Now his strike force was going to train here.
It was hardly a surprise that when he arrived the leaders greeted him like a conquering hero.
Not that this homecoming of sorts was simply pleasant; nothing in Arkadin‘s life was simple. Possibly he had misremembered the landscape or perhaps something had changed inside him. Either way, the moment he drove into the Nagorno-Karabakh area it was as if he‘d been hurled back into Nizhny Tagil.
The camp had been set up precisely to his specifications: Ten tents made of camouflage material ringed a large oval compound. To the east was the landing strip where his plane had touched down. At the other end of it was a short L-shaped extension on which was sitting a Air Afrika Transport cargo plane. The tents had an aspect he hadn‘t anticipated: They reminded him of the ring of high-security prisons that girdled Nizhny Tagil, the town in which he‘d been born and raised, if you could call living with psychotic parents being raised.
But again, memory was not a simple matter. Twenty minutes after arriving, having entered one of the tents that had been set up as his command station, he was inspecting the impressive array of weaponry he‘d had transshipped: AK47 Lancasters, AR15 Bushmasters and LWRC SRT 6.8mm assault rifles, World War II US Marine M2A1-7 flamethrowers, armor-piercing grenades, shoulder-fired FIM-92 Stinger missiles, mobile howitzers, and, the key to his mission, three AH-64 Apache helicopters loaded with AGM-114 Hellfire missiles with specially made dual-charge nose cones of depleted uranium, unconditionally guaranteed by the seller to penetrate even the most heavily armored vehicle.
Dressed in camo fatigues, armed with a metal baton on one hip and an American Colt.45 on the other, Arkadin emerged from the largest of the tents and was met by Dimitri Maslov, the head of the Kazanskaya, the most powerful family of the Moscow mob. Maslov looked like a street fighter who was calculating how to pin you in the least amount of time and with the maximum pain. His hands were large, thick, and broad, and looked like they could wring the neck of anyone and anything. His muscular legs ended in outlandishly dainty feet, as if they‘d been grafted on from someone else‘s body. He‘d grown his hair since the last time Arkadin had seen him and, dressed in lightweight camo fatigues, had something of the anarchic air of Che Guevara.
— Leonid Danilovich, Maslov said with false heartiness, — I see you‘ve wasted no time in putting our war matériel to use. Well, good, it cost a fucking fortune.
With Maslov were two no-neck bodyguards, their fatigues sporting immense sweat rings, clearly out of their element in this hot climate.
Looking past the human weapons, Arkadin eyed the grupperovka chief with a kind of impersonal distrust. Ever since he‘d defected from being the Kazanskaya‘s main enforcer to working exclusively for Semion Icoupov, he wasn‘t sure where he stood with the man. That they were doing business now meant nothing; a combination of compelling circumstance and powerful partner thrust them together. Arkadin had the impression that they were two pit bulls deciding how to finish the other off. This was borne out when Maslov said, — I still haven‘t gotten over the loss of my Mexican pipeline. I can‘t help feeling that if you‘d been available, I wouldn‘t have lost it.
— Now I believe you‘re exaggerating, Dimitri Ilyinovich.
— But instead you dropped out of sight, Maslov continued, deliberately ignoring Arkadin. -You were unreachable.
Arkadin thought he‘d better pay attention now. Did Maslov suspect that he had taken Gustavo Moreno‘s laptop, a prize that Arkadin was certain Maslov thought was rightfully his?
Arkadin thought it best to change the subject. -Why are you here?
— I always like to see my investments firsthand. Besides, Triton, the man coordinating the entire operation, wanted a firsthand report on your progress.
— Triton need only have called me, Arkadin said.
— He‘s a cautious man, our Triton, or so I‘ve heard. I‘ve never met him myself-frankly, I don‘t know who he is, only that he‘s a man with deep pockets and the wherewithal to mount this ambitious project. And don‘t forget, Arkadin, it was I who recommended you to Triton. ‗There‘s no one better to train these men,‘ I told him in no uncertain terms.
Arkadin thanked Maslov, even though privately it pained him to do so. On the other side of the ledger, it warmed him to know that Maslov had no idea who Triton was or who he worked for, whereas he himself knew everything. Maslov‘s amassed millions had made him overconfident and sloppy, which in Arkadin‘s opinion made him ripe for the slaughter. That would come, he told himself, in time.
When Maslov had phoned him with the proposition laid out by Triton, he‘d at first refused. Now that he was the power behind the Eastern Brotherhood he neither needed nor wanted to hire himself out as a free-lancer. When Maslov‘s flattery, describing Arkadin and the Black Legion‘s crucial part in the plan, had failed to move him, the twenty-million-dollar fee was dangled in front of his face. Still, he hesitated, until he‘d learned that the target was Iran, the objective to overthrow the current regime. Then the dazzling prospect of Iran‘s oil pipeline danced through his head: untold billions, untold power. This prize took his breath away. He was canny enough to know, though Maslov was careful not to mention it, that Triton‘s aim must be the pipeline, too. His endgame was to double-cross Triton at the last minute, to snatch the pipeline for himself, but to do that he needed to properly assess his enemy‘s resources. He needed to know who Triton was.
