyes, wide apart and inquiring, betrayed none of her feelings. Her face was uncommonly strong or intimidating, depending on your point of view. Nevertheless, she possessed a serenity that served her well in stressful situations such as this one.

Bourne had warned her even before she set up Heartland almost three months ago that this moment was going to come. Something inside her had been looking forward to it. Noah had come to personify Black River, and she‘d been under his boot heel for too long.

Taking several steps toward her, he plucked the framed photograph off her desk, then turned it to gaze down at the image.

―Too bad about your boyfriend,‖ he said. ―Got gunned down in a stinking village in the middle of nowhere. You must have been broken up.‖

Moira had no intention of allowing him to upset her. ―It‘s nice to see you, Noah.‖

He sneered as he replaced the photo. ― Niceis a word people use when they politely lie.‖

Her face held its innocent expression, a form of armor against his slings and arrows. ―Why shouldn‘t we continue to be polite to each other?‖

Noah returned to stand with his fingers curled hard into his palms. His knuckles were white with the force he used to make his fists, and Moira couldn‘t help but wonder whether he wished he had his hands around her neck rather than hanging at his sides.

―I‘m very fucking serious, Moira.‖ His eyes engaged hers. Noah could be a scary individual when he put his mind to it. ―There‘s no turning back for you, but as for going forward in the way you have…‖ He shook his head in warning.

Moira shrugged. ―No problem. The fact is, you have no people left who meet my ethical requirements.‖

Her words had the effect of relaxing him enough to say in an entirely different tone, ―Why are you doing this?‖

―Why are you asking me a question to which you already know the answer?‖

He stared at her, keeping silent, until she continued, ―There needs to be a legitimate alternative to Black River, one whose members don‘t skate at the edge of legality, then regularly cross over.‖

―This is a dirty business. You of all people know that.‖

―Of course I know it. That‘s why I started this company.‖ She rose, leaned across her desk. ―Iran is now on everyone‘s radar. I‘m not going to sit back and let the same thing happen there that‘s happened in Afghanistan and Iraq.‖

Noah turned on his heel and crossed to the door. With his hand on the knob he looked back at her with a cold intensity, an old trick of his. ―You know you can‘t hold back the flood of filthy water. Don‘t be a hypocrite, Moira. You want to wade in the muck like the rest of us because it‘s all about the money.‖ His eyes glittered darkly. ―Billions of dollars to be made off a war in a new theater of operations.‖

2

LYING IN THE DIRT of Tenganan, Bourne whispers into Moira‘s ear. ― Tell them…‖

She is bent low over him in the dust and the running blood. She is listening to him with one ear while pressing her cell phone to the other.

– Just lie still, Jason. I’m calling for help.‖

― Tell them I’m dead,‖ Bourne says just before losing consciousness…

Jason Bourne awoke from his recurring dream, sweating like a pig through the bedsheets. The warm tropical night was clouded by the mosquito netting tented around him. Somewhere high in the mountains it was raining. He heard the thunder like hoofbeats, felt the sluggish, wet wind on his chest, bare where the wound was in the latter stages of healing.

It had been three months since the bullet struck him, three months since Moira followed his orders to the letter. Now virtually everyone who knew him believed him to be dead. Only three people other than him knew the truth: Moira; Benjamin Firth, the Australian surgeon whom Moira brought him to in the village of Manggis; and Frederick Willard, the last remaining member of Treadstone, who had revealed Leonid Arkadin‘s Treadstone training to Bourne.

It was Willard, contacted by Moira at Bourne‘s behest, who had begun reconditioning Bourne as soon as Dr. Firth allowed it.

―You‘re damn lucky to be alive, mate,‖ Firth said when Bourne had regained consciousness after the first of two operations. Moira was there, having just returned from making very public arrangements for Bourne‘s ―body‖

to be shipped back to the States. ―In fact, if it weren‘t for a congenital abnormality in the shape of your heart, the bullet would have killed you almost instantly. Whoever shot you knew what he was doing.‖

Then he‘d gripped Bourne‘s forearm and flashed a bony smile. ―Not to worry, mate. We‘ll have you right as rain in a month or two.‖

A month or two. Bourne, listening to the torrential rain come closer, reached out to touch the double ikatcloth that hung beside his bed, and felt calmer. He remembered the long weeks he‘d been forced to remain in the doctor‘s surgery on Bali, both for health and for security reasons. For a number of weeks after the second operation it was all he could do just to sit up. During that syrupy time Bourne discovered Firth‘s secret: He was an inveterate alcoholic. The only time he could be counted on to be stone-cold sober was when he had a patient on the operating table. He proved himself to be a brilliant cutter; any other time, he reeked of arak, the fermented Balinese palm liquor. It was so strong, he used it to wipe down his operating theater when he occasionally forgot to refill his order of pure alcohol. In this way, Bourne unlocked the mystery of what the doctor was doing hidden far away from everything: He‘d been canned from every hospital in Western Australia.

