Page 29 of The Bourne Initiative (Jason Bourne 14)

  And so now, the Beretta a hand’s-span away from the back of Larry London’s head, she put aside her qualms, she refused remorse, kicked it into the metaphorical gutter. Leaning forward from the waist, she pressed the muzzle of the Beretta into the pillow, then lowered the pillow against her target’s head—for that was how she thought of him now: no name, simply her target.

  Nearing orgasm, her target didn’t even notice the slight pressure. Taking a breath, she let it out slowly and evenly. Then, with clear eye and mind, she squeezed the trigger.

  Larry London’s head and, in fact, his entire frame rocketed downward, then rose again like a fish to the hook. There was surprisingly little blood, but a lot of feathers floating like a halo around London’s head and shoulders. Morgana felt numb, as chilled as if she had just climbed out of a meat locker. For a moment, she remained still as a statue while her mind caught up with the actions of her body.

  Françoise, struggling to shove London’s body off her, fixed one eye on Morgana.

  “Give me a hand,” she said, her voice muffled.

  Rage roiled Morgana’s gut. As if that rage was a key opening a door, a way out, vivid, intense, and, yes, inevitable, revealed itself to her—the path—the only path—to invert her intolerable situation and escape the lions’ den.

  “Dammit, Morgana, are you listening to me?”

  Morgana blinked. “Yes. Of course.”

  Elbowing her target’s head to one side, she pressed the smoking pillow down onto Françoise’s face and pulled the trigger of the Beretta not once, not twice, but three times.

  “There.” Her voice was a guttural whisper as she placed the 9mm in Larry London’s right hand. She stood up straight and tall.

  It would be natural to assume that she was observing the scene as if from a distance, outside herself, as if someone else had pulled the trigger four times. She was feeling none of those things. In fact, Morgana had never felt so vibrant, so alive, so in control. Every color throbbed with an intensity new and astonishing to her, the lamplight so brilliant it might have been able to cut glass. She felt the blood rushing through her arteries and veins as if it were a river, wide and deep, and almost intolerably beautiful. She felt her heart so intimately she might have been holding it in her hands.

  She had passed beyond the veil, entered a life others never even dreamed of. She’d been blooded; she understood completely that she could never go back, even if she wished to. She was happy here in this new world, exhilarated, exalted. She felt herself initiated, anointed; she was now wreathed in shadows, her work hidden from the world at large. A child of the night.

  Good God, she thought, I’ve taken to this new life like a fledgling to the air.

  “There you go.”

  She surely was talking as much to herself now as to Françoise.

  35

  If you go from Moscow to Budapest,” Bourne said, “‘you think you are in Paris.’”

  Mala laughed. “Who said that?”

  “György Ligeti,” Bourne replied, “the Hungarian composer of modern classical music.”

  Mala stared out the window as the Sapsan bullet train, taking them from St. Petersburg to Moscow, sped at 155 miles per hour across what looked like a frozen landscape. But then the Russian landscape tended to look frozen even in summer.

  “He was right.”

  They had deplaned in St. Petersburg, passing through immigration without incident, which was a relief. Transferring to the Glavny train station was likewise easy enough. However, the only seats available on the Sapsan were in a private conference cabin; they were the most expensive tickets, especially in the current Russian economy, which was no doubt why they had remained unsold. Bourne had snapped them up, again paying cash. In less than four hours the Sapsan, the Russian word for peregrine falcon, would pull into Moscow’s Leningradsky Station. They had had time to buy themselves midweight sheepskin jackets for protection against the chill of late afternoons and evenings.

  He was going to continue their conversation, but she had fallen asleep, just like that, from one moment to the next. For her, sleep was a blessing, he understood that, and he closed his eyes. But for him sleep was impossible now. He rose, left his seat vacant, stepped out of the compartment, and went along the aisle to the next car, needing to get away from the reverberations of her memories, which were making him claustrophobic.

  He found himself in the first class car, filled mostly with businessmen hunched over their laptops and a smattering of American tourists, staring blankly out at the blurred landscape or reading their guidebooks, prepping for their days and nights in Russia’s capital.

