The Bourne Deception (47 page)

Soraya nodded, already sick at what Amun was doing with her consent. There was silence then, except for the desperate voice of the wind, keening through the abandoned rooms. After a time, Chalthoum returned to them. He was limping badly, and Yusef handed him a rifle to lean on.

“My enemies had nothing to do with this,” he said in a voice that had not been changed one iota by what he’d just done. “These men were hired by the Americans, specifically a man known ridiculously as Triton. Mean anything to you?”

Soraya shook her head.

“But these might.” She saw four small rectangular metal objects swinging from a length of cord. “I found these around the leader’s neck.”

She examined them when he handed them over. “They look like dog tags.”

Amun nodded. “He said they came from the four Americans who were executed back there. These bastards murdered them.”

But she had to admit the tags weren’t like any she had ever seen. Instead of carrying name, rank, and serial number, they were laser-engraved with what looked like—

“They’re enciphered,” she said, her heart beating fast. “These might be the key to proving who launched the Kowsar 3, and why.”

LEONID
DANILOVICH
ARKADIN
roamed the passenger area of the Air Afrika flight that had been sent for him and his cadre in Nagorno-Karabakh. He knew their destination was Iran. Noah Perlis was certain that Arkadin didn’t know the specific site, but Noah was wrong. Like many Americans in his position, Noah believed himself smarter than those who weren’t American and able to manipulate them. Where Americans got that idea was something of a mystery, but having spent time in DC, Arkadin had some ideas. America’s smug sense of isolation might have been shaken by the events in 2001, but not its sense of privilege and entitlement. When he’d been there, he’d sat in district restaurants, eavesdropping on conversations as part of his Treadstone training. But at the same time he’d listen to the neocons—men of power, substance, and influence who were convinced that they had the keys to how the world worked. For them, everything was childishly simple, as if there were only two immutable variables in life: action and reaction, both of which they understood completely, and for which they planned. And when the reactions were not what their brain trust had anticipated—when their plans blew up in their faces—instead of admitting their error, in a tide of amnesia they redoubled their efforts. To him, it was madness that turned these people deaf and blind to real events as they unfolded.

Perhaps, he thought now, as he checked and rechecked the readiness of his men and their equipment, Noah was one of the last of his kind, a dinosaur unaware that his age was ending, that the glacier that had been forming on the horizon was about to plow him under.

Just like Dimitri Ilyinovich Maslov.

She has to go back,” Dimitri Ilyinovich Maslov said, “she and the three girls. Otherwise there will be no peace with Lev Antonin.”

“Since when does a shit-kicker like Antonin dictate to you,” Arkadin said, “the head of the Kazanskaya
grupperovka
?”

Arkadin had the sensation that Tarkanian, who stood by his side, had winced. The three men were surrounded by sound, amplified to an earsplitting level. In the Pasha Room of Propaganda, an
elitny
club in downtown Moscow, there were only two other men—both Maslov’s muscle. All the other attendees—

of which there were more than a dozen—were young, long-legged, blond, busty, gorgeous, and sexually desirable, which pretty much defined them:
tyolkas
all. They were clothed—or, more accurately, semi-clothed—in provocative outfits, whether miniskirts, bikinis, see-through tops, plunging necklines, or completely backless dresses. They wore high heels, even the ones in bathing suits, and plenty of makeup. Some reluctantly returned to their high school classes each day.

Maslov stared hard at Arkadin, assuming that like everyone else he confronted, he could intimidate him just by a look. Maslov was wrong, and he didn’t like being wrong. Ever.

He took one step toward Arkadin, which was an aggressive step, though not a threatening one, and his nose wrinkled. “What’s that fire smoke I smell on you, Arkadin, are you a fucking woodsman on top of everything else?”

Five miles from the Orthodox cathedral, Arkadin had taken Joškar into the dense pine forest. She was cradling Yasha in her arms and he was holding an ax he’d drawn out of the trunk of her car. Her three daughters, sobbing hysterically, trailed along behind the adults in single file.

When they’d left the parked car, Tarkanian had yelled after them, “Half an hour, after that I’m getting the fuck out of here!”

“Will he really leave us here?” she asked.

“Do you care?”

“Not as long as you’re with me.”

