Ivan Volkin was a hairy bear of a man, salt-and-pepper hair standing straight up like a madman, a full beard white as snow, small but cheerful eyes the color of a rainstorm. 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.
He greeted them warmly, welcoming them into an apartment that appeared small because of the stacks of books and periodicals that covered every conceivable horizontal surface, including the kitchen stovetop and his bed.
He led them down a narrow, winding aisle from the vestibule to the living room, made room for them on the sofa by moving three teetering stacks of books.
“Now,” he said, standing in front of them, “how can I be of help?”
“I need to know everything you can tell me about the Black Legion.”
“And why are you interested in such a tiny footnote to history?” Volkin looked at Bourne with a jaundiced eye. “You don’t have the look of a scholar.”
“Neither do you,” Bourne said.
This produced a spraying laugh from the older man. “No, I suppose not.” Volkin wiped his eyes. “Spoken like one soldier to another, eh? Yes.” Reaching around behind him, he swung over a ladder-backed chair, straddled it with his arms crossed over the top. “So. What specifically do you want to know?”
“How did they manage to survive into the twenty-first century?”
Volkin’s face immediately shut down. “Who told you the Black Legion survives?”
Bourne did not want to use Professor Specter’s name. “An unimpeachable source.”
“Is that so? Well, that source is wrong.”
“Why bother to deny it?” Bourne said.
Volkin rose, went into the kitchen. Bourne could hear the refrigerator door open and close, the light clink of glassware. When Volkin returned, he had an iced bottle of vodka in one hand, three water glasses in the other.
Handing them the glasses, he unscrewed the cap, filled their glasses halfway. When he’d poured for himself, he sat down again, the bottle standing between them on the threadbare carpet.
Volkin raised his glass. “To our health.” He emptied his glass in two great gulps. Smacking his lips, he reached down, refilled it. “Listen to me closely. If I were to admit that the Black Legion exists today there would be nothing left of my health to toast.”
“How would anyone know?” Bourne said.
“How? I’ll tell you how. I tell you what I know, then you go out and act on that information. Where d’you think the shitstorm that ensues is going to land, hmm?” He tapped his barrel chest with his glass, slopping vodka onto his already stained shirt. “Every action has a reaction, my friend, and let me tell you that when it comes to the Black Legion every reaction is fatal for someone.”
Since he’d already as much as admitted that the Black Legion had, in fact, survived the defeat of Nazi Germany, Bourne brought the subject around to what really concerned him. “Why would the Kazanskaya be involved?”
“Pardon?”
“In some way I can’t yet understand the Kazanskaya are interested in Mikhail Tarkanian. I stumbled across one of their contract killers in his apartment.”
Volkin’s expression turned sour. “What were you doing in his apartment?”
“Tarkanian’s dead,” Bourne said.
“What?” Volkin exploded. “I don’t believe you.”
“I was there when it happened.”
“And I tell you it’s impossible.”
“On the contrary, it’s a fact,” Bourne said. “His death was a direct result of him being a member of the Black Legion.”
Volkin crossed his arms over his chest. He looked like the silverback in the National Zoo. “I see what’s happening here. How many ways will you try to get me to talk about the Black Legion?”
“Every way I can,” Bourne said. “The Kazanskaya are in some way in league with the Black Legion, which is an alarming prospect.”
“I may look as if I have all the answers, but I don’t.” Volkin stared at him, as if daring Bourne to call him a liar.
Though Bourne was certain that Volkin knew more than he would admit, he also knew it would be a mistake to call him on it. Clearly, this was a man who couldn’t be intimidated, so there was no point in trying. Professor Specter had warned him not to get caught up in the grupperovka war, but the professor was a long way away from Moscow; his intelligence was only as accurate as his men on the ground here. Instinct told Bourne there was a serious disconnect. So far as he could see there was only one way to get to the truth.
“Tell me how to get a meet with Maslov,” he said.
