Twelve men sat around a rectangular table. Dakaev was at the head of the table. Being a directorate chief, he would be more valuable alive than dead. Karpov shoved the first mole against the table. Everyone but Dakaev pushed back their chairs as far as they could. For his part, Dakaev sat as he had when Karpov barged in, hands clasped in front of him on the tabletop. Unlike Colonel Lemtov, he didn’t express outrage or appear confused. In fact, Karpov saw, he knew perfectly well what was happening.
That would have to change. Karpov dragged the first mole along the table, scattering papers, pens, and glasses of water, until the man fetched up in front of Dakaev. Then, staring into Dakaev’s eyes, Karpov pressed the muzzle of his pistol into the back of the first mole’s head.
“Please,” the prisoner said, urinating down his leg.
Karpov squeezed the trigger. The first mole’s head slammed against the table, bounced up, and settled into a pool of his own blood. A Pollock-like pattern spattered across Dakaev’s suit, shirt, tie, and freshly shaven face.
Karpov gestured with the pistol. “Get up.”
Dakaev stood. “Are you going to shoot me, too?”
“Eventually, perhaps.” Karpov grabbed him by his tie. “That will be entirely up to you.”
“I understand,” Dakaev said. “I want immunity.”
“Immunity? I’ll give you immunity.” Karpov slammed the barrel of the pistol against the side of his head.
Dakaev reeled sideways, bouncing off a terrified silovik paralyzed in his chair. Karpov bent over Dakaev, who lay huddled half against the wall.
“You’ll tell me everything you know about your work and your contacts—names, places, dates, every fucking thing, no matter how minute—then I’ll decide what to do with you.”
He hauled Dakaev to his feet. “The rest of you, get back to whatever the hell you were doing.”
Out on the floor he encountered absolute silence. Everyone stood like wooden soldiers, unmoving, afraid even to take a breath. Colonel Lemtov would not meet his eyes as he took the bleeding Dakaev over to the bank of elevators.
They went down, past the basement, into the bowels of the building where the holding cells had been hewn out of the naked rock. It was cold and damp. The guards wore greatcoats and fur hats with fur earflaps, as if it were the dead of winter. When anyone spoke, his breath formed clouds in front of his face.
Karpov took Dakaev to the last cell on the left. It contained a metal chair bolted to the raw concrete floor, an industrial-size stainless-steel sink, a toilet made of the same material, and a board projecting from one wall on which was a thin mattress. There was a large drain situated beneath the chair.
“Tools of the trade,” Karpov said as he pushed Dakaev into the chair. “I admit to being a little rusty, but I’m sure that won’t make a difference to you.”
“All this melodrama is unnecessary,” Dakaev said. “I have no allegiance, I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”
“Of that I have no doubt.” Karpov began to run the water in the sink. “On the other hand, a self-confessed man of no allegiance can hardly be trusted to tell the truth willingly.”
“But I—”
Karpov shoved the muzzle of the pistol into his mouth. “Listen to me, my agnostic friend. A man without allegiance to something or someone isn’t worth the beating heart inside him. Before I hear your confession, I will have to teach you the value of allegiance. When you leave here—unless you do so feet-first—you will be a loyal member of FSB-2. Never again will people like Dimitri Maslov be able to tempt you. You will be incorruptible.”
Karpov kicked his prisoner out of the chair onto his hands and knees. Grabbing him by his collar, he bent him over the sink, which was now filled with ice-cold water.
“Now we begin,” he said. And shoved Dakaev’s head under the water.
Soraya watched Arkadin dancing with Moira, presumably to make her jealous. They were in one of Puerto Peñasco’s all-night cantinas, filled with shift workers coming and going from the nearby maquiladoras. A sad ranchera was bawling from a jukebox, luridly lit up like someone’s bad idea of the UFO in Close Encounters of the Third Kind.
Soraya, nursing a black coffee, watched Arkadin’s hips moving as if they were filled with mercury. The man could dance! Then she pulled out her PDA and studied the texts from Peter Marks. The last one contained instructions on how to lure Arkadin to Tineghir. How did Peter come up with this intel?
