The Bourne Sanction Part 18

"The question is what are you you going to do, Leonid." She brushed a fragment of leaf off her thigh. She was wearing American designer jeans, an open-necked shirt, sandals on her feet. "The process of examining your past is designed to help you regain control over yourself." going to do, Leonid." She brushed a fragment of leaf off her thigh. She was wearing American designer jeans, an open-necked shirt, sandals on her feet. "The process of examining your past is designed to help you regain control over yourself."

"You mean my homicidal tendencies," he said.

"Why would you choose to say it that way, Leonid?"

He looked deeply into her eyes. "Because it's the truth."

Marlene's eyes grew dark. "Then why are you so reluctant to talk to me about the things I feel will help you?"

"You just want to worm your way inside my head. You think if you know everything about me you can control me."

"You're wrong. This isn't about control, Leonid."

Arkadin laughed. "What is it about then?"

"What it's always been-it's about helping you control yourself."

A light wind tugged at her hair, and she smoothed it back into place. He noticed such things and attached to them psychological meaning. Marlene liked everything just so.

"I was a sad little boy. Then I was an angry little boy. Then I ran away from home. There, does that satisfy you?"

Marlene tilted her head to catch a bit of sunlight that appeared through the tossed leaves of the fig tree. "How is it you went from being sad to being angry?"

"I grew up," Arkadin said.

"You were still a child."

"Only in a manner of speaking."

He studied her for a moment. Her hands were crossed on her lap. She lifted one of them, touched his cheek with her fingertips, traced the line of his jaw until she reached his chin. She turned his face a bit farther toward her. Then she leaned forward. Her lips, when they touched his, were soft. They opened like a flower. The touch of her tongue was like an explosion in his mouth.

Arkadin, damping down the dark eddy of his emotion, smiled winningly. "Doesn't matter. I'm never going back."

"I second that emotion." Devra nodded, then rose. "Let's see if we can get proper lodgings. I don't know about you but I need a shower. Then we'll see about contacting Haydar without anyone knowing."

As she began to turn away, he caught her by the elbow.

"Just a minute."

Her expression was quizzical as she waited for him to continue.

"If you're not my enemy, if you haven't been lying to me, if you want to stay with me, then you'll demonstrate your fidelity."

"I said, yes, I would do what you asked of me."

"That might entail killing the people who are surely guarding Haydar."

She didn't even blink. "Give me the f.u.c.king gun."

Veronica Hart lived in an apartment complex in Langley, Virginia. Like so many other complexes in this part of the world, it served as temporary housing for the thousands of federal government workers, including spooks of all stripes, who were often on a.s.signment overseas or in other parts of the country.

Hart had lived in this particular apartment for just over two years. Not that it mattered; since coming to the district seven years ago she'd had nothing but temporary lodgings. By this point she doubted she'd be comfortable settling down and nesting. At least, those were her thoughts as she buzzed Soraya Moore into the lobby. A moment later a discreet knock sounded, and she let the other woman in.

"I'm clean," Soraya said as she shrugged off her coat. "I made sure of that."

Hart hung her coat in the foyer closet, led her into the kitchen. "For breakfast I have cold cereal or"-she opened the refrigerator-"cold Chinese food. Last night's leftovers."

"I'm not one for conventional breakfasts," Soraya said.

"Good. Neither am I."

Hart grabbed an array of cardboard cartons, told Soraya where to find plates, serving spoons, and chopsticks. They moved into the living room, set everything on a gla.s.s coffee table between facing sofas.

Hart began opening the cartons. "No pork, right?"

Soraya smiled, pleased that her boss remembered her Muslim strictures. "Thank you."

Hart returned to the kitchen, put up water for tea. "I have Earl Grey or oolong."

"Oolong for me, please."

Hart finished brewing the tea, brought the pot and two small handleless cups back to the living room. The two women settled themselves on opposite sides of the table, sitting cross-legged on the abstract patterned rug. Soraya looked around. There were some basic prints on the wall, the kind you'd expect to find at any midlevel hotel chain. The furniture looked rented, as anonymous as anything else. There were no photos, no sense of Hart's background or family. The only unusual feature was an upright piano.

"My only real possession," Hart said, following Soraya's gaze. "It's a Steinway K-52, better known as a Chippendale hamburg. It's got a sounding board larger than many grand pianos, so it lets out with a h.e.l.luva sound."

"You play?"

Hart went over, sat down on the stool, began to play Frederic Chopin's Nocturne in B-Flat Minor. Without missing a beat she segued into Isaac Albeniz's sensuous "Malaguena," and, finally, into a raucous transposition of Jimi Hendrix's "Purple Haze."

Soraya laughed and applauded as Hart rose, came back to sit opposite her.

"My absolute only talent besides intelligence work." Hart opened one of the cartons, spooned out General Tso's chicken. "Careful," she said as she handed it over, "I order it extra hot."

"That's okay by me," Soraya said, digging deep into the carton. "I always wanted to play the piano."

"Actually, I wanted to play electric guitar." Hart licked oyster sauce off her finger as she pa.s.sed over another carton. "My father wouldn't hear of it. According to him, electric guitar wasn't a 'lady's' instrument."

"Strict, was he?" Soraya said sympathetically.

"You bet. He was a full-bird colonel in the air force. He'd been a fighter pilot back in his salad days. He resented being too old to fly, missed that d.a.m.n oily-smelling c.o.c.kpit something fierce. Who could he complain to in the force? So he took his frustration out on me and my mother."

