The Bourne Initiative (Jason Bourne 14)

Volodarsky swallowed hard. “Quite clear, sir.”

“Now, shall I ask my question again?”

“No, sir. We haven’t as yet acquired the specific whereabouts of the target.”

The old man, as stubborn as his dog, reminded Savasin of his father, a man—a veteran of the war—whom Savasin had revered all his life. He’d never had enough time with his father, and every moment of their time together was of immense importance to him. When Savasin had finally laid him to rest, he had not spoken for ten days. He had gone away to the Kamchatka Peninsula, where his father had sometimes—not often enough!—taken him to fish. The glittering ice and softly falling snow seemed like paradise to the young Savasin, and later, after his father was dead, he’d think of those times as if encased in a snow globe, a world sealed off, that only he and his father inhabited. He went there in his mind when his duties became too overbearing or the exigencies of his life went against the grain.

“Alecks Petrovich, I told you not to lie.”

“But, sir, I haven’t—”

“Really?” He sighed. “Alecks, we grew up together, didn’t we?”

“Yes.”

“We attended the same classes, university and all that.”

Volodarsky nodded.

“We break bread together every Friday evening, do we not?”

“We do.”

“And get roaring drunk on the best vodka.” His voice turned icy. “Then please tell me why you haven’t found Jason Bourne. He was the late, unlamented General Karpov’s closest friend, though under what circumstances that came about fairly boggles the mind. Though I have learned not to put anything past him.”

“No, indeed. We’re all learning that.”

A knock on the door deterred the first minister from doling out further verbal torture. But that was okay, for this was only the warmup to the main event. His mouth began to salivate, anticipating Malachev entering. Seeing Volodarsky still there, Malachev would no doubt blanch.

Malachev and Volodarsky did not like each other. It was still unclear to Savasin which one feared the other most. The relationship between the two was heavily reminiscent of the one Savasin had with Konstantin. Not for the first time it occurred to Savasin that he had deliberately set these two together in an attempt to get the better of Konstantin.

“Igor Ivanovich,” he said as he turned around, but the sight of the tall, elegant man standing where Malachev should have been stopped him in his tracks. “Konstantin Ludmirovich,” he said.

A thin smile curved the other’s lips. “Close your mouth, brother. You’re apt to swallow the flies on this floor.” Konstantin Ludmirovich Savasin glanced around the office with obvious distaste. He sniffed, his delicate nostrils dilating alarmingly. “You really ought to have a cleaning crew in here more than once a month.”

Savasin ground his teeth in fury but did not rise to the bait. Instead, he said with a maximum amount of sarcasm, “What brings you into the lion’s den?”

“Is that what this is? Oh, well.” He shrugged. “For one thing, it’s my day for slumming.” His laugh was like fingernails on a chalkboard. “For another, you’ve summoned a high-ranking FSB officer for what appears to be a dressing down.”

“If that’s what it is,” the first minister said, “then you can be sure it’s well deserved.”

“Can I?” Konstantin circled his brother. “Can I, really?” He shook his head. “The fact of the matter is that Alecks Petrovich knows nothing about the Nym.”

Volodarsky swallowed. “The what?”

The new head of FSB’s smile was as sharp as a razor blade. “You see, brother, he doesn’t even know what we’re talking about.”

Savasin lost it for a moment. “Colonel Karpov’s boat, you idiot,” he shouted at Volodarsky.

“That’s an FSB officer you’re yelling at. One you yourself appointed, brother.”

“First Minister to you, Konstantin, as well as to everyone else. I can yell at anyone, even you.”

Konstantin shrugged, shook out a cigarette, lit it, took a good, long inhale. The hiss of indolently expelled smoke grated on Savasin’s nerves. Konstantin was handsome in an odd, saturnine way. His long face dominated by large, liquid eyes that, like their mother’s, were set too close together. He had her skin, as well: pale, almost translucent.