She had hidden her shock at seeing Moira behind her professional facade. The moment she had climbed aboard the yacht she’d felt the floor fall out from under her. The game had changed so radically that she had to play catch-up, and fast. Which was why she had hung on each word of the conversation between Moira and Arkadin not only for content but also for tonal nuance, any clue as to why Moira was actually here. What did she want from Arkadin? Surely the deal Moira was making with him was as bogus as her own.
Outside, the night was very dark, without moonlight. Because of the cloud cover, only a wan halo of stars toward the crown of the sky was visible. Inside, the cantina stank of beer and body odor. The room was raucous with a desperation tinged by hopelessness and despair. She felt surrounded by people for whom tomorrow didn’t exist.
She wished that she and Moira could talk to each other, if only for the briefest moment, but under Arkadin’s eye that was impossible. Even going to the ladies’ room at the same time would doubtless arouse his suspicion. She didn’t know Moira’s cell number, so texting her was out. There remained only a verbal conversation laced with coded messages. If they were on parallel paths, or even by chance the same one, it was essential they not get in each other’s way.
Arkadin and Moira were dripping sweat when they returned to the table. Arkadin ordered beers for them, and another coffee for Soraya. Whatever might happen tomorrow, he was clearly enjoying being with the two women tonight.
“Moira,” Soraya said, “do you know anything about the Middle East, or is your expertise strictly in the Americas?”
“Mexico, Colombia, Bolivia, and to some extent Brazil are my territories.”
“And you work alone?”
“I have a company, but right now I’m on special assignment to Berengária Moreno.” Moira gestured with her chin. “And you?”
“My own company, though there’s a conglomerate that’s looking for a hostile takeover.”
“Multinational?”
“Strictly American.”
Moira nodded. “Import-export, you said?”
Soraya stirred some sugar into her coffee. “That’s right.”
“You might be able to use my, ah, expertise against hostile bidders.”
“Thank you, but no.” Soraya sipped her coffee, then put the cup back in its saucer. “I have my own, ah, enforcers.”
“What do you call a thought in a woman’s head?” Arkadin leaned forward, looking from one to the other. “A tourist!” He laughed so hard he almost choked on his beer. Then, noting their somber expressions, “Shit, lighten up, ladies, we’re here to have fun, not talk business.”
Moira looked at him for a moment. “What do you get when you cross a Russian with a Vietnamese? A car thief that can’t drive.”
Soraya laughed. “Now we’re having fun.”
Arkadin smiled. “Have any more?”
“Let’s see.” Moira drummed her fingers on the table. “How about this? Two Russians and a Mexican are in a car. Who’s driving? The police.”
Arkadin laughed and shook his finger at Moira. “Where do you pick up these jokes?”
“In prison,” Moira said. “Roberto Corellos loves making Russians the butt of jokes.”
“Time to switch to tequila,” Arkadin said, signaling the waiter. “Bring a bottle,” he said to the young woman who came over. “Something fine. A reposado or añejo.”
Instead of another ranchera, the jukebox began to play “Twenty-four Hours from Tulsa.” Gene Pitney’s high twang rang out over the laughter and shouts of the drunken
patrons. But morning was coming, and with it a change in the clientele. As the night owls slowly staggered out, the night-shift people from the maquiladora drifted in, heads aching, tails dragging. There were fewer of them, as well, most of them stumbling home to fall into bed without taking off their clothes.
Before the tequila got to the table, Arkadin had grabbed Moira’s hand and was swinging her onto the dance floor, which for the first time all night was larger than a postage stamp. He held her close while they swayed to the Burt Bacharach melody.
“You’re something of a smart-ass,” he said, smiling like a shark.
“It didn’t come easy,” she said.
He laughed. “I can only imagine.”
“Don’t bother.”
Arkadin swung her around. “You’re wasting your time in South America. You should come to work for me.”
“Before I set up Corellos’s murder?”
“Let that be your last assignment.” He stuck his nose into the side of her neck and inhaled deeply. “How are you going to do it?”
