Page 7 of The Bourne Enigma (Jason Bourne 13)

  Korsolov’s voice rose. He was ending his conversation, coming back toward the meat locker. Bourne’s time had almost run out. Quickly and expertly, he pocketed the star, washed the blade in the slop sink, dried it, and returned it to its rack.

  Korsolov stepped into the freezer, and from his now familiar too-close perch said, “Well?”

  Bourne stepped away from Boris’s corpse. He was rattled—shaken to the core, more accurately. The thought that Sara had murdered Boris was unthinkable, unendurable. But the more he thought about it, the more likely it became. The FSB was one of Mossad’s main antagonists. The two organizations had been at each other’s throats for decades over the treatment of Russian Jews. Sara, a trained Kidon assassin, would have been able to handle Boris without difficulty. And it would be just like her to use the trappings of a psychopath and religious fanatic to deflect suspicion away from Kidon.

  “I need a car,” he said, masking his feelings entirely. His heartbeat drummed maddeningly in his ears. “An official car. I don’t want to be hassled by the police.”

  “Of course.” Korsolov grinned. “An official car you shall have.”

  —

  Bourne drove the FSB vehicle out of the hotel parking lot, along the Ring Road, and into the heart of Moscow. Night was in full flower; the moon seemed to follow Bourne as he drove very fast and very accurately through the maze of the city. He was looking for something specific, and when he found it he pulled into the curb and parked a block ahead. Walking back, he thought of why Korsolov had been only too happy to lend him an official car—all FSB vehicles had a powerful tracking device hidden in their undercarriage. Korsolov had no need to suggest a driver for Bourne; he’d know where he was at every moment.

  Until now.

  Bourne mounted the motorcycle, hot-wired the ignition, and took off, leaving the FSB car and its tracker behind.

  It took him twenty-three minutes to find the correct apartment building, but repeated rings on the buzzer went unanswered. He checked the time, then returned to the motorcycle, and drove it a half mile southeast to Kutuzovskiy Street. He parked down the block from where Eyrie’s uniformed valets were taking charge of behemoth SUVs and limousines disgorging a mix of sleek dyevushkas in short skirts, plunging tops, and five-inch heels and the sons of overstuffed oligarchs, whose night was just starting. Expensive cars cruised by at five miles an hour. Young men whistled at the dyevushkas, most of whom had the decency to give the guys the finger before turning away, laughing into their palms. The atmosphere was sweaty, grimy with menace. Which appeared to be just how the denizens of the Eyrie liked it.

  Bourne was stopped at the door by a bald-headed bouncer with more muscles than Arnold Schwarzenegger. He put a mitt on Bourne’s chest, said with a sneer, “American, English, Dutch?”

  “I’m here to see Ivan Volkin,” Bourne said in perfect Moscow Russian.

  A blank face. “Who?”

  Bourne repeated the name.

  “Never heard of him.”

  “Then you should be fired. Ivan owns this club.”

  Bourne’s reply brought the glimmer of expression to Muscles’s craggy face.

  “Tell Ivan that Fyodor wants to see him. Fyodor Ilianovich Popov.”

  Muscles squinted at him. The line behind Bourne, lengthening every second, was growing restless. “And if I don’t?”

  Bourne shrugged. “It’s your funeral.” He began to turn away when Muscles said, “Hold on.”

  He tapped his wireless earpiece, then spoke several words Bourne couldn’t make out over the rising noise of the crowd clamoring to get in. He tapped his earpiece again, finished. His eyes snagged Bourne’s for an instant, a sign that he might be human after all. “Upstairs,” he said laconically. “All the way.”

  —

  The best action—and, paradoxically, the quietest space—was a roped-off section of Eyrie’s rooftop, which had earned it its name. Two permanent tents took up the bulk of the space. Inside there was music, dancing, and who knew what else. The views from the open section of the roof were unmatched: the wide moonlit Moscow River, the massive tiered juggernaut of the Stalin-era Ukraina Hotel at the bend in the river, and the White House, from where the prime minister and his deputy steered the Federation.

