“I know exactly how to proceed with difficult prospects like László Molnar.” Hearn deftly pulled on his suit jacket. “You can count on me.”
Spalko grinned. “Somehow I knew I could. Now, once you’ve hooked him, I want you to take him to Underground. Do you know the bar, Ethan?”
“Of course, sir. But it will be quite late. After midnight, surely.”
Spalko put his forefinger beside his nose. “Another secret. Molnar is something of a night owl. He’ll resist, however. It seems he enjoys being persuaded. You must persevere, Ethan, do you understand?”
“Perfectly.”
Spalko handed him a slip of paper with Molnar’s seat number. “Then go on. Have a good time.” He gave him a small shove. “And good luck.”
The imposing Romanesque facade of Magyar Állami Operaház, the Hungarian State Opera House, was ablaze with light. Inside, the magnificent, ornate gilt-and-red interior, three stories high, glittered with what seemed like ten thousand spearpoints of light from the elaborate cut-crystal chandelier that descended from the muraled domed ceiling like a giant bell.
Tonight, the company was presenting Zoltán Kodály’s Háry János, a traditional favorite that had been in its repertory since 1926. Ethan Hearn hurried into the vast marble lobby, echoing with the voices of Budapest society assembled for the evening’s festivities. His tuxedo was of a fine worsted fabric and was well cut, but it was hardly a name brand. In his line of work, what he wore and how he wore it was extremely important. He tended toward elegant, muted clothes, never anything flashy or too expensive. Humility was the name of the game when one was asking for donations.
He did not want to be late, but he slowed himself down, reluctant to miss a moment of that peculiar electric time just before the curtain rose that made his heart thump.
Having assiduously boned up on the hobbies of Hungarian society, he fancied himself something of an opera buff. He liked Háry János both because of its music, which was derived from Hungarian folk music, and because of the tall tale the veteran soldier János spins of his rescue of the emperor’s daughter, his promotion to general, his virtual single-handed defeat of Napoleon and his eventual winning of the heart of the emperor’s daughter. It was a sweet fable, drenched in the bloody history of Hungary.
In the end, it was fortuitous that he had arrived late, because by consulting the slip of paper Spalko had given him, he was able to identify László Molnar, who, along with most others, was already seated. From what Hearn could determine at first sight, he was a middle-aged man of medium height, heavy around the gut, and, with a slicked-back mass of black hair, a head not unlike a mushroom. A forest of bristles sprouted from his ears and the backs of his blunt-fingered hands. He was ignoring the woman on his left, who, in any case, was speaking, rather too loudly, to her companion. The seat to Molnar’s right was vacant. It appeared that he had come to the opera on his own. All the better, Hearn thought, as he took his seat near the rear of the orchestra. A moment later the lights dimmed, the orchestra struck up the prelude and the curtain slid smoothly up.
Later, during the intermission, Hearn took a cup of hot chocolate and mingled with the soigné crowd. This was how humans had evolved. As opposed to the animal world, the female was definitely the more colorful of the species. The women were sheathed in long dresses of shantung silk, Venetian moiré, Moroccan satin that just months ago had been displayed on the couturier runways of Paris, Milan and New York. The men, clad in designer tuxedos, appeared content to circle their mates, who gaggled in clusters, fetching them champagne or hot chocolate when needed but, for the most part, looking thoroughly bored.
Hearn had enjoyed the first half of the opera and was looking forward to the conclusion. He had not, however, forgotten his assignment. In fact, during the performance he had spent some time coming up with an approach. He never liked to lock himself into a plan; rather he used his first visual assessment of the prospect to figure out an approach. To the discerning eye, so much could be determined by visual cues. Did the prospect care about his appearance? Did he like food, or was he indifferent to it? Did he drink or smoke? Was he cultured or uncouth? All these factors and many more went into the mix.
So it was that by the time Hearn made his approach, he was confident he could strike up a conversation with László Molnar.
“Pardon me,” Hearn said in his most deprecating tone of voice. “I’m a lover of opera. I was wondering if you were, too.”
Molnar had turned. He wore an Armani tuxedo that emphasized his broad shoulders while cleverly hiding the bulk of his gut. His ears were very large and, this close up, even hairier than they had seemed at first glance. “I am a student of the opera,” he said slowly and, to Hearn’s attuned senses, warily. Hearn smiled his most charming smile and engaged Molnar’s dark eyes with his own. “To be frank,” Molnar continued, apparently mollified, “I’m consumed by it.”
This fit in perfectly with what Spalko had told him, Hearn thought. “I have a subscription,” he said in his effortless fashion. “I’ve had one for some years, and I couldn’t help noticing that you have one also.” He laughed softly. “I don’t get to meet too many people with a love of opera. My wife prefers jazz.”
“Mine loved the opera.”
“You’re divorced?”
“A widower.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry.”
“It happened some time ago,” Molnar said, warming a little now that he’d given up this intimate bit of knowledge. “I miss her so terribly that I’ve never sold her seat.”
Hearn held out a hand. “Ethan Hearn.”
After the slightest hesitation, László Molnar gripped it with his hairy-backed paw. “László Molnar. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Hearn gave a courtly little bow. “Would you care to join me in a hot chocolate, Mr. Molnar?”
This offer appeared to please the other, and he nodded. “I’d be delighted.” As they walked together through the milling crowd, they exchanged lists of their favorite operas and opera composers. Since Hearn had asked Molnar to go first, he made certain they had many in common. Molnar was again pleased. As Spalko had noted, there was something open and honest about Hearn that even the most jaundiced eye could not help but appreciate. He possessed the knack of being natural even in the most artificial situations. It was this sincerity of spirit that caught Molnar, dissolving his defenses.
“Are you enjoying the performance?” he inquired as they sipped their hot chocolate.
“Very much,” Hearn said. “But Háry János is so full of emotion I confess I’d enjoy it all the more if I could see the expressions on the principals’ faces. Sad to say, when I bought the subscription I couldn’t afford anything closer, and now it’s quite impossible to obtain a better seat.”
For a moment, Molnar said nothing, and Hearn feared that he was going to let the opening pass. Then he said, as if he had just thought of it, “Would you care to sit in my wife’s seat?”
“Once more,” Hasan Arsenov said. “We need to go over again the sequence of events that will gain us our freedom.”
“But I know them as well as I know your face,” Zina protested.
“Well enough to negotiate the route to our final destination blindfolded?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Zina scoffed.
“In Icelandic, Zina. We speak now only in Icelandic.”
In their hotel room, the schematics for the Oskjuhlid Hotel in Reykjavík were spread out across the large desk. In the inviting glow of lamplight, every layer of the hotel was laid bare, from the foundation, to the security, sewage and heating and air-conditioning systems, to the floor plans themselves. On each oversized bluesheet were neatly written a series of notes, directional arrows, markouts indicating the layers of security that had been added by each of the participating nations for the terrorism summit. Spalko’s intel was impeccably detailed.
“From the time we breach the hotel’s defenses,” Arsenov said, “we’ll have very l
ittle time to accomplish our goal. The worst part is we won’t know how little time until we get there and make a dry run. That makes it even more imperative that there be no hesitation, no mistake—not one wrong turn!” In his ardor, his dark eyes were blazing. Taking up a sash of hers, he led her to one end of the room. He wrapped it around her head, tying it tightly enough so that he knew she couldn’t see.
“We’ve just entered the hotel.” He let go of her. “Now I want you to walk out the route for me. I’ll be timing you. Now go!”
For two-thirds of the circuitous journey, she did well, but then, at the junction of what would be two branching corridors, she went left instead of right.
“You’re finished,” he said harshly as he whipped off the blindfold. “Even if you corrected your mistake, you wouldn’t make the target on time. Security—be it American, Russian or Arab—would catch up to you and shoot you dead.”
Zina was trembling, furious with herself and with him.
“I know that face, Zina. Put your anger away,” Hasan said. “Emotion breaks concentration, and concentration is what you need now. When you can make the path blindfolded without making a mistake, we will be finished for this evening.”
An hour later, her mission accomplished, Zina said, “Come to bed, my love.”
Arsenov, dressed now only in a simple muslin robe, dyed black, belted at the waist, shook his head. He was standing by the huge window, looking out at the diamond night-sparkle of Budapest reflected in the dark water of the Danube.
Zina sprawled naked on the down comforter, laughed softly, deep in her throat. “Hasan, feel.” She moved her palm, her long, splayed fingers over the sheets. “Pure Egyptian cotton, so luxurious.”
He wheeled on her, a frown of disapproval darkening his face. “That’s just it, Zina.” He pointed to the half-empty bottle on the night table. “Napoleon brandy, soft sheets, a down comforter. These luxuries are not for us.”
Zina’s eyes opened wide, her heavy lips forming a moue. “And why not?”
“Has the lesson I’ve just taught you gone in one ear only to fly out the other? Because we are warriors, because we have renounced all worldly possessions.”
“Have you renounced your weapons, Hasan?”
He shook his head, his eyes hard and cold. “Our weapons have a purpose.”
“These soft things also have a purpose, Hasan. They make me happy.”
He made a guttural sound in the back of his throat, curt and dismissive.
“I don’t want to possess these things, Hasan,” Zina said huskily, “just use them for a night or two.” She held out a hand to him. “Can’t you relax your iron-bound rules for even that short a time? We’ve both worked hard today; we deserve a little relaxation.”
“Speak for yourself. I won’t be seduced by luxuries,” he said shortly. “It disgusts me that you have been.”
“I don’t believe I disgust you.” She had seen something in his eyes, a sort of self-denial that she naturally enough misinterpreted as the rock of his strict ascetic nature.
“All right, then,” she said. “I’ll break the brandy bottle, sow the bed with glass, if only you’ll come join me.”
“I’ve told you,” he warned darkly. “Do not joke of these matters, Zina.”
She sat up, on her knees moved toward him, her breasts, sheened in golden lamplight, swaying provocatively. “I’m perfectly serious. If it’s your wish to lie in a bed of pain while we make love, who am I to argue?”
He stood looking at her for a long time. It did not occur to him that she might be mocking him still. “Don’t you understand.” He took a step toward her. “Our path is set. We are bound to the Tariqat, the spiritual path to Allah.”
“Don’t distract me, Hasan. I’m still thinking of weapons.” She grabbed a handful of muslin and pulled him toward her. Her other hand reached out, gently caressed the fabric of the bandage that wrapped the area of his thigh where he’d been shot. Then it moved higher.
Their lovemaking was as fierce as any hand-to-hand combat. It arose as much out of wanting to hurt the other as it did from physical need. In their jackhammer thrashing, moaning and release, it was doubtful that love played any role. For his part, Arsenov longed to be ground into the bed of glass shards that Zina had joked about, so that when her nails gripped him, he resisted her, obliging her to hold on tighter, to score his skin. He was rough enough to bait her, so that she bared her teeth, used them on the powerful muscles of his shoulders, his chest, his arms. It was only with the rising tide of pain threatening to overpower the pleasure that the strange hallucinatory sensation in which he was lost receded somewhat.
Punishment was required for what he had done to Khalid Murat, his compatriot, his friend. Never mind that he had done what was needed in order for his people to survive and flourish. How many times had he told himself that Khalid Murat had been sacrificed on the altar of Chechnya’s future? And yet, like a sinner, an outcast, he was hounded by doubt and fear, in need of cruel punishment. Though truly, he thought now in the little death that comes in sexual release, was it not always thus with prophets? Was not this torture further proof that the road he had embarked upon was the righteous one?
Beside him, Zina lay in his arms. She might have been miles away, though in a manner of speaking her mind was also filled with thoughts of prophets. Or, more accurately, one prophet. This latter-day prophet had dominated her mind ever since she had drawn Hasan to the bed. She hated that Hasan could not let himself take pleasure in the luxuries around him, and so, when he grasped her, it was not him she was thinking of, when he entered her, in her mind it was not him at all, but Stepan Spalko to whom she crooned. And when, nearing her end, she bit her lip it was not out of passion, as Hasan believed, but out of a fear that she would shout Spalko’s name. She so much wanted to, if only to hurt Hasan in a manner that would cut him to the quick, for she had no doubt of his love for her. This love she found dumb and unknowing, an infantile thing like a baby reaching for its mother’s breast. What he craved from her was warmth and shelter, the quick thrust back into the womb. It was a love that made her skin crawl.
But what she craved…
Her thoughts froze in their tracks as he moved against her, sighing. She had supposed that he was asleep, but he was not, or else something had roused him. Now, attendant on his desires, she had no time for her own thoughts. She smelled his manly scent, rising like a pre-dawn mist, and his breathing quickened just a little.
“I was thinking,” he whispered, “about what it means to be a prophet, whether one day I will be called that among our people.”
Zina said nothing, knowing that he wished her to be silent now, to listen only, as he reassured himself of his chosen path. This was Arsenov’s weakness, the one unknown to anyone else, the one he showed only to her. She wondered if Khalid Murat had been clever enough to have suspected this weakness. She was almost certain Stepan Spalko was.
“The Qur’an tells us that each of our prophets is the incarnation of a divine attribute,” Arsenov said. “Moses is the manifestation of the transcendent aspect of reality, because of his ability to speak with God without an intermediary. In the Qur’an, the Lord said to Moses, ‘Fear not, you are transcendent.’ Jesus is the manifestation of prophethood. As an infant, he cried, ‘God gave me the book and placed me as a prophet.’
“But Mohammad is the spiritual incarnation and manifestation of all of God’s names. Mohammad himself said, ‘What God first created was my light. I was a prophet while Adam was still between water and earth.’”
Zina waited the space of several heartbeats to be certain that he had finished pontificating. Then, with a hand placed on his slowly rising and falling chest, she asked as she knew he wanted her to ask, “And what is your divine attribute, my prophet?”
Arsenov turned his head on the pillow so that he could see her fully. The lamplight behind her cast most of her face in shadow, just a fiery line along her cheek and jawbone was limned in a long painterly stroke,
and he was caught out in a thought he most often kept hidden, even from himself. He did not know what he would do without her strength and vitality. For him, her womb represented immortality, the sacred place from which his sons would issue, his line continuing through all eternity. But he knew this dream could not happen without Spalko’s help. “Ah, Zina, if you only knew what the Shaykh will do for us, what he will help us become.”
She rested her cheek against her folded arm. “Tell me.”
But he shook his head, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “That would be a mistake.”
“Why?”
“Because you must see for yourself without any fore-knowledge the devastation caused by the weapon.”
Now, peering into Arsenov’s eyes, she experienced a chill deep in the core of her, where she rarely dared to look. Possibly she felt an intimation of the terrible power that would be unleashed in Nairobi in three days’ time. But with the clairvoyance sometimes granted lovers, she understood that what interested Hasan most was the fear this form of death—whatever it would turn out to be—would engender. It was fear he meant to wield, that was clear enough. Fear to use as a righteous sword to regain all that had been lost to the Chechens over centuries of abuse, displacement and bloodshed.
From an early age, Zina had been on intimate terms with fear. Her father, weak and dying of the disease of despair that ran like a plague through Chechnya, who had once provided for his family as all Chechen men must but could not now even show his face on the street for fear of being picked up by the Russians. Her mother, once a beautiful young woman, in her last years a sunken-chested crone with thinning hair, bad eyesight and faulty memory.
After she came home from the long day’s scavenging, she was obliged to walk three kilometers to the nearest public water pump, stand in the queue for an hour or two, only to walk back, lug the full bucket up the five flights to their filthy room.
The Bourne Legacy Page 12