The Bourne Sanction

Dr. Mitten sighed. He’d been expecting just such a response; in fact, he would’ve been surprised at anything else. Still, he had a professional responsibility to his patient even if he was on retainer to the NSA.

“What it means,” he said, “is that you’ll never see out of that eye again. At least, not in any way that’ll be useful to you.”

Prowess sat with his head back, his damaged eye numbed with drops so the damn ophthalmologist could poke around. “Details, please.”

Dr. Mitten was a tall, thin man with narrow shoulders, a wisp of a comb-over, and a neck with a prominent Adam’s apple that bobbed comically when he spoke or swallowed. “I believe you’ll be able to discern movement, differentiate light from dark.”

“That’s it?”

“On the other hand,” Dr. Mitten said, “when the swelling goes down you may be completely blind in that eye.”

“Fine, now I know the worst. Just fix me the hell up so I can get out of here.”

“I don’t recommend-”

“I don’t give a shit what you recommend,” Prowess snapped. “Do as I tell you or I’ll wring your scrawny little chicken neck.”

Dr. Mitten puffed out his checks in indignation, but he knew better than to talk back to an agent. They seemed born with hair-trigger responses to everything, which their training further honed.

As the ophthalmologist worked on his eye, Prowess seethed inside. Not only had he failed to terminate Bourne, he’d allowed Bourne to permanently maim him. He was furious at himself for turning tail and ru

Still, Prowess would never forgive himself. It wasn’t that the pain had been excruciating-he had an extremely high pain threshold. It wasn’t even that Bourne had turned the tables on him-he’d redress that situation shortly. It was his eye. Ever since he was a child, he had a morbid fear of being blind. His father had been blinded in an accidental fall getting off a transit bus, when the impact had detached both his retinas. This was in the days before ophthalmologists could staple retinas back in place. At six years old the horror of watching his father deteriorate from an optimistic, robust man into a bitter, withdrawn nub had imprinted itself forever in his mind. That horror had kicked in the moment Jason Bourne had dug his thumb deep into his eye.

As he sat in the chair, brooding amid the chemical smells emitted by Dr. Mitten’s ministrations, Prowess was filled with determination. He promised himself he’d find Jason Bourne, and when he did Bourne would pay for the damage he’d inflicted, he’d pay dearly before Prowess killed him.

Professor Specter was chairing a chancellors’ meeting at the university when his private cell phone vibrated. He immediately called a fifteen-minute break, left the room, strode down the hall and outside onto the campus.

When he was clear, he opened his cell, and heard Nemetsov’s voice buzzing in his ear. Nemetsov was the man Baronov had called to switch cars with at Crocus City.

“Baronov’s dead?” Specter said. “How?”

He listened while Nemetsov described the attack in the car outside Tarkanian’s apartment building. “An NSA assassin,” Nemetsov concluded. “He was waiting for Bourne, to garrote him as he did Baronov.”

“And Jason?”

“Survived. But the assassin escaped as well.”

Specter felt a wave of relief wash over him. “Find that NSA man before he finds Jason, and kill him. Is that clear?”

“Perfectly. But shouldn’t we also try to make contact with Bourne?”

Specter considered a moment. “No. He’s at his best when working alone. He knows Moscow, speaks Russian fluently, and he has our fake IDs. He’ll do what must be done.”

“You’ve put your faith in this one man?”

“You don’t know him, Nemetsov, otherwise you wouldn’t make such a stupid statement. I only wish Jason could be with us permanently.”

When, sweaty and entangled, Gala Nematova and her boy toy left the dance floor, so did Bourne. He watched as the couple made their way to a table where they were greeted by two other men. They all began to guzzle champagne as if it were water. Bourne waited until they’d refilled their flutes, then swaggered over in the style of these new-style gangsters.

Leaning over Gala’s companion, he shouted in her ear, “I have an urgent message for you.”

“Hey,” her companion shouted back with no little belligerence, “who the fuck’re you?”

“Wrong question.” Glaring at him, Bourne pushed up the sleeve of his jacket just long enough to give him a glimpse of his fake Anubis tattoo.

The man bit his lip and sat back down as Bourne reached over, pulled Gala Nematova away from the table.

“We’re going outside to talk.”

“Are you crazy?” She tried to squirm away from his grip. “It’s freezing out there.”

Bourne continued to steer her by her elbow. “We’ll talk in my limo.”

“Well, that’s something.” Gala Nematova bared her teeth, clearly unhappy. Her teeth were very white, as if scrubbed to within an inch of their lives. Her eyes were a remote chestnut, large with uptilted corners that revealed the Asian blood in her ancestry.

A frigid wind swept off the canal, blocked only partially by the gridlock of expensive cars and bombily. Bourne rapped on the Porsche’s door and the driver, recognizing him, unlocked the doors. Bourne and the dyev piled in.

Gala, shivering, hugged her inadequately short fur coat around her. Bourne asked the driver to turn up the heat. He complied, sank down in his fur-collared greatcoat.

“I don’t care what message you have for me,” Gala said sullenly. “Whatever it is, the answer’s no.”

“Are you sure?” Bourne wondered where she was going with this.

“Sure I’m sure. I’ve had it with you guys trying to find out where Leonid Danilovich is.”

Leonid Danilovich, Bourne said to himself. There’s a name the professor never mentioned.

“The reason we keep hounding you is he’s sure you know.” Bourne had no idea what he was saying, but he felt if he kept ru

“I don’t.” Now Gala sounded like a little girl in a snit. “But even if I did I wouldn’t rat him out. You can tell Maslov that.” She fairly spat out the name of the Kazanskaya’s leader, Dimitri Maslov.

Now we’re getting somewhere, Bourne thought. But why was Maslov after Leonid Danilovich, and what did any of this have to do with Pyotr’s death? He decided to explore this link.

“Why were you and Leonid Danilovich using Tarkanian’s apartment?”

Instantly he knew he’d made a mistake. Gala’s expression changed dramatically. Her eyes narrowed and she made a sound deep in her throat. “What the hell is this? You already know why we were camped out there.”

“Tell me again,” Bourne said, improvising desperately. “I’ve only heard it thirdhand. Maybe something was left out.”

“What could be left out? Leonid Danilovich and Tarkanian are the best of friends.”

“Is that where you took Pyotr for your late-night trysts?”

“Ah, so that’s what this is all about. The Kazanskaya want to know all about Pyotr Zilber, and I know why. Pyotr ordered the murder of Borya Maks, in prison, of all places-High Security Prison Colony 13. Who could do that? Get in there, kill Maks, a Kazanskaya contract killer of great strength and skill, and get out without being seen.”

“That’s precisely what Maslov wants to know,” Bourne said, because it was the safe comment to make.

Gala picked at her nail extensions, realized what she was doing, stopped. “He suspects Leonid Danilovich did it because Leonid is known for such feats. No one else could do that, he’s sure.”

Time to press her, Bourne decided. “He’s right on the money.”

Gala shrugged.

“Why are you protecting Leonid?”

“I love him.”

“The way you loved Pyotr?”