Volkin shook his head. “That would be most unwise. With the Kazanskaya in the middle of a power struggle with the Azeri-”
“Popov is only my cover name,” Bourne said. “Actually, I’m a consultant to Viktor Cherkesov”-the head of the Federal Anti-Narcotics Agency, one of the two or three most powerful siloviks in Russia.
Volkin pulled back as if stung by Bourne’s words. He shot Gala an accusatory glance, as if Bourne were a scorpion she’d brought into his den. Turning back to Bourne he said, “Have you any proof of this?”
“Don’t be absurd. However, I can tell you the name of the man I report to: Boris Illyich Karpov.”
“Is that so?” Volkin produced a Makarov handgun, placed it on his right knee. “If you’re lying…” He picked up a cell phone he scavenged miraculously from out of the clutter, and quickly punched in a number. “We have no amateurs here.”
After a moment he said into the phone, “Boris Illyich, I have here with me a man who claims to be working for you. I would like to put him on the line, yes?”
With a deadpan face, Volkin handed over the cell.
“Boris,” Bourne said, “it’s Jason Bourne.”
“Jason, my good friend!” Karpov’s voice reverberated down the line. “I haven’t seen you since Reykjavik.”
“It seems like a long time.”
“Too long, I tell you!”
“Where have you been?”
“In Timbuktu.”
“What were you doing in Mali?” Bourne asked.
“Don’t ask, don’t tell.” Karpov laughed. “I understand you’re now working for me.”
“That’s right.”
“My boy, I’ve longed for this day!” Karpov let go with another booming laugh. “We must toast this moment with vodka, but not tonight, eh? Put that old goat Volkin back on the line. I assume there’s something you want from him.”
“Correct.”
“He hasn’t believed a word you’ve told him. But I’ll change that. Please memorize my cell number, then call me when you’re alone. Until we speak again, my good friend.”
“He wants to talk to you,” Bourne said.
“That’s understandable.” Volkin took the cell from Bourne, put it to his ear. Almost immediately his expression changed. He stared at Bourne, his mouth slightly open. “Yes, Boris Illyich. Yes, of course. I understand.”
Volkin broke the connection, stared at Bourne for what seemed a long time. At length, he said, “I’m going to call Dimitri Maslov now. I hope to hell you know what you’re doing. Otherwise, this is the last time anyone will see you, either alive or dead.”
Twenty-Two
TYRONE WENT immediately into one of the cubicles in the men’s room. Fishing out the plastic tag Deron had made for him, he clipped it on the outside of his suit jacket, a suit that looked like the regulation government suits all the other spooks wore here. The tag identified him as Special Agent Damon Riggs, out of the NSA field office in LA. Damon Riggs was real enough. The tag came straight from the NSA HR database.
Tyrone flushed the toilet, emerged from the cubicle, smiled frostily at an NSA agent bent over one of the sinks washing his hands. The agent glanced at Tyrone’s tag, said, “You’re a long way from home.”
“And in the middle of winter, too.” Tyrone’s vo
ice was strong and firm. “Damn, I miss goin’ top-down in Santa Monica.”
“I hear you.” The agent dried his hands. “Good luck,” he said as he left.
Tyrone stared at the closed door for a moment, took a deep breath, let it out slowly. So far, so good. He went out into the hallway, his eyes straight ahead, his stride purposeful. He passed four or five agents. A couple gave his tag a cursory glance, nodded. The others ignored him altogether.
“The trick,” Deron had said, “is to look like you belong. Don’t hesitate, be purposeful. If you look like you know where you’re going, you become part of the scene, no one notices you.”
Tyrone reached the door without incident. He went past it as two agents, deep in conversation, passed him. Then, checking both ways, he doubled back. Quickly he took out what seemed to be an ordinary piece of clear tape, laid it on top of the fingerprint reader. Checking his watch, he waited until the second hand touched the 12. Then, holding his breath, he pressed his forefinger onto the tape so that it was flush against the reader. The door opened. He stripped off the tape, slipped inside. The tape contained LaValle’s fingerprint, which Tyrone had lifted off the back cover of the file while working the device that slit the security tape. Soraya had engaged LaValle in conversation as a diversion.