“I thought you said no business.”
“Just this one bit, then it’s all fun. I swear.”
“Corellos is addicted to women. I have a connection to his supplier. When is a man more vulnerable than after sex? I’ll find someone who’s good with a knife.”
Arkadin pulled her hips harder into him. “I like it. Set it up right away.”
“I want a bonus.”
He nuzzled her neck, licked her sweat. “I’ll give you anything you want.”
“Then I’m yours.”
Karpov’s cell phone rang while he was in the process of reprogramming Dimitri Maslov’s mole. Dakaev was drowning, or more precisely, he believed he was drowning, which was, after all, the point. But ten minutes later, when Dakaev was back in his stainless-steel chair and Karpov was pouring tea into a glass, his cell rang again. This time he answered it. A familiar voice was on the other end of the line.
“Jason!” Karpov cried. “How excellent to hear your voice.”
“Are you busy?”
Karpov glanced over at Dakaev, slumped over, his chin on his chest. He looked barely human, which was also the point. You couldn’t build something new without tearing down what had been there before.
“Busy? Yes. But never too busy for you. What can I do for you?”
“I assume you know Dimitri Maslov’s lieutenant, Vylacheslav Oserov.”
“You assume correctly.”
“Do you think you can find a way to get him somewhere?”
“If you mean somewhere like hell, yes I can.”
Bourne laughed in his ear. “I was thinking of something a little less terminal. A place, let us say, in Morocco.”
Karpov took a sip of tea, which was in desperate need of sugar. “May I ask why you need Oserov in Morocco?”
“He’s bait, Boris. I intend to catch Arkadin.”
Karpov thought of his sojourn in Sonora, his deal with Arkadin, and added him to the list of President Imov and Viktor Cherkesov. He had promised Arkadin his chance at Oserov, but fuck that. I’m too old and too bloody-minded to owe so many dangerous people so much, he thought. One less is a step toward none.
Then he looked over at Dakaev, the conduit to Dimitri Maslov and, therefore, Vylacheslav Oserov. After what he had just been through, he had no doubt that the prisoner would jump at the chance to do what Karpov asked of him.
“Tell me in detail what you need done.” Listening, Karpov smiled contentedly. When Bourne was finished, he chuckled deeply. “Jason, my friend, what I wouldn’t give to be you!”
Just after sunrise they were all sweaty enough to want to go into the water. At the convent, Arkadin gave Moira and Soraya oversize T-shirts. He was in surfer trunks that came down to his knees. His upper body and limbs were a museum of tattoos that, if interpreted correctly, traced his career in the grupperovka.
The three of them waded through the surf, pulled and pushed by the waves rushing onto the golden sand. The sky was still pink, paling out to the color of butter. Gulls dipped and swooped over their heads and tiny fish nibbled at their feet and ankles. The water came up and slapped them in the face, making them laugh like children. The unalloyed joy of being let free in the ocean.
Out beyond the surf line, Moira thought it odd that Arkadin kept diving for seashells rather than stare at her breasts through the wet T-shirt, especially after the way he’d been dancing with her at the cantina. She had found out little enough information about Soraya’s mission from the coded conversation Soraya had started and Arkadin had nipped off with his misogynistic joke.
While Arkadin was still trolling for shells, she set off after Soraya to see if the two of them could speak briefly. Diving through an incoming wave, she began to swim out to where Soraya was drifting on her back, but something caught her left ankle, jerking her back.
Jackknifing her body, she looked behind her. Arkadin had hold of her. She pushed back at him, palms against his chest, but he only drew her more closely to him. She rose up, breaking the surface, and found herself face-to-face with him.
“What do you think you’re doing?” She scrubbed the sheeting water off her face. “I can’t stand properly.”
He let her go immediately. “I’ve had enough and I’m hungry.”
Moira turned and shouted to Soraya, who plunged down from her float and paddled over.
“We’re going to breakfast,” Moira said.
The two women waded out of the surf with Arkadin just behind them. They had reached the high-tide line, hillocks of dry sand ahead, when Arkadin bent over. Using the scythe-like edge of the seashell, he severed the tendons at the back of Moira’s left knee.
