Bourne 7 – The Bourne Deception jb-7

by Robert Ludlum

  Retracing his steps, he returned to the bedroom closet, where he instructed Lev Antonin‘s son to come with him, but to stay quiet no matter what happened. Keeping the cringing boy behind him, he went silently down the steps until he was perhaps halfway down. Nothing much had changed in the scene below, except the gag was back in place and there was more blood on Joškar‘s face.

  When Lev Antonin‘s son tried to peep out from behind him, Arkadin pushed him back out of sight behind his legs.

  Crouching down, he whispered, — Don‘t move until I tell you it‘s okay.

  He recognized the look of abject fear in the boy‘s eyes and something tugged at him, an emotion perhaps, buried beneath the silt of his past. Ruffling the boy‘s hair, he stood and drew the Glock he‘d tucked into the waistband of his pants at the small of his back.

  Rising to his full height, he said, — Why don‘t you take a step away from those people.

  The man whirled around, his face twisted into an ugly mask for a split second before the soon-to-be-familiar smile full of condescension replaced it. Arkadin recognized that expression and what it revealed about the man behind it. Here was a man who lived for subjugation; the blunt instrument he used to gain it: fear.

  — Who the fuck‘re you, and how did you get here? Despite being surprised, despite staring down the barrel of a Glock, there wasn‘t an iota of concern either on his face or in his voice.

  — My name is Arkadin, and what the fuck‘re you doing here?

  — Arkadin, is it? Well, well…

  His smile turned smugly ironic. It was the kind of smile, Arkadin thought, that begged to be expunged, preferably with a balled fist.

  — My name‘s Oserov. Vylacheslav Germanovich Oserov, and I‘m here to get you the fuck out of this shithole.

  — What?

  — That‘s right, jerk-off, my boss, Dimitri Ilyinovich Maslov, wants you back in Moscow.

  — Who the hell is Dimitri Ilyinovich Maslov? Arkadin said. -And why should I give a fuck?

  At this, Oserov‘s mouth opened and a sound not unlike fingernails drawn down a blackboard emanated from it. With a start, Arkadin realized the other man was laughing.

  — You really are a hick. Maybe we should leave you here with all the other cretins. Oserov shook with mirth. -For your information Dimitri Ilyinovich Maslov is the head of the Kazanskaya. He cocked his head. -Ever hear of the Kazanskaya, sonny?

  — Moscow grupperovka. Arkadin spoke on autopilot. He was in shock. The head of one of the capital‘s premier mob families had heard of him? He had sent Oserov-and presumably someone else, since Oserov had said — we — here to fetch him? Either idea seemed improbable, but taken together the scenario seemed absurd.

  — Who else is with you? Arkadin said, trying desperately to recover his wits.

  — Mischa Tarkanian. He‘s with Lev Antonin negotiating your safe passage out, not that you seem worth the effort, now that you‘ve made an appearance.

  There was no particular reason for Arkadin to believe that Mischa Tarkanian wasn‘t somewhere on the ground floor-in the toilet, perhaps.

  — Here‘s what‘s confusing about your story, gospadin Oserov. I‘m wondering why this Maslov sent an incompetent to do a man‘s job?

  Before the Muscovite could form a reply, Arkadin reached around behind him, grabbed the boy by the back of his shirt, and brought him into the light. He needed to regain control, and the boy was his ace in the hole.

  — Lev Antonin has four children, not three. How could you make such a basic mistake?

  Oserov‘s left hand, which had been at his side, out of Arkadin‘s sight, gave a flick and the knife with which he had been cutting Joškar‘s face whirred through the air. Arkadin jerked the boy away, but it was too late, the blade buried itself to the hilt, and the child was torn from his grasp.

  With a feral shout, Arkadin discharged his Glock, then leapt after it as if he could ride the bullet straight into Oserov‘s black soul. The bullet missed, but he didn‘t. He landed atop the Muscovite and both of them went flying across the floorboards. They fetched up against sofa legs as thick and sturdy as a babushka‘s ankles.

  Arkadin allowed Oserov to go on the offensive the better to get a sense of his style, strength, and coordination. Oserov proved to be a street fighter, vicious but undisciplined, someone who obviously relied on power and animal cunning rather than his wits to win battles. Arkadin took a few on the chin and the ribs, deflecting at the last instant a rabbit punch aimed squarely at his kidneys. Then he went to work on Oserov.

  He was motivated not only by rage and a need for revenge, but by a sense of shame and humiliation for quite deliberately putting the boy in harm‘s way, relying on the twin elements of surprise and firepower to maintain control of the situation. Plus, he had to admit that he had been completely blindsided by the Muscovite killing a child in cold blood. Terrifying him, yes, roughing him up a little, maybe, but throwing a knife through his heart?

  Never.

  His knuckles were split and bloodied but he scarcely noticed. As he systematically pummeled the man beneath him he was overcome with images of his childhood, of the young ashen-faced boy he‘d once been, who‘d been terrorized by his mother, locked in her closet for hours, sometimes for days with scurrying, avid rats that had finally eaten three toes off his left foot. Lev Antonin‘s boy had put his faith in Arkadin and now he was dead. This outcome was unconscionable, and the only possible redemption was Oserov‘s death.