All at once Bourne‘s attention turned outward as the doctor entered the room across the compound from the surgery.

―Firth,‖ he said, sitting up. ―What are you doing up at this time of night?‖

The doctor moved over to the rattan chair by the wall. He had a noticeable limp; one leg was shorter than the other. ―I don‘t like thunder and lightning,‖ he said as he sat down heavily.

―You‘re like a child.‖

―In many ways, yes.‖ Firth nodded. ―But unlike many blokes I met back in the bad old days, I can admit it.‖

Bourne switched on the bedside lamp, and a cone of cool light spread over the bed and lapped at the floor. As the thunder rumbled closer, Firth leaned into the light, as if for protection. He was carrying a bottle of arakby its neck.

―Your faithful companion,‖ Bourne said.

The doctor winced. ―Tonight, no amount of liquor will help.‖

Bourne held out his hand, and Firth handed him the bottle. He waited for Bourne to take a swig, then took possession of it. Though he sat back in the chair, he was far from relaxed. Thunder cracked overhead and all at once the downpour hit the thatch roof with the bang of a shotgun. Firth winced again, but he didn‘t take more arak. It appeared that even he had a limit.

―I‘m hoping I can convince you to throttle back your physical training.‖

―Why would I do that?‖ Bourne said.

―Because Willard pushes you too hard.‖ Firth licked his lips, as if his body was dying for another drink.

―That‘s his job.‖

―Maybe so, but he‘s not your doctor. He hasn‘t taken you apart and stitched you back together.‖ He finally put the bottle down between his legs.

–Besides, he scares the bejesus out of me.‖

―Everything scares you,‖ Bourne said, not unkindly.

―Not everything, no.‖ The doctor waited while a crack of thunder shuddered overhead. ―Not torn-up bodies.‖

―A torn-up body can‘t talk back,‖ Bourne pointed out.

Firth smiled ruefully. ―You haven‘t had my nightmares.‖

―That‘s all right.‖ Bourne once again saw himself in the dirt and the blood of Tenganan. ―I have my own.‖

For a time nothing more was said. Then Bourne asked a question, but when the only answer forthcoming was a brief snore, he lay back in the bed, closed his eyes, and willed himself to sleep. Before the soft morning light woke him, he had returned, unwillingly, to Tenganan, where the heat of Moira‘s cinnamon musk mingled with the odor of his own blood.

Do you like it?‖ Moira held up the cloth woven in the colors of the gods Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva: blue, red, and yellow. The intricate pattern was of interlocking flowers, frangipani, perhaps. Since the dyes used were all natural, some water-based, others oil-based, the threads took eighteen months to two years to finish. The yellow—the personification of Shiva, the destroyer—would take another five years to slowly oxidize and reveal its final hue. In double ikatsthe pattern was dyed into both the warp and weft threads so that when it was woven all the colors would be pure, unlike the more common single ikatweaving in which the pattern was only in one set of threads, the other being a background color such as black. The double ikatwas part of every Balinese home, where it hung on a wall in a place of honor and respect.

―Yes,‖ Bourne had replied. ―I like it very much.‖

He was about to go into the surgery for the first of his two operations.

―Suparwita said it was important I get a double ikatfor you.‖ She leaned closer. ―It‘s sacred, Jason, remember? Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva together will protect you from evil and illness. I‘ll make sure it‘s near you all the time.‖

Just before Dr. Firth wheeled him into the surgery, she leaned even closer, whispered in his ear: ―You‘ll be fine, Jason. You drank the tea made from kencur.‖

Kencur, Bourne thought as Firth applied the anesthetic. The resurrection lily.

He dreamed of a temple high in the Balinese mountains while Benjamin Firth cut him open with little hope of his survival. Through the carved red gates of the temple rose the hazy pyramidal shape of Mount Agung, blue and majestic against the yellow sky. He was gazing down at the gate from a great height and, looking around, he realized that he was on the top step of a steep triple staircase, guarded by six ferocious stone dragons, whose bared teeth were easily seven inches long. The bodies of these dragons undulated upward on both sides of the three staircases, creating banisters whose solidity appeared to carry the stairs upward to the plaza of the temple proper.