At least, that’s what he thought she’d said. She’d spoken so softly that the wind had taken her words almost as soon as they were out of her mouth. Wings fluttered by overhead as they tramped beneath the swaying pine branches. Once they crunched through the thin crust, the snow was soft as down. Overhead, the sky was as woolly as Joškar’s coat.

In a small clearing she set her son down on a bed of snowy pine needles.

“He always loved the forest,” she said. “He used to beg me to take him to play in the mountains.”

As he set about finding felled trees, deadwood, and chopping it up into foot-long logs, Arkadin remembered his own all-too-infrequent trips to the mountains around Nizhny Tagil, the only place where he could take a deep breath without the oppressive weight of his parents and his birthplace withering his heart and sickening his spirit.

Within twenty minutes he had a bonfire going. The girls had stopped their sobbing, their tears freezing like tiny diamonds on their ruddy cheeks. As they stared, fascinated, into the building flames, the frozen tears melted, dripping from their rounded chins.

Joškar delivered Yasha into his arms while she said the prayers in her native language. She held her daughters close to her as she intoned the words, which gradually became a song, her strong voice lifted through the pine boughs, echoing into the thick clouds. Arkadin wondered if the fairies, elves, gods, and demi-gods she had invoked in her stories were somewhere close, watching the ceremony with sorrowful eyes.

At length, Joškar instructed Arkadin on what to say when she placed Yasha onto the funeral pyre. The girls were crying again as they watched their brother’s little body being consumed by the flames. Joškar said a final prayer, and then they were done. Arkadin had no idea how much time had passed, but Tarkanian and the car were still waiting for them when they broke out of the tree line and returned to civilization.

I made a promise to her,” Arkadin said.

“This fucking baby factory?” Maslov scoffed. “You’re stupider than you look.”

“You’re the one who risked two of your men—one of them totally incompetent—to bring me back here.”

“Yes, you shithead, not you and four civilians who belong to someone else.”

“You talk about them as if they’re cattle.”

“Hey, fuck you, bright boy! Lev Antonin wants them back, and that’s where they’re going.”

“I’m responsible for her son’s death.”

“Did you kill the little fucker?” Maslov was fairly shouting now. The muscle had been drifting closer and the
tyolkas
were doing their best to look in another direction.

“No.”

“Then you’re not responsible for his death. End of fucking story!”

“I made a promise that she wouldn’t be sent back to her husband, she’s dead scared of him. He’ll beat her half to death.”

“What the fuck does that mean to me?” In his fury, Maslov’s mineral eyes seemed to shoot sparks. “I have a business to run.”

Tarkanian stirred. “Boss, maybe you should—”

“What?” Maslov turned on Tarkanian. “Are you gonna tell me what I should do, too, Mischa? Fuck you! I asked you for something simple: Bring this kid back from Nizhny Tagil. And what happens? The kid beats the shit outta Oserov and you come back like a fucking pack mule with a shitload of problems I don’t need.” Having effectively silenced Tarkanian, he turned back to Arkadin. “As for you, you better get your fucking head screwed on right, bright boy, or I’ll send you back to the shithole you crawled out of.”

“They’re my responsibility,” Arkadin said levelly. “I’ll take care of them.”

“Listen to him!” Now Maslov was shouting. “Who died and made you boss?

And whatever gave you the crooked idea that you have a say in anything that happens here?” His face was red, almost swollen. “Mischa, get this motherless fuck out of my sight before I rip him apart with my bare hands!”

Tarkanian dragged Arkadin out of the Pasha Room and took him over to the long bar on one side of the main room. A stage, lit up like it was New Year’s Eve, featured a tall nubile
tyolka
with very little on, who spread her milelong legs to a beat-heavy song.

“Let’s have a drink,” Tarkanian said with forced joviality.

“I don’t want a drink.”

“It’s on me.” Tarkanian caught the bartender’s eye. “Come on, my friend, a drink is just what you need.”

“Don’t tell me what I need,” Arkadin said, his voice suddenly raised.

The absurd argument carried on from there, escalating enough so that a bouncer was summoned.

“What seems to be the trouble?” He might have been addressing both of them but, because he knew Tarkanian by sight, his eyes were firmly fixed on Arkadin.

