Yevgeny Feyodovich strode purposely into the Privoz farmers’ market. He headed directly toward Egg Row without his usual stops to smoke and gab with his circle of buddies. This morning, he had no time for them, no time for anything but getting the hell out of Odessa.
Magda, the partner with whom he owned the kiosk, was already there. It was Magda’s farm from which the eggs came. He was the one with the capital.
“Has anyone come around asking for me?” he said as he came around behind the counter.
She was uncrating the eggs, separating the colors and sizes. “Quiet as a churchyard.”
“Why did you use that phrase?”
Something in the tone of his voice made her stop what she was doing, look up. “Yevgeny Feyodovich, whatever is the matter?”
“Nothing.” He was busy gathering up personal items.
“Huh. You look like you’ve seen the sun at midnight.” She put her fists on her ample hips. “And where d’you think you’re going? We’ll be swamped here morning till sunset today.”
“I have a business matter to attend to,” he said hurriedly.
She barred his way. “Don’t think you can leave me like this. We have an agreement.”
“Get your brother to help you.”
Magda puffed her chest out. “My brother’s an idiot.”
“Then he’s tailor-made for the job.”
He shouldered her roughly out of the way while her face was filling with blood. Putting his back to the whole scene, he strode quickly away, ignoring her indignant screeches, the stares of nearby vendors.
This morning on his way to the market, he’d received a call with the chilling news that Bogdan Illiyanovich had been shot to death on his way to leading the Moldavian Ilias Voda into the trap set for him by Fadi, the terrorist. Yevgeny had been paid well to be the roper, the one who brought the mark—in this case Voda—to the access point. Until he’d received a call from one of his friends in the police, he’d had no idea what Fadi wanted with Ilias Voda or that it would involve multiple murders. Now Bogdan Illiyanovich was dead, along with three of Fadi’s men and, worst of all, a police officer.
Yevgeny knew that if anyone got caught, his name would be the first one to pop up. He was about the last person in Odessa able to withstand a full-on police investigation. His livelihood—his very life—depended on him being anonymous, clinging to the shadows. Once the spotlight was shone on him, he was a dead man.
That was why he was on the run, why he was obliged in the most urgent terms to leave his past behind and relocate, hopefully outside Ukraine altogether. He was thinking Istanbul, of course. The man who had hired him for this godforsaken job was in Istanbul. Since Yevgeny was the only one who’d come out of this fiasco alive, perhaps the man would give him a job. Going to one of Yevgeny’s current drug sources was out of the question. That entire chain of custody was in jeopardy now. Best to sever his ties to them completely, start over. In Yevgeny’s chosen field, Istanbul was a more hospitable base than many he could think of, especially those closer to hand.
He hurried through the crowds that had begun to clog the access points. He was impelled by an uncomfortable prickling at the back of his neck, as if he was already in the crosshairs of an unknown assassin.
He was just passing a stack of crates in which beakless chickens were roiling as though they’d already lost their heads when he saw a pair of policemen threading their way through the pedestrian traffic. He didn’t have to ask anyone why they were there.
Just as he was shying away, a woman stepped out from between two stacks of crates. Already on edge, he took an involuntary step back, his fingers curled around the grip of his gun.
“The police are here, they’ve set a trap,” the woman said.
She looked slightly Arabian to him, but that could mean anything. Half of his world was part Arabian.
She gestured urgently. “Come with me. I can get you out of here.”
“Don’t make me laugh. For all I know you’re working for the SBU.”
He started to move away from her, away from the two policemen he’d seen. Soraya shook her head. “They’re waiting for you that way.”
He continued on. “I don’t believe you.”
She went with him, shouldering her way through the thick stream of people until she was slightly ahead of him. All at once she stopped, indicated with her head. An unpleasant ball of ice formed in Yevgeny’s lower belly.
“I told you it was a trap, Yevgeny Feyodovich.”
“How do you know my name? How do you know the police are after me?”
“Please. There’s no time.” She plucked at his sleeve. “This way, quickly! It’s your only hope of evading them.”