25
THE VILLAGE OF Whitney, Oxfordshire, lay twelve miles west of Oxford, on the Windrush River. All that was missing were Hobbits and Orcs. Bourne drove out from London in a rental car. The afternoon was cool and dry with peeks of sun now and again through the rolling clouds. He hadn’t lied to Peter Marks; he had every intention of going to Tineghir. But first there was something he needed to do.
Basil Bayswater lived in a thatch-roofed cottage straight out of a Tolkien novel. It had quirky round windows and flower shoots springing up in neat beds lining a white gravel walkway that led up to the front door. This door was thick and wooden, with a roaring brass lion’s-head knocker in its center. Bourne used it.
Several moments later a man quite a bit younger than he had expected opened the door.
“Yes? How may I help you?” He had long hair brushed straight back off his wide forehead, dark, watchful eyes, and a strong chin.
“I’m looking for Basil Bayswater,” Bourne said.
“You’re looking at him.”
“I don’t think so,” Bourne said.
“Ah, you must mean Professor Basil Bayswater. I’m afraid my father passed away three years ago.”
Moira screamed as blood bloomed in the water like a stranded jellyfish. Arkadin caught her as she canted over.
“My God,” Soraya cried, “what’ve you done?”
Moira continued to scream, bent double, clutching her left leg.
Arkadin, ignoring Soraya for the moment, bared his teeth at Moira. “Did you think I didn’t recognize you?”
Something icy congealed in the pit of Moira’s stomach.
“What do you mean?”
“I saw you in Bali. You were with Bourne.”
In her mind’s eye she saw the flight through the village of Tenganan, and then Bourne being shot by a sniper hidden in the forest.
Her eyes opened wide.
“Yeah, that was me.” He laughed, throwing the bloody seashell up in the air and catching it as if it were a ball. “You were with Bourne. You’re his lover. And now fate has brought you to me.”
Soraya was both outraged and terrified. “What the hell is happening here?”
“We’re about to find out.” Arkadin turned to her. “This is Jason Bourne’s lover, but perhaps the two of you know e
ach other.”
With a force of will, Soraya kept her panic down. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Okay, I’ll spell it out for you. I never bought your story, but I wasn’t going to send you away until I found out what you really wanted. I strongly suspect Willard sent you. He tried this trick on me once before with a woman named Tracy Atherton. He sent her to keep an eye on me, to report back on all my business dealings. And it worked. She was dead by the time I figured it out. But you I fingered from the get-go, because Willard is a creature of habits, especially ones that have worked for him.”
“Let her go,” Soraya said, more agitated with each passing moment.
“I might do that,” Arkadin said. “I might even let her live. But that’s entirely up to you.”
Soraya walked over and took Moira away from him. Gently and slowly, she lowered her to the ground. Then she slid her wet shirt over her head and, winding it around Moira’s left thigh, pulled it as tight as she could and tied it. By that time Moira had passed out, from either the shock or the pain, or both.
“It’s you I want,” Arkadin continued. “You’re the one talking about Khartoum, you’re the one who wants to get me there. You tell me who you are and what you know and I’ll consider lightening Moira’s punishment.”
“We need to get her to the nearest hospital,” Soraya said. “This wound has to be cleaned out and disinfected as soon as possible.”
“Again”—Arkadin spread his hands—“up to you.”
Soraya looked down at the back of Moira’s knee. Dear God, she wondered, will she ever walk normally again? She knew the longer they waited to get Moira into the hands of a competent surgeon, the worse off she’d be. She’d seen tendons severed like this. They weren’t easy to repair, and who knew how badly the nerves were affected?
She let out a long breath. “What do you want to know?”
“For starters, who are you?”
“Soraya Moore.”
“The Soraya Moore, director of Typhon?”
“Not anymore.” She stroked Moira’s damp hair. “Willard has resurrected Treadstone.”
“No wonder he wants to keep an eye on me.
The Bourne Objective (2010) Page 35
