Bourne 7 – The Bourne Deception - Страница 56

— Which eventually brought him to Khartoum.

Volkin deliberately ignored the comment. Perhaps he thought the answer was self-evident. Instead, he said: — Do you have the date this alleged meeting between Boris and the American secretary took place?

— It was stamped on the photos, Bourne said. When he told Volkin, the Russian said emphatically, — Boris was here with me for three days, including that date. I don‘t know who was sitting down with the American secretary of defense, Bourne, but as sure as Russia is corrupt it wasn‘t our mutual friend Boris Karpov.

— Who was it then?

— A chameleon, certainly. Do you know any, Bourne?

— Besides myself, I do. But, unlike me, he‘s dead.

— You seem certain of that.

— I saw him fall from a great height into the water off the Port of Los Angeles.

— That is not the same as death. By God, you, of all people, should know,

Volkin said.

A cold chill swept down Bourne‘s spine.

— How many lives have you had, Bourne? Boris tells me many. I think it must be the same with Leonid Danilovich Arkadin.

— Are you telling me that Arkadin didn‘t drown? That he survived?

— A black cat like Arkadin has nine lives, my friend, possibly even more.

So it was Arkadin who‘d tried to kill him on Bali. Though the picture had suddenly become clearer, there was still something wrong, something missing.

— Are you sure of all this, Volkin?

— Arkadin is now the new head of the Eastern Brotherhood, how‘s that for being sure?

— All right, but why would he hire the Torturer when he seems to want so desperately to kill me himself?

— He wouldn‘t, Volkin said. -The Torturer is much too unreliable, especially against a foe like you.

— Then who hired him?

— That, Bourne, is a question even I cannot answer.

Having decided to take to the field himself in an effort to find the missing Metro police officers, Peter Marks was waiting in front of the bank of elevators to take him to the ground floor when an elevator door slid open. The only person inside was the enigmatic Frederick Willard, up until three months ago the Old Man‘s mole inside the NSA‘s Virginia safe house. The older man was, as usual, dapper, urbane, utterly self-contained. He wore an impeccable gunmetal-gray, chalk-striped three-piece suit over a crisp white shirt and a conservative tie.

— Hello, Willard, Marks said as he stepped into the elevator. -I thought you were on leave.

— I got back several days ago.

From Marks‘s point of view, Willard was remarkably well suited to play the role of steward in the safe house, evincing an old-school professorial air, musty and rather boring. It wasn‘t difficult to see how he melted into the woodwork. Being invisible made it so much easier to eavesdrop on intimate conversations.

The door slid shut and they descended.

— I imagine it‘s been difficult getting back into the swing of things,

Marks said, more to be polite to the older man than anything else.

— Frankly, it was like I was never gone. Willard glanced over at Marks with a grimace, as if he‘d just come from the surgeon‘s office and his agony was of such magnitude that he could not hide it. -How did your interview with the president go?

Surprised that Willard knew about it, Marks said, — Well enough, I suppose.

— Not that it matters, you‘re not getting the post.

— It figures. Dick Symes was the logical front-runner.

— Symes is out, too.

Marks‘s acceptance turned to consternation. -How do you know that?

— Because I know who did get the post and, fuck us all, it isn‘t anyone from inside CI.

— But that makes no sense.

— On the contrary, it makes perfect sense, Willard said, — if your name happens to be Bud Halliday.

Marks turned toward the older man. -What‘s happened, Willard? Come on, man, out with it!

— Halliday has used Veronica Hart‘s sudden death to his advantage. He‘s proposed his own man, M. Errol Danziger, and after meeting with Danziger the president‘s agreed.

— Danziger, the NSA‘s current deputy director of signals intelligence for analysis and production?

— That‘s the one.

— But he knows nothing about CI! Marks cried.

— I believe, Willard said with some asperity, — that‘s precisely the point.

The doors opened and the two men stepped out into the marble-and-glass reception area, as chilly as it was vast.

— Under the circumstances, I think we need to talk, Willard said. -But not here.

