Текст книги "The Bourne Dominion (Господство Борна)"

Автор книги: Eric Van Lustbader

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

Book Two

10

BORIS KARPOV FOUND plenty to dislike about Munich. Like almost all Russians, he despised the Germans. The bitter taste of World War II was impossible to dispel; the Russian senses of outrage and revenge were ingrained in him as deeply as his love of vodka. Besides, despite the city’s new motto, “ München mag Dich”—Munich Likes You—Munich was easy for Boris to dislike. For one thing, it was founded by a religious order—the Benedictines—hence its name, derived from the German word for “monk.” Boris had an atheist’s staunch distrust for organized religion of any stripe. For another, it was in the heart of Bavaria, home of right-wing conservatism that had its roots in Adolf Hitler’s hateful National Socialism. In fact, it was in Munich that Hitler and his supporters staged the infamous Beer Hall Putsch in 1923, an attempt to overthrow the Weimar Republic and usurp power. That they failed only delayed the inevitable. Ten years later, Munich finally became the stronghold of the National Socialists, who, among other heinous crimes, established Dachau, the first of the Nazi concentration camps, ten miles northwest of the city.

So yes, plenty to dislike here, Boris thought, as he instructed his taxi driver to drop him along the Briennerstrasse, at the beginning of the Kunstareal, Munich’s art district. From there, he walked briskly to the Neue Pinakothek, the museum concentrating on European art of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Inside, he stopped at the information booth for a map, and then made his way to the gallery that housed Francisco de Goya’s Plucked Turkey. Not a major work, Boris thought as he approached it.

A group stood contemplating the painting as a guide went through her spiel. Boris, standing to one side, waited in vain for her to mention whether or not Plucked Turkeyhad been one of the paintings stolen by the Nazis. His mind clicked over his responsibilities. Before leaving Moscow he had issued orders to Anton Fedarovich and left the day-to-day running of FSB-2 to him. But by definition that had to be temporary, since Boris was still in the process of shaping the organization to his desires and hadn’t yet weeded out all the dead potatoes. From the outset he’d given himself five days at most to deal with Cherkesov’s assignment. He could not count on FSB-2 being run properly without him longer than that.

Eventually, the group moved on, leaving in its wake a man who remained contemplating the Goya. He seemed unremarkable in every way: medium height, middle-aged, salt-and-pepper hair with a bald spot on his crown. His hands were plunged deep into the pockets of his overcoat. His shoulders were slightly hunched, as if they were supporting an invisible weight.

“Good morning,” Boris said in passable German as he came up beside the man. “Our cousin regrets he could not come in person.” This contact was one of thousands cultivated over the decades by Ivan Volkin. As such, he was unimpeachable.

“How is the old gentleman?” the man said in passable Russian.

“Feisty as ever.”

The coded exchange having been made, the two men strolled together through the gallery, stopping at each painting in turn.

“How can I help?” the man said softly.

His name was Wagner, most likely a field moniker. That was fine by Boris; he felt no need to know Wagner’s real name. Ivan had vouched for him—that was enough.

“I’m looking for connections,” Boris said.

A faint smile crossed Wagner’s lips. “Everyone who comes to me is looking for connections.”

They had moved on and were now in front of Friedrich Wilhelm von Schadow’s The Holy Family Beneath the Portico, in Boris’s view a thoroughly reprehensible subject, like all religious themes, though he could appreciate the clarity of the artist’s style.

“Involving Viktor Cherkesov?”

For a time, Wagner did nothing but stare intently at the painting. “Von Schadow was a soldier first,” he said at last. “Then he found God, went to Rome, and became one of the leaders of the so-called Nazarene Movement, dedicated to bringing true spirituality to Christian art.”

“I couldn’t care less,” Boris said.

“I’m sure.”

Wagner said this in a way that made Karpov feel like a philistine.

“As to Cherkesov,” Boris pressed.

Wagner moved them on. He let out a sigh. “What, specifically, do you want to know?”

“He was just in Munich. Why was he here?”

“He went to the Mosque,” Wagner said. “That’s all I know.”

Boris hid his consternation. “I need more than that,” he said evenly.

“The secrets of the Mosque are closely guarded.”

“I understand that.” What Boris couldn’t understand was what possible business Cherkesov’s new master might have with the Mosque. Viktor seemed about the last person to be sending into that particular snake pit. Cherkesov hated Muslims even more than Germans. He spent most of his time in FSB-2 hunting down ethnic Chechen Muslim terrorists.

“It’s exceedingly dangerous to poke into the Mosque’s business.”