He nodded. What else could he do? She took him back to the city of chicken crates, then through them. They had to walk sideways to make it through the narrow lanes. On the other hand, the crate stacks, rising above their heads, kept them invisible to the police moving through the market.
At last, they broke out onto a street, hurried across it against traffic. He could see that they were heading toward a battered old Skoda.
“Please get in back,” she said curtly as she slid behind the wheel.
In something of a blind panic, Yevgeny Feyodovich did as she ordered, wrenching open the door, climbing in. He slammed the door shut, and she pulled out from the curb. That was when he became aware of someone sitting unmoving on the seat next to him.
“Ilias Voda!” His voice sounded bleak.
“You’ve stepped in it this time.” Jason Bourne relieved him of gun and knife.
“What?” Yevgeny Feyodovich, shocked to be unarmed, was even more so to see how white and drawn Voda was.
Bourne turned to him. “In this town you’re thoroughly fucked, tovarich.”
Deron had often said that Tyrone could be like a dog with a bone. He’d get certain ideas stuck in his head and he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—let them go until they were resolved. He was like this with the two people he’d seen chopping up the cop’s body then burning down M&N Bodywork. He followed the inevitable aftermath like the most rabid fan of American Idol. The fire department came, and then the cops. But nothing remained inside the concrete-block building except ash and cinders. Moreover, it was District NE, which meant nobody really gave a shit. Inside an hour, Five-O had given up and, with a collective sigh of relief, had hightailed it to safety in the white parts of the city.
But Tyrone knew what had happened. Not that anyone had asked him. Not that he would have told them shit had they bothered to interview him. In fact, he didn’t even call his friend Deron in Florida to tell him.
In his world, you took the knife off your hoop enemy when you beat him to a pulp for dissing you, or your sister, or your girlfriend, whatever. So at ten or eleven, you gained a measure of respect, which increased exponentially when your Masta Blasta slipped you a Saturday-night special with a taped butt and the serial numbers filed off.
Then, of course, you had to use it, because you didn’t want to be a hop-along, a wannabe nobody would hang with or, worse, a mentard. It wasn’t so difficult, really, because you already had some experience blowing people’s heads off playing Postal 2 and Soldier of Fortune. As it turned out, the real thing wasn’t much different. Just that you had to be careful afterward so the kill wouldn’t turn into a career-ending move.
And yet there was something inside him, some nagging sense that this was not the only way it could be. There was Deron, of course, who’d been born and raised in the hood. But he’d had a momma who was straight and a father who’d loved him. In some way Tyrone couldn’t understand, let alone articulate, he suspected those things counted for something. Then Deron had gone away to be educated in the white world and everyone in the hood—including Tyrone—had instantly hated his guts. But when he’d returned they forgave him everything because they saw he hadn’t abandoned them, as they’d feared. For that, they loved him all the more, and rallied ’round to protect him.
&nbs
p; Now Tyrone, sitting under the tree opposite the burned-out hulk of M&N Bodywork, faced both the destruction of his dream to make it his crew’s crib, and the terrible notion that the dream was not what he’d wanted after all. He stared at the blank, blackened wall of cinder block, and it looked not much different than his life.
He drew out his cellie. He didn’t have Miss S’s number. How to contact her, how to let her know he had the 411—what did Deron call it? intel, yeah—for her? Him and only him. If she’d meet him, if she’d walk with him again. He forced himself to believe that’s all he wanted from her. The real truth he couldn’t face yet.
He called 411. The only listed number for CI was the so-called public relations office. Tyrone knew what a joke that was, but he dialed it anyway. Once again, his life had refused to allow him a choice.
“Yes? How can I help?” a young white male voice said in clipped fashion.
“I’m tryin’ t’reach a agent I spoke to coupla days ago,” Tyrone said, for once self-conscious about his ghetto slur.
“The agent’s name?”
“Soraya Moore.”
“Just a moment, please.”
Tyrone heard some clicking, all at once became paranoid. He got up from his perch, began to walk down the street.
“Sir? May I have your name and number, please?”
Paranoia in full flower. He began to walk faster, as if he could outrun the inquiry. “I just want to speak to—”
“If you give me your name and number, I’ll see that Agent Moore gets the message.”
