The Bourne Sanction

When Kiki came on the line, Soraya asked if she could come to the little tea shop in Alexandria. When Kiki asked when, Soraya said, “Now. Please.”

The first thing you have to do is stop blaming yourself,” Kiki said after Soraya had finished recounting in painful detail what had happened at the NSA safe house. “It’s your guilt that’s paralyzing you, and believe me you’re going to need every last brain cell if we’re going to get Tyrone out of that hole.”

Soraya looked up from her pallid tea.

Kiki smiled, nodding. In her dark red dress, her hair up in a swirl, hammered-gold earrings depending from her earlobes, she looked more regal, more exotic than ever. She towered over everyone in the tea shop by at least six inches.

“I know I have to tell Deron,” Soraya said. “I just don’t know what his reaction is going to be.”

“His reaction won’t be as bad as what you fear,” Kiki said. “And after all, Tyrone is a grown man. He knew the risks as well as anyone. It was his choice, Soraya. He could’ve said no.”

Soraya shook her head. “That’s just it, I don’t think he could, at least not from the way he sees things.” She stirred her tea, more to forestall what she knew she had to say. Then she looked up, licked her lips. “See, Tyrone’s got a thing for me.”

“Doesn’t he ever!”

Soraya was taken aback. “You know?”

“Everyone who knows him knows, honey. You just have to look at him when the two of you are together.”

Soraya felt her cheeks flush. “I think he would’ve done anything I asked of him no matter how dangerous, even if he didn’t want to.”

“But you know he wanted to.”

It was true, Soraya thought. He’d been excited. Nervous, but definitely excited. She knew that ever since Deron had taken him under his wing he’d chafed at being cooped up in the hood. He was smarter than that, and Deron knew it. But he had neither the interest nor the aptitude for what Deron did. Then she came along. He’d told her he saw her as his ticket out of the ghetto.

Yet she still had a knot in her chest, a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. She could not get out of her head the image of Tyrone on his knees, hooded, arms held behind him on the tabletop.

“You just turned pale,” Kiki said. “Are you all right?”

Soraya nodded. She wanted to tell Kiki what she had seen, but she couldn’t. She sensed that to talk about it would give it a reality so frightening, so powerful it would throw her back into panic.

“Then we ought to go.”

Soraya’s heart tripped over itself. “No time like the present,” she said.

As they went out the door, she pulled out the pack of cigarettes and threw it in a nearby trash can. She didn’t need it anymore.

As pla

Lorraine was kind enough to provide the necessities for all three. She gave Bourne a set of towels, a disposable razor, and said if he gave her his clothes she’d wash and dry them for him. In the bathroom Bourne stripped, then opened the door enough to hand the dirty clothes to Lorraine.

“After I put these in the wash, Gala and I are going out to get food. Can we bring you anything?”

Bourne thanked her. “Whatever you’re having will be fine.”

He closed the door, crossed to the shower, turned it on full force. Opening the medicine cabinet, he took out rubbing alcohol, a gauze pad, surgical tape, and antibiotic cream. Then he went back to the toilet, put the seat cover down, and cleaned his abraded heel. It had taken a lot of abuse and was red and raw looking. Squeezing the cream onto the gauze, he placed it over the wound and taped it up.

Then he took his cell phone off the edge of the sink where he’d placed it when undressing, and dialed the number Boris Karpov had given him.

Would you mind going without me?” Gala said, as Lorraine reached into the hall closet for her fur coat. “All of a sudden I’m not feeling well.”

Lorraine walked back to her. “What is it?”

“I don’t know.” Gala sank onto the white leather sofa. “I’m kind of dizzy.”

Lorraine took hold of the back of her head. “Bend over. Put your head between your knees.”

Gala did as she was told. Lorraine crossed to the sideboard, took out a bottle of vodka, and poured some into a glass. “Here, take a drink. It’ll settle you.”

Gala came up as gingerly as a drunk walks. She took the vodka, threw it down her throat so fast she almost choked. But then the fire hit her stomach and the warmth began to spread through her.

“Okay?” Lorraine asked.

“Better.”

“All right. I’m going to buy you some hot borscht. You need to get some nourishment into you.” She drew on her coat. “Why don’t you lie down?”

Once again Gala did as she was told, but after her friend left, she rose. She’d never found the sofa comfortable. Making sure of her balance, she went down the hall. She needed to crash on a proper bed.

As she was passing the bathroom, she heard a sound like talking, but Bourne was in there by himself. Curious, she moved closer, then put her ear to the door. She could hear the rushing of the shower more clearly, but also Bourne’s voice. He must be on his cell phone.

She heard him say “Medvedev did what?” He was talking politics to whoever was on the other end of the line. She was about to take her ear away from the door when she heard Bourne say, “It was bad luck with Tarkanian… No, no, I killed him… I had to, I had no other choice.”

Gala pulled away as if she’d touched her ear to a hot iron. For some time, she stood staring at the closed door, then she backed away. Bourne had killed Mischa! My God, she said to herself. How could he? And then, thinking of Arkadin, Mischa’s best friend, My God.

Twenty-Six

DIMITRI MASLOV had the eyes of a rattlesnake, the shoulders of a wrestler, and the hands of a bricklayer. He was, however, dressed like a banker when Bourne met him inside a warehouse that could have doubled as an aircraft hanger. He was wearing a chalk-striped three-piece Savile Row suit, an Egyptian cotton shirt, and a conservative tie. His powerful legs ended in curiously dainty feet, as if they’d been grafted on from another, far smaller body.

“Don’t bother telling me your name,” he said as he accepted the ten thousand Swiss francs, “as I always assume they’re fake.”

The warehouse was one among many in this soot-laden industrial area on the outskirts of Moscow, and therefore anonymous. Like its neighbors, it had a front area filled with boxes and crates on neat stacks of wooden pallets piled almost to the ceiling. Parked in one corner was a forklift. Next to it was a bulletin board on which had been tacked overlapping layers of flyers, notices, invoices, advertisements, and a

After Bourne had been expertly patted down for weapons and wires, he’d been escorted through a door to a tiled bathroom that stank of urine and stale sweat. It contained a trough with water ru

Maslov was seated behind an ornate desk. He was flanked on either side by two more men, interchangeable with the pair outside. In one corner sat a man with a scar beneath one eye, who would have been unprepossessing save for the flamboyant Hawaiian print shirt he wore. Bourne was aware of another presence behind him, his back against the open door.