The Bourne Sanction

Since he’d already as much as admitted that the Black Legion had, in fact, survived the defeat of Nazi Germany, Bourne brought the subject around to what really concerned him. “Why would the Kazanskaya be involved?”

“Pardon?”

“In some way I can’t yet understand the Kazanskaya are interested in Mikhail Tarkanian. I stumbled across one of their contract killers in his apartment.”

Volkin’s expression turned sour. “What were you doing in his apartment?”

“Tarkanian’s dead,” Bourne said.

“What?” Volkin exploded. “I don’t believe you.”

“I was there when it happened.”

“And I tell you it’s impossible.”

“On the contrary, it’s a fact,” Bourne said. “His death was a direct result of him being a member of the Black Legion.”

Volkin crossed his arms over his chest. He looked like the silverback in the National Zoo. “I see what’s happening here. How many ways will you try to get me to talk about the Black Legion?”

“Every way I can,” Bourne said. “The Kazanskaya are in some way in league with the Black Legion, which is an alarming prospect.”

“I may look as if I have all the answers, but I don’t.” Volkin stared at him, as if daring Bourne to call him a liar.

Though Bourne was certain that Volkin knew more than he would admit, he also knew it would be a mistake to call him on it. Clearly, this was a man who couldn’t be intimidated, so there was no point in trying. Professor Specter had warned him not to get caught up in the grupperovka war, but the professor was a long way away from Moscow; his intelligence was only as accurate as his men on the ground here. Instinct told Bourne there was a serious disco

“Tell me how to get a meet with Maslov,” he said.

Volkin shook his head. “That would be most unwise. With the Kazanskaya in the middle of a power struggle with the Azeri-”

“Popov is only my cover name,” Bourne said. “Actually, I’m a consultant to Viktor Cherkesov”-the head of the Federal Anti-Narcotics Agency, one of the two or three most powerful siloviks in Russia.

Volkin pulled back as if stung by Bourne’s words. He shot Gala an accusatory glance, as if Bourne were a scorpion she’d brought into his den. Turning back to Bourne he said, “Have you any proof of this?”

“Don’t be absurd. However, I can tell you the name of the man I report to: Boris Illyich Karpov.”

“Is that so?” Volkin produced a Makarov handgun, placed it on his right knee. “If you’re lying…” He picked up a cell phone he scavenged miraculously from out of the clutter, and quickly punched in a number. “We have no amateurs here.”

After a moment he said into the phone, “Boris Illyich, I have here with me a man who claims to be working for you. I would like to put him on the line, yes?”

With a deadpan face, Volkin handed over the cell.

“Boris,” Bourne said, “it’s Jason Bourne.”

“Jason, my good friend!” Karpov’s voice reverberated down the line. “I haven’t seen you since Reykjavik.”

“It seems like a long time.”

“Too long, I tell you!”

“Where have you been?”

“In Timbuktu.”

“What were you doing in Mali?” Bourne asked.

“Don’t ask, don’t tell.” Karpov laughed. “I understand you’re now working for me.”

“That’s right.”

“My boy, I’ve longed for this day!” Karpov let go with another booming laugh. “We must toast this moment with vodka, but not tonight, eh? Put that old goat Volkin back on the line. I assume there’s something you want from him.”

“Correct.”

“He hasn’t believed a word you’ve told him. But I’ll change that. Please memorize my cell number, then call me when you’re alone. Until we speak again, my good friend.”

“He wants to talk to you,” Bourne said.

“That’s understandable.” Volkin took the cell from Bourne, put it to his ear. Almost immediately his expression changed. He stared at Bourne, his mouth slightly open. “Yes, Boris Illyich. Yes, of course. I understand.”

Volkin broke the co

Twenty-Two

TYRONE WENT immediately into one of the cubicles in the men’s room. Fishing out the plastic tag Deron had made for him, he clipped it on the outside of his suit jacket, a suit that looked like the regulation government suits all the other spooks wore here. The tag identified him as Special Agent Damon Riggs, out of the NSA field office in LA. Damon Riggs was real enough. The tag came straight from the NSA HR database.

Tyrone flushed the toilet, emerged from the cubicle, smiled frostily at an NSA agent bent over one of the sinks washing his hands. The agent glanced at Tyrone’s tag, said, “You’re a long way from home.”

“And in the middle of winter, too.” Tyrone’s voice was strong and firm. “Damn, I miss goin’ top-down in Santa Monica.”

“I hear you.” The agent dried his hands. “Good luck,” he said as he left.

Tyrone stared at the closed door for a moment, took a deep breath, let it out slowly. So far, so good. He went out into the hallway, his eyes straight ahead, his stride purposeful. He passed four or five agents. A couple gave his tag a cursory glance, nodded. The others ignored him altogether.

“The trick,” Deron had said, “is to look like you belong. Don’t hesitate, be purposeful. If you look like you know where you’re going, you become part of the scene, no one notices you.”

Tyrone reached the door without incident. He went past it as two agents, deep in conversation, passed him. Then, checking both ways, he doubled back. Quickly he took out what seemed to be an ordinary piece of clear tape, laid it on top of the fingerprint reader. Checking his watch, he waited until the second hand touched the 12. Then, holding his breath, he pressed his forefinger onto the tape so that it was flush against the reader. The door opened. He stripped off the tape, slipped inside. The tape contained LaValle’s fingerprint, which Tyrone had lifted off the back cover of the file while working the device that slit the security tape. Soraya had engaged LaValle in conversation as a diversion.

At the bottom of the flight of steps, he paused for a moment. No alarm bells were going off, no sound of armed security guards coming his way. Kiki’s software program had done its work. Now the rest was up to him.

He moved swiftly and silently down the rough concrete corridor. Buzzing fluorescent strips were the only decoration here, casting a sickly glow. He saw no one, heard nothing beyond the susurrus of machinery.

Snapping on latex gloves he tried each door he came to. Most were locked. The first one that wasn’t opened into a small cubicle with a viewing window in one wall. Tyrone had been in enough police precincts to know this was one-way glass. He peered into a room not much larger than the one he was in. He could make out a metal chair bolted to the center of the floor, beneath which was a large drain. Affixed to the right-hand wall was a three-foot-deep trough as long as a man with manacles bolted to each end, above which was coiled a fire hose. Its nozzle looked enormous in the confines of the small room. This, Tyrone knew from photos he’d seen, was a waterboarding tank. He snapped as many photos of it as possible, because there was the proof Soraya needed that the NSA was enacting illegal and inhuman torture.

Tyrone took photos of everything with the ten-megapixel digital mini camera Soraya had given him. Given the huge memory of its smart card, it could record six videos of up to three minutes in duration.

He moved on, knowing he had an extremely limited amount of time. Opening the door an inch at a time, he determined that the corridor was still deserted. He hurried down it, checking all the doors he came to. At length, he found himself in another viewing room. This time, however, he saw a man kneeling beside a table. His arms were drawn back, his bound hands on the table. A black hood had been pulled down over his head. His attitude was of a defeated soldier about to be forced to kiss the feet of his conqueror. Tyrone felt a surge of rage run through him such as he’d never felt before. He couldn’t help thinking of the history of his own people, hunted by rival tribes on the east coast of Africa, sold to the white man, brought as slaves back to America. All of this terrible history Deron had made him study, to learn where he came from, to understand what drove the prejudices, the i