Page 30 of The Bourne Sanction (Jason Bourne 6)

  Maslov made an animal sound in the back of his throat. “All you need to know is that the sonovabitch killed Pyotr Zilber. God knows why. Then he disappeared off the face of the earth. I had Evsei stake out Mischa Tarkanian’s apartment. I was hoping Arkadin would come back there. Instead, you showed up.”

  “What’s Zilber’s death to you?” Bourne said. “From what you’ve told me, there was no love lost between the two of you.”

  “Hey, I don’t have to like a person to do business with him.”

  “If you wanted to do business with Zilber you shouldn’t have had his brother murdered.”

  “I have my reputation to uphold.” Maslov sipped his vodka. “Pyotr knew what kinds of shit his brother was into, but did he stop him? Anyway, the hit was strictly business. Pyotr took it far too personally. Turns out he was almost as reckless as his brother.”

  There it was again, Bourne thought, the slurs against Pyotr Zilber. What, then, was he doing running a secret network? “What was your business with him?”

  “I coveted Pyotr’s network. Because of the war with the Azeri, I’ve been looking for a new, more secure method to move our drugs. Zilber’s network was the perfect solution.”

  Bourne put aside his vodka. “Why would Zilber want anything to do with the Kazanskaya?”

  “There you’ve given away the extent of your ignorance.” Maslov eyed him curiously. “Zilber would have wanted money to fund his organization.”

  “You mean his network.”

  “I mean precisely what I say.” Maslov looked hard and long at Bourne. “Pyotr Zilber was a member of the Black Legion.”

  Like a sailor who senses an onrushing storm, Devra stopped herself from asking Arkadin again about his maimed foot. There was about him at this moment the same slight tremor of intent of a bowstring pulled back to its maximum. She transferred her gaze from his left foot to the corpse of Heinrich, taking in sunlight that would no longer do him any good. She felt the danger beside her, and she thought of her dream: her pursuit of the unknown creature, her sense of utter desolation, the building of her fear to an unbearable level.

  “You’ve got the package now,” she said. “Is it over?”

  For a moment, Arkadin said nothing, and she wondered whether she’d left her deflecting question too late, whether he would now turn on her because she had asked about what had happened to that damn foot.

  The red rage had gripped Arkadin, shaking him until his teeth rattled in his skull. It would have been so easy to turn to her, smile, and break her neck. So little effort; nothing to it. But something stopped him, something cooled him. It was his own will. He—did—not—want—to—kill—her. Not yet, at least. He liked sitting here on the beach with her, and there were so few things he liked.

  “I still have to shut down the rest of the network,” he said, at length. “Not that I think it actually matters at this point. Christ, it was put together by an out-of-control commander too young to have learned caution, peopled by drug addicts, inveterate gamblers, weaklings, and those of no faith. It’s a wonder the network functioned at all. Surely it would have imploded on its own sooner or later.” But what did he know? He was simply a soldier engaged in an invisible war. His was not to reason why.

  Pulling out his cell phone, he dialed Icoupov’s number.

  “Where are you?” his boss said. “There’s a lot of background noise.”

  “I’m at the beach,” Arkadin said.

  “What? The beach?”

  “Kilyos. It’s a suburb of Istanbul,” Arkadin said.

  “I hope you’re having a good time while we’re in a semi-panic.”

  Arkadin’s demeanor changed instantly. “What happened?”

  “The bastard had Harun killed, that’s what happened.”

  He knew how much Harun Iliev meant to Icoupov. Like Mischa meant to him. A rock, someone to keep him from drifting into the abyss of his imagination. “On a happier note,” he said, “I have the package.”

  Icoupov gave a short intake of breath. “Finally! Open it,” he commanded. “Tell me if the document is inside.”

  Arkadin did as he was told, breaking the wax seal, prying open the plastic disk that capped off the cylinder. Inside, tightly rolled sheets of pale blue architectural paper unfurled like sails. There were four in all. Quickly, he scanned them.

  Sweat broke out at his hairline. “I’m looking at a set of architectural plans.”

  “It’s the target of the attack.”