Soraya nodded. "My father is old-school Muslim. Very strict, very rigid. Like many of his generation he's bewildered by the modern world, and that makes him angry. I felt trapped at home. When I left, he said he'd never forgive me."

"Did he?"

Soraya had a faraway look in her eyes. "I see my mom once a month. We go shopping together. I speak to my father once in a while. He's never invited me back home; I've never gone."

Hart put down her chopsticks. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It is what it is. Do you still see your father?"

"I do, but he doesn't know who I am. My mother's gone now, which is a blessing. I don't think she could've tolerated seeing him like that."

"It must be hard for you," Soraya said. "The indomitable fighter pilot reduced like that."

"There's a point in life where you have to let go of your parents." Hart resumed eating, though more slowly. "Whoever's lying in that bed isn't my father. He died a long time ago."

Soraya looked down at her food for a moment. Then she said, "Tell me how you knew about the NSA safe house."

"Ah, that." Hart's face brightened. Clearly, she was happy to be on a work topic. "During my time at Black River we were often hired by NSA. This was before they trained and deployed their own home-grown black-ops details. We were good for them because they never had to specify to anyone what we'd been hired to do. It was all 'fieldwork,' priming the battlefield for our troops. No one on Capitol Hill was going to look farther than that."

She dabbed her mouth, sat back. "Anyway, after one particular mission, I caught the short straw. I was the one from my squad who brought the findings back to the NSA. Because it was a black-ops mission, the debriefing took place at the safe house in Virginia. Not in the fine library you were taken to, but in one of the bas.e.m.e.nt-level cubicles-windowless, featureless, just gritty reinforced concrete. It's like a war bunker down there."

"And what did you see?"

"It wasn't what I saw." Hart said. "It was what I heard. The cubicles are soundproof, except for the doors, I a.s.sume so the guards in the corridors know what's going on. What I heard was ghastly. The sounds were barely human."

"Did you tell your bosses at Black River?"

"What was the point? They didn't care, and even if they did, what were they going to do? Start a congressional investigation on the basis of sounds I heard? The NSA would have cut them off at the knees, put them out of business in a heartbeat." She shook her head. "No, these boys are businessmen, pure and simple. Their ideology revolves around milking as much money from the government as possible."

"So now we have a chance to do what you couldn't before, what Black River wouldn't do."

"That's right," Hart said. "I want to get photos, videos, absolute proof of what NSA is doing down there so I can present the evidence myself to the president. That's where you and Tyrone come in." She shoved her plate away. "I want Luther LaValle's head on a platter, and by G.o.d I'm going to get it."

Nineteen.

BECAUSE OF the corpse and all the blood on the seats Bourne was forced to abandon the Volga. Before he did, though, he took Baronov's cell phone, as well as his money. It was freezing. Within the preternatural afternoon winter darkness came the snow, swirling down in ever-heavier curtains. Bourne knew he had to get out of the area as quickly as possible. He took the SIM card out of his phone, put it in Baronov's, then threw his own cell phone down a storm drain. In his new ident.i.ty as Fyodor Ilianovich Popov he couldn't afford to be in possession of a cell with an American carrier.

He walked, leaning into the wind and snow. After six blocks, huddled in a doorway, he used Baronov's cell phone to call his friend Boris Karpov. The voice at the end of the line grew cold.

"Colonel Karpov is no longer with FSB."

Bourne felt a chill go through him. Russia had not changed so much that lightning-swift dismissals on trumped-up charges were a thing of the past.

"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 att.i.tude, Bourne thought. The Federal Anti-Narcotics Agency was headed up by Viktor Cherkesov. But many believed he was much more than that, a silovik 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 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 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. 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 a.s.sa.s.sin waiting in Tarkanian's apartment, but his contact had been murdered by an NSA a.s.sa.s.sin 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 pa.s.sed 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 ident.i.ty 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 b.u.mper-to-b.u.mper lines so as to not miss a fare. They were known in local slang as bombily 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 pa.s.senger.

He went into a cybercafe, 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 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 ca.n.a.l, 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 club at proyezd Lubyansky 25. The Kitai-Gorod metro stop let Bourne out at the end of the block. On one side was a ca.n.a.l, 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 bombily Zhigs cl.u.s.tered 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. Zhigs cl.u.s.tered 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 a.s.sured 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 siloviki come and go with their diamond-studded, mini-skirted, fur-wrapped come and go with their diamond-studded, mini-skirted, fur-wrapped dyevochkas 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 siloviki or their progeny lined up against the boys from Sokolniki, who came from nothing into sudden wealth. The or their progeny lined up against the boys from Sokolniki, who came from nothing into sudden wealth. The siloviki 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 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. 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 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 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 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 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 dyevs partying here and in every other nightclub in Russia. 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 dyev on her own, Bourne walked over to her, gestured if she wanted to dance. The earsplitting house music pumped out of a dozen ma.s.sive speakers made small talk impossible. She nodded, took his hand, and they shoved, elbowed, and squeezed their way into a cramped s.p.a.ce on the dance floor. The next twenty minutes could have subst.i.tuted 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. on her own, Bourne walked over to her, gestured if she wanted to dance. The earsplitting house music pumped out of a dozen ma.s.sive speakers made small talk impossible. She nodded, took his hand, and they shoved, elbowed, and squeezed their way into a cramped s.p.a.ce on the dance floor. The next twenty minutes could have subst.i.tuted 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 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 dyev dancing with the broad-shouldered mobster was, indeed, Gala Nematova. dancing with the broad-shouldered mobster was, indeed, Gala Nematova.

It'll never be the same," Dr. Mitten said.

"What the h.e.l.l 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."