As Bourne‘s gaze was drawn again to the gates and Mount Agung, he saw a figure silhouetted against the sacred volcano, and his heart began to pound in his chest. The setting sun fell upon his face, and he shaded his eyes with one hand, straining to identify the figure, who now turned toward him. At once, he felt searing pain and pleasure.

At that precise moment Dr. Firth came across the curious abnormality in Bourne‘s heart and began to work, knowing that he now had a chance to save his patient.

Just over four hours later, Firth, exhausted but cautiously triumphant, wheeled Bourne into the recovery room, adjacent to the surgery, that would become Bourne‘s home for the next six weeks.

Moira was waiting for them. Her face was pale, her emotions retreated from her flesh, curled into a ball in the pit of her stomach.

―Will he live?‖ She almost choked on the words. ―Tell me he‘ll live.‖

Firth sat wearily on a canvas folding chair as he stripped off his bloody gloves. ―The bullet went clear through him, which is good because I didn‘t have to dig it out. It is my considered opinion that he‘ll live, Ms. Trevor, with the important caveat that nothing in life is certain, especially in medicine.‖

As Firth took the first drink of arakhe‘d had that day, Moira approached Bourne with a mixture of elation and trepidation. She‘d been so terrified that for the last four and a half hours her heart had hurt as much as she had imagined Bourne‘s had. Gazing down into his near-bloodless but peaceful face, she took his hand in hers, squeezing hard to reestablish the physical connection between them.

―Jason,‖ she said.

―He‘s still well under,‖ Firth said, as if from a great distance. ―He can‘t hear you.‖

Moira ignored him. She tried not to imagine the hole in Bourne‘s chest beneath the bandage, but failed. Her eyes were streaming tears, as they had periodically while he was in surgery, but the abyss of despair along which she had been walking was folding in on itself. Still, her breathing was ragged and she had to struggle to feel the solid ground beneath her feet, because for hours she was certain it had been about to open up and swallow her whole.

―Jason, listen to me. Suparwita knew what would happen to you, and he prepared you as best he could. He fed you the kencur, he had me get the double ikatfor you. They both protected you, I know it, even if you won‘t ever believe it.‖

Morning broke in the soft colors of pink and yellow against the pale blue sky. Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva rose as Bourne opened his eyes. Last night‘s storm had scrubbed off the film of haze that had built up from the burning off of the rice stalks in the hillside paddies.

As Bourne sat up, his eyes fell upon the double ikatthat Moira had bought for him in Tenganan. Holding its rough texture between his fingers he saw, like a flash of lightning, the silhouette standing between him and Mount Agung, framed by the temple gates, and wondered anew who it could possibly be.

3

THE COCKPIT of the American passenger airliner, Flight 891 out of Cairo, Egypt, hummed contentedly. The pilot and copilot, longtime friends, joked about the flight attendant they‘d both like to take to bed. They were in the final stages of negotiating the terms of a thoroughly adolescent contest that would involve her as a prize when the radar picked up a blip rapidly closing on the plane. Responding in proper fashion, the pilot got on the intercom and ordered all seat belts fastened, then took the plane out of its pre-planned route in an attempt at an evasive maneuver. But the 767 was too large and ungainly; it wasn‘t built for easy maneuverability. The copilot tried to get a visual fix on the object, even as he raised the Cairo airport control tower on the radio.

―Flight Eight-Niner-One, there are no scheduled flights that close to you,‖ the calm voice from the control tower said. ―Can you get a visual fix?‖

―Not yet. The object is too small to be another passenger plane,‖ the copilot responded. ―Maybe it‘s a private jet.‖

―There are no flight plans posted. Repeat: There are no flight plans posted.‖

―Roger that,‖ the copilot said. ―But it‘s still closing.‖

―Eight-Niner-One, elevate to forty-five thousand feet.‖

―Roger that,‖ the pilot said, making the necessary adjustments on the controls. ―Elevating to forty-five thou—‖

―I see it!‖ the copilot cut in. ―It‘s traveling too fast to be a private jet!‖

―What is it?‖ There was a sudden urgency to the voice from Cairo. “What’s happening? Eight-Niner-One, please report!”

―Here it comes!‖ the copilot screamed.