  “The plans,” Arkadin said, “are for the Empire State Building in New York City.”

  Book Three

  Twenty-Eight

  IT TOOK ten minutes for Bourne to get a decent connection to Professor Specter, then another five for his people to rouse him out of bed. It was 5 AM in Washington. Maslov had gone downstairs to see to business, leaving Bourne alone in the greenhouse to make his calls. Bourne used the time to consider what Maslov had told him. If it was true that Pyotr was a member of the Black Legion, two possibilities arose: One was that Pyotr was running his own operation under the professor’s nose. That was ominous enough. The second possibility was far worse, namely that the professor was, himself, a member. But then why had he been attacked by the Black Legion? Bourne himself had seen the tattoo on the arm of the gunman who had accosted Specter, beat him, and hustled him off the street.

  At that moment Bourne heard Specter’s voice in his ear. “Jason,” he said, clearly out of breath, “what’s happened?”

  Bourne brought him up to date, ending with the information that Pyotr was a member of the Black Legion.

  For a long moment, there was silence on the line.

  “Professor, are you all right?”

  Specter cleared his throat. “I’m fine.”

  But he didn’t sound fine, and as the silence stretched on Bourne strained to catch a hint of his mentor’s emotional state.

  “Look, I’m sorry about your man Baronov. The killer wasn’t Black Legion; he was an NSA agent sent to murder me.”

  “I appreciate your candor,” Specter said. “And while I grieve for Baronov, he knew the risks. Like you, he went into this war with his eyes open.”

  There was another silence, more awkward than the last one.

  Finally, Specter said, “Jason, I’m afraid I’ve withheld some rather vital information from you. Pyotr Zilber was my son.”

  “Your son? By why didn’t you tell me that in the first place?”

  “Fear,” the professor said. “I’ve kept his real identity a secret for so many years it’s become habit. I needed to protect Pyotr from his enemies—my enemies—the enemies who were responsible for murdering my wife. I felt the best way to do that was to change his name. So in the summer of his sixth year, Aleksei Specter drowned tragically and Pyotr Zilber came into being. I left him with friends, left everything and came to America, to Washington, to begin my life anew without him. It was the most difficult thing I’ve ever had to do. But how can a father renounce his son when he can’t forget him?”

  Bourne knew precisely what he meant. He’d been about to tell the professor what he’d learned about Pyotr and his cast of misfits and fuckups, but this didn’t seem the right time to bring up more bad news.

  “So you helped him?” Bourne guessed. “Secretly.”

  “Ever so secretly,” Specter said. “I couldn’t afford to have anyone link us together, I couldn’t allow anyone to know my son was still alive. It was the least I could do for him. Jason, I hadn’t seen him since he was six years old.”

  Hearing the naked anguish in Specter’s voice, Bourne waited a moment. “What happened?”

  “He did a very stupid thing. He decided to take on the Black Legion himself. He spent years infiltrating the organization. He discovered that the Black Legion was planning a major attack inside America, then he spent months worming his way closer to the project. And finally, he had the key to bringing them down: He stole the plans to their target. Since we had to be careful about direct communication, I

suggested he use his network for the purpose of getting me information on the Black Legion’s movements. This is how he meant to send me the plans.”

  “Why didn’t he simply photograph them and send them to you digitally?”

  “He tried that, but it didn’t work. The paper the plans are printed on is coated with a substance that makes whatever’s printed on it impossible to copy by any means. He had to get me the plans themselves.”

  “Surely he told you the nature of the plans,” Bourne said.

  “He was going to,” the professor said. “But before he could he was caught, taken to Icoupov’s villa, where Arkadin tortured and killed him.”

  Bourne considered the implications in light of the new information the professor had given him. “Do you think he told them he was your son?”

  “I’ve been concerned about that ever since the kidnapping attempt. I’m afraid Icoupov might know our blood connection.”

  “You’d better take precautions, Professor.”

  “I plan to do just that, Jason. I’ll be leaving the DC area in just over an hour. Meanwhile, my people have been hard at work. I’ve gotten word that Icoupov sent Arkadin to fetch the plans from Pyotr’s network. He’s leaving a trail of bodies in his wake.”