Savasin glared at Volodarsky. “You’re of no use. You don’t even know what your men are doing. Get the fuck out of my office.”

Volodarsky glanced at Konstantin, but the other wasn’t about to meet his eye.

“Don’t look at him. He’ll be of no help to you, take my word,” Savasin said shortly. “Just get out.”

When the two brothers were alone, Konstantin said matter-of-factly, “The Americans blew up Karpov’s boat.”

Savasin stared at him as if he had grown another head. “Are you sure?”

When Konstantin delivered a withering look, he went on, “Do you have any hard evidence?”

“The Americans are smart enough not to leave anything behind that could be traced back to them. Let the Sovereign make propaganda hay; he’s good at that. As for us, pursuing that line will only lead us down a path that never ends. Which is precisely what the Americans want.”

“Nevertheless, the boat—a part of the Federation—has been destroyed by a foreign power.”

Konstantin glanced around again, and, with the grace of a dancer, stepped to one of the upholstered chairs in the office, inspected it vigilantly before seating himself. He glanced down, admiring the perfect creases of his imported trousers as he did so. “Oh, come off it, Timur. You don’t give a shit about that. It’s the boat itself that has your knickers in a twist.” He looked up at his brother, a sardonic look in his eye. “I know you coveted it.”

“The Sovereign promised it to me.”

“Oops.”

Konstantin continued to draw in tobacco and let it out in aromatic clouds when his lungs had become saturated with nicotine.

“You’ll kill yourself with that filthy habit,” Savasin observed.

“Don’t you wish.”

Konstantin tapped ash into a crystal ashtray thick enough to crack a skull open with one blow—at least that was Savasin’s thought in the moment.

“Was Jason Bourne on the Nym when it left Istanbul? Or was it heading to a rendezvous with him?”

Konstantin shrugged.

“Bourne was Karpov’s closest friend. There’s a good chance he left the boat to him.”

Konstantin lifted a bit of tobacco off the tip of his tongue. “What do I care.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“That’s certainly your prerogative, First Minister.”

Konstantin had the ability to completely exasperate him, just like when they were kids. The fact was, Savasin loved and hated his brother. He also feared him, always had. Perched on the corner of his desk, he folded his arms across his chest, regarded his brother from beneath heavy-lidded eyes.

“As long as we’re talking prerogatives, I don’t like Volodarsky.” Konstantin plucked a bit of lint off the supple fabric that covered his kneecap. “Volodarsky is your appointment.”

“Yes.”

“That’s what you get for elevating old friends. He doesn’t know his zipper from his shoulder boards. I mean, face facts, he can’t even find Jason Bourne. But I have. He was on General Karpov’s boat.”

“What?”

“No, no, no.” He waited a beat and, picking his way light as you please through Savasin’s glare, added, “You should ask why, Timur. Why didn’t your man know that?”

Savasin was still trying to recover from the news that the Nym would never be his. Maintaining an iron façade, he said, “And you maintain you have no interest in Jason Bourne.”

“My dear Timur Ludmirovich, you’re the one who hated Karpov with a—how to put it best?—a maniacal, near-religious fervor. I can only suppose that you feel the same way toward his best friend.” He shrugged. “As for me, I couldn’

t care less whether Bourne lives or dies.” His eyes glittered with mischief. “He hasn’t gotten under my skin.”

He ground out the butt of his cigarette and rose. “Now, if we’re clear on the matter…”

A knock sounded on the door.

“It’s like the Kazansky railway station in here today,” Konstantin observed with one raised eyebrow.

“Come!” Savasin said, somewhat louder than was necessary.

Malachev advanced into the office, but he was brought up short by the presence of the elder Savasin. After a moment’s contemplation during which Savasin could virtually see the cogs in his head spinning dizzily, he soldiered on, one eye on Konstantin as if at any moment the head of FSB would take a bite out of his thigh like a rabid animal.

“I have confirmed that Jason Bourne was on Karpov’s boat when it left Istanbul.”

