The Bourne Objective

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Imagine you in a world without Bud Halliday.”

Danziger paused. For the first time since he walked in, he seemed unsure of himself.

“Tell me this,” Willard continued, “why would I waste our time on nonsense, Director? What would I have to gain?”

Danziger subsided back onto the banquette. “What do you have to gain by telling me this fairy tale?”

“If you thought it was a fairy tale, I would be talking to myself.”

“Frankly, I don’t know what to think,” Danziger said. “For the moment, however, I’m willing to listen.”

“That’s all I ask,” Willard said. But, of course, it wasn’t. He wanted much more from Danziger, and now he knew he was going to get it.

On the way back to the office, Karpov had his driver pull over. Out of sight of everyone, he vomited into a clump of tall grass. It wasn’t that he’d never killed anyone before. On the contrary, he’d shot a great many miscreants. What made his stomach rebel was the situation he was in, which felt like the underbelly of a rotting fish or the bottom of a sewer. There must be some way out of the coffin he found himself in. Unfortunately, he was caught between President Imov and Viktor Cherkesov. Imov was a problem all rising siloviks had to deal with, but now he was beholden to Cherkesov and he was certain that sooner or later Cherkesov would ask him for a favor that would curl his toes. Looking into the future, he could see those favors multiplying, taking a toll until they shredded him completely. Clever, clever Cherkesov! In giving him what he wanted, Cherkesov had found the one way around his, Karpov’s, incorruptibility. There was nothing to do but what good Russian soldiers had done for centuries: Put one foot in front of the other and move forward through the mounting muck.

He told himself this was all in a good cause-getting rid of Maslov and the Kazanskaya was surely worth any inconvenience to him. But that was like saying I was only following orders, and depressed him further.

He returned to the backseat of his car, brooding and murderous. Five minutes later his driver missed a turn.

“Stop the car,” Karpov ordered.

“Here?”

“Right here.”

His driver stared at him in the rearview mirror. “But the traffic-”

“Just do as you’re told!”

The driver stopped the car. Karpov got out, opened the driver’s door, and, reaching in, hauled the man out from behind the wheel. Unmindful of the honking horns and squealing brakes of the vehicles forced to detour around them, he bounced the driver’s head off the side of the car. The driver slid to his knees, and Karpov drove a knee into his chin. Teeth came flying out of the driver’s mouth. Karpov kicked him several times as he lay on the pavement, then he slid behind the wheel, slammed the door shut, and took off.

I should have been an American, he thought as he wiped his lips over and over with the back of his hand. But he was a patriot, he loved Russia. It was a pity Russia didn’t love him back. Russia was a pitiless mistress, heartless and cruel. I should have been an American. Inventing a melody, he sang this phrase to himself as if it were a lullaby, and in fact it made him feel marginally better. He concentrated on bringing down Maslov and how he would reorganize FSB-2 when Imov named him director.

His first order of business, however, was dealing with the three moles inside FSB-2. Armed with the names Bukin had vomited up, he parked the car in front of the nineteenth-century building housing FSB-2 and trotted up the steps. He knew the directorates that the moles worked in. On the way up in the elevator, he took out his pistol.

He ordered the first mole out of his office. When the mole balked, Karpov brandished the pistol in his face. Siloviks all over the floor emerged from their dens, their secretaries and assistants picked their heads up from their mind-numbing paperwork to follow this unfolding drama. A crowd formed, which was all the better, as far as Karpov was concerned. With the first mole in tow, he went into the second mole’s office. He was on the phone, turned away from the door. As he was swinging back, Karpov shot him in the head. The first mole flinched as the victim flew backward, his arms wide, the phone flying, and slammed into the plate-glass window. The victim fell to the floor, leaving behind an interesting abstract pattern of blood and bits of brain and bone on the glass. As stu

Pushing his way through the agitated throng, he frog-marched the now shivering first mole to his next stop, a floor up. By the time they appeared, news had spread and a crowd of siloviks greeted them in silent astonishment.

As Karpov was dragging his charge toward the office of the third mole, Colonel Lemtov shouldered his way to the front of the group.

“Colonel Karpov,” he shouted, “what is the meaning of this outrage?”

“Get out of my way, Colonel. I won’t tell you twice.”

“Who are you to-”

“I’m an emissary of President Imov,” Karpov said. “Call his office, if you like. Better yet, call Cherkesov himself.”

Then he used the mole to shove Colonel Lemtov aside. Dakaev, the third mole, was not in his office. Karpov was about to contact security when a terrified secretary informed him that her boss was chairing a meeting. She pointed out the conference room, and Karpov took his prisoner in there.

Twelve men sat around a rectangular table. Dakaev was at the head of the table. Being a directorate chief, he would be more valuable alive than dead. Karpov shoved the first mole against the table. Everyone but Dakaev pushed back their chairs as far as they could. For his part, Dakaev sat as he had when Karpov barged in, hands clasped in front of him on the tabletop. Unlike Colonel Lemtov, he didn’t express outrage or appear confused. In fact, Karpov saw, he knew perfectly well what was happening.

That would have to change. Karpov dragged the first mole along the table, scattering papers, pens, and glasses of water, until the man fetched up in front of Dakaev. Then, staring into Dakaev’s eyes, Karpov pressed the muzzle of his pistol into the back of the first mole’s head.

“Please,” the prisoner said, urinating down his leg.

Karpov squeezed the trigger. The first mole’s head slammed against the table, bounced up, and settled into a pool of his own blood. A Pollock-like pattern spattered across Dakaev’s suit, shirt, tie, and freshly shaven face.

Karpov gestured with the pistol. “Get up.”

Dakaev stood. “Are you going to shoot me, too?”

“Eventually, perhaps.” Karpov grabbed him by his tie. “That will be entirely up to you.”

“I understand,” Dakaev said. “I want immunity.”

“Immunity? I’ll give you immunity.” Karpov slammed the barrel of the pistol against the side of his head.

Dakaev reeled sideways, bouncing off a terrified silovik paralyzed in his chair. Karpov bent over Dakaev, who lay huddled half against the wall.

“You’ll tell me everything you know about your work and your contacts-names, places, dates, every fucking thing, no matter how minute-then I’ll decide what to do with you.”

He hauled Dakaev to his feet. “The rest of you, get back to whatever the hell you were doing.”

Out on the floor he encountered absolute silence. Everyone stood like wooden soldiers, unmoving, afraid even to take a breath. Colonel Lemtov would not meet his eyes as he took the bleeding Dakaev over to the bank of elevators.

They went down, past the basement, into the bowels of the building where the holding cells had been hewn out of the naked rock. It was cold and damp. The guards wore greatcoats and fur hats with fur earflaps, as if it were the dead of winter. When anyone spoke, his breath formed clouds in front of his face.