With a venomous glare, Arkadin reacted. He grabbed the bouncer and slammed his forehead against the edge of the bar with so much force that nearby drinks trembled and the closest ones tipped over. Then he kept slamming it until Tarkanian managed to pull him off.

“I don’t have a problem,” Arkadin said to the stunned and bleeding bouncer. “But it’s clear you do.”

Tarkanian hustled him out into the night before he could do any more damage.

“If you think I’m ever going to work for that pile of dogshit,” Arkadin said, “you’re sorely mistaken.”

Tarkanian held up his hands. “Okay, okay. Don’t work for him.” He guided Arkadin down the street, away from the club’s entrance. “However, I don’t know how you’re going to make a living. Moscow is a different—”

“I’m not staying in Moscow.” Breath, condensing in the chill, was shooting out of Arkadin’s nostrils like steam. “I’m going to take Joškar and the girls and—”

“And what? Where will you go? You have no money, no prospects, nothing. How will you feed yourselves, let alone the kids?” Tarkanian shook his head.

“Take my advice, forget about those people, they belong to your past, to another life. You’ve left Nizhny Tagil behind.” He peered into Arkadin’s eyes. “That’s what you’ve wanted all your life, isn’t it?”

“I’m not letting Maslov’s people take them back. You don’t know what Lev Antonin’s like.”

“Maslov doesn’t care what Lev Antonin’s like.”

“Fuck Maslov!”

Tarkanian rounded on him. “You really don’t get it, do you? Dimitri Maslov and his kind own Moscow lock, stock, and vodka. That means they own Joškar and her girls.”

“Joškar and the girls aren’t part of his world.”

“They are now,” Tarkanian said. “You dragged them into it.”

“I didn’t know what I was doing.”

“Well, that’s clear enough, but you have to face facts: What’s done is done.”

“There must be a way out of this.”

“Really? Even if you had money—say, if I were stupid enough to give you some—what would it accomplish? Maslov would send his people after you. Worse, considering how you provoked him, he might come after you himself. Trust me when I tell you that’s not what you want for them.”

Arkadin felt like pulling his hair out by the roots. “Don’t you understand? I don’t want them going back to that fucker.”

“Have you considered that it might be the best outcome?”

“Are you out of your mind?”

“Look, you yourself said that Joškar told you Lev Antonin promised to protect her and her children. You know what she is, and the girls have her blood. If her secret gets out she’ll never be able to have a normal life among ethnic Russians. Face it, you can’t protect them from Maslov, but they’ll be safe enough back in Nizhny Tagil, where no one is going to say a word against her for fear of her husband. And listen, she’s smart enough to tell him that she and the kids were abducted to ensure your safe passage. Chances are he won’t lift a hand to her.”

“Until the next time he’s drunk or depressed or just in the mood for a little fun.”

“That’s her life, not yours. Leonid Danilovich, I’m talking to you as one friend to another. This is the only way. You managed to escape Nizhny Tagil; not everyone can be so fortunate.”

The fact that Tarkanian was telling the truth only made Arkadin angrier. The problem was he didn’t know what to do with that anger, so he began to turn it inward. More than anything, he wanted to see Joškar again, he wanted to hold her youngest girl in his arms again, to feel her warmth, her heartbeat. But he knew that it was impossible. If he met with her again, he’d never be able to let her go. Maslov’s people would surely kill him and the family would be shipped back to Lev Antonin anyway. He felt like a rat in a maze with no beginning and no end, only an eternal race chasing his own tail.

This was Dimitri Maslov’s doing. At that moment he vowed that no matter how long it took he’d make Maslov pay: Death would come to him only when he’d been systematically stripped of everything he held dear.

Two days later he watched from the shadows across the street—Tarkanian at his elbow, either for moral support or to drag him back if he got any ideas at the last minute—as Joškar and the three girls were led into a large black Zil. Two of Maslov’s muscle were with them, plus the driver. The girls, bewildered, allowed themselves to be stowed in the car as docilely as lambs to the slaughter.

For her part, Joškar, with hands on the car’s roof, one foot already inside, paused and looked around for him. As she did so, Arkadin saw not the look of despair he had been expecting, but rather an expression of infinite sadness, which tore through him like phosphorus, burning his insides as black as Yasha’s flesh. He’d deceived her, broken his promise.