Savasin gave his older brother a savage glare. “And was he on it when the Americans blew it up?”

Malachev spread his hands. “Unfortunately, First Minister, I don’t—”

“He doesn’t know.” Konstantin broke in. “No one here knows.” His scimitar smile seemed to extend from ear to ear. “Except me, of course.”

Savasin felt a headache coming on. He dismissed Malachev with a curt wave of his hand. When the brothers were alone again, he said, “Well, what are you waiting for?”

“I’m waiting, little brother, for you to meet my price.”

Savasin felt his blood pressure threatening to go through the roof. Still, he held himself in check, replied evenly, “And what would that be?”

“I want you to fire Volodarsky.”

Relief was just a word away. “Done. He’s proved eminently incompetent.”

“Jettisoning your childhood pal. Just like that.” Konstantin sniffed. “Well, I suppose that says something about you.”

“I’ll be more judicious when I appoint—”

“Oh, no. I want my own man heading up Special Forces. As head of FSB it’s my right.”

He should have known firing Volodarsky was only the beginning. “As first minister, I can veto any appointment you make.”

“You could,” Konstantin said. “But then you wouldn’t find out about the disposition of Jason Bourne. Is he dead? Alive? And if still alive, where is he?”

Savasin felt as if he were standing at a waterline, the sand washing out from under his feet. “You said you didn’t know—”

“I said I don’t care. I don’t. But you do.” Konstantin flipped another cigarette into his mouth, lit it with his oversize steel lighter. “I am aware of how much you need to know, little brother,” he added in a rush of smoke. “So…” He shrugged.

Savasin continued to struggle for equilibrium. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad, he told himself. After all, Volodarsky was clearly the wrong choice to head up spetsnaz. Konstantin was frighteningly intelligent. It was entirely possible that Konstantin’s pick would be a good one. In that frame of mind, he said, “Who’s your man?” The instant he said it, he knew he had capitulated. He realized his mistake. Whoever his brother had in mind would be his man through and through, which would, by definition, make him Savasin’s enemy. Konstantin was also frighteningly clever.

“Nikolay Ivanovich Rozin.”

“What?” Savasin raised his eyebrows. “Rozin is a field agent.”

“Undercover. Yes, he’s perhaps the best field agent we have.”

“Huh. He’s also something of a loose cannon, so maybe taking him out of the field is a wise choice.”

“Who said anything about taking him out of the field?”

The disorientation returned. Damn Konstantin to hell. “Then how will he—?”

“I mean to break the mold, little brother. I want him in the field.” He sniffed. “In my opinion, the spetsnaz officials have gotten too complacent, too comfortable milling around Dzerzhinsky Square. That requires a revolution, or don’t you agree?”

The damnable fact was that Savasin did agree. Konstantin was dead on in his assessment of Special Forces. It was a problem Savasin himself had been meaning to address. Konstantin had beaten him to it. Nothing new there, he thought bitterly.

“As it happens, I do agree.” He bit off each word as if they came from a bar of soap. He nodded. “All right. Elevate Rozin and let’s see where that leads.” He lifted a hand. “But know that he’s on a short leash. If he steps out of line—”

“I’m the wrong person to threaten,” Konstantin said. “Have you forgotten so soon?”

Savasin was so angry he almost lacerated his tongue. “I forget nothing,” he said thickly.

“Better.” Konstantin regarded the glowing tip of his cigarette. “As it happens, your Bourne boarded the Nym even before it put in to Istanbul.” His eyes flicked up to engage his brother’s. “By all rights, he should have been on the boat when the Americans blew it up.”

“I thought you had no interest in Bourne.”

“Insofar as you do, I have a great deal of interest.”

“You wanted to deny me the satisfaction of taking his life.”

“Correct.”

“But the American team missed him. So he’s still alive. Where?”

“In the eastern Aegean. The island of Skyros, to be exact. We have picked up a coded distress call.”