  It wasn’t long before Bourne spotted Ivan. He wasn’t hard to pick out, a furry bear of a man, salt-and-pepper hair standing straight up like a madman’s, a full beard white as snow, small but cheerful eyes the color of a rainstorm. Even sitting, it was clear that he was slightly bandy-legged, as if he’d been riding a horse all his life. His lined and leathery face lent him a certain dignified aspect, as if in his life he’d earned the respect of many, which he had, being the eminence gris of the most powerful Moscow families in the grupperovka, the Russian mob.

  Bourne had met Ivan some years ago through a mutual friend, and though he hadn’t seen him in years, the old man looked as if he hadn’t aged a single day. As was his wont, he was sitting in a remote corner, away from the two permanent tents, amid the shadows of potted palm trees, surely dragged out of hothouses only when the beastly Moscow weather permitted. With him were a pair of dyevushkas—twins: svelte, blonde, and looking very young—who rose and, on hypnotically swaying hips, vanished the moment Bourne was let through by a porcine bouncer. Not so the man sitting with Volkin. He looked like a younger version of the late, unlamented Dimitri Maslov, and for good reason. After rising and enveloping Bourne in his bearlike hug, Volkin introduced his companion as Yegor Maslov, Dimitri’s son, though Volkin called him by the familiar diminutive, Gora, a sign of how close the two were.

  “Gora, I’d like you to meet an old friend, Fyodor Ilianovich Popov,” Volkin said with a mischievous twinkle in his eye only Bourne noticed. “He works for Gazprom. Upper management now, isn’t it, Fyodor Ilianovich?”

  Bourne presented his card. “Second vice president,” he said, playing along with the legend’s profession as he had described it to Volkin. Shaking Gora’s hand was like trying to crush a lobster claw.

  The last time Bourne had spent time in Moscow Dimitri had been head of the Kazanskaya grupperovka. Now, clearly, his son, Gora, had taken over. In those days, the Kazanskaya had majored in drug-running and black market cars. These days, who knew what they were into? One thing was for certain: with the greeting Gora gave him, he had no idea that Bourne had been responsible for his father’s death.

  Volkin waved a hand to an empty seat, “Please, Fyodor, join us.”

  When Gora smiled he looked like a little boy, so different than his father. “I’m afraid it will be just you, Uncle Ivan. I have a pressing engagement.”

  Volkin raised an ironic eyebrow. “At this hour? You should be in bed, Gora.”

  “That’s just where I plan to be,” Gora said with a laugh. And then he was off, crossing into one of the tents presumably to take the elevator down to the ground floor.

  Bourne sat in the seat Gora had vacated. Ivan didn’t even need to lift a hand. A waiter appeared, took their drink orders, and vanished into the tent where techno music pulsed and young men and women danced, drank, and got high.

  “So. It’s been some time.” Volkin rubbed his hands together with a kind of grim anticipation. “What do you have for me this time?”

  9

  Kakógo chërta!” Colonel Korsolov said. What the hell!

  Captain Pankin handed Korsolov two passports.

  The FSB officers were standing under the Bolshoy Kamenny Bridge, where Belov and Yasha had had their clandestine meeting and had met their abrupt end. Now, however, it was a brightly lit crime scene.

  Korsolov paged through the documents disinterestedly. His nose wrinkled. “Two men meeting under the bridge. Homosexuals. A perfect end to this shitstick night. Frankly, I applaud whoever shot these degenerates.” He tossed his head in the direction of the three uniforms standing at the edge of the cordoned-off area awaiting orders. “Let those fucking govnjuki at the MVD handle this mess.” He meant the bastards at the Minist

ry of Internal Affairs. “Why the hell did you call me out here? Two less pussies in Russia is a cause for celebration, not an investigation.”

  “Homosexuals, possibly,” Captain Pankin said.

  Korsolov screwed up his face. “What are you getting at?”

  “Take a look around,” Pankin said. “See any closed-circuit TV cameras?”

  “Perfect for their degenerate trysts. Yes, so?”

  “Knowing your directive regarding homosexuals I thought it prudent to call you in.”

