Bourne frowned. He felt like a miner inching along a tunnel without lights, but nevertheless knowing by instinct which way to turn. “What was she doing?”
Chrissie gave a little embarrassed laugh. “She was what she euphemistically called a stocker. Now and again she traveled to Mexico for two or three weeks at a time. At a client’s request, she’d stock a narcorrancho. Narcorranchos are shell estates owned by the Mexican drug lords out in the desert somewhere, usually in the north, in Sonora, but sometimes in a more southerly state like Sinaloa. Apart from a caretaker and maybe a guard or two, no one lives in them full-time.
“Anyway, she took me to Mexico City, to the after-hours clubs, the brothels, where she chose from a list she kept updated weekly, like a calendar or a day planner. We took the girls to whichever narcorrancho was owned by the current client. There were only a handful of Mexicans there when we arrived, some peons, and heavily armed soldiers who sneered at us even while they drooled over the girls. My job was to spruce up the interior and settle the girls in their various bedrooms. The peons did the heavy lifting.
“Gradually, the cars would come—Lincoln Town Cars, Chevy Suburbans, Mercedeses, all with blacked-out windows, wallowing under their armor plating. The security forces would set up a strict perimeter as if we were in an army bivouac during wartime. Then the provisioners would arrive with fresh meat, fruit, cases of beer, crates of tequila, and, of course, mountains of cocaine. The barbecuing of beef and the spit-roasting of whole pigs and lambs would begin. Salsa and disco music blared louder and louder. The roasters stank of sweat and beer so you couldn’t let them near you. Then the bosses arrived with their bodyguards and it was like the Day of the Dead, a festival beyond all festivals.”
Bourne’s mind was racing at a pace that dizzied even him. “One of Holly’s clients was Gustavo Moreno, wasn’t it?”
“Gustavo Moreno was her best client,” Chrissie said.
Yes, Bourne thought, it had to be. Another missing piece of the puzzle.
“He spent more than any of the others. He loved to party all night long. The later it got, the louder and wilder the partying.”
“You were a long way from Oxford, Professor.”
She nodded. “A long way from civilization, too. But then so was Holly. She lived a double life. She said she’d had plenty of practice growing up in Morocco because her family was very strict, very religious, devout, even. A woman had few rights, a girl even fewer. Apparently her father broke away from the rest of the family—which was led by his brother, Holly’s uncle. According to Holly, they had a terrible falling-out. He took her and her mother away to Bali, a place that was the opposite of their village in the High Atlas Mountains. She told no one else about her secret life in Mexico.”
Untrue, he thought. She told me, or I found out, somehow. Which must be how the laptop ended up in Gustavo Moreno’s hands. I must have given it to him. But why? In this puzzle, he thought, there’s always another blank to fill in, another question to answer.
Chrissie turned to him. “I take it you knew Holly.”
When he didn’t reply, she said, “You must be shocked by what I’ve just told you.”
“I’m sorry you lied to me.”
“We lied to each other.” Chrissie couldn’t keep an edge of bitterness out of her voice.
“I have too much experience in lying.” He had a feeling that he’d asked Holly to take him to Mexico on one of her trips. Or had he coerced her into it?
“Why did you quit?” he said.
“You could say that I had an epiphany in the Sonoran Desert. It’s not surprising we hooked up. She and I were both running away from our former lives, from who we were. Or, rather, we had lost our way in our lives, we no longer knew who we were or who we wanted to be. We were intent on rejecting who we were expected to be.” She stared down at her reddened hands as if she didn’t recognize them. “I had thought that the life I’d left—the cloistered sanctuary of Oxford—wasn’t real. But after a time I realized that it was Holly’s life that wasn’t real.”
The sky had lightened further. Birds called from the treetops, and a slight wind brought the smell of damp earth, of living things.
“One night, very late, I wandered into a spare room, or that’s what I thought. And there was Holly on top of Gustavo Moreno, grinding away. I watched for a moment, as if they were two strangers acting in a porno. Then I thought, Fuck, that’s Holly. You could say that I woke up.” She shook her head. “But I don’t think Holly ever did.”
Bourne didn’t think so, either. Sad, but true. Holly had been many things to many people, none of them the same. Those multiple identities had allowed her to burrow deeper into herself, to hide from everyone, when it was her uncle he was certain she feared most.
