A touch of watery pink had tinged the sky, and he was almost at Chaaya’s. Time to make the difficult call. He punched in an eleven-digit number. A male drone at the other end said “Federal Anti-Narcotics Agency” in Russian. The now infamous FSB-2 that, under its leader, a man named Viktor Cherkesov, had become the most powerful and feared agency within the Russian government, surpassing even the FSB, the KGB’s successor.
“Colonel Karpov, if you please,” Arkadin said.
“It’s four AM. Colonel Karpov is unavailable,” the drone said in a voice not unlike one of the undead from a George Romero film.
“So am I,” Arkadin said, honing his sardonic edge, “but I’m making the time to talk to him.”
“And who might you be?” the emotionless voice said in his ear.
“My name is Arkadin, Leonid Danilovich Arkadin. Go find your boss.”
There was a quick catch of the drone’s breath, then, “Hold the line.”
“Sixty seconds,” Arkadin said, looking at his watch and starting the countdown, “no more.”
Fifty-eight seconds later a series of clicks was followed by a deep, gruff voice that said, “This is Colonel Karpov.”
“Boris Illyich, we’ve almost met so many times over the years.”
“Would that I could cross out the almost. How do I know I’m speaking to Leonid Danilovich Arkadin?”
“Dimitri Maslov is still giving you fits, isn’t he?”
When Karpov gave no response, Arkadin continued. “Colonel, who else could give you the Kazanskaya on a silver platter?”
Karpov laughed harshly. “The real Arkadin would never turn on his mentor. Whoever you are, you’re wasting my time. Good-bye.”
Arkadin gave him an address hidden in the industrial outskirts of Moscow.
Karpov was silent for a moment, but Arkadin, listening carefully, could hear the harsh soughing of his breathing. Everything depended on this conversation, on Karpov believing that he was, in fact, Leonid Danilovich Arkadin and that he was telling the truth.
“What am I to make of this address?” the colonel said after a time.
“It’s a warehouse. From the outside it looks exactly like the hundred or so on either side of it. Inside, as well.”
“You’re boring me, gospadin Whoever-You-Are.”
“The third door on the left near the back will take you into the men’s room. Go past the urinal trough to the last stall on the right, which has no toilet, only a door in the rear wall.”
There was only a moment’s hesitation before Karpov said, “And then?”
“Go in heavy,” Arkadin said. “Armed to the teeth.”
“You’re saying that I should take a squad with—”
“No! You go alone. Furthermore, you don’t sign out, you don’t tell a soul where you’re going. Tell them you’re going to the dentist or for an afternoon fuck, whatever your comrades will believe.”
Another pause, this one dark with menace. “Who’s the mole inside my office?”
“Ah, now, Boris Illyich, don’t be so ungrateful. You don’t want to spoil my fun, not after the gift I’ve just given you.” Arkadin took a breath. Having witnessed the colonel take the bait, he judged the moment right to sink the hook all the way in. “But were I you, I wouldn’t use the singular—moles is more like it.”
“What—? Now, listen to me—!”
“You’d best get rolling, Colonel, or your targets will have packed up for the day.” He chuckled. “Here’s my number, I know it didn’t come up on your phones. Call me when you return and we’ll talk names and, quite possibly, much, much more.”
He cut the connection before Karpov could say another word.
Near the end of the workday Delia Trane was sitting at her desk looking over a three-dimensionally rendered computer model of a diabolically clever explosive device, trying to find a way to disarm it before the timer went off. A buzzer deep inside the bomb would sound the instant she failed—if she cut the wrong wire with her virtual cutter or moved it inordinately. She herself had created the software program that had rendered the virtual bomb, but that didn’t mean that she wasn’t having the devil’s own time figuring out a way to disarm it.
Delia was a plain-looking woman in her midthirties with pale eyes, short-cropped hair, and skin deeply burnished by the genes from her Colombian mother. Despite her relative youth and her often ferocious temper, she was one of the ATF’s most coveted explosives experts. She was also Soraya Moore’s best friend, and when one of the guards from reception called to say Soraya was in the lobby she asked him to send her right up.
The two women had met through work, had sparked off each other’s feistiness and independence, recognizing and appreciating kindred spirits, so difficult to find in the hermetically sealed public sector inside the Beltway. Because they had met on one of Soraya’s clandestine assignments they had no need to conceal from each other their life’s work and what it meant to them, the number one relationship killer in DC. Further, both of them realized that, for better or for worse, their entire lives were bound up in their respective services, that they were unsuited for anything but work they couldn’t talk about with civilians, which in a way validated their existence, their independence as women, and their importance irrespective of the gender bias that existed here as virtually everywhere else in Washington. Together they daily took on the DC establishment like a pair of Amazons.
Delia returned to the contemplation of her model, which to her was like an entire world in miniature. Within seconds she was completely immersed in her problem, so she didn’t give a second thought to what her friend was doing here at this time of day. When a shadow fell over her work she looked up into Soraya’s face and knew something was terribly wrong.
“For God’s sake, sit down,” she said, pulling over a spare chair, “before you fall down. What the hell happened, did someone die?”
“Only my job.”
Delia looked at her quizzically. “I don’t understand.”
“I’ve been canned, fired, sent to the showers,” Soraya said. “Terminated without extreme prejudice—but certainly with prejudice,” she added with grim humor.
“What the hell happened?”
“I’m Egyptian, Muslim, a woman. Our new DCI doesn’t need any other reasons.”
“Not to worry, I know a good lawyer who—”
“Forget it.”
Delia frowned. “You’re not going to let them get away with this. I mean, it’s discrimination, Raya.”
Soraya waved a hand. “I’m not spending the next two years of my life going up against CI and Secretary Halliday.”
Delia leaned back. “It goes that high up, huh?”
“How could they do this to me?” Soraya said.
Delia rose and went around her desk to hug her friend. “I know, it’s like being jilted by a lover, someone you thought you knew but who turned out to be using you and, worse, was betraying you all the while.”
“Now I know how Jason felt,” Soraya said morosely. “All the times he’s pulled CI’s hand out of the fire and what did he get for it? He was hunted down like a dog.”
“Good riddance to CI, I say!” Delia kissed the top of her friend’s head. “Time to start over.”
Soraya looked up at her. “Really? Doing what, exactly? This shadow world is all I know, all I want to do. And Danziger’s so pissed off I didn’t come back to CI when he ordered me to that he’s put me on a clandestine service blacklist, making it impossible for me to work in the governmental intelligence community.”
Delia looked thoughtful for a moment. “Tell you what, I need to do some things down the hall, make a call, and we’ll go for some drinks and dinner. Then I have someplace special to take you. How’s that sound?”
“Better than going home, stuffing my face with ice cream, and staring at TV.”
Delia laughed. “That’s my girl.” She waved a finger in the air. “Don’t you worry, we’ll have so much fun tonight you won’t remember to be s
ad.”
Soraya gave her a rueful smile. “What about bitter?”
“Yeah, we can take care of that, too.”
Bourne sprinted out of Suparwita’s house without looking to either the left or the right. To the people watching he would appear to be a man on an urgent mission. He suspected that they would want to follow him to his next destination.
He could hear them trailing him through the forest, drawn in closer by his focused behavior. He hurried through the underbrush, wanting them close to him so that his agitation would become their agitation. His life wasn’t in danger, he knew, until they had interrogated him. They wanted to know what he knew about the ring. No doubt they felt they were being discreet, but nothing was a secret in Bali. Bourne had heard that they had been asking about it in Manggis, the local village. Once he’d learned they were Russians, he had little doubt that they worked for Leonid Arkadin. He had last seen his enemy, the first graduate of Treadstone’s ultimate soldier program, in the battle-torn area of northern Iran.
Now, in the midst of the emerald-and-umber Balinese jungle, Bourne made a hard right, heading for an enormous berigin—what Westerners called a banyan—the Balinese symbol of immortality. He leapt into the berigin’s many arms, working his way up through the labyrinth of branches until he was high enough to get a panoramic view of the area. Birds called to one another and insects droned. Here and there spears of sunlight pierced the many-layered canopy, turning the soft ground the color of chocolate.
A moment later he spied one of the Russians, stalking cautiously through the dense undergrowth, making his way around stands of thickly foliaged trees. He cradled the barrel of an AK-47 in the crook of his left arm, the forefinger of his right hand lay against the trigger, ready to spray bullets at the slightest noise or disturbance. He advanced slowly toward Bourne’s berigin. Every so often he glanced up into the trees, his scowling eyes dark and searching.
Bourne moved silently through the branches, positioning himself. He waited until the Russian was directly beneath him before he fell like one of the spears of sunlight. His heels struck the Russian’s shoulders, dislocating one, throwing him off his feet. Rolling himself into a ball, Bourne took the brunt of the fall on one shoulder blade, tumbling harmlessly head-over-heels. He was up and at the Russian before the stalker could regain his breath. Nevertheless the Russian’s training asserted itself, his leg flicking out and catching Bourne in the sternum.
Bourne grunted. The Russian, teeth gritted against the pain, sought to gain his feet, and time seemed to stand still, as if the primordial forest around them were holding its breath. Bourne’s right arm lashed out, the edge of his hand breaking the bones in the Russian’s dislocated shoulder. The Russian moaned, but at the same time he drove the butt of the assault rifle into Bourne’s side.
Leaning heavily on the AK-47, the Russian rose to his feet, stumbled over to where Bourne lay tangled in vines. He pointed the muzzle of the rifle but, as he did so, Bourne aimed a scissors kick at his adversary’s knee, bringing the Russian down to his level. A short burst from the rifle scythed upward, raining bits of leaves, bark, and branches onto both of them. The Russian swung the AK-47, trying to use it as a battering ram, but Bourne was already inside the arc of his swing. A swift strike with the edge of his hand broke the Russian’s collarbone, and the heel of Bourne’s other hand slammed into his nose with such force, it drove cartilage and bone into the Russian’s brain. As he keeled over, dead, Bourne snatched the assault rifle out of his bloody grip. He could see the crude tattoo of a serpent wrapped around a dagger that the Russian had gotten in prison, proof positive that he was a member of the grupperovka.
Bourne was unwrapping the vines around him when he heard a guttural voice from behind.
“Drop your weapon,” it said in Moscow-accented Russian.
Bourne turned slowly and saw the second Russian stalker. He must have followed the sound of the gunfire.
“I said drop it,” the Russian growled. He, too, held an AK-47, which was aimed at Bourne’s midsection.
“What do you want?” Bourne said.
“You know very well what I want,” the Russian said. “Now drop your weapon and hand it over.”
“Hand what over? Just tell me what you want and I’ll give it to you.”
“I’ll take the ring now. Right after you drop my partner’s rifle.” He made a beckoning motion. “Come on, fucker. Otherwise I’m going to shoot one leg off, then the other, and if that fails—well, you know how painful a gut wound can be, how long you’ll linger in agony before you bleed to death.”
“Your partner. Too bad about him,” Bourne said, at the same time letting the AK-47 slip out of his grip.
It was pure instinct, the Russian couldn’t help glancing over at his fallen companion. As he did so the motion of the AK-47 made him look down. That was when Bourne whipped the vine up and out. It caught the Russian around the neck, and with a powerful pull Bourne jerked him forward, right into his fist. The Russian doubled over. Bourne, dropping the vine, drove both fists down on the back of his neck.
The Russian crumpled, and Bourne, crouched over him, rolled him onto his back. The man was still dazed, gasping and flopping like a fish on the bottom of a boat. Bourne slapped him into full consciousness, then pressed a knee into his sternum, using his full weight.
The man stared up at him out of blue eyes. His face was unnaturally ruddy, and he could not hold back a dribble of blood from the corner of his mouth.
“Why did Leonid send you?” Bourne said in Russian.
The man blinked. “Who?”
“Don’t do that.” Bourne pressed down and the man groaned. “You know perfectly well who I mean. Leonid Arkadin.”
For a moment the Russian stared up at him, mute. Then, despite his dire circumstances, he laughed. “Is that what you think?” Tears rolled from the corners of his eyes. “That I work for that shitbag?”
The Russian’s response was too spontaneous, too unexpected to be false. Besides, why would he lie? Bourne paused for a moment, reassessing the situation. “If not Arkadin,” he said slowly and carefully, “then who?”
“I’m a member of the Kazanskaya.” There was no mistaking the pride in his voice; this, too, was genuine.
“So Dimitri Maslov sent you.” Not long ago Bourne had met the head of the Kazanskaya in Moscow under unpleasant circumstances.
“In a manner of speaking,” the Russian said. “I report to Vylacheslav Germanovich Oserov.”
“Oserov?” Bourne had never heard of him. “Who is he?”
“Director of operations. Vylacheslav Germanovich plans every phase of the Kazanskaya action while Maslov handles the increasingly annoying government.”
Bourne considered for a moment. “Okay, so you report to this Oserov. Why was it funny that I thought Arkadin had sent you?”
The Russian’s eyes blazed. “You’re as ignorant as a head of cabbage. Oserov and Arkadin hate each other’s guts.”
“Why?”
“Their feud goes back a long way.” He spat out some blood. “Interrogation finished?”
“What’s the nature of their enmity?”
The Russian grinned up at him through bloody teeth. “Get the fuck off my chest.”
“Sure thing.” Bourne stood up, grabbed the Russian’s AK-47, and slammed the butt into the side of his head.
3
I SHOULD HAVE KNOWN,” Soraya said.
Delia turned to her, a twinkle in her eye. “Known what?”
“That an inveterate player like you would take me to the best private poker game in the district.”
Delia laughed as Reese Williams led them down a wallpapered hallway peppered with paintings and photos of African wildlife, predominantly elephants.
“I’ve heard about this place,” Soraya said to Williams, “but this is the first time Delia’s seen fit to bring me here.”
“You won’t be sorry,” Williams said over her shoulder, “that I promise you.”
; They were in her Federalist brownstone off Dupont Circle. Reese Williams was the strong right arm of Police Commissioner Lester Burrows, indispensable to him in many ways, not the least through her extensive contacts within the upper echelons of DC’s politicos.
Williams threw open the double pocket doors, revealing a library that had been converted into a gambling den, complete with a green baize table, comfortable chairs for six, and clouds of aromatic cigar smoke. As they entered the only sounds in the room were the click of chips and the barely audible flutter of a deck of cards being expertly shuffled, then dealt to the four men sitting around the table.
Besides Burrows, Soraya recognized two senators, one junior, one senior, a high-powered lobbyist, and, her eyes opened wide, was that—?
“Peter?” she said incredulously.
Peter Marks looked up from counting his chips. “Good God. Soraya.” At once he stood up, said, “Deal me out,” and came around the green baize table to embrace her. “Delia, how about taking my place?”
“With pleasure.” She turned to her friend. “Peter’s a regular here and I called him from the office. I thought you could use seeing an old compatriot.”
Soraya grinned and kissed Delia on the cheek. “Thanks.”
Delia nodded and left them, sitting down at the table. She took her usual stacks of chips from the bank, signing an IOU for the amount.
“How are you?” Marks said, holding Soraya at arm’s length.
Soraya surveyed him critically. “How do you think I am?”
“I heard through my pals in CI what Danziger did to you.” He shook his head. “I can’t say that I’m surprised.”
“What d’you mean?”
Marks led her across the hall to a quiet corner in the deserted sitting room, where they were ensured complete privacy. French windows looked out on a shadowy alley of greenery. The room was wallpapered a warm persimmon color, the walls covered with photos of Reese Williams in Africa amid crowds of tribesmen. In some of them she was also with an older man, possibly her father. Plush sofas and several deep-cushioned armchairs of striped fabric were arrayed before a fireplace with a marble mantelpiece. A low polished wooden table and a sideboard with two trays of liquor bottles and cut-crystal glasses completed the picture. No amount of municipal salary or rake-offs could account for this magnificent house. Soraya thought Reese must come from enormous wealth.
The Bourne Objective (2010) Page 4