  And he would have killed Oserov, too, without remorse or consideration of the consequences of beating to death someone owned body and soul by Dimitri Maslov, head of the Kazanskaya. In a murderous rage, Arkadin cared nothing for Maslov, the Kazanskaya, Moscow, or anything else. All he could see was that face in the closet upstairs. Whether it was the boy‘s or his own he could no longer tell.

  Then something hard and heavy hit him in the side of the head and everything went black.

  23

  MOIRA LIVED in a Georgetown town house of red-brown brick on Cambridge Place, NW, near Dumbarton Oaks. More than a home, it was her sanctuary, a place where she could curl up on the chenille sofa, a snifter of amber brandy in her hand, and lose herself in a good novel. Traveling almost constantly, such nights had become rarer and rarer, making them, when they did come, all the more precious.

  Now, as twilight gave way to a glittering evening, she was haunted by the thought that someone was watching her house. Which was why she circled the block twice in a new rental car, because if the house really was under surveillance a second drive-by would surely arouse suspicion. As she went by the second time, she heard a car start up and, checking the rearview mirror, she saw a black Lincoln Town Car pull out of its parking spot almost directly across from her house and take up position several car-lengths behind her. She smiled to herself as she wove her way through Georgetown, whose maze-like streets she knew intimately.

  She‘d left Bamber at Lamontierre‘s house. He‘d offered to come along even though he was clearly scared to death. -I appreciate the offer, she had said in all seriousness, — but you can help me most by staying safe and sound. I have no intention of allowing Noah‘s people anywhere near you.

  Now as she took the Town Car through a series of evasive maneuvers she was doubly glad she‘d made him stay away, even though this plan would have been far easier to execute with someone else driving the car. They could have left her off and driven on, leading the Town Car away while she doubled back to her house to fetch her Black River laptop. But nothing came easy in life, at least not in her life and not in anyone else‘s she knew, so why bother complaining about it. Take the hand you‘re dealt and then finesse it, that was what she‘d always done, that was what she‘d do now.

  Night closed in as she drove down streets that became narrower and narrower as they approached the canal. Finally, she wheeled around a corner, made another left, braked to a halt, and, with the headlights still blazing, got out of the car in time for the driver of the Lincoln, its headl
ights off, to catch a glimpse of her as it nosed around the corner.

  It came to an abrupt halt just as she ducked into a doorway, and two men in dark suits got out and jogged down the cobbles toward the spot where she‘d disappeared. They discovered a metal door deep in the shadows, and drew their snub-nosed sidearms. The one with a shaved head pressed his back against the building‘s brickwork while the other one tried the knob. Shaking his head, he raised his right leg and kicked the door open so hard it slammed back against the inside wall. Weapon at the ready, he stepped aggressively into the stygian blackness. As he did so, the door swung hard into his face, breaking his nose. His jaws clamped shut, his teeth snapping off the tip of his tongue.

  His howl of pain was short-lived. Moira drove a knee into his groin and, as he reflexively bent double, brought her joined fists down onto the back of his neck.

  The bald man heard a muffled metallic clang, and without further hesitation, he stepped into the open doorway and fired three shots pointblank into the blackness to center, right, and left. He heard nothing, saw nothing, and, in a tense crouch, made his run into the interior.

  Moira slammed the spade-shaped end of the shovel she‘d stumbled over into the back of the bald man‘s head. He pitched headfirst onto the bare concrete floor. As she picked her way through the darkness and out into the gathering night, she heard the sound of police sirens. Doubtless, someone had heard the shots and called 911.

  She walked back to her car at a brisk pace, an absorbed look on her face, as if she were late for a dinner rendezvous. It was crucial now to appear normal, to blend into the heavy traffic on M Street, until she lost herself amid the cobbled streets, shining in the light of old-fashioned street lamps.

  Another ten minutes brought her back to her block, which she circled warily, on the lookout for another car with the lights off, someone in it, a sudden movement inside so he wouldn‘t be seen. But all appeared normal and serene.

  She parked and took another look around before mounting the steps to her front door. Turning the lock, she opened the door and, drawing her Lady Hawk from its thigh holster, stepped inside. Closing the door softly behind her, she double-locked it, then stood for some time with her back against it, listening to the house breathe. One by one she identified the homey sounds of the hot-water circulator, the refrigerator condenser, the heating fan. Then she sniffed the air to see if there was the trace of an odor that didn‘t belong to her or her things.

  Satisfied at last, she flipped the switch and the entryway and hallway were flooded with a warm, yellowish light. She let out the long breath she‘d been unconsciously holding in. Moving silently through the house, she checked every room, every closet on the ground floor; she made sure the door to the basement was securely locked. Then she ascended the stairs. Halfway up, she heard a noise and froze in midstep, her heart hammering in her breast. It came again, and she identified it as a branch scratching at the rear wall, where a narrow alley ran behind the row of town houses.

  Resuming her climb, she took the staircase step by step, counting down from the top to make certain she bypassed the one tread that creaked. At the top of the stairs, something happened. The hot-water circulator cycled off, and the resulting silence seemed to her eerie and ominous. Then, like an old friend, it returned, reassuring her.