“I know that, too.” Boris was well aware that the Mosque in Munich was ground zero for many of the Muslim extremist terrorist groups the world over. The Mosque indoctrinated disaffected young men and women, fired their hopelessness, channeled their frustration into anger. Then it trained them into cadres, armed them, and funded their subsequent flares of violence.

Wagner thought a moment. “There is someone who might be able to help you.” He bit his lip. “His name is Hermann Bolger. He’s a watchmaker. He also watches the goings-on at the Mosque.” His lips curled into a smile. “Amusing, no?”

“No,” Boris said flatly. “Where can I find Herr Bolger?”

Wagner told him the address and Boris committed it to memory. They visited two more paintings for show. Immediately thereafter, Wagner left. Boris consulted his map, wandering through the remainder of the galleries for the next twenty minutes.

Then he went in search of Hermann Bolger.

The rain fell like shouted words, like commands to the troops, with the fatal crash of ancient armies locked in hand-to-hand combat. Bourne stood beside a vaulting pine, its black branches swept by the wind, battered by the rain.

From this vantage point, he witnessed the explosion rip the jeep apart, the pieces crashing down, in flames for only seconds before the torrent doused them. Twisted junk fountained in all directions, two parts landing within three feet of where he hid: the blackened steering wheel and Suarez’s head, stinking, still smoking as if fresh from a barbecue pit. Suarez’s lips, nose, and ears had been burned away. The remains of his eyes were smoking as if he were a creature from hell.

Bourne, seeing Vegas clomp down the front steps of his house, stepped back within the dense shadow of the looming pine. From this distance, he looked like he was wearing old-fashioned hobnailed boots. Bourne noted the shotgun he carried, but that was hardly his most dangerous aspect. Vegas’s eyes were like living coals. His bloody-minded demeanor reminded Bourne of a grizzly he had observed in Montana protecting her cubs from a marauding mountain lion. He wondered whom Vegas was protecting himself and Rosie from. This electronic setup must have been weeks in the making; it certainly wasn’t meant for Bourne.

Who then?

You’re out of your mind,” Suarez had said when Bourne had stopped the jeep a thousand yards from Vegas’s house. “I’m not doing that.”

“It’s the only way you’re going to get some medical help,” Bourne had replied.

“Once you get out, what’s to stop me turning the jeep around and getting the hell out of here?”

“The only way out is back down the mountain,” Bourne said. The rain was so torrential it felt like being inside a waterfall. “You’ll be driving with one hand. You’re welcome to kill yourself any way you want.”

Suarez had delivered a murderous glare, but a moment later he just looked glum. “What evil moon was I born under to have crossed paths with you?”

Bourne opened the door and a roar like the end of the world rushed into the jeep. “Just stick to the plan and everything will be fine. You make the direct approach. Vegas knows you. I’ll come around from the rear. Are we clear?”

Suarez nodded resignedly. “My hand is killing me. I can’t feel the fingers you broke.”

“You’re lucky,” Bourne said. “Imagine how much worse the pain would be if you did.”

Slipping out of the jeep, he was completely drenched in seconds. He watched Suarez slide awkwardly over behind the wheel and move off down the road toward the house.

Bourne had seen the first of the infrared camera posts and had immediately stopped the jeep, though he hadn’t told Suarez why. It was disguised as a mile marker. He recognized the equipment because he’d come across the same scenario in a villa in the mountains of Romania several years ago. The system was highly sophisticated, state-of-the-art, but in the end Bourne had defeated it and gained access to the villa. Even if Suarez had noticed the mile marker, Bourne doubted he’d know what he was looking at.

The infrared setup was a surprise. Bourne didn’t want another, so he had decided to have Suarez drive the jeep the rest of the way while he explored Vegas’s property on foot.

The proof of Bourne’s prudence was at this moment staring up at him with empty eye sockets. He felt no remorse at having sent Suarez to his death. The commander was a stone-cold killer, and given half a chance he would have shot Bourne through the heart.

He watched Vegas move cautiously around the wreckage, poking here and there with the shotgun barrel. When Vegas found one of Suarez’s arms, he crouched down, examining it closely. From that point on, he concentrated on body parts. Slowly, methodically, his search took him in concentric circles, farther and farther from ground zero, closer and closer to Bourne’s position under the pine.

The rain was still torrential, the hidden sky coming apart with scars of lightning and booming thunder. Bourne’s vision wavered, blended with a newly risen memory shard, which took over. Bourne had slogged through a near blizzard to get to the disco where Alex Conklin had sent him to terminate the target. The fast-melting remnants lay on the fur collar of his coat as he made his way through the packed club. In the ladies’ room, he had fitted the silencer to his handgun, kicked open the door.

The icy blonde’s face was set, almost resigned. Even though she was armed, she had no illusions about what was about to happen. Was that why she had opened her mouth, why she had spoken to him just before he had ended her life?