An instant later disaster struck as the mighty metal fist hit the jetliner in a blinding flare. An immense explosion disjointed the fuselage as a beast pulls its prey limb from limb, and the twisted, blackened remains plummeted to earth with breathtaking speed.

Deep beneath the West Wing of the White House, in a spacious room made of steel-reinforced concrete eight feet thick, the president of the United States was in a high-level security meeting with Secretary of Defense Halliday; DCI Veronica Hart; Jon Mueller, head of the Department of Homeland Security; and Jaime Hernandez, the new intelligence czar, who had taken over the NSA in the wake of the illegal waterboarding scandal that brought down his predecessor.

Halliday, a ruddy-cheeked man with dark blond hair combed straight back, a politician‘s sly eyes, and a perfect Crest smile, seemed as if he were reading from a script he might have prepared for a Senate subcommittee.

–After months of arduous prep work, judicious bribes, and discreet probing,‖

he said, ―Black River has at last made first contact with a group of dissident, pro-Western Iranis.‖ Ever the showman, he paused, looked around the highly polished table, making eye contact with each person in turn. ―This is blockbuster news,‖ he added unnecessarily, and, with a nod to the president, ―something this administration has been searching for for years, because the only known Iranian dissident group has so far proved impotent.‖

Halliday was at his most eloquent, and Hart thought she knew why. Though his stock had risen because of the death of Jason Bourne, for which he had agitated and for which he‘d taken credit, Hart knew Halliday needed another victory, one that was more wide ranging, that could be exploited by the president himself for political capital.

―At last a group we can work with,‖ Halliday continued with unbridled enthusiasm as he handed around the fact sheet prepared by Black River detailing dates and places of meeting, along with transcripts of clandestinely recorded conversations between Black River operatives and leading members of the dissident group, whose names had been redacted for security reasons. All the conversations, Hart saw, underscored both their militancy and their commitment to accept aid from the West.

―They‘re unquestionably pro-Western,‖ the secretary of defense said, as if his audience required a verbal guide through the densely worded pages.

–Moreover, they‘re preparing for an armed revolution and are eager for whatever support we can supply.‖

―What are their real capabilities?‖ Jon Mueller asked. Mueller had that typical ex-NSA mien of a soldier with a thousand-yard stare. He looked like a man who could break a body with the same nonchalant ease he‘d crack a wooden matchstick in two.

―Excellent question, Jon. If you turn to page thirty-eight, you‘ll see Black River‘s detailed assessment of the training preparedness and arms expertise of this particular group, which both rate eight out of ten on their proprietary rating scale.‖

―You seem to be relying a great deal on Black River, Mr. Secretary,‖ Hart said drily.

Halliday didn‘t even look at her; it was her people—Soraya Moore and Tyrone Elkins—who had brought his man, Luther LaValle, down. He hated her guts, but Hart knew he was too canny a politician to let his animosity show in front of the president, who now held her in high esteem.

Halliday nodded sagely, his voice carefully neutral. ―I wish it were otherwise, Director. It‘s no secret that our own resources are already at their limits due to the ongoing conflicts in Afghanistan and Iraq, and now that Iran is on our radar as a clear and present danger, we‘re obliged to outsource more and more of our far-flung intelligence gathering.‖

―You mean the NSA is. CI created Typhon last year specifically to handle more of the Middle East field intelligence,‖ Hart pointed out. ―Every Typhon field agent is fluent in the various dialects of Arabic and Farsi. Tell me, Mr. Secretary, how many NSA agents are similarly trained?‖

Hart could see the color rising up Halliday‘s throat into his cheeks, and she leaned forward, further inflaming an intemperate outburst from him.

Unluckily for her, the meeting was interrupted by the burr of the blue telephone at the president‘s right elbow. The entire room fell into a tense silence so absolute that the discreet sound had the resonance of a pneumatic jackhammer. The blue telephone brought bad news, they all knew that.

With a grim expression, the president pressed the receiver to his ear, listened to the voice of General Leland over at the Pentagon who briefed him, even while he told his commander in chief that a more detailed document would be on its way to the White House by special courier within the hour.

The president took all this in with his usual equanimity. He was not a man to panic or to take precipitous action. As he cradled the receiver, he said, ―There has been an air disaster. American Flight Eight-Nine-One, outward bound from Cairo, was taken out of the sky by an explosion.‖

―A bomb?‖ Jaime Hernandez, the new intelligence czar, said. He was slim and handsome, with calculating eyes as dark as his thick hair. He looked like the kind of individual who counted the wontons in his soup to make sure he wasn‘t being shortchanged.