  As she had on the ground floor, she moved from room to room, turning on lights, checking behind furniture, even, she thought, idiotically, under her bed. There was nothing and no one. The window to the left of her bed was unlatched, and she slid the semicircular tab home.

  Her Black River laptop was on the back shelf of her closet, under a line of shoe boxes. Picking her way across the room, she turned the doorknob, pulled the door open, and stepped in, leading with her weapon. She swept one hand across her hanging clothes, dresses, suits, skirts, and jackets all familiar to her, but which had now taken on a sinister aspect as curtains behind which someone could hide.

  No one jumped out at her, causing her to expel a small laugh of relief. Her gaze moved upward to the line of shoe boxes on the back shelf above her hanging clothes, and there was the laptop just as she‘d left it. She was reaching up to grab it when she heard the sharp crackle of breaking window glass and the dull thud as someone landed on the carpet. She whirled, stepped forward, only to have the closet door slam shut in her face.

  Her hand went to the doorknob and pushed, but something was keeping the door shut, even when she put her shoulder to it. Stepping back, she fired off four shots at the knob. The sharp scent of cordite tickled her nose, and her ears rang with noise. She pushed the door again. It was still firmly shut, but now she had other things to think about. The light filtering in from the tiny gap between door and frame was systematically vanishing. Someone was taping up the gap.

  And then, down at floor level, the slightly wider gap began to go dark, except for a space that was soon filled by the open end of the crevice attachment of her vacuum cleaner. A moment later a portable generator coughed to life and, with a mounting horror, Moira sensed the oxygen in the closet being sucked out. Carbon monoxide was being pumped in through her own vacuum cleaner attachment.

  When Peter Marks found the Metro police report on Moira Trevor he was dumbfounded. He‘d just returned from the White House, where he‘d had a tenminute evening interview with the president regarding the vacancy at the top of CI. He knew he wasn‘t the only candidate, but no one else at CI was talking. Still, he assumed the other six heads of the CI directorates were in line for similar interviews, if they hadn‘t already answered the president‘s summons. Of them all, he figured Dick Symes, the chief of the Intelligence Directorate, who was the interim DCI, would get the post. Symes was older, with more experience than Peter himself, who had only recently risen to the hallowed level of chief of operations under Veronica Hart‘s tragically short tenure as DCI. She hadn‘t even had time to vet candidates for deputy director, and now she never would. On the other hand, unlike Symes, he‘d been handpicked and trained by the Old Man himself, and he knew the reverence in which the president held the longtime DCI.

  Peter was not certain he wanted the Big Chair, anyway, simply because it would take him another giant step away from the field, which was his first love. “No matter how high you climb,” the Old Man had told him, “you never outgrow your first love. You simply learn to live without it.”

  On the other hand, maybe having doubts about occupying the Big Chair was a way of insulating himself from disappointment in the event he wasn‘t chosen to succeed Hart. Doubtless that was why he buried himself in the Moira Trevor files the moment he sat down at his desk. The Metro police report, almost perfunctorily brief, wasn‘t part of the stack of printouts and electronic data his staff had amassed for him; he‘d had to go looking for it himself. Not that he was looking for a police report per se, but having exhausted the so-called leads overflowing his in-box, he had decided to go on a fishing expedition, just as he‘d learned to do when he was a rookie field agent.

  “Never rely on intel other people feed you unless you absolutely can’t get it yourself,” the Old Man had lectured when he‘d first brought Marks into the fold. “And never, ever rely on other people’s intel when your life is on the line.” Excellent advice, which Marks had never forgotten. And now, behold, the Metro police report from yesterday describing a two-car crash in which a man named Jay Weston, a former employee of Hobart Industries and current employee of Heartland Risk Management, was killed and Moira Trevor, founder and president of Heartland, was injured. Two oddities: First, Weston hadn‘t died from injuries sustained in the crash; he‘d been shot to death. Second, Ms. Trevor had claimed- loudly and repeatedly, as the first-on-the-scene officer wrote-that a uniformed motorcycle cop had fired the shot through the driver‘s-side front window into Mr. Weston‘s head. Basic forensic evidence at the scene confirmed Ms. Trevor‘s story, at least as far as the shot was concerned. As for the motorcycle cop, the report went on to say that no such department individual was even in the vici
nity anywhere near the time of the shooting.

  When Marks came to the end of the report, there was an even more baffling oddity. There had been no follow-up, no reinterview of Ms. Trevor, no investigation into Mr. Weston‘s recent whereabouts that day or into his background in general. Apart from this brief report, it was as if the incident had never occurred.

  Marks picked up the phone and called the appropriate Metro precinct, but when he asked for the author of the report, he was told the officer, as well as his partner, had been — reassigned. No further information was available. He asked for Lieutenant McConnell, their immediate superior, but McConnell refused to tell Marks where they had gone or what had happened to them, either, and no amount of threats could open him up.

  — My orders come straight from the commissioner himself, McConnell said with no rancor, only weariness in his voice. -That‘s all I know, pal. I only work here. You got a beef, it‘s with him.