He saw someone emerge from the interior of the jeep that he‘d been warned by tribal lookouts had brought Maslov and his thugs here. At first the heat rising from the freshly laid tarmac obscured the man‘s face. Not that it mattered; Arkadin recognized that easy, loping gait, so deliberately like Clint Eastwood‘s in A Fistful of Dollars.
— What‘s he doing here? Arkadin struggled to keep the sharp edge out of his voice.
— Who? Oserov? Maslov said in all innocence. -Vylacheslav Germanovich is now my second in command. He shook his head ingenuously. -Did I fail to mention that? I would have if I‘d been able to get hold of you to protect my Mexican interests. He shrugged. -But, alas…
Oserov was smiling now, in that half-ironic, half-condescending expression that had been tattooed into Arkadin‘s brain in Nizhny Tagil. Was graduating Oxford a license to act superior to every other grupperovka member in Russia? Arkadin didn‘t think so.
— Arkadin, really? Oserov said in British English. -Bloody shocking you‘re still alive.
Arkadin hit him hard on the point of the chin. Oserov, that vile smile still stitched to his face, was already on his knees, his eyes rolling, by the time Maslov‘s bodyguards stepped in.
Maslov held up one hand to stay them. Nevertheless, his face was dark and congested with anger. -You shouldn‘t have done that, Leonid Danilovich.
— You shouldn‘t have brought him.
Unmindful of the weapons drawn on him, Arkadin knelt beside Oserov. -So here you are in the blazing Azerbaijani sun, so far from home. How does it feel?
Oserov‘s eyes were bloodshot and a thin trail of pink drool descended like a strand of a spider‘s web from one corner of his mouth, but he never stopped smiling. All at once, he reached out and grabbed Arkadin by his shirtfront, jerking him closer.
— You‘ll live to regret this insult, Leonid Danilovich, now that Mischa is no longer alive to protect you.
Arkadin sprang away and rose to his feet. -I told you what I‘d do to him if I saw him again.
Maslov‘s eyes narrowed. His face still had that congested look. -That was a long time ago.
— Not for me, Arkadin said.
Now he had made his stand, made an unequivocal statement that Maslov couldn‘t ignore. Nothing would be the same between them, which came as a distinct relief to Arkadin, who had the captive‘s innate horror of inaction. To him, change was life. Dimitri Maslov had always thought of Arkadin as a workman, someone he hired and then forgot about. That perception needed to change. Maslov had to be made aware that the two men were now equals.
Arkadin didn‘t have the luxury of time to finesse his new, elevated status.
As Oserov regained his feet, Maslov threw his head back and laughed, but he sobered quickly enough. -Get back to the car, Vylacheslav Germanovich, he said under his breath to Oserov.
Oserov was about to say something, but changed his mind. With a murderous look at Arkadin, he turned on his heel and stalked away.
— So, you‘re a big man now, Maslov said in an easy tone that didn‘t quite mask the undertone of menace in his voice.
Which meant, Arkadin understood, I knew you when you were nothing but a ragged fugitive from Nizhny Tagil, so if you mean to come after me, don’t.
— There are no big men, Arkadin replied with equanimity, — only big ideas.
The two men stared at each other in total silence. Then, as one, they began to laugh. They laughed so hard, the bodyguards looked at each other questioningly and holstered their handguns. Meanwhile, Arkadin and Maslov punched each other lightly, then embraced as brothers. But for Arkadin, he knew he had to be even more wary of a knife being slipped between his ribs or a bit of cyanide in his toothpaste.
Bourne made his way down the steep hillside from the warung at the summit of the rice paddies. Down below, two adolescents were just visible exiting their family compound to go to school in Tenganan village.
He continued to descend the steep, rocky path at an almost breathtaking pace, passing the compound where the two teens had come from. A man-doubtless their father-was chopping wood, and a woman was stirring a wok-like pan over an open flame. Two skinny dogs came out to observe Bourne‘s passing, but the adults couldn‘t have cared less.
The path flattened out quickly now, becoming packed dirt, somewhat wider, with the occasional rock and pile of cow manure to circumnavigate. This was the path that he and Moira had been forced to take by the — beater who had cleverly herded them toward the killing ground in Tenganan.
Passing through the arched gateway, he picked his way past the school and the empty badminton court. Then all at once he was in the sacred open space occupied by the three temples. Unlike the first time he had been here, the temples were empty. High above, curlicue clouds tumbled across the cerulean sky. A small breeze stirred the treetops. His steps, light and virtually silent, caused little or no stir among the herd of cows and their calves lounging against the cool stone walls of the temple at the far end, the one dappled in shade. Save for the animals, the glade was deserted.
As he cut between the central temple and the one on the right he experienced an eerie sense of dislocation. He passed the patch of dirt where he had lain in his own blood while Moira, her face pinched with horror, had knelt over him. Time seemed to stretch into infinity, then, as he moved on, to snap back like a rubber band.