―Are there any survivors?‖ Hart asked.

―We don‘t know the answer to either question,‖ the president said. ―What we do know is that there were one hundred eighty-one souls on that flight.‖

―Good God.‖ Hart shook her head.

There was a moment of stunned silence while they all contemplated both the enormity of the calamity and the terrible repercussions that might very well ensue. No matter what the cause, a great many American civilians were dead, and if the worst-case scenario were to come true, if those American civilians proved to be the victims of a terrorist attack…

―Sir, I think we should send a joint NSA-DHS forensics team to the crash site,‖ Halliday said in a bid to take charge.

―Let‘s not get ahead of ourselves,‖ Hart countered. Halliday‘s words had energized them out of their initial shock. ―This isn‘t Iraq. We‘ll need the permission of the Egyptian government to send our troops in.‖

―Those are American citizens—our people blown out of the sky,‖ Halliday said. ―Fuck the Egyptians. What‘ve they done for us lately?‖

Before the argument could escalate, the president held up his hand.

–First things first. Veronica is right.‖ He stood up. ―We‘ll reconvene this discussion in an hour after I‘ve spoken to the Egyptian president.‖

Precisely sixty minutes later, the president reentered the room, nodded to those present, and sat down before addressing them. ―All right, it‘s settled.

Hernandez, Mueller, assemble a joint task force of your best people and get them on a plane to Cairo ASAP. First: survivors; second: identify casualties; third: for the love of God ascertain the cause of the explosion.‖

―Sir, if I may,‖ Hart interjected, ―I suggest adding Soraya Moore, the director of Typhon, to the team. She‘s half Egyptian. Her intimate knowledge of Arabic and the local customs will prove invaluable particularly in liaising with the Egyptian authorities.‖

Halliday shook his head, said emphatically, ―This matter is already complicated enough without a third agency becoming involved. The NSA and the DHS have all the tools at their disposal to handle the situation.‖

―I doubt that—‖

―I needn‘t remind you, Director Hart, that the press will be all over this incident like flies on shit,‖ Halliday overran her. ―We‘ve got to get our people over there, make our findings and take appropriate measures as quickly as possible, otherwise we risk turning this into a worldwide media circus.‖ He turned to the president. ―Which is something the administration doesn‘t need right now. The last thing you want, sir, is to look weak and ineffectual.‖

―The real problem,‖ the president said, ―is that the Egyptian national secret police—what are they called?‖

―Al Mokhabarat,‖ Hart said, feeling like she was a contestant on Jeopardy!

―Yes, thank you, Veronica.‖ The president made a note on his scratch pad.

He‘d never forget al Mokhabarat‘s name again. ―The problem,‖ he began again,

–is that a contingent of this al Mokhabarat will be accompanying the team.‖

The secretary of defense groaned. ―Sir, if I may say so, the Egyptian secret police are corrupt, vicious, and notorious for their sadistic human rights violations. I submit that we cut them out of the equation entirely.‖

―Nothing would please me more, believe me,‖ the president said with some distaste, ―but I‘m afraid that‘s the quid pro quo the Egyptian president insisted on in exchange for letting us help in the investigation.‖

―Our help? What a joke!‖ Halliday gave a humorless laugh. ―The damn Egyptians couldn‘t find a mummy in a tomb.‖

―That‘s as may be, but they‘re our allies,‖ the president said sternly.

–I expect everyone to keep that in mind in the difficult days and weeks ahead.‖

When he looked around the room the DCI seized her chance. ―Sir, may I remind you that Egyptian is Director Moore‘s native language.‖

―Precisely why she should be stricken from the list,‖ Halliday said at once. ―She‘s a Muslim, for God‘s sake.‖

―Secretary, that‘s just the kind of ignorant remark we don‘t need right now. Beside, how many men on that team are fluent in Egyptian Arabic?‖

Halliday bristled. ―The Egyptians speak damn fine English, thank you very much.‖

―Not among themselves.‖ As the defense secretary had before her, Hart turned to address the president directly. ―Sir, it‘s important—no, vital—that at this juncture the team has as much information about the Egyptians—

especially the members of al Mokhabarat, because Secretary Halliday is correct about them—as is possible. That knowledge may well prove critical.‖

The president pondered for no more than a moment. Then he nodded.