At this, Tyrone felt completely boxed in by a world he knew nothing about. “Just tell her I know who put the salt on her tail.”
“Pardon me, sir, you know what?”
Tyrone felt that his own ignorance was being used as a weapon against which he was powerless. By design, his world was hidden within the larger one. Once, he’d been proud of that. Now, all at once, he knew it was a failing.
He repeated what he’d said, disconnected. Disgusted, he threw the cellie into the gutter, made a mental note to have DJ Tank get him another burner. His old one had just gotten too hot.
So who are you, really?” Yevgeny Feyodovich asked with world weariness.
“Does it matter?” Bourne said.
“I suppose not.” Yevgeny stared out the window as they passed through the city. Every time he saw a police car or a policeman on foot, his muscles tensed. “You’re not even Moldavian, are you?”
“Your pal, Bogdan Illiyanovich, tried to kill me.” Bourne, watching the other’s face carefully, said: “You don’t seem surprised.”
“Today,” Yevgeny Feyodovich replied, “nothing surprises me.”
“Who hired you?” Bourne said sharply.
Yevgeny’s head swung around. “You don’t expect me to tell you.”
“Was it the Saudi, Fadi?”
“I don’t know a Fadi.”
“But you knew Edor Vladovich Lemontov, a fictitious drug lord.”
“I never actually said I knew him.” Yevgeny Feyodovich looked around. Judging by the sun, they were heading southwest. “Where are we going?”
“A killing field.”
Yevgeny affected nonchalance. “I should say my prayers then.”
“By all means.”
Soraya drove hard and fast, always staying within the speed limit. The last thing any of them needed was to attract the attention of a cruising police car. At length, they left the urban sprawl of Odessa behind, only to be confronted by rows of huge factories, transfer depots, and rail yards.
A bit farther on, there was a break of perhaps three or four kilometers where a village had sprung up, stores and houses looking tiny and incongruous amid the gargantuan structures on either side. Near the far end, Soraya turned down a side street that was soon fleshed out with foliage, both natural and artificial.
Oleksandr was waiting for them in the front yard of his owner and trainer—a friend of Soraya—who was, at the moment, nowhere to be seen. The boxer lifted his head as the battered Skoda turned into the driveway. The dacha behind him was of moderate size, set in a shallow dell, protected from its neighbors by thick stands of fir and cypress.
As Soraya rolled to a halt, Oleksandr rose, trotting toward them. He barked in greeting as he saw Soraya emerge from the car.
“My God, that’s a huge beast,” Yevgeny Feyodovich said under his breath.
Bourne smiled at him. “Welcome to the killing ground.” He grabbed the Ukrainian by his collar and dragged him off the backseat, out into the yard.
Oleksandr, seeing an unfamiliar face, raised his ears, sat back on his haunches, growled low in his throat. He bared his teeth.
“Let me introduce you to your executioner.” Bourne shoved Yevgeny toward the dog.
The Ukrainian appeared thunderstruck. “The dog?”
“Oleksandr chewed Fadi’s face off,” Bourne said. “And hasn’t eaten since then.”
Yevgeny Feyodovich shuddered. He closed his eyes. “All I want is to be somewhere else.”
“Don’t we all,” Bourne said, meaning it. “Just tell me who hired you.”
Yevgeny Feyodovich wiped his sweating face. “He’ll kill me, no doubt.”
Bourne swept his hand toward the boxer. “At least that way you’ll have a head start.”
At that moment, just as they’d planned, Soraya gave Oleksandr a hand command. The dog leapt forward directly toward Yevgeny, who let out with a high, almost comical yelp.
At the last instant Bourne reached down and grabbed the dog’s collar, pulling him up short. The maneuver took more out of Bourne than it should have, sending shock waves of pain radiating from the wound in his side. He gave no outward sign of his distress. Nevertheless, he was aware of Soraya’s eyes reading his face as if it were today’s newspaper.
“Yevgeny Feyodovich,” Bourne said, straightening up, “as you can plainly see, Oleksandr is big and powerful. My hand is getting tired. You have five seconds before I let go.”