  “You did the right thing, Captain, but as of this moment, as I said, my plate is full.” Korsolov considered. “Well, as long as we’re here we might as well do some good. Get a CCTV camera for this dead spot.” He chuckled at his double entrendre.

  Pankin got on his mobile immediately, barking orders in double-quick time, which pleased Korsolov. It was about the only thing that had pleased him tonight. Nevertheless, he made a mental note of the captain’s name. These days, smart young men who took the initiative when they saw an opportunity were increasingly hard to find.

  While Pankin had been on his call, Korsolov took another look at the victims’ documents. One of them, Veniamin Nazarovich Belov, was a Russian citizen. He went closer to the two bodies, took a good look at the two faces. He frowned. Neither of them rang a bell, but of course there was blood and dirt all over them. Still. He looked back at Belov’s passport photo, stared at it.

  Pankin looked at him quizzically. “Is there something wrong, Colonel?”

  “There is,” Korsolov said, “but I’m damned if I know what it is.”

  —

  “I was very sorry to hear about Boris Illyich.” Ivan sipped his heavily sugared tea. “He was a constant pain in my ass, for certain, but he was a good man.”

  “I wasn’t aware you knew the general that well.”

  Ivan grunted. “The sentiment is mutual.” He eyed Bourne with that amused twinkle in his eyes. “I highly doubt a Gazprom bureaucrat such as Fyodor Popov would have known the general, either.”

  Ivan watched Bourne sipping his tea, possibly waiting for a response. When none was forthcoming, he shrugged, and said, “You know, it was impossible not to like Boris. When he was just a lieutenant, I recognized a man on the way up. He was smart and ambitious. I wanted him, so one night I took him to dinner and then to a brothel I own. Do you know he was offended? Can you picture it?”

  “Knowing him as I did, I certainly can.”

  Ivan shook his head. “I don’t think you can. Do you know he hit me? Even in those days he was canny enough to wait until I had taken him into a private room of the brothel. We were alone, waiting for the girls I had picked out. And he sucker-punched me.” He chuckled. “It was a smart move, because if he hit me in public, so to speak, in front of my men I would have had no choice but to have them hold him while I beat him senseless.”

  Ivan swallowed some tea, stared down into the glass as if he could see the past reflected in it. When he looked up, his eyes seemed brighter, more alive. “Even as a young lieutenant he understood the nature of power, the consequences of losing face. That was our Boris.” He shook his head ruefully. “I tell you this. He will be missed.”

  Ivan shook his shaggy head. “If we’re being melancholy we need vodka.” He lifted a hand, and at once a waiter was by his side. Ivan ordered. By unspoken mutual consent and a deep sense of respect the two men remained silent until the bottle of vodka arrived in a container of ice. Ivan waved the waiter away, filled two shot glasses with the icy liquor.

  The two men lifted their glasses, clinked the rims together in a silent toast. The full moon hung low in the sky, paled out, as was the rest of the night, by the glittering lights of the leviathan Ukraina Hotel.

  Ivan sighed. “Up until then I had never met a man who couldn’t be bribed. Everyone covets something. But for Boris there was only Mother Russia in all her resplendent heritage and mysteries.” Ivan swirled the dregs of vodka, coating the bottom of his glass. “That night at the brothel, well for him. He had principles; it was easy to admire such a man. That was the beginning of an on-and-off friendship that lasted—well, until tonight. Poor bastard. No one should die in that fashion.” He cocked his head. “Is that why you’ve come to see me? Are you a detective now instead of a bureaucrat?”

  “Partly,” Bourne acknowledged.

  Ivan leaned forward, refilled their glasses, lifted his. “Let us now toast Fyodor Ilianovich Popov. He had a short and happily uneventful life.”

  The two men drank.

  Ivan smacked his lips. “You know, I didn’t believe your legend when you first came to me, and that was before I discovered who you really are, Jason.” He smiled at Bourne’s stony expression. “Oh, come on, it wasn’t so difficult—not for a man like me.”

  Bourne put down his empty glass. “Does it matter who I am?”

  “Not to me. You were Boris’s friend.” Ivan shrugged. “What else do I need to know?”

  “I killed Dimitri Maslov.”