Leaving the rear walls of the temples behind him, he soon found himself back on steeply pitched land. The forest rose like a thick green wall above him, like a many-pagodaed temple complex, reaching toward the sky. This was where the shooter must have been lying in wait for him.
Just inside the lowest fringe of the dense forest sat a small stone shrine, its flanks wrapped in the traditional black-and-white-checked cloth, the whole protected by a small yellow parasol. The local spirit was in residence, and so was someone else. Seeing a small movement out of the corner of his eye, Bourne lunged into the foliage, wrapped his hand around a thin, brown arm, and drew out of the shadows the eldest daughter of the family that owned the warung.
For a long moment, they stood staring silently at each other. Then Bourne knelt down so he was at her eye level.
— What‘s your name? he asked her.
— Kasih, she said at once.
He smiled. -What are you doing here, Kasih?
The girl‘s eyes were deep as pools, dark as obsidian. She had long hair that came down past her narrow shoulders. She wore a coffee-colored sarong with a pattern of frangipani blossoms just like his double ikat. Her skin was silky and unblemished.
— Kasih-?
— You were hurt three full moons ago in Tenganan.
The smile Bourne kept on his face turned tissue-thin. -You‘re mistaken, Kasih. That man died. I went to his funeral in Manggis before his body was flown back to the United States.
The outer corners of her eyes turned up and she gave him a curious smile, as enigmatic as the expression of the Mona Lisa. Then she reached out and her fingers opened his sweat-drenched shirt, revealing the bandaged wound.
— You were shot, Bapak, she said as gravely as an adult. -You didn‘t die, but it‘s hard for you to climb our steep hills. She cocked her head. -Why do you do it?
— So that one day it won‘t be hard. He rebuttoned his shirt. -This is our secret, Kasih. No one else must find out, otherwise-
— The man who shot you will come back.
Rocked back on his heels, Bourne felt his heartbeat accelerate. -Kasih, how do you know that?
— Because demons always return.
— What do you mean?
Reverently approaching the shrine, she placed a handful of red and violet blossoms in the shrine‘s small niche, pressing her palms together at forehead height, bowing her head in a brief prayer to protect them against the evil demons that lurked in the forest‘s restless green shadows.
When she was finished, she stepped back and, kneeling, began to dig at the rear corner of the shrine. A moment later she plucked out of the black, volcanic earth a small package of tied banana leaves. She turned and, with a fearful look in her eyes, presented it to Bourne.
Brushing off the soft clots of dirt, he untied and peeled back the leaves, one by one. Inside, he discovered a human eyeball, made of acrylic or glass.
— It‘s the demon‘s eye, Bapak, she said, — the demon who shot you.
Bourne looked at her. -Where did you find this?
— Over there. She pointed to the base of an immense pule or milk wood tree not more than a hundred yards away.
— Show me, he said, following her through the tall fan-like ferns to the tree.
The girl would approach no closer than three paces, but Bourne hunkered down on his hams at the spot she indicated, where the ferns were broken, trampled down as if someone had left in great haste. Cocking his head up, he eyed the network of branches.
As he made to climb up, Kasih gave a little cry. -Oh, please don‘t! The spirit of Durga, the goddess of death, lives in the pule.
He swung one leg up, gaining a foothold on the bark, and smiled reassuringly at the girl. -Don‘t worry, Kasih, I‘m protected by Shiva, my own goddess of death.
Ascending swiftly and surely, he soon came to the thick, almost horizontal branch he had spied from the ground. Arranging himself along it on his belly, he found himself peering out through a narrow gap in the tangle of trees at the precise spot where he‘d been shot. He rose up on one elbow, looked around. In a moment he found the small hollow in the place where the branch was thickest as it attached to the trunk. Something glinted dully there. Plucking it out, he saw a shell casing. Pocketing this, he shimmied back down the tree, where he grinned down at the clearly nervous girl.
— You see, safe and sound, he said. -I think Durga‘s spirit is in another pule tree on the other side of Bali today.
— I didn‘t know Durga could move around.
— Of course she can, Bourne said. -This isn‘t the only pule on Bali, is it?
She shook her head.
— That proves my point, Bourne said. -She‘s not here today. It‘s perfectly safe.
Kasih still appeared troubled. -Now that you have the demon‘s eyeball, you‘ll be able to find him and stop him from coming back, won‘t you?
He knelt beside her. -The demon isn‘t coming back, Kasih, that I promise you. He rolled the eyeball between his fingers. -And, yes, with its help I hope to find the demon who shot me.
Moira was taken by the two NSA agents to Bethesda Naval Hospital, where she was subjected to a medical workup both harrowing and stultifying in its thoroughness. In this wa
y, the night crawled by. When, just after ten the next morning, she was declared physically fit, materially unimpaired by the car crash, the NSA agents told her that she was free to go.
— Wait a minute, she said. -Didn‘t you say you were taking me in for tampering with a crime scene?
Bourne 7 – The Bourne Deception jb-7 Page 11