At that moment Scarlett poked her head out and said, “Hey, you two, we have visitors.”
Inside, both Ottavio Moreno and Peter Marks stood in the living room, eyeing each other warily.
“What the hell is this?” Bourne said.
“Here is Ottavio Moreno, the man who knifed Diego Hererra,” Marks said to Bourne. “And you’re protecting him?”
“It’s a long story, Peter,” Bourne said. “I’ll explain it in the car on the way to—”
Marks turned to Moreno. “You’re the brother of Gustavo Moreno, the Colombian drug lord.”
“I am,” Ottavio Moreno said.
“And the godson of Don Fernando Hererra, the father of the man you knifed to death.”
When Moreno said nothing, Marks continued. “I’ve just come from Don Fernando. He’s heartsick, as you can imagine. Or maybe you can’t. In any event, he doesn’t think you murdered his son. The police, on the other hand, are certain you did.” Without waiting for a reply, he whirled on Bourne. “How the hell could you let this happen?”
Then Ottavio Moreno made a tactical mistake. “I think you’d better calm down,” he said. He should have kept his mouth shut, but possibly he’d been stung by Marks’s words as well as his tone.
“Don’t tell me what to do,” Marks said heatedly.
Bourne had half a mind to let the two men come to blows, if only to relieve the built-up tension of the last couple of hours, but there was Chrissie and her family to think of, so he stepped in between the two. Gripping Marks at the elbow, he steered him out the front door, where they could talk without being overheard. Before he could say a word, though, Moreno came storming out.
He headed straight for Marks, but before he was halfway there a shot from the trees stopped him in his tracks. Even as he staggered backward, even as the second shot took part of his skull off, Bourne had flung himself behind Moreno’s Opel. As Marks followed him, another shot cracked through the stillness of early morning.
Marks stumbled and fell.
Boris Karpov accompanied Viktor Cherkesov into the construction site on ulitsa Varvarka. They passed through a gap in the chain-link fence and descended via a ramp into the dead zone. Cherkesov kept them going until they were deep in the heart of the morass of rusting steel girders and cracked concrete blocks; evil-looking weeds sprouted everywhere like tufts of hair on a giant’s back.
Cherkesov stopped them as they approached the bashed-in side of a derelict truck, which had been stripped of tires, electronics, and engine. It was canted over to one side like a ship on its way to the bottom of the sea. The truck was green, but someone had artistically covered it with obscene graffiti in silver spray paint.
Cherkesov’s mouth twitched in an imitation of a smile as he turned away from contemplating the graffiti.
“Now, Boris Illyich, please be kind enough to tell me the gist of your impromptu meeting with President Imov.”
Karpov, seeing no other recourse, obliged him. Cherkesov did not interrupt him once, but listened thoughtfully as Karpov outlined what he had learned about Bukin and those moles under his command. When he was finished, Cherkesov nodded. He produced a Tokarev TT pistol but didn’t aim it at Karpov, at least not exactly.
> “Now, Boris Illyich, the question for me is what to do next. First, what shall I do with you? Shall I shoot you and leave you to rot here?” He seemed to spend some time contemplating this option. “Well, to be honest, that would do me no good. By going directly to Imov you have made yourself invulnerable. If you are killed or disappear Imov will initiate a full-scale investigation, which will sooner rather than later wind up at my doorstep. As you can imagine, this would inconvenience me greatly.”
“I think it would do more than inconvenience you, Viktor Delyagovich,” Karpov said without inflection. “It would be the beginning of your end and the triumph of Nikolai Patrushev, your bitterest enemy.”
“These days, I have bigger fish to fry than Nikolai Patrushev.” Cherkesov said this softly, contemplatively, as if he had forgotten that Karpov was there at all. Then, all at once, he snapped out of it, his eyes refocusing on the colonel. “So killing you is out, which is fortunate, Boris Illyich, because I like you. More to the point, I admire your tenacity as well as your intelligence. Which is why I won’t even bother to bribe you.” He grunted, a sort of laugh gone bad. “You might be the last honest man in Russian intelligence.” He waved the Tokarev. “So where does that leave us?”