  He was about halfway down the car when he was brought up short as the door at the far end swung open and a man came through. There is a look to FSB agents that goes beyond cheap suits and grim expressions. It’s their thousand-yard stare, the look they give you that makes it clear they think you’re little people, that your life is virtually worthless, that they already have you in custody.

  Without a second thought, Bourne turned around, only to find a second FSB agent coming toward him from the way he had come. This one opened his coat slightly, revealing his Arsenal Strizh, a full 9mm Parabellum pistol, the successor to the storied Makarov. Whatever he saw in Bourne’s eyes caused him to shake his head. His hand swept out, indicating the other passengers in the car. At that moment, Bourne felt the presence of the first agent, the taller and thinner one. The muzzle of his Strizh, hidden by the wings of his open greatcoat, pressed against the base of Bourne’s spine.

  The stubbier one jerked his head, said, “Let’s go,” in a Russian accent that told Bourne he came from St. Petersburg.

  With Stubby in the lead, they marched Bourne back to the conference cabin.

  “Open it and step in,” Stubby said. “Just as if nothing’s happened.”

  “Nothing has happened,” Bourne said, and received a hard poke in the back with the Strizh’s muzzle.

  “Svóloch’!” Dick! the agent said from behind.

  “Zatknís’!” Shut up! snapped Stubby, clearly the senior partner.

  Bourne opened the door and entered the compartment. Mala was still fast asleep, her torso slumped, her head turned away from the door. The agents stepped in on Bourne’s heels.

  “Don’t wake her,” Bourne said.

  The taller agent snickered, as if to say he couldn’t care less about the woman. “We weren’t told about her.” He could not keep the salacious tone out of his voice as he eyed Mala.

  “Stay away from her,” Stubby said in no uncertain terms.

  The tall agent tore his gaze from Mala to look at Stubby. He opened his mouth, as if about to say something, but at the last moment apparently decided against it, bit his lip instead.

  “I’m going to get him,” Stubby said. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

  Taller snickered again. When Stubby was gone, he waved the Strizh in Mala’s general direction. “What’s her story?”

  “What’s yours?” Bourne said.

  He swung the pistol toward Bourne’s knees. “Don’t make me, shithead.”

  He sidled around so as to keep his eye on Bourne while he approached Mala. “She a good fuck?”

  “Better than your mother.”

  Taller’s neck and face went beet red. When the color reached his hairline, he touched Mala’s foot tentatively with one of his steel-toed shoes.

  “I told you not to wake her,” Bourne said.

  “Who gives a fuck what you say!” Taller drew back his foot and kicked Mala’s ankle hard.

  Before he knew what was happening, she had swiveled her hips, cocked her left leg and lashed out with a mighty kick to his solar plexus.

  Taller made a guttural sound like an animal going to the slaughter. Bourne caught him around the neck, swung him into the table.

  “Ack!” Taller exclaimed, even while he jammed his elbow into Bourne’s side.

  Mala grabbed the pistol out of his grip, but the men were so tightly wound t

ogether she couldn’t aim properly.

  “Don’t!” Bourne shouted. “The shot will only bring more FSB.”

  Then he was too busy dealing with Taller, who had managed to reverse their positions. Now he slammed Bourne against the compartment wall, jammed the heel of his hand under Bourne’s chin, pushing upward. Then, using all his weight, he body-slammed Bourne against the wall, over and over. Mala, reversing the pistol, brought the butt down on the back of his head, but he seemed unfazed.

  Bourne brought his hands in, used his thumbs to dig into the bundles of nerves just below and behind Taller’s ears. That the FSB agent felt. Grabbing him by the front of his jacket, Bourne turned him, rammed his head against the window with such force the glass shattered. Still, Taller wouldn’t give up. His hands sought Bourne’s neck, his red-rimmed eyes blazed with fury, but when Bourne pressed down on him, the jagged shards of glass punctured the back of his neck. One of them severed the third cervical vertebra from the fourth, and Taller was done. His hands dropped away and all the fire vanished from his eyes as his body went slack.