At the bottom of the flight of steps, he paused for a moment. No alarm bells were going off, no sound of armed security guards coming his way. Kiki’s software program had done its work. Now the rest was up to him.
He moved swiftly and silently down the rough concrete corridor. Buzzing fluorescent strips were the only decoration here, casting a sickly glow. He saw no one, heard nothing beyond the susurrus of machinery.
Snapping on latex gloves he tried each door he came to. Most were locked. The first one that wasn’t opened into a small cubicle with a viewing window in one wall. Tyrone had been in enough police precincts to know this was one-way glass. He peered into a room not much larger than the one he was in. He could make out a metal chair bolted to the center of the floor, beneath which was a large drain. Affixed to the right-hand wall was a three-foot-deep trough as long as a man with manacles bolted to each end, above which was coiled a fire hose. Its nozzle looked enormous in the confines of the small room. This, Tyrone knew from photos he’d seen, was a waterboarding tank. He snapped as many photos of it as possible, because there was the proof Soraya needed that the NSA was enacting illegal and inhuman torture.
Tyrone took photos of everything with the ten-megapixel digital mini camera Soraya had given him. Given the huge memory of its smart card, it could record six videos of up to three minutes in duration.
He moved on, knowing he had an extremely limited amount of time. Opening the door an inch at a time, he determined that the corridor was still deserted. He hurried down it, checking all the doors he came to. At length, he found himself in another viewing room. This time, however, he saw a man kneeling beside a table. His arms were drawn back, his bound hands on the table. A black hood had been pulled down over his head. His attitude was of a defeated soldier about to be forced to kiss the feet of his conqueror. Tyrone felt a surge of rage run through him such as he’d never felt before. He couldn’t help thinking of the history of his own people, hunted by rival tribes on the east coast of Africa, sold to the white man, brought as slaves back to America. All of this terrible history Deron had made him study, to learn where he came from, to understand what drove the prejudices, the innate hatreds, all the powerful forces inside him.
With an effort he pulled himself together. This is what they’d been hoping for: proof that the NSA was subjecting prisoners to illegal forms of torture. Tyrone took a slew of photos, even a short video before exiting the viewing room.
Once again, he was the only one in the corridor. This concerned him. Surely he would have heard or seen NSA personnel down here. But there was no sign of anyone.
All at once, he felt a prickling at the back of his neck. He turned, retracing his steps at a half run. His heart pounded, his blood rushed in his ears. With every step he took his sense of foreboding increased. Then he broke into a full-out sprint.
Luther LaValle looked up from his reading, said ominously, “What kind of game are you playing, Director?”
Soraya kept herself from starting. “I beg your pardon?”
“I’ve been through these transmission intercepts you claim come from the Black Legion twice now. Nowhere do I find any reference to that name or, for that matter, any name at all.”
Willard appeared, handed General Kendall a folded slip of paper. Kendall read it without any expression. Then he excused himself. Soraya watched him leave the Library with no little trepidation.
To regain her attention, LaValle waved the sheets briefly in the air like a red flag in front of a bull. “Tell me the truth. For all you know, these conversations could be between two sets of eleven-year-olds playing terrorist games.”
Soraya could feel herself bristling. “My people assure me they’re genuine, Mr. LaValle, and they’re the best in the business. If you don’t believe that, I can’t imagine why you want a piece of Typhon.”
LaValle conceded her point, but he wasn’t finished with her. “Then how do you know they’re from the Black Legion.”
“Collateral intelligence.”
LaValle sat back in his chair. His drink was left untouched on the table. “Just what the holy hell does collateral intelligence mean?”
“Another source, unrelated to the intercepts, has knowledge of an imminent attack on American soil that originates with the Black Legion.”