Savasin’s brows drew together. “Coded?”

Konstantin offered an unsavory chuckle. “Leave it to General Karpov. It’s his signal.” He beamed. “As it happens there’s a spetsnaz team ready and waiting in Istanbul. It’s only a short flight to—”

“I want control of the spetsnaz team,” Savasin said, shaking off this latest specter of their shared past.

Konstantin shrugged. “Have at it, little brother. I’ve got what I came for.”

10

Night was descending into the shoals of a glimmering dawn.

“I don’t like this,” Mala said.

“You don’t like anything.”

The sea was ahead of them. The closer they came to it, the higher they ascended, until they were above the treetops down below. The harsh salt wind lashed what foliage remained into dwarfs, limbs painfully twisted as if from long torture.

“They’re gaining on us,” Mala whispered.

“I know.”

“We ought to increase our speed.”

“And risk exposing ourselves to their night goggles?” He shook his head.

“But at this rate, they’re bound to catch up to us before we make the coast.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

She gave him a sharp, sideways look. “What d’you have up your sleeve?”

“It may not work,” he said. “I don’t want to give you false hope.”

Her eyes flashed. “That’s what you gave me when you took us out of Somalia.”

He couldn’t argue with her there.

He led her off the rough track they had been following, and they began climbing the cliff face, clawing for foot- and handholds. The problem of always keeping large enough rocks between them and the kill team added an extra degree of difficulty.

After setting the last of the traps, using the fishing lines and hooks, they reached a declivity in a massive rock formation, in the lee of the wind coming in off the sea. They were approximately halfway up the cliff wall on the other side of which was the Aegean and the boats, theirs and the kill team’s.

She let out a small puff of air. “I particularly don’t like this sitting here, waiting for the Americans to catch up with us.”

“This crew isn’t CIA.”

“No? Who, then?”

“They mentioned MacQuerrie.”

“Yes, I heard.”

“General MacQuerrie is in charge of his own piece of turf within the American clandestine services. His group is known as Dreadnaught. His people do a lot of very dirty wet work.”

“Isn’t all wet work, by definition, dirty?”

“Maybe. But Dreadnaught’s is pitch-black filthy.”

“A

ll the more reason why you should want to get up close and personal. Tooth and claw.” She gave him a particularly piercing look. “Don’t you have a personal stake in killing them?”

“Do you?” he said.

“Yeah, they blew up your friend’s boat thinking you were on it. Instead, they killed the captain and crew. Now they’re hunting both of us.”

“They don’t know you exist.”

She grunted. “That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? You’re testing me. See if I’ll abandon you to your fate?” She shook her head. “Our fates became entwined the moment you entered Keyre’s camp. The moment—”

“Don’t say it, Mala. I’m warning you.”

“Someone should have warned your friend.”

The most terrible thing about being with her was that it was like looking into a mirror—somewhat distorted, but nevertheless the fact remained that they were both killers. Her unbridled bloodlust, the fierce joy in killing she had learned at Keyre’s knee conjured up the spirits of all the people he had killed, no matter the reason. Each life you took diminished you, of this he was certain. Would there, then, come a time when there would be nothing left of him to keep alive? She also engendered in him this nihilism, these black questions that ate at him, not at the edge of darkness, but during the interstices of life in the shadows, the moments of idleness, few though they might be.

“Jason, I need you to know that things are different now with Keyre. These days, he runs a business, everything online: expenditures, profits, transfers to and from accounts held by a mare’s nest of shell companies in Switzerland, Gibraltar, Caymans, Bermuda, Iceland, Lichtenstein, who knows where else? Domiciles don’t matter, except on paper—and even paper doesn’t exist anymore. It’s all in cyberspace, all in ironclad clouds.” She took a breath. “You wouldn’t recognize the place.”

“No pools of blood? No heads on spikes, shriveling in the sun? No incantations over guts pulled from the living?”

She said nothing.