  “Yes, well, he was a shit, wasn’t he?” Ivan refilled their glasses again. “The son’s another matter altogether.”

  “Meaning you can control him.”

  Ivan smiled, shaking a forefinger at Bourne. “I genuinely like him. He’s got excellent instincts.” He tipped his head. “Like you.”

  He sat back and sighed deeply. “Do you know who garroted Boris?”

  “I think I’m headed in the right direction.” A direction that would lead everyone away from Sara.

  “Difficult to believe he could be taken by surprise like that.”

  “Which makes me think he knew his assailant.”

  “Ah.” Ivan tipped his glass, drank, swallowed. “Enlighten me, please.”

  “Here’s a riddle for you. What do you get when you combine a meticulous homicidal mind with one psychopathically obsessed with ritual?”

  “Obviously you have the answer,” Ivan said.

  Bourne smiled grimly. “A Russian politician.”

  Ivan’s echoing laughter stopped everyone in their tracks, even those who were too stoned or too ignorant to know who he was.

  10

  I’m afraid I’m not following you.” Colonel Korsolov massaged his forehead with the tips of his fingers. The assassination of the head of the FSB, now a double murder. This night was one for the homicide books.

  “It may be nothing,” Pankin said. “But there are other reasons two men would meet at night under a Moscow bridge where no security camera would record the meeting.”

  “Such as?”

  “Sir, these men weren’t simply murdered. One shot each to the head. They were executed.”

  Korsolov peered darkly at his captain. “If you have a point, make it.”

  “Homosexuals would meet out of sight under this bridge at night, true,” Pankin said. “But so would spies.”

  Korsolov looked from the two victims back to Pankin, then he snorted. “Captain, you’ve been reading too many American thrillers. You have no proof—not even a clue, is that correct?”

  “Except for the manner of their murders.”

  Korsolov waved away his words. His mind was wholly occupied with General Karpov’s garroting, which had not yet been made public even among the FSB rank-and-file, as well as with the wild card he had been dealt. He wouldn’t wish Bourne on his worst enemy, but there he was, in Korsolov’s face, like a hyperactive kid too damn smart for his own good.

  “That isn’t a clue,” Korsolov said sourly, “that’s extrapolation, Captain.” He handed back the passports. “I urge you to reign in your flights of fancy.”

  “Yes, sir,” Pankin said. “But here’s the thing. We found no murder weapon. Further, we found no shell casings.”

  Korsolov shrugged. “So our murderer was careful. The American military call it ‘policing your brass.’ Have your people dredge the river here. Maybe our killer threw the pistol away.” He looked out at the scimitars of moonlight on the Moskva. “That’s what I would do.”

r />   Pankin gave the order, which sent his men scurrying to comply, then turned back to his boss. “Sir, I don’t think this was a homosexual killing. As long as I’m here I’d like your permission to nose around a bit more.”

  “Jesus, Captain, you are one stubborn sonuvabitch,” Korsolov said as he stalked away.

  “That’s what makes me a good detective.”

  Korsolov snorted again, but lifted a hand as if in salute. “As long as you’re at your desk at nine this morning, knock yourself out.”

  —

  Three FSB agents were in the official Skoda SUV, two on either side of Irina in the backseat and the driver up front. As the vehicle lumbered through the Moscow night, Irina closed her eyes and took ten Zen breaths—sucking air deep into the bottom of her lungs through her nose, out again through her partly open mouth, completely deflating her lungs. When she opened her eyes she saw the FSB agent on her left staring down her cleavage. She arched her back slowly as if stretching, and his eyes almost popped out of his head. If there was one thing she had learned as a child it was how perfectly mesmerized men became with her female form, no matter how young. She could have been victimized—in fact, she had been victimized, multiple times—but eventually she had learned to put her degrading lessons to good use. She became stronger, smarter, more wily than any man she had ever had dealings with as an adult. Once she engaged a man’s primitive lizard brain the rest just flowed toward her like liquid gold. She got what she wanted, and often more. That was her life—perhaps every beautiful woman’s life—if they had the presence of mind, the will, the inner strength, the courage to reach out and grasp it.