“Who we have no tangible evidence actually exist.”
Soraya was growing increasingly uncomfortable. The conversation was veering perilously close to an interrogation. “I brought these intercepts at your behest with the intention of engendering trust between us.”
“That’s as may be,” LaValle said. “But quite frankly these anonymous intercepts, alarming as they seem on the surface, don’t do it for me. You’re holding something back, Director. I want to know the source of your so-called collateral intel.”
“I’m afraid that’s impossible. The source is absolutely sacrosanct.” Soraya could not tell him that her source was Jason Bourne. “However-” She reached down to her slim attachй case, pulled out several photos, handed them over.
“It’s a corpse,” LaValle said. “I fail to see the significance-”
“Look at the second photo,” Soraya said. “It’s a close-up of the inside of the victim’s elbow. What do you see?”
“A tattoo of three horses’ heads attached to-what is this? It looks like the Nazi SS death’s head.”
“And so it is.” Soraya handed him another photo. “This is the uniform patch of the Black Legion under their leader Heinrich Himmler.”
LaValle pursed his lips. Then he put sheets back in the file, returned it to Soraya. He held up the photos. “If you could find this insignia, anyone could. This could be a group that’s simply appropriated the Black Legion’s sign, like the skinheads in Germany appropriated the swastika. Besides, this isn’t proof that the intercepts came from the Black Legion. And even if they did I have a problem, Director. It’s the same as yours, I would think. You’ve told me-also according to your sacrosanct source-that the Black Legion is being fronted by the Eastern Brotherhood. If the NSA acts on this intel, we’ll have every flavor of PR nightmare visited on us. The Eastern Brotherhood, as I’m sure you’re aware, is exceedingly powerful, especially with the overseas press. We run with this and we’re wrong, it’s going to cause the president and this country an enormous amount of humiliation, which we can’t afford now. Do I make myself clear?”
“Perfectly, Mr. LaValle. But if we ignore it and America is successfully attacked again, then how do we look?”
LaValle scrubbed his face with one hand. “So we’re between a rock and hard place.”
“Sir, you know as well as I do that action is better than inaction, especially in a volatile situation like this.�
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LaValle was about to capitulate, Soraya knew it, but here came Willard again, gliding up, silent as a ghost. He bent, whispered something in LaValle’s ear.
“Thank you, Willard,” Lavalle said, “that will be all.” Then he returned his attention to Soraya. “Well, Director, it seems I’m urgently wanted elsewhere.” He stood up and smiled down at her, but spoke with a steely tone. “Please join me.”
Soraya’s heart plummeted. This invitation wasn’t a request.
Yakov, the bombila driver, who’d been ordered to park across the avenue from the front entrance of the Metropolya Hotel, had been joined forty minutes ago by a man who looked as if he’d been in a fistfight with a meat grinder. Despite efforts to cover it up, his face was swollen, dark as pounded flesh. He wore a silver patch over one eye. He was a surly bastard, Yakov decided, even before the man handed him a fistful of money. He uttered not a word of greeting, but slammed into the backseat, slithered down so even the crown of his head was invisible to anyone glancing casually in.
The atmosphere inside the bombila quickly grew so toxic that Yakov was forced to vacate the semi-warmth for the freezing Moscow night. He bought himself some food from a passing Turkish vendor, spent the next half hour eating it, talking to his friend Max, who’d pulled up behind him because Max was a lazy sonovabitch who grasped at any excuse not to work.
Yakov and Max were in the middle of heated speculation that concerned last week’s death of a high-level RAB Bank officer, who was discovered tied up, tortured, and asphyxiated in the garage of his own elitny dacha. The two of them were wondering why the General Prosecutor’s Office and the president’s newly formed Investigative Committee were fighting over jurisdiction of the death.
“It’s politics, pure and simple,” Yakov said.
“Dirty politics,” Max retorted. “There’s nothing pure and simple about that.”
The Bourne Sanction Page 24