  “Where is he now?” Bourne said.

  “Istanbul, but that won’t do you any good,” Specter said, “because by the time you get there he’ll surely have gone. It’s now more imperative than ever that you find him, though, because we have confirmed that he’s taken the plans from the courier he murdered in Istanbul, and time is running out before the attack.”

  “This courier came from where?”

  “Munich,” the professor said. “He was the last link in the chain before the plans were to be delivered to me.”

  “From what you tell me, it’s clear that Arkadin’s mission is twofold,” Bourne said. “First, to get the plans; second, to permanently shut down Pyotr’s network by killing its members one by one. Dieter Heinrich, the courier in Munich, is the only one remaining alive.”

  “Who was Heinrich supposed to deliver the plans to in Munich?”

  “Egon Kirsch. Kirsch is my man,” Specter said. “I’ve already alerted him to the danger.”

  Bourne thought a moment. “Does Arkadin know what Kirsch looks like?”

  “No, and neither does the young woman with him. Her name is Devra. She was one of Pyotr’s people, but now she’s helping Arkadin kill her former colleagues.”

  “Why would she do that?” Bourne asked.

  “I haven’t the faintest idea,” the professor said. “She was something of a cipher in Sevastopol, where she fell in with Arkadin—no friends, no family, an orphan of the state. So far my people haven’t turned up anything useful. In any event, I’m going to pull Kirsch out of Munich.”

  Bourne’s mind was working overtime. “Don’t do that. Get him out of his apartment to a safe place somewhere in the city. I’ll take the first flight out to Munich. Before I leave here I want all the information on Kirsch’s life you can get me—where he was born, raised, his friends, family, schooling, every detail he can give you. I’ll study it on the flight over, then meet with him.”

  “Jason, I don’t like the way this conversation is headed,” Specter said. “I suspect I know what you’re planning. If I’m right, you’re going to take Kirsch’s place. I forbid it. I won’t let you set yourself up as a target for Arkadin. It’s far too dangerous.”

  “It’s a little late for second thoughts, Professor,” Bourne said. “It’s vital I get these plans, you said so yourself. You do your part and I’ll do mine.”

  “Fair enough,” Specter said after a moment’s hesitation. “But my part includes activating a friend of mine who operates out of Munich.”

  Bourne didn’t like the sound of that. “What do you mean?”

  “You’ve already made it clear that you work alone, Jason, but this man Jens is someone you want at your back. He’s intimately familiar with wet work.”

  A professional killer for hire, Bourne thought. “Thank you, Professor, but no.”

  “This isn’t a request, Jason.” Specter’s voice held a stern warning not to cross him. “Jens is my condition for you taking Kirsch’s place. I won’t allow you to walk into this bear trap on your own. My decision is final.”

  Dimitri Maslov and Boris Karpov embraced like old friends while Bourne stood on, silent. When it came to Russian politics nothing should surprise him, but it was nevertheless astonishing to see a high-ranking colonel in the Federal Anti-Narcotics Agency cordially greeting the kingpin of the Kazanskaya, one of the two most notorious narcotics grupperovka.

  This bizarre reunion took place in Bar-Dak, near the Leninsky Prospekt. The club had opened for Maslov; hardly surprising, since he owned it. Bar-Dak meant both “brothel” and “chaos” in current Russian slang. Bar-Dak was neither, though it did sport a prominent strippers’ stage complete with poles and a rather unusual leather swing that looked like a horse’s harness.

  An open audition for pole dancers was in full swing. The lineup of eye-poppingly-built young blond women snaked around the four walls of the club, which was painted in glossy black enamel. Massive sound speakers, lines of vodka bottles on mirrored shelves, and vintage mirror balls were the major accoutrements.

  After the two men were finished slapping each other on the back, Maslov led them across the cavernous room, through a door, and down a wood-paneled hallway. Mixed in with the scent of the cedar was the unmistakable waft of chlorine. It smelled like a health club, and with good reason. They went through a translucent pebbled glass door into a locker room.