–Director, your proposal makes sense, let‘s run with it. Get Director Moore up to speed.‖

Hart smiled. Time to press her advantage. ―She may have some people—‖

The president nodded at once. ―Whatever she needs. This is no time for half measures.‖

Hart was looking at Halliday, who was directing a poisoned glare in her direction, to which she smiled sweetly as the meeting adjourned.

She exited the West Wing quickly to avoid another vitriolic confrontation with the defense secretary, and took the short ride back to CI headquarters, where she summoned Soraya Moore to her office.

Abdulla Khoury was on his way from the Starnberger See to the headquarters of the Eastern Brotherhood less than ten miles away. Behind him, the snowcapped Alps and the icy blue water of the lake—the fourth largest in Germany—

sparkled in the sun. Brightly colored sails rose above sleek boats, and yachts plied the lake. There was no room for such frivolous recreation as sailing in Khoury‘s life, even before he became head of the Eastern Brotherhood. His life had taken a serious turn when, at the age of seven, he had discovered his calling as Allah‘s earthly messenger. It was a calling he had kept to himself for a long time, intuiting that no one would believe him, least of all his father, who treated his children even worse than he did his wife.

Khoury was born with the patience of a tortoise. Even when he was a child he had no difficulty waiting for the opportune moment to take advantage of a situation. Not surprisingly, his preternatural serenity was misinterpreted as a form of idiocy by his father, and all of his instructors save one, who saw in the boy the holy spark Allah had placed there at the moment of his conception. From that moment on, Khoury‘s life changed. He began to frequent this instructor‘s house after hours for advanced lessons. The man lived alone and welcomed Khoury as his acolyte and protégé.

As a young adult, he had joined the Eastern Brotherhood, patiently moving up in the hierarchy. He did this in his characteristic manner, by winnowing out the wheat from the chaff. In his case the wheat was represented by those in the organization who shared his strict views of Islam. It was he who brought them the notion of fighting for change from within. His was a naturally subversive nature; he was superb at undermining the current order to make way for his own. This he accomplished slowly and carefully, always flying under the twin radars of Semion Icoupov and Asher Sever, because these were not men to be taken lightly or to engage as antagonists without every form of advantage imaginable. He was still amassing his arsenal of such advantages when they were both killed, leaving a vast and intimidating power vacuum.

Not for Abdulla Khoury. Seizing his moment while the Eastern Brotherhood was still in shock, he took control of the organization. Ripping a page from Icoupov‘s strategic manual, he quickly installed his compatriots in all key positions within the Eastern Brotherhood, thereby ensuring both the short-and the long-term success of his coup.

The motorcade came to a halt at the first of his three stops before he returned to his headquarters. There were lieutenants responsible for two areas of the Middle East and one for Africa whom he needed to brief on the latest developments inside Iran.

As the motorcade took him from one briefing to another, he couldn‘t help but reflect on the recent interference from Leonid Arkadin. He‘d dealt with men like Arkadin before, people who believed that all situations could be settled with the flaming barrel of a gun, weaponized men without faith to guide them, for what use was a weapon if it wasn‘t in the service of Allah and Islam? He knew something of Leonid Danilovich Arkadin‘s background: He had come to be a killer of killers through hiring himself out to various Moscow grupperovka. It was said he was close with Dimitri Maslov, the head of the Kazanskaya, but not as close as he had been with his mentor, Semion Icoupov, before he‘d turned on Icoupov and killed him. Perhaps not surprising, since Arkadin had been born and raised in Nizhny Tagil, a hell on earth that could only exist in Russia—an industrial slimepit that manufactured tanks for the military, ringed by high-security prisons whose occupants, when they were released, stayed in Nizhny Tagil to prey upon its citizens. It was a minor miracle that Arkadin had been lucky enough to escape.

This sordid, bloody background was why Khoury knew in his heart that Arkadin was nothing more than a man who had lost his soul, condemned to walk among the living, the best part of him already dead and buried.

And it was for the same reason that Khoury had taken extra precautions.

He was well protected by two bodyguards in his car, wallowing along beneath the weight of its armor-plated sides and bulletproof glass, as well as sharpshooters with hunting rifles in cars in front and back. He seriously doubted whether the man would be foolish enough to go after him. But since one couldn‘t read the mind of one‘s enemy it was prudent to act as if he himself were under attack, rather than the Eastern Brotherhood.

Within fifteen minutes the motorcade pulled into the Eastern Brotherhood‘s private parking area and the men in the cars surrounding Khoury‘s leapt out, making a thorough search of the area. Only then did one of them communicate to the bodyguards traveling with Khoury through a wireless network that it was safe to exit.