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leathery face lent him a certain dignified aspect, as if in his life he’d earned the respect of many.
He greeted them warmly, welcoming them into an apartment that appeared small
because of the stacks of books and periodicals that covered every conceivable horizontal
surface, including the kitchen stovetop and his bed.
He led them down a narrow, winding aisle from the vestibule to the living room, made
room for them on the sofa by moving three teetering stacks of books.
“Now,” he said, standing in front of them, “how can I be of help?”
“I need to know everything you can tell me about the Black Legion.”
“And why are you interested in such a tiny footnote to history?” Volkin looked at
Bourne with a jaundiced eye. “You don’t have the look of a scholar.”
“Neither do you,” Bourne said.
This produced a spraying laugh from the older man. “No, I suppose not.” Volkin wiped
his eyes. “Spoken like one soldier to another, eh? Yes.” Reaching around behind him, he
swung over a ladder-backed chair, straddled it with his arms crossed over the top. “So.
What specifically do you want to know?”
“How did they manage to survive into the twenty-first century?”
Volkin’s face immediately shut down. “Who told you the Black Legion survives?”
Bourne did not want to use Professor Specter’s name. “An unimpeachable source.”
“Is that so? Well, that source is wrong.”
“Why bother to deny it?” Bourne said.
Volkin rose, went into the kitchen. Bourne could hear the refrigerator door open and
close, the light clink of glassware. When Volkin returned, he had an iced bottle of vodka
in one hand, three water glasses in the other.
Handing them the glasses, he unscrewed the cap, filled their glasses halfway. When
he’d poured for himself, he sat down again, the bottle standing between them on the
threadbare carpet.
Volkin raised his glass. “To our health.” He emptied his glass in two great gulps.
Smacking his lips, he reached down, refilled it. “Listen to me closely. If I were to admit
that the Black Legion exists today there would be nothing left of my health to toast.”
“How would anyone know?” Bourne said.
“How? I’ll tell you how. I tell you what I know, then you go out and act on that
information. Where d’you think the shitstorm that ensues is going to land, hmm?” He
tapped his barrel chest with his glass, slopping vodka onto his already stained shirt.
“Every action has a reaction, my friend, and let me tell you that when it comes to the
Black Legion every reaction is fatal for someone.”
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
he said, “I’m going to call Dimitri Maslov now. I hope to hell you know what you’re
doing. Otherwise, this is the last time anyone will see you, either alive or dead.”
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