  Before Bourne and Mala had a chance to exchange a word, the compartment door opened and Stubby entered, his right arm holding his Strizh straight out in front of him. Before he had a chance to take in the scene, Mala had stepped forward, wrapped one arm around his, and broke it at the elbow.

  Stubby gave a yelp, dropped to his knees. Bourne stepped toward him and Mala aimed Taller’s pistol at whoever came through the door next.

  “That’s enough,” First Minister Timur Savasin said. He brushed past Stubby without giving him so much as a glance.

  “Is it,” Mala said rhetorically. She kept the Strizh aimed at Savasin’s head. “I don’t think so.”

  Savasin raised his hands, open palms toward them. “I come in peace,” he said.

  “That’s a sick joke,” Mala said, indicating the two agents.

  “You certainly did a number on them.” He was looking at Bourne, seeking to engage him directly, rather than through his companion, whose identity was a mystery to him. “I apologize for any inconvenience their, um, overzealousness caused you.”

  “As you can see, the inconvenience was all theirs.”

  Savasin shrugged. “They’re replaceable, I assure you.”

  “So it goes in the Russian Federation,” Mala said.

  “Mr. Bourne, since I have no dominion in this compartment, would you be so kind as to ask your companion to lower her gun. This conversation will be somewhat more difficult with a Strizh pointed at my head.”

  “In a moment, perhaps,” Bourne said. “I want to know what the hell this is all about.”

  “I confess it’s a long story,” Savasin said.

  “I’ll bet,” Mala said, ignoring Bourne’s silent signal to desist.

  “Tell me who you are,” Bourne said.

  “You know very well who I am.”

  “Even if I do, I want to hear it from your own lips.”

  “Timur Ludmirovich Savasin, First Minister, Russian Federation.”

  Bourne crossed to the sofa, sat down on it. “For days now this woman and I have been hunted by spetsnaz. On whose orders? Yours?”

  “That was a mistake.”

  “Really?” Mala said. “Jason, let me put a bullet in this lying bastard’s brain.”

  “She’ll do it, Timur Ludmirovich,” Bourne said. “Killing is like breathing to her.”

  Savasin licked his lips. “Who is she, Mr. Bourne?”

  “The Angelmaker,” Mala said.

  Savasin started. “I thought the Angelmaker was a bit of fiction, a fairy tale made up by certain people to frighten their competitors.”

  “If killing them was frightening them,” Mala said, “then that’s what they did.”

  Savasin stared at Bourne. “She is who she says she is?”

  “Take it to the bank, Timur.” He gestured to Mala. “Let’s have it.”

  Without taking her eyes off Savasin, she came to Bourne, handed over the pistol, which Bourne aimed at the first minister. “See if he’s carrying—and take his mobile as well.”

  Savasin closed his eyes for a moment as she put her hands on him. His right hand trembled a bit.

  “No weapons,” she said, stepping away. “Got his mobile, though. Only the one.” She came and sat beside Bourne on the sofa.

  “What about Stubby there?” Bourne said.

  Savasin looked bewildered “Who?”

  “Your man with the broken arm. Looks to me like he’s in real pain.” He looked at Savasin. “I assume you have more men aboard.”

  The first minister nodded. Taking the mobile from Mala, Bourne said, “Tell me how to contact them. Let’s have them clean up this mess.”

  —

  Ten minutes later, when, save for the broken window and some smeared bloodstains on the floor, a sense of order had been restored to the conference cabin, and the door had been closed and locked against further intrusion, Bourne said, “You said you had a long story to tell.” He glanced at his watch. “We get into Moscow in just over an hour. You had better hope you can tell it in that time.”

  “All right.” Savasin nodded. “May I sit down?”

  “I think it best that you remain standing.” Bourne still had the pistol pointed at him. “Begin, Timur Ludmirovich. Tick-tock.”

