Robert Ludlum - Bourne 7 – The Bourne Deception

As Arkadin listened to the man‘s manifesto, something important occurred to him. The man, whoever he was, must be an outsider; otherwise he‘d know that one of Lev Antonin‘s children was still free. Could he be the one who had been killing the gang members? At that moment it seemed to Arkadin to be a good bet, one he ought to put his money on.

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.

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.