“Stalemate,” Karpov offered.
“No, no, no. Stalemate is good for no one, especially you and me, especially at this moment in time. You gave Imov the evidence against Bukin, Imov gave you an assignment. We both have no choice but for you to carry it out.”
“That would be suicide for you,” Karpov pointed out.
“Only if I stay on as head of FSB-2,” Cherkesov said.
Karpov shook his head. “I don’t understand.”
Cherkesov had a miniature two-way radio to his ear. “Come down now,” he said to whoever was on the other end of the line.
There was a smirk on his face that Karpov had never seen before. He took a step toward the colonel and, in a moment, gestured. “Look who’s coming, Boris Illyich.”
Karpov turned and saw Melor Bukin picking his way through the rubble.
“Now,” Cherkesov said, slapping the Tokarev into Karpov’s hand, “do your duty.”
Karpov held the Tokarev behind his back as Melor Bukin approached them. He wondered what Cherkesov had told him, because Bukin was totally relaxed and unsuspecting. His eyes opened wide when Karpov brought out the Tokarev and aimed it at him.
“Viktor Delyagovich, what is the meaning of this?” he said.
Karpov shot him in the right knee, and he went down like a smokestack being demolished.
“What are you doing?” he cried as he clutched his ruined knee. “Are you mad?”
Karpov advanced on him. “I know about your treachery and so does President Imov. Who are the other moles inside FSB-2?”
Bukin stared up at him wide-eyed. “What, what? Moles? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Karpov calmly and deliberately blew his left kneecap to smithereens. Bukin screamed and writhed on the ground like a worm.
“Answer me!” Karpov commanded.
Bukin’s eyes were bloodshot. He was pale and trembling in shock and agony. “Boris Illyich, doesn’t our history mean anything? I’m your mentor, I was instrumental in bringing you into FSB-2.”
Karpov loomed over him. “All the more reason that I be the one to clean your dirty house.”
“But, but, but,” Bukin sputtered, “I was just following orders.” He pointed at Cherkesov. “His orders.”
“How easily he lies,” Cherkesov said.
“No, Boris Illyich, it’s the truth, I swear.”
Karpov squatted by Bukin’s side. “I know how we can solve this problem.”
“I need a fucking hospital,” Bukin moaned. “I’m bleeding to death.”
“Tell me the names of the moles,” Karpov said. “Then I’ll take care of you.”
Bukin’s bloodshot eyes darted between him and Cherkesov.
“Forget him,” Karpov said. “I’m the one standing between you and bleeding out here in this cesspit.”
Bukin swallowed heavily, then gave up the names of three men inside FSB-2.
“Thank you,” Karpov said. He stood up and shot Bukin between the eyes.
Then he turned to Cherkesov and said, “What’s to stop me from killing you or taking you in?”
“You may be incorruptible, Boris Illyich, but you know which side of the bread is buttered, or will be.” Cherkesov took out a cigarette and lit up. He did not once look at his fallen lieutenant. “I can clear the way for you to become head of the FSB-2.”
“So can President Imov.”
“True enough.” Cherkesov nodded. “But Imov can’t guarantee that one of the other commanders won’t drop polonium into your tea or slip a stiletto between your ribs one night.”
Karpov knew very well that Cherkesov still had the power to identify and sweep away any of his potential enemies inside FSB-2. He was the only one who could clear Karpov’s path.
“Let me get this straight,” he said. “You’re proposing that I take your job?”
“Yes.”
“And what of you? Imov will want your head.”
“Of course he will, but he’ll have to find me first.”
“You’ll go into hiding, become a fugitive?” Karpov shook his head. “I don’t see that future for you.”
“Neither do I, Boris Illyich. I am going to the seat of a higher power.”
“Higher than the FSB?”
“Higher than the Kremlin.”
Karpov frowned. “And what would that be?”
Cherkesov’s eyes glittered. “Tell me, Boris Illyich, have you ever heard of Severus Domna?”
22
MARKS GRABBED HIS left thigh, grimacing in pain. The unseen sniper continued to pepper the area. Bourne darted out, took hold of Marks, and dragged him to safety.
“Keep your head down, Peter.”
“Tell that to your pal Moreno,” Marks said. “My fucking head is down.”
