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Boris came to a burned-out block, mostly rubble surrounded by a chain-link fence. He pulled over to the curb and stopped.
“What are you doing?” Cherkesov said.
Boris gently pressed the point of a ceramic knife between two of Cherkesov’s ribs. “Why is Beria so interested in you?”
“He’s always been—”
Cherkesov jumped as Boris dug the point through his clothes and drew blood. Reaching behind him, Boris opened his door. Then he grabbed Cherkesov by the shirtfront and, as he slid out of the vehicle, dragged his former boss with him.
“Some things never change,” Boris said as he goaded Cherkesov toward the chain-link fence. He gestured. “This place makes a convenient killing field. The dogs rip the corpses to shreds before anyone bothers to contact the police.”
Pushing Cherkesov’s head through a gap in the fence, he bent over, following him through.
“This is a grave miscalculation,” Cherkesov said.
Boris poked him again, so that he flinched back into Boris’s grip. “I do believe you’ve made a joke, Viktor Delyagovich.”
Boris pushed his victim on through the rubble until they reached the heart of the destruction. The same blank-faced high-rises rose all around them, dark and uncaring, but the lot itself was filled with the movement of the dogs Boris had spoken about. Sensing humans, they sidled and circled, their black snouts raised, sniffing for the first hint of spilled blood.
“Your death scents you, Viktor Delyagovich. It comes for you from all sides.”
“What… what do you want?” Cherkesov’s voice was a hoarse rasp; he seemed to have trouble breathing.
“A reminiscence,” Boris said. “Do you recall a night about a year ago when you took me to a construction site on—where was it again?”
Cherkesov swallowed hard. “Ulitsa Varvarka.”
Boris snapped his fingers. “That’s right. I thought you were going to kill me, Viktor. But instead you forced me to kill Melor Bukin.”
“Bukin needed killing. He was a traitor.”
“Not my point at all.” Boris jabbed Cherkesov again. “You made me pull the trigger. I knew what would happen to me if I didn’t.”
Cherkesov took a breath. “And look at you now. Head of FSB-2. You, instead of that fool Bukin.”
“And I owe it all to you.”
Shuddering at Karpov’s ironic tone, Cherkesov said, “What is this? Revenge for a killing that got you where you wanted to be? You disliked Bukin as much as I did.”
“Again, Bukin is not the issue. You are. Your use of me—or should I say abuse. You shamed me that night, Viktor.”
“Boris, I never meant to—”
“Oh, but you did. You were reveling in your newfound power—the power the Domna had bestowed on you. And you reveled in it again when you forced me into the pact that would put me forever in your power.”
A shadow of Cherkesov’s oily smile returned. “We all make deals with the devil, Boris. We’re all adults here, we knew this going in. Why are you—?”
“Because,” Boris said, “you forced me into an untenable position. My career or another murder.”
“I don’t see the issue.”
Boris slapped Cherkesov hard on the side of his head. “But you do see the issue, and this is why you chose me. Once again, you reveled in your power to compel me to kill my friend.”
Cherkesov wagged his head back and forth. “An American agent responsible for countless deaths, many of them Russian.”
Boris hit him again, and a streak of blood flew out of the corner of his mouth. The nearest dogs began to howl in counterpoint to the muezzin. Their gaunt bodies looked like scimitars.
“You wanted to break me, didn’t you?” Boris said, dragging his head back. “You wanted me to kill my friend in order to keep everything I have ever dreamed of and worked for.”
“It was an interesting experiment,” Cherkesov said, “you have to admit.”
Boris kicked the backs of Cherkesov’s calves, and he went down. His trousers ripped. Blood seeped from his torn-up knees. Crouching down beside him, Boris said, “Now tell me what you’re doing for the Domna.”
That smile again, dark as pitch. “You won’t kill me because then you will be marked as an enemy of the Domