The Bourne Deception (35 page)

His howl of pain was short-lived. Moira drove a knee into his groin and, as he reflexively bent double, brought her joined fists down onto the back of his neck.

The bald man heard a muffled metallic clang, and without further hesitation, he stepped into the open doorway and fired three shots pointblank into the blackness to center, right, and left. He heard nothing, saw nothing, and, in a tense crouch, made his run into the interior.

Moira slammed the spade-shaped end of the shovel she’d stumbled over into the back of the bald man’s head. He pitched headfirst onto the bare concrete floor. As she picked her way through the darkness and out into the gathering night, she heard the sound of police sirens. Doubtless, someone had heard the shots and called 911.

She walked back to her car at a brisk pace, an absorbed look on her face, as if she were late for a dinner rendezvous. It was crucial now to appear normal, to blend into the heavy traffic on M Street, until she lost herself amid the cobbled streets, shining in the light of old-fashioned street lamps.

Another ten minutes brought her back to her block, which she circled warily, on the lookout for another car with the lights off, someone in it, a sudden movement inside so he wouldn’t be seen. But all appeared normal and serene.

She parked and took another look around before mounting the steps to her front door. Turning the lock, she opened the door and, drawing her Lady Hawk from its thigh holster, stepped inside. Closing the door softly behind her, she double-locked it, then stood for some time with her back against it, listening to the house breathe. One by one she identified the homey sounds of the hot-water circulator, the refrigerator condenser, the heating fan. Then she sniffed the air to see if there was the trace of an odor that didn’t belong to her or her things.

Satisfied at last, she flipped the switch and the entryway and hallway were flooded with a warm, yellowish light. She let out the long breath she’d been unconsciously holding in. Moving silently through the house, she checked every room, every closet on the ground floor; she made sure the door to the basement was securely locked. Then she ascended the stairs. Halfway up, she heard a noise and froze in midstep, her heart hammering in her breast. It came again, and she identified it as a branch scratching at the rear wall, where a narrow alley ran behind the row of town houses.

Resuming her climb, she took the staircase step by step, counting down from the top to make certain she bypassed the one tread that creaked. At the top of the stairs, something happened. The hot-water circulator cycled off, and the resulting silence seemed to her eerie and ominous. Then, like an old friend, it returned, reassuring her.

As she had on the ground floor, she moved from room to room, turning on lights, checking behind furniture, even, she thought, idiotically, under her bed. There was nothing and no one. The window to the left of her bed was unlatched, and she slid the semicircular tab home.

Her Black River laptop was on the back shelf of her closet, under a line of shoe boxes. Picking her way across the room, she turned the doorknob, pulled the door open, and stepped in, leading with her weapon. She swept one hand across her hanging clothes, dresses, suits, skirts, and jackets all familiar to her, but which had now taken on a sinister aspect as curtains behind which someone could hide.

No one jumped out at her, causing her to expel a small laugh of relief. Her gaze moved upward to the line of shoe boxes on the back shelf above her hanging clothes, and there was the laptop just as she’d left it. She was reaching up to grab it when she heard the sharp crackle of breaking window glass and the dull thud as someone landed on the carpet. She whirled, stepped forward, only to have the closet door slam shut in her face.

Her hand went to the doorknob and pushed, but something was keeping the door shut, even when she put her shoulder to it. Stepping back, she fired off four shots at the knob. The sharp scent of cordite tickled her nose, and her ears rang with noise. She pushed the door again. It was still firmly shut, but now she had other things to think about. The light filtering in from the tiny gap between door and frame was systematically vanishing. Someone was taping up the gap. And then, down at floor level, the slightly wider gap began to go dark, except for a space that was soon filled by the open end of the crevice attachment of her vacuum cleaner. A moment later a portable generator coughed to life and, with a mounting horror, Moira sensed the oxygen in the closet being sucked out. Carbon monoxide was being pumped in through her own vacuum cleaner attachment.

When Peter Marks found the Metro police report on Moira Trevor he was dumbfounded. He’d just returned from the White House, where he’d had a tenminute evening interview with the president regarding the vacancy at the top of CI. He knew he wasn’t the only candidate, but no one else at CI was talking. Still, he assumed the other six heads of the CI directorates were in line for similar interviews, if they hadn’t already answered the president’s summons. Of them all, he figured Dick Symes, the chief of the Intelligence Directorate, who was the interim
DCI
, would get the post. Symes was older, with more experience than Peter himself, who had only recently risen to the hallowed level of chief of operations under Veronica Hart’s tragically short tenure as
DCI
. She hadn’t even had time to vet candidates for deputy director, and now she never would. On the other hand, unlike Symes, he’d been handpicked and trained by the Old Man himself, and he knew the reverence in which the president held the longtime
DCI
.

Peter was not certain he wanted the Big Chair, anyway, simply because it would take him another giant step away from the field, which was his first love.
“No matter how high you climb,”
the Old Man had told him,
“you never
outgrow your first love. You simply learn to live without it.”

On the other hand, maybe having doubts about occupying the Big Chair was a way of insulating himself from disappointment in the event he wasn’t chosen to succeed Hart. Doubtless that was why he buried himself in the Moira Trevor files the moment he sat down at his desk. The Metro police report, almost perfunctorily brief, wasn’t part of the stack of printouts and electronic data his staff had amassed for him; he’d had to go looking for it himself. Not that he was looking for a police report per se, but having exhausted the so-called leads overflowing his in-box, he had decided to go on a fishing expedition, just as he’d learned to do when he was a rookie field agent.

“Never rely on intel other people feed you unless you absolutely can’t get it
yourself,”
the Old Man had lectured when he’d first brought Marks into the fold.
“And never, ever rely on other people’s intel when your life is on the
line.”
Excellent advice, which Marks had never forgotten. And now, behold, the Metro police report from yesterday describing a two-car crash in which a man named Jay Weston, a former employee of Hobart Industries and current employee of Heartland Risk Management, was killed and Moira Trevor, founder and president of Heartland, was injured. Two oddities: First, Weston hadn’t died from injuries sustained in the crash; he’d been shot to death. Second, Ms. Trevor had claimed—”loudly and repeatedly,” as the first-on-the-scene officer wrote—that a uniformed motorcycle cop had fired the shot through the driver’s-side front window into Mr. Weston’s head. Basic forensic evidence at the scene confirmed Ms. Trevor’s story, at least as far as the shot was concerned. As for the motorcycle cop, the report went on to say that no such department individual was even in the vicinity anywhere near the time of the shooting.

When Marks came to the end of the report, there was an even more baffling oddity. There had been no follow-up, no reinterview of Ms. Trevor, no investigation into Mr. Weston’s recent whereabouts that day or into his background in general. Apart from this brief report, it was as if the incident had never occurred.

Marks picked up the phone and called the appropriate Metro precinct, but when he asked for the author of the report, he was told the officer, as well as his partner, had been “reassigned.” No further information was available. He asked for Lieutenant McConnell, their immediate superior, but McConnell refused to tell Marks where they had gone or what had happened to them, either, and no amount of threats could open him up. “My orders come straight from the commissioner himself,” Mc-Connell said with no rancor, only weariness in his voice. “That’s all I know, pal. I only work here. You got a beef, it’s with him.”

For a minute everything went black, then powerful hands gripped Arkadin beneath the armpits and hauled him roughly off the Muscovite. When he blindly rushed back toward his antagonist he received a kick to his rib cage that caused him to fall short, to wind up on his back gasping for air.

“What in the name of Saint Stephen is going on here?” a voice roared.

He looked up to see another man, feet spread, hands closed into fists, looming over him. He wasn’t Lev Antonin so Arkadin figured he must be Mischa Tarkanian.

“My name is Leonid Danilovich Arkadin,” he said, through gasps. “Your poorly trained animal, Oserov, just put a knife into that boy’s heart.” As Tarkanian glanced over at the small crumpled form on the stairs, Arkadin continued: “That’s Lev Antonin’s son, in case you have any interest.”

Tarkanian jerked as if struck by an electrical current. “Oserov, for the love of—”

“If you don’t finish off what I started,” Arkadin said, “I will.”

“The fuck you will,” Tarkanian roared. “You’ll lie there and keep still until I tell you otherwise.” Then he knelt beside Oserov. There was a lot of blood, and his right collarbone was sticking through the skin. “You’re lucky he’s still breathing.”

Arkadin wondered whether Tarkanian was talking to him or to himself. He wondered if it mattered, then realized that it certainly didn’t to him.

“Oserov, Oserov.” Tarkanian was shaking his compatriot. “Shit, his face looks like a piece of ground meat.”

“I do good work,” Arkadin said.

While Tarkanian shot him a violent look, he got to his feet.

Tarkanian raised a warning forefinger. “I told you—”

“Relax, I’m not going near him,” Arkadin said with a wince of pain, and went over to Joškar Antonin. Kneeling down, he untied her, then unwound her gag.

At once, her wail of grief and despair filled the room. She rushed past the men, mounting the stairs to take her dead son in her arms. And there she sat, sobbing uncontrollably, rocking her child against her breast, insensible to anything else.

The other three children were crouched at Arkadin’s feet, weeping and sniffling. He turned his attention from mother and son to free the three girls, who immediately rushed to their mother’s side, brushing their hands over their brother’s hair, briefly holding his legs before resting their heads against their mother’s thigh.

“How did this happen?” Tarkanian said.

Again, Arkadin couldn’t tell whether he was talking to him or to himself. Nevertheless, he spoke up, recounting everything that had happened as he’d seen and experienced it. He was quite detailed, he left nothing out, and he was absolutely truthful, intuiting that this was the best—indeed, the only—

course to take.

When he was finished, Tarkanian sat back on his hamstrings. “Dammit to hell, I knew Oserov was going to present a problem. My error was in underestimating its size and scope.” He looked around at the homey surroundings, made bleak now by the bloodstains, the female keening, and the stench of death. “Essentially, we’re screwed. Once Lev Antonin gets wind of what Oserov did to his family, our safe passage out of this shithole of a town will evaporate faster than you can say
Not with My Wife, You Don’t!”

Arkadin said, “Tony Curtis, Virna Lisi, George C. Scott.”

Tarkanian raised his eyebrows. “Norman Panama.”

“I love American comedies,” Arkadin said.

“So do I.”

As if acknowledging the inappropriateness of this conversation, Tarkanian hastily added, “All we’ll have are those memories, and then not even those once Lev Antonin and his crew get ahold of us.”

Arkadin’s mind was in full gear. He was in the middle of yet another life-or-death crisis, but unlike the two Muscovites he was in his own territory. He could abandon them, of course, and go on the run. But then what, back to his hole in the basement? He shuddered, knowing he couldn’t spend another minute in enforced confinement. No, like it or not, his fate was now bound to these people because they were his ticket out of here, because they would take him all the way to Moscow.

“On the way in I saw Joškar’s car in the driveway,” he said. “Is it still here?”

Tarkanian nodded.

“I’ll gather her and the children. Find her purse, the car keys ought to be in there.”

“You do realize that I’m not leaving without Oserov.”

Arkadin shrugged. “That piece of shit is strictly your business. You want him along, you can carry him, because if I get near him again I swear to you I’ll finish the job I started.”

“That won’t sit well with Maslov, I promise you.”

Arkadin had just about enough of these interlopers. He got up into Tarkanian’s face. “Fuck Maslov, your worry should be Lev Antonin.”

“That cretin!”

“Here’s a news flash: A cretin can kill you just as efficiently as a genius—and usually a whole lot quicker, because a cretin has no conscience.”

He pointed to Oserov. “Just like your boy over there. An attack dog has more sense than he does.”

Tarkanian gave Arkadin a penetrating look, as if he were seeing him for the first time. “You intrigue me, Leonid Danilovich.”

“Only my friends call me Leonid Danilovich,” Arkadin said.

“So far as I can see, you don’t have any friends.” Tarkanian went searching for Joškar’s handbag and found it on the floor just past the end of the sofa where it had apparently been knocked off the end table. Opening it, he dug around, a moment later lifting out the car keys in triumph. “Maybe, if we all get lucky, that will change.”