Robert Ludlum - The Bourne Sanction

He had no interest in the corpse in the utility closet, but he immediately recognized Anthony Prowess. Excusing himself from the crime scene, he went into the stairwell off the seventeenth-floor hallway, punched in an overseas number on his cell. A moment later Luther LaValle answered.

“We have a problem,” Low said. “Prowess has been rendered inoperative with extreme prejudice.”

“That’s very disturbing,” LaValle said. “We have a rogue operative loose in Moscow who has now murdered one of our own. I think you know what to do.”

Low understood. There was no time to bring in another of NSA’s wet-work specialists, which meant terminating Bourne was up to him.

“Now that he’s killed an American citizen,” LaValle said, “I’ll bring the Moscow police and the General Prosecutor’s Office into the picture. They’ll have the same photo of him I’m sending to your cell within the hour.”

Low thought a moment. “The question is tracking him. Moscow is way behind the curve in closed-circuit TVs.”

“Bourne is going to need money,” LaValle said. “He couldn’t take enough through Customs when he landed, which means he wouldn’t try. He’ll have set up a local account at a Moscow bank. Get the locals to help with surveillance pronto.”

“Consider it done,” Low said.

“And Harris. Don’t make the same mistake with Bourne that Prowess did.”

Bourne took Gala to her friend’s apartment, which was lavish even by American standards. Her friend, Lorraine, was an American of Armenian extraction. Her dark eyes and hair, her olive complexion, all served to increase her exoticism. She hugged and kissed Gala, greeted Bourne warmly, and invited him to stay for a drink or tea.

As he took a tour through the rooms, Gala said, “He’s worried about my safety.”

“What’s happened?” Lorraine asked. “Are you all right?”

“She’ll be fine,” Bourne said, coming back into the living room. “This’ll all blow over in a couple of days.” Having satisfied himself of the security of the apartment, he left them with the warning not to open the door for anyone they didn’t know.

Ivan Volkin had directed Bourne to go to Novoslobodskaya 20, where the meet with Dimitri Maslov would take place. At first Bourne thought it lucky that the bombila he flagged down knew how to find the address, but when he was dropped off he understood. Novoslobodskaya 20 was the address of Motorhome, a new club jammed with young partying Muscovites. Gigantic flat-panel screens above the center island bar showed telecasts of American baseball, basketball, football, English rugby, and World Cup soccer. The floor of the main room was dominated by tables for Russian billiards and American pool. Following Volkin’s direction, Bourne headed for the back room, which was fitted out as an Arabian Nights hookah room complete with overlapping carpets, jewel-toned cushions, and, of course, gaily colored brass hookahs being smoked by lounging men and women.

Bourne, stopped at the doorway by two overdeveloped members of club security, told them he was here to see Dimitri Maslov. One of them pointed to a man lounging and smoking a hookah in the far left corner.

“Maslov,” Bourne said when he reached the pile of cushions surrounding a low brass table.

“My name is Yevgeny. Maslov isn’t here.” The man gestured. “Sit down, please.”

Bourne hesitated a moment, then sat on a cushion opposite Yev-geny. “Where is he?”

“Did you think it would be so simple? One call and poof! he pops into existence like a genie from a lamp?” Yevgeny shook his head, offered Bourne the pipe. “Good shit. Try some.”

When Bourne declined, Yevgeny shrugged, took a toke deep into his lungs, held it, then let it out with an audible hiss. “Why do you want to see Maslov?”

“That’s between me and him,” Bourne said.

Yevgeny shrugged again. “As you like. Maslov is out of the city.”

“Then why was I told to come here?”

“To be judged, to see whether you are a serious individual. To see whether Maslov will make the decision to see you.”

“Maslov trusts people to make decisions for him?”

“He is a busy man. He has other things on his mind.”

“Like how to win the war with the Azeri.”

Yevgeny’s eyes narrowed. “Perhaps you can see Maslov next week.”

“I need to see him now,” Bourne said.

Yevgeny shrugged. “As I said, he’s out of Moscow. But he may be back tomorrow morning.”

“Why don’t you ensure it.”

“I could,” Yevgeny said. “But it will cost you.”

“How much?”

“Ten thousand.”

“Ten thousand dollars to talk to Dimitri Maslov?”

Yevgeny shook his head. “The American dollar has become too debased. Ten thousand Swiss francs.”

Bourne thought a moment. He didn’t have that kind of money on him, and certainly not in Swiss francs. However, he had the information Baronov had given him on the safe-deposit box at the Moskva Bank. The problem was that it was in the name of Fyodor Ilianovich Popov, who was no doubt now wanted for questioning regarding the body of the man in his room at the Metropolya Hotel. There was no help for it, Bourne thought. He’d have to take the chance.

“I’ll have the money tomorrow morning,” Bourne said.

“That will be satisfactory.”

“But I’ll give it to Maslov and no one else.”

Yevgeny nodded. “Done.” He wrote something on a slip of paper, showed it to Bourne. “Please be at this address at noon tomorrow.” Then he struck a match, held it to the corner of the paper, which burned steadily until it crumbled into ash.

Semion Icoupov, in his temporary headquarters in Grindelwald, took the news of Harun Iliev’s death very hard. He’d been a witness to death many times, but Harun had been like a brother to him. Closer, even, because the two had no sibling baggage to clutter and distort their relationship. Icoupov had relied on Harun for his wise counsel. His was a sad loss indeed.

His thoughts were interrupted by the orchestrated chaos around him. A score of people were staffing computer consoles hooked up to satellite feeds, surveillance networks, public transportation CCTV from major hubs all over the world. They were coming to the final buildup to the Black Legion’s attack; every screen had to be scrutinized and analyzed, the faces of suspicious people picked out and run through a nebula of software that could identify individuals. From this, Icoupov’s operatives were building a mosaic of the real-time backdrop against which the attack was scheduled to take place.

Icoupov became aware that three of his aides were clustered around his desk. Apparently, they’d been trying to talk to him.

“What is it?” His voice was testy, the better to cover up his grief and inattention.

Ismail, the most senior of his aides, cleared his throat. “We wanted to know who you intend to send after Jason Bourne now that Harun…” His voice trailed off.

Icoupov had been contemplating the same question. He’d made a mental list that included any number of people he could send, but he kept eliminating most of them, for one reason or another. But on the second and third run through he began to realize that these reasons were in one way or another trivial. Now, as Ismail asked the question again, he knew.

He looked up into his aides’ anxious faces and said. “It’s me. I’m going after Bourne myself.”

IT WAS disturbingly hot in the Alter Botanischer Garten, and as humid as a rain forest. The enormous glass panels were opaque with beads of mist sliding down their faces. Moira, who had already taken off her gloves and long winter coat, now shrugged out of the thick cable-knit sweater that helped protect her from Munich’s chill, damp morning, which could penetrate to the bone.