— Certainly not. Marks was about to propose a meeting for later, but then changed his mind. Who better than this mysterious veteran with a thousand and one sources, who knew all of Alex Conklin‘s back-channel intelligence secrets, to help him find the missing cops? — I‘m off on an investigation in the field. Care to join me?

A smile creased Willard‘s face. -Ah, me, it‘ll be just like I‘ve dreamed!

*

When Arkadin approached Joškar, she spat at him, then turned her face away. All her four children-the three girls and the dead son-were clustered around her like foam surrounding a basalt outcropping rising from the sea. They, the living, little ones, rose up as he approached as if to protect her from an assault or an unwanted intrusion.

Tearing off one shirtsleeve, Arkadin leaned in and dabbed the blood off her face. It was when he touched the point of her chin to turn her face back toward him that he saw the deep bruises on her face, the welts on her neck. Rage at Oserov flared anew inside him, but then he noticed that the welts and bruises weren‘t recent-he was certain they hadn‘t been made in the last several days. If Oserov hadn‘t caused them then, in all likelihood, her husband, Lev Antonin, had.

Her eyes met his for a moment, and in them he saw a bleak reflection of the bedroom upstairs, filled with both her intimate scent and her abject solitude.

— Joškar, he said, — do you know who I am?

— My son, she said, hugging him to her breast. -My son.

— We‘re going to get you out of here, Joškar, you and your children. You don‘t have to be afraid of Lev Antonin anymore.

She stared at him, as dumbfounded as if he‘d told her she was getting her lost youth back. The crying of her youngest girl brought her around. She looked at Tarkanian who, with her car keys in one hand, had slung Oserov over his shoulder.

— He‘s coming with us? The man who killed my Yasha?

Arkadin said nothing, because the answer was clear.

When she turned back to him, a light had gone out in her eyes. -Then my Yasha comes, too.

Tarkanian, bent over like a coal miner, was already carrying his heavy load to the front door. -Leonid Danilovich, come on. The dead have no place among the living.

But when Arkadin took Joškar‘s arm, she snatched it away.

— What about that piece of filth? The moment he killed my Yasha he died, too.

With a grunt, Tarkanian opened the door. -We don‘t have time for negotiation, he said brusquely.

— I agree. Arkadin took Yasha into his arms. -The boy comes with us.

He said it in such a tone that Tarkanian gave him another of his penetrating looks. Then the Muscovite shrugged. -She‘s your responsibility, my friend. All of them are your responsibility now.

They trooped out to the car, Joškar herding her three confused and shivering daughters. Tarkanian placed Oserov in the trunk and tied the lid to the bumper with a length of twine he‘d found in a kitchen drawer so that his compatriot would have fresh air. Then he opened the two doors on the near side, and went around to slide behind the wheel.

— I want to hold my son, Joškar said as she urged her daughters into the backseat.

— Better that I take him up front, Arkadin said. -The three girls need your undivided attention. When she hesitated, pushed the hair back from her son‘s forehead, he said, — I‘ll take good care of him, Joškar. Don‘t worry. Yasha will be right here with me.

He got into the front passenger‘s seat and, with the boy cradled in one arm, closed the door. He noted that they had almost a full tank of gas. Tarkanian fired the ignition, let out the clutch, and put the car in gear. They took off.

— Get that thing off me, Tarkanian said as they took a corner at speed and Yasha‘s head brushed against his arm.

— Show some fucking respect, Arkadin snapped. -The boy can‘t hurt you.

— You‘re as loony as a tyolka in heat, Tarkanian retorted.

— Who‘s got a friend locked in the trunk?

Tarkanian honked the horn mightily at a truck lumbering in front of him. Maneuvering around, he braved oncoming traffic to pass the huge vehicle, ignoring the angry blare of horns and the near misses as cars coming the other way scrambled to get out of his way.

When they were back on their side of the road, Tarkanian glanced over at Arkadin. -You‘ve got a soft spot for this kid, huh.