“You’re welcome.” Bourne inspected the wound, determining that the bullet hadn’t severed an artery. Then he ripped a sleeve off Marks’s shirt and used it as a tourniquet, tying it around his thigh above the wound.
“I’m not going to forget this,” Marks said.
“No, only I do that,” Bourne said with such a sardonic edge that Marks had to laugh, albeit drily.
Bourne edged around the front of the Opel. He breathed easily and deeply as he scanned the thick line of trees. He’d been up in one of them not so very long ago, and he used his eidetic memory, honed by his Treadstone training, to reconstruct the best possible places for a sniper to secrete himself. By the way both Ottavio Moreno and Marks fell he had a clear idea of where the shooter must be. He put himself in the sniper’s head: Where would he put himself that both had a clear view of the front door and was deeply sheltered?
He heard Chrissie calling, and from the level of anxiety in her voice realized that she must have been shouting to him for some time. Crawling back to the other end of the Opel, he called, “I’m okay. Stay inside until I come get you.”
Scuttling back to the taillights, he sprinted out of cover, hurling himself into the tree line. A volley of shots smacked into the Opel’s front end. From the beginning of the attack, he’d counted the shots. After the last flurry, he’d calculated that the sniper needed time to reload. A couple of seconds was all he needed to reach the protection of the trees. Now he went hunting.
In among the pines and oaks, perpetual shadows clung to the thick jigsaw of branches. Here and there, light filtered through in tiny diamonds, winking and glittering as the wind stirred the woods. Bourne, in a semi-crouch, picked his way through the underbrush, taking care not to crunch down on twigs or pinecones. He made no sound. Every five or six paces he stopped, watching and listening as a fox or a stoat will, alert for both prey and enemies.
He caught sight of a small flash of black-and-brown, blurred, winking out almost before it had a chance to regi
ster. He headed toward it. Briefly he considered taking to the trees, but was concerned that dislodged debris would give away his position. At some point he changed direction, veering away, circling to come upon the sniper from the side. As he continued, he repeatedly checked behind and above him for any sign of the sniper.
The glint of metal up ahead pushed him onward at a more rapid pace. Peering out from behind the bole of an oak, he could see the right shoulder and hip of the sniper. He knelt behind a dense patch of underbrush, then scuttled around behind him. A narrow gap between two pines afforded him an excellent view of the front door and driveway. Bourne caught a glimpse of Ottavio Moreno on the ground in a pool of blood. Marks was hidden behind the flank of Moreno’s Opel. Bourne supposed the sniper was waiting for someone to move. He seemed bent on shooting to death everyone who ventured outside the house. Was he NSA, CI, or a soldier of Severus Domna? Only one way to find out.
Bourne approached slowly and cautiously, but at the last moment the sniper must have sensed him because he drove the wooden stock of his Dragunov SVD back into Bourne’s midsection. Then he whirled, swinging the barrel of the Dragunov against Bourne’s shoulder. He was a slim, flat-faced man with small black eyes and a pushed-in nose.
He battered Bourne to his knees and then, with another blow of the Dragunov, onto his back. He pressed the rifle’s muzzle against Bourne’s heart.
“Don’t move, don’t say a word,” he said. “Just hand over the ring.”
“What ring?”
The sniper swung the muzzle of the Dragunov into Bourne’s jaw, drawing blood. But at the same instant Bourne smashed the sole of his shoe into the man’s knee. It bent inward, the bones cracked, and the sniper gasped. Bourne was rolling away even as the sniper squeezed off a shot. The bullet plowed into the ground where Bourne had been lying, splitting an old, rotting board full of long carpenter’s nails.
From one knee, the sniper began to wield the Dragunov like a club, swinging it back and forth to keep Bourne at bay while he caught his breath. Finally, with a concerted effort, he staggered to his feet. That was when Bourne lowered his shoulder and drove it into him. They went down. At once, the sniper tried to maneuver Bourne onto the nails sticking wickedly out of the board. Bourne twisted away, and now the two of them struggled for possession of the Dragunov. Until Bourne lifted an elbow, jamming it into the sniper’s Adam’s apple. He began to choke and Bourne drove a fist into the side of his head. The sniper’s body went limp.