  “The sauna’s just over there,” Maslov pointed. “We meet inside in five minutes.”

  Before Maslov would continue the conversation with Bourne, he insisted on meeting with Boris Karpov. Bourne had thought such a conference unlikely, but when he called Boris, his friend readily agreed. Maslov had given Bourne the name of Bar-Dak, nothing more. Karpov had said only, “I know it. I’ll be there in ninety minutes.”

  Now, stripped down to the buff, white Turkish towels around their loins, the three men reconvened in the steamy confines of the sauna. The small room was lined, like the hallway, in cedar paneling. Slatted wooden benches ran around three walls. In one corner was a heap of heated stones, above which hung a cord.

  When Maslov entered, he pulled the cord, showering the rocks with water, which produced clouds of steam that swirled up to the ceiling and down again, engulfing the men as they sat on the benches.

  “The colonel has assured me that he will take care of my situation if I take care of his,” Maslov said. “Perhaps I should say that I will take care of Cherkesov’s problem.”

  There was a twinkle in his eye as he said this. Stripped of his outsize Hawaiian shirt, he was a small, wiry man with ropy muscles and not an ounce of fat on him. He wore no gold chains around his neck or diamond rings on his fingers. His tattoos were his jewelry; they covered his entire torso. But these were not the crude and often blurred prison tattoos found on so many of his kind. They were among the most elaborate designs Bourne had ever seen: Asian dragons breathing fire, coiling their tails, spreading their wings, grasping with claws outstretched.

  “Four years ago I spent six months in Tokyo,” Maslov said. “It’s the only place to get tattoos. But that’s just my opinion.”

  Boris rocked with laughter. “So that’s where you were, you bastard! I scoured all of Russia for your skinny butt.”

  “In the Ginza,” Maslov said, “I hoisted quite a few saki martinis to you and your law enforcement minions. I knew you’d never find me.” He made a sweeping gesture. “But that bit of unpleasantness is behind us; the real perpetrator confessed to the murders I was suspected of committing. Now we find ourselves in our own private glasnost.”

  “I want to know more about Leonid Danilovich Arkadin,” Bourne said.

  Maslov spread his hands. “Once he was one of us. Then something happened to him, I don??

?t know what. He broke away from the grupperovka. People don’t do that and survive for long, but Arkadin is in a class by himself. No one dares to touch him. He wraps himself in his reputation for murder and ruthlessness. This is a man—let me tell you—who has no heart. Yes, Dimitri, you might say to me, but isn’t that true of most of your kind? To this I answer, Yes. But Arkadin is also without a soul. This is where he parts company with the others. There is no one else like him, the colonel can back me up on this.”

  Boris nodded sagely. “Even Cherkesov fears him, our president as well. I personally don’t know anyone in either FSB-1 or FSB-2 who’d be willing to take him on, let alone survive. He’s like a great white shark, the murderer of killers.”

  “Aren’t you being a bit melodramatic?”

  Maslov sat forward, elbows in knees. “Listen, my friend, whatever the hell your real name is, this man Arkadin was born in Nizhny Tagil. Do you know it? No? Let me tell you. This fucking excuse of a city east of here in the southern Ural Mountains is hell on earth. It’s filled with smokestacks belching sulfurous fumes from its ironworks. Poor is not even a word you can apply to the residents, who swill homemade vodka that’s almost pure alcohol and pass out wherever they happen to land. The police, such as they are, are as brutal and sadistic as the citizens. As a gulag is ringed by guard towers, Nizhny Tagil is surrounded by high-security prisons. Since the prison inmates are released without even train fare they settle in the town. You, an American, cannot imagine the brutality, the callousness of the residents of this human sewer. No one but the worst of the crims—as the criminals are called—dares be on the streets after 10 PM.”

  Maslov wiped the sweat off his cheeks with the back of his hand. “This is the place where Arkadin was born and raised. It was from this cesspit that he made a name for himself by kicking people out of their apartments in old Soviet-era projects and selling them to criminals with a bit of money stolen from regular citizens.