  —

  At the same time Bourne, the Angelmaker, and Timur Savasin were hurtling from St. Petersburg to Moscow, Savasin’s brother, Konstantin, was on his swift jet winging its way home. He spent the first part of the nine-hour and twenty-five-minute flight reading the Treadstone material Marshall Fulmer had kindly provided. He read the Bourne file three times straight through, then he went back to check certain paragraphs, using a pen with red ink to highlight a number of words and phrases he wished to keep uppermost in his mind.

  After a light meal, washed down with a glass of icy vodka, he set the files aside, thumbed the buttons on his seat, lifting his legs and reclining him back. Folding his hands across his belly, he closed his eyes and allowed his mind to traverse the file, to linger over those paragraphs and, especially, the words and phrases he had highlighted in red.

  In this fashion he drifted off, and when, an hour later, he awakened, he had his answer. He had identified the weak spot in Bourne’s armor. He knew how to drill down to the core of him.

  36

  I don’t even know their real names.”

  “Alyosha Orlova and Nikolay Rozin,” Soraya Moore said over the secure line that was a part of the government jet she had sent to pick up her agent in the field and bring her out of the cold. “You did a stellar job, Morgana.”

  The jet was parked at the airport in Kalmar, where Morgana had boarded it as it was being refueled. The interior was an odd design: only four seats, front and aft. In between, a series of what looked to be storage lockers.

  “Have you been back to the hotel?” Soraya asked.

  “No. I slept at a friend’s.”

  Soraya’s voice became wary. “What friend?”

  “Her name’s Natalie Soringen.”

  “I’ll have her checked out,” Soraya said. She sounded more than a bit annoyed but seemed to put that aside when she said, “You will have no problem at your old hotel.”

  “I’d assume the place would be swarming, following the murder-suicide.”

  “I fixed it with Stockholm. There’ll be an inquiry, but that will be window dressing. And, best of all, the identities of the deceased will be suppressed.”

  “I’m impressed. How did you manage that bit of magic?”

  “That’s why I get the comfy chair.” Soraya laughed. “I pointed out to the Swedish powers-that-be that not only were the victims Russian nationals, but they were spies. No one in the Swedish government wants a diplomatic run-in with the Kremlin.”

  “Let sleeping lions lie.”

  “That’s one way to put it, I suppose.”

  After a moment’s silence, Morgana said, “I don’t want to go home.”  “What’s that? But your brief is done—a more thorough success than I could have imagined. I was tasked with bringing down Alyosha Orlova—Françoise Sevigne, as you knew her. I chose you not only because you were a field neophyte but because Françoise had befriended you. She trusted you; you were one of her scam targets. An important one, I might add.”

  Morgana was taken aback. “Why didn’t you tell me who she really was?”

  “I think you can answer that yourself.”

  Morgana considered a minute. “You wanted all my responses to be genuine. You didn’t want to give her a hint anything was amiss.”

  “Sometimes,” Soraya said, “keeping your agent in the field in the dark is the best course of action.”

  Morgana knew she was right, knew that she had done the right thing, but still she was stung. Soraya had used her, just as Françoise had. But soon enough she realized that the two motivations were light years apart.

  “Okay. I understand,” Morgana said, “but the reason I got suspicious was I saw Alyosha board a boat docked at the marina here. It’s Gora Maslov’s boat.”

  Silence on the line. Finally: “What are you saying, Morgana?” in a measured, cautious tone.

  “I want to go after Gora Maslov.”

  “Wait a minute! You can’t just—”

  “Look, Alyosha was working for Maslov, that much seems true. I want to know what they were up to.”

  “But—”

  “Don’t you?”

  “Perhaps. But, with your brief completed, my primary objective now is to get you home safe and sound. I’ve already subjected you to enough danger.”

  Soraya Moore was a pro, seasoned at that. She possessed the control’s hard, pragmatic line of thought. But she also had something else, Morgana thought, something that drew her to Soraya, that made her want to work for her. It struck her at their first interview, when Soraya put out the first recruitment feelers. She had a heart, and a heart was something very dear to Morgana. She thought she loved Soraya, even though she knew perfectly well you should never love your boss—or, in this case, your control. But then why not? she wondered. Wasn’t loyalty at a premium in the world of spies? Something to be held close, something precious.