What was it she had said? He combed through the memory shard, trying to hear her voice. In Colombia, in the intense downpour, he heard a woman’s voice shouting across the thunder, and now he heard the icy blonde’s voice, so similar in pitch and in desperation.

“ There is no—”

There is no what?Bourne asked himself. What had she been trying to tell him? He searched through what was left of the memory but it was already breaking up like an ice floe in summer, the images fading, becoming gauzy and indistinct.

A sound close by startled him back into the present. Vegas had found one of Suarez’s legs, and, rising from his scrutiny of it, was looking around. He spotted Suarez’s head and began to make his way toward it, a deep frown furrowing his brow. Bourne wondered whether he would recognize the burn-mutilated face.

He didn’t have long to wait. Vegas came upon Suarez’s head. Using the end of the shotgun barrel, he turned the thing around so it faced him. Immediately he reared back and, raising the shotgun to the ready, backed away, peering through the downpour with an ominous look in his eyes.

That was all Bourne needed. Vegas had recognized Suarez and had been unsurprised by his presence in the jeep. If Essai had been telling the truth, it was possible that Vegas had been preparing himself for an assault by the Domna. If Bourne was reading the situation correctly, Vegas was quits with the Domna and had been preparing himself for their violent response. This would explain why he and Rosie hadn’t cut and run. There was nowhere he could go that the Domna couldn’t find him. At least here he was on familiar territory; he knew it better than anyone they would send. And he was prepared.

Vegas was someone whom Bourne could respect. He was his own man; he’d made a difficult and obviously dangerous decision, but he’d made it nonetheless.

“Estevan,” he said, stepping out of the towering pine’s shadow.

Vegas swung the shotgun in his direction and Bourne raised his hands, palms outward.

“Easy,” Bourne said, standing absolutely still. “I’m a friend. I’ve come to help you.”

“Help me? What you mean is help me into my grave.”

The noise of the rain was so great the two men were obliged to shout at each other, as if they were in a stadium filled with screaming fans.

“We have something in common, you and I,” Bourne said. “Severus Domna.”

In reply, Vegas hawked and spit at a spot almost exactly between them.

“Yes,” Bourne said.

Vegas stared at him for a moment, and that was when Rosie appeared through the pines. She held a Glock in one hand. Her arm was extended, straight as an arrow, pointed at Bourne.

Vegas’s eyes opened wide. “Rosie—!”

But his warning came too late. She had let herself get too close to Bourne. He grabbed her outstretched arm, swung her around, and, as he disarmed her, held her tight against him.

“Estevan,” Bourne said. “Lower the shotgun.”

Bourne could see Vegas’s love for Rosie in the older man’s eyes, and he felt a fleeting twinge of envy. The normalcy of the world of sunlight would never be his. There was no point dreaming about it.

The moment Vegas lowered the shotgun, Bourne released Rosie, who ran to her man. Vegas wrapped one arm around her.

“I told you to stay inside.” Vegas’s voice was gruff with worry. “Why did you disobey me?”

“I was worried for you. Who knows how many men they sent?”

Apparently, Vegas had no answer for that. He turned his bleak gaze on Bourne and the Glock still in his possession. “Now what?”

Bourne walked toward them. Seeing Vegas tense, he reversed the Glock in his grip. “Now I give you your gun back.” He held it out. “I have no need of it.”

“It was just you and Suarez?”

Bourne nodded.

“Why were you with him?”

“I ran into a FARC roadblock and took him hostage,” Bourne said.

Vegas seemed impressed.

“We weren’t followed,” Bourne added. “I made sure of that.”

Vegas looked at the Glock, then up into Bourne’s face. Surprise was replaced by a spark of curiosity. He took the Glock and said, “I’ve had enough of this rain. I think we all have.”

Hendricks almost didn’t recognize Maggie when they met at the restaurant he had chosen. She had on an indigo dress and black high heels. But she wore no jewelry, just an inexpensive but functional watch. Her hair was loose, longer than had seemed possible when she was wearing a hat. In her baggy gardener’s overalls she had seemed to have a tomboy’s figure, but the dress shattered that illusion. Her long legs tapered to tiny ankles. Whoever invented high heels, Hendricks thought, must have been a man in love with the female form. Amanda had worn them only infrequently, complaining of how uncomfortable they were. When he had pointed out that her friend Micki always wore high heels, Amanda told him that Micki had been wearing them for so long she could no longer wear flats—the high heels had foreshortened the tendons in her arches. “ Barefoot, she walks on tiptoes,” Amanda had told him.

Hendricks found himself wondering what Maggie would look like barefoot.

