Eric van Lustbader - The Bourne Objective

Arkadin went about gathering a pile of driftwood and setting it alight. He had finished one Dos Equis and had popped the cap on another when the colonel asked, rather weakly, for a bottle.

“Better to have a bite to eat first.”

Arkadin proffered a small wrapped parcel, but Karpov just shook his head.

“As you wish.” Arkadin stuck his nose into a burrito of carne asada wrapped in a freshly baked tortilla and inhaled deeply.

“Good God,” Karpov said, averting his face.

“Ah, Mexico!” Arkadin dug into the burrito with gusto. “Pity you didn’t listen to me when you raided Maslov’s warehouse,” he said between enormous chews.

“Don’t even start on that.” Karpov bit off his words as if each one were Arkadin’s head. “The most likely scenario was that you were setting a trap for me on Maslov’s orders. What did you expect me to do?”

Arkadin shrugged. “Still, opportunity wasted.”

“What did I just say?”

“What I mean is with a man like Maslov you’re not going to get more than two.”

“I know what the fuck you meant,” the colonel said hotly.

Arkadin took this with admirable equanimity. “Water under the bridge.” He popped the top on another Dos Equis and handed it over.

Karpov closed his eyes for a moment; it looked like he was mentally counting to ten. When he opened his eyes, he said in as even a tone of voice as he could muster, “I’ve come all this way to listen, so you’d damn well better have something of value to tell me.”

Having wolfed down his burrito, Arkadin brushed off his hands and took another beer to wash down the food. “You want the names of the moles-I don’t blame you, I’d want them if I were in your shoes-and I’ll give them to you, but first I want some assurances.”

“Here it comes,” Karpov said wearily. He rolled the bottle across his sweating forehead. “All right, what’s the price?”

“Permanent immunity for me.”

“Done.”

“And I want Dimitri Maslov’s head on a platter.”

Karpov gave him a curious look. “What is it between the two of you?”

“I want an answer.”

“Done.”

“I need a guarantee,” Arkadin insisted. “Despite all your efforts, he’s still got a fucking platoon of people-from FSB apparatchiks to regional politicos to federal judges-in his pocket. I don’t want him squirming off the chopping block.”

“Well, that depends on the quality, detail, and amount of intel you provide me, doesn’t it?”

“Don’t worry about that, Colonel. Everything I have is rock-solid and as damaging to him as it gets.”

“Then, as I said, it’s done.” Karpov swigged down some beer. “Anything else?”

“Yes.”

Karpov, who had taken up one of his sea-soaked shoes, nodded sadly. “There always is, isn’t there?”

“I want Oserov to myself.”

Karpov frowned as he extracted a bit of seaweed from inside the ruined shoe. “Oserov is Maslov’s second in command, keeping him out of the bull’s-eye is going to be a bit tricky.”

“I could give a shit.”

“Please try to surprise me,” Karpov said drily. He considered a moment, then, making up his mind, nodded decisively. “All right, then.” He raised a finger. “But I need to warn you that when I make my move you’ll have twelve hours maximum to take care of him. After that, he’s mine along with the rest of them.”

Arkadin extended his hand and took Karpov’s, whose grip was strong and callused, a workingman’s grip. He liked that. A government employee he might be, but he was no drone: This was a man who would not fuck him, of that Arkadin was certain.

In that precise moment Karpov sprang at Arkadin, one hand around his neck, gripping his chin and lifting it while the other hand held a razor blade to his exposed throat.

“Inside your shoe.” Arkadin sat perfectly still. “Very low-tech, very good.”

“Listen, you fucking goon, I don’t take kindly to being fucked over-you set me up to fail at the warehouse. Now Maslov has been warned, he’s going to be on his guard, which is going to make bringing him down all the more difficult. You’ve done nothing but treat me with disrespect. You’re a fucking murderer, the lowest form of what passes for life in a whole stinking pile of shit. You intimidate people, torture them, torment them, then kill them as if human life has no meaning. I feel unclean just being near you, but I want Dimitri Maslov more than I want to kill you, so I’ll just have to live with the decision. Life is full of compromises and with each one your hands dip deeper into blood, I’ve come to terms with that. But if you and I are going to work together, you’re going to give me the respect I deserve or I swear on my father’s grave I’ll slit your throat right here, right now, turn my back and forget I ever met you.” He put his face next to Arkadin’s. “Are we clear, Leonid Danilovich?”

“You’re not going to be able to make a move against Maslov with the moles in place.” Arkadin was looking straight ahead, which meant up at the night sky, where stars glittered like faraway eyes, watching the foibles of humankind with contempt or at least indifference.

Karpov jerked his head. “Are we clear?”

“Crystal.” He relaxed somewhat as the colonel put away the blade. He had been correct about Karpov’s essential nature: This was no man to be bullied, not even by the fearsome Russian bureaucracy. Arkadin silently saluted him. “Your first problem is to poison the moles in the FSB-2’s kitchen.”

“You mean the baseboards.”

Arkadin shook his head. “If that were the case, my dear Colonel, your problems would all be simple ones. However, I do mean the kitchen, because Maslov owns one of the chefs.”

There was silence for a time, just the soft lapping of the water, the last of the gulls’ cries as they bedded down for the night. The moon emerged from behind a low bank of clouds, casting a bluish mantle over them even as it chipped away at the black sea, strewing pinpoints of light across its choppy surface.

“Which one?” Karpov said after a long time.

“I’m not sure you want to hear this.”

“I’m not sure, either, but what the fuck, it’s too late to stop now.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Arkadin took out a pack of Turkish cigarettes and offered one to the colonel.

“I’m trying to cut down on my bad habits.”

“A futile preoccupation.”

“Say that when you have high blood pressure.”

Arkadin lit up, put the pack away, and took a deep drag. As the smoke drifted out of his nostrils, he said, “Melor Bukin, your boss, reports to Maslov.”

Karpov’s eyes blazed. “You shit, are you fucking with me again?”

Without a word Arkadin dug out the plastic bag he’d stowed in the bottom of the ice chest, zipped it open, and handed over the contents. Then he added several pieces of driftwood to the fire, which was waning.

Karpov moved a bit nearer to the fire in order to have a better look. Arkadin had handed him one of those cheap cell phones bought in any convenience store, a burner, which meant its calls couldn’t be traced. He thumbed it on.

“Audio and video,” Arkadin said as he used a stick to better arrange the wood. Planning for this day or one like it, he had used this cell to clandestinely record certain meetings between Maslov and Bukin that he’d attended. He knew there would be no doubt in the colonel’s mind when he finished viewing the evidence.

At length, Karpov looked bleakly up from the tiny screen. “I’ll need to keep this.”

Arkadin waved a hand. “All part of the service.”

Somewhere far off, the drone of a small plane came to them, a sound no more significant than a mosquito’s whine.