Yevgeny, his mind functioning off the adrenaline of terror, made up his mind in three. “All right, keep that dog away from me.”
Bourne began to walk toward him, a straining Oleksandr in tow. He saw Yevgeny’s eyes open wide enough to see the whites all around.
“Who hired you, Yevgeny Feyodovich?”
“A man named Nesim Hatun.” The Ukrainian could not take his eyes off the boxer. “He works out of Istanbul—the Sultanahmet District.”
“Where in Sultanahmet?” Bourne said.
Yevgeny cringed away from Oleksandr, whom Bourne had allowed to rise up on his hind legs. He was as tall as the Ukrainian. “I don’t know,” Yevgeny said. “I swear. I’ve told you everything.”
The moment Bourne let go of Oleksandr’s collar, the dog sprang forward like an arrow from a drawn bow. Yevgeny Feyodovich screamed. A stain appeared at the crotch of his trousers as he was plowed under.
A moment later, Oleksandr was sitting on his chest, licking his face.
As far as freight ports are concerned, you basically have two choices,” Dr. Pavlyna said. “Odessa and Ilyichevsk, some seven kilometers to the southwest.”
“What’s your take?” Matthew Lerner said. They were in her car, heading toward the northern end of Odessa, where the shipyards were located.
“Odessa is, of course, closer,” she said. “But the police are sure to have at least some surveillance there. On the other hand, Ilyichevsk is appealing simply because it’s farther away from the center of the manhunt; there’s sure to be less of a police presence—if any. Also, it’s a larger, busier facility, with ferries on more frequent schedules.”
“Ilyichevsk it is, then.”
She changed lanes, preparing to make a turn, so that they could head south. “The only problem for them will be roadblocks.”
Leaving the main road behind, Soraya drove through back streets, even some alleys she could squeeze the Skoda through.
“Even so,” Bourne said, “I wouldn’t rule out hitting one
roadblock between here and Ilyichevsk.”
They had left Yevgeny Feyodovich in the front yard of Soraya’s friend, guarded for the time being by Oleksandr. Three hours from now, when his release would be meaningless to them, Soraya’s friend would let him go.
“How are you feeling?” Soraya drove through narrow streets lined with warehouses. Here and there in the distance, they could see the portal and floating cranes at the port of Ilyichevsk rising like the necks of dinosaurs. It was slower going along this route, but it was also safer than taking the main road.
“I’m fine,” he said, but she could tell he was lying. His face was still pale, stitched with pain, his breathing ragged, not as deep as it ought to be.
“Glad to hear it,” she said with heavy irony. “Because like it or not, we’re going to come up against that roadblock in about three minutes.”
He looked up ahead. There were several cars and trucks stopped, lined up to be funneled through a gap between two armored police vehicles parked perpendicular to the street, so that their formidable tanklike sides were presented to the oncoming traffic. Two policemen in riot gear were questioning the cars’ occupants, peering into their trunks or—in the case of the trucks—checking the rear and underneath the carriage. With faces clamped tight, they worked slowly, methodically, thoroughly. Clearly, they were leaving nothing to chance.
Soraya shook her head. “There’s no way out of this, no alternate route I can take. The water’s on our right, the main highway on our left.” She glanced in her side mirror, at the traffic building behind her, another police car. “I can’t even turn around without the risk of being stopped.”
“Time for Plan B,” Bourne said grimly. “You watch the cops in back of us; I’ll keep my eye on the ones in front.”
Valery Petrovich, having just emptied his bladder against the brick side of a building, walked back to his position. He and his partner had been assigned to check that no vehicle lined up for the roadblock tried to turn around. He was thinking with some disgust about this bottom-of-the-barrel assignment, worrying that he’d been hit with it because he’d pissed off his sergeant, because, true, he’d beaten him at dice and at cards, taking six hundred rubles off him each time. Also true, the man was a vindictive bastard. Look what he’d done to poor Mikhail Arkanovich for mistakenly eating the sergeant’s pierogi, vile though they’d been, so he’d heard from a very bitter Mikhail Arkanovich.
The Bourne Betrayal Page 29