He was about to give his car over to the valet when Maggie waved the boy away. When she slid into the passenger’s seat, she said, “I’d rather eat at Vermilion, so I made reservations there. Do you know it?”

“In Alexandria?”

She nodded. “Eleven-twenty King Street.”

He put the car in gear.

“Have you been there before?”

“Once.” He was thinking of his first-anniversary celebration with Amanda. What an amazing night that had been, starting with Vermilion and ending at dawn curled and drowsing in each other’s arms.

“I hope you don’t think I’m willful,” she said.

He smiled. “I don’t know you well enough.”

She settled back in the seat as he pulled out into traffic, heading for the Key Bridge and Alexandria. Her hands were very still in her lap. “The fact is, I’m a dessertaholic—is that a word?”

“It is now.”

Her laugh was low and liquid. He drank in her scent as if it were the bouquet given off by a single-malt scotch. His nostrils flared and he felt a stirring in his core.

“Anyway, there’s a dessert at Vermilion—salted profiteroles—that’s my favorite. I haven’t had them in a long time.”

“You’ll have them tonight.” Hendricks maneuvered around traffic, the car containing his detail for the night right behind him. “Two portions if that’s your desire.”

She looked at him. The oncoming headlights turned her eyes glittery.

“I like that,” she said softly. “A man who’s not afraid of turning me into a glutton.”

They were on the bridge now, the city’s monuments lit up, turning the evening sky gold and gray.

“I can’t imagine you being a glutton.”

Maggie sighed. “Sometimes,” she said, “there’s a certain excitement in overindulging.”

He frowned. “I’m not sure I—”

“It’s the forbidden nature of the act, do you know what I mean?”

Hendricks didn’t, but he was beginning to wish that he did.

You’ve never done anything forbidden, have you?”

Maggie, a martini in her hand, watched him from across the table at Vermilion, an atmospheric town house. Their table was beside a window, and from their second-floor perch they could watch the nighttime parade of young people—tourists and residents alike—as they passed by on the sidewalk below.

“You’ve always been the good fellow.”

Hendricks was both nettled and fascinated that she had nailed him so quickly. “What makes you say that?”

She took a sip of her drink. It looked like it had twinkly lights in the center of it. “You smell like one of the good ones.”

He smiled uncertainly. “I’m afraid you’ve lost me.”

She put her drink down and, leaning forward, took his free hand in hers. Turning it over, she smoothed open his fingers so she could study his palm. The instant she took hold of him, Hendricks felt an electric pulse travel up his arm, into his chest, before settling in his groin. He felt as if he had stepped into a tub of warm water.

Her eyes flicked up to engage his, and he had the distinct sense that she knew precisely what he was feeling. A slow smile spread across her face, but it was without irony or guile.

“You’re an older brother or else an only child. Either way, you were the firstborn.”

“That’s true,” he said, after a moment’s hesitation.

“That’s why you have such a strong sense of duty and responsibility. Firstborns always do; it’s like it’s hardwired into them before birth.”

Slowly and sensually, her forefinger traced the creases on his palm. “You were the good son, the good man.”

“I wasn’t such a good husband—at least the first time. And I certainly wasn’t a good father.”

“Your duty is to job and country.” Her eyes seemed to gather him in. “Those things come first—they always did, yes?”

“Yes,” Hendricks said. He found that he was inexplicably hoarse.

He cleared his throat, took his hand from hers, and drank half of his single-malt. This intemperate act caused his eyes to water, and he almost choked.

“Careful,” Maggie said. “You’ll bring your babysitters running.”

Hendricks, his cheeks pink, nodded. He wiped his eyes with his napkin and cleared his throat again.

“Better,” Maggie said.

He wasn’t sure whether that was a question, in which case it would require a response. He let it go and sipped the remains of his scotch.

“So how many languages do you speak?”

She shrugged. “Seven. Does it matter?”

“Merely curious.”

But it was more than that. Part of him, already infatuated, sat back with eyes closed, but the other part, the always vigilant good fellow, as Maggie herself put it, wanted to vet her. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust the government’s vetting process—though he could name numerous cases where it had missed something vital—but rather he trusted his own instincts more.

He handed her a menu and opened his own. “What do you feel like? Or would you prefer to have the profiteroles first?”

She looked past the menu and smiled. “You’re so sad. Is it me? Would you rather we do this another time, or not at all? Because that would be—”

“No, no.” Hendricks found himself raising his voice to ensure that he stopped her. “Please, Maggie. Just…” He looked away, his eyes losing their focus for a moment.

As if sensing his shift in mood, she tapped the menu. “You know what I love here? The soft-shell crab BLT.”

His gaze swung back to her, and he smiled. “No profiteroles?”

She returned his smile. “Now I think of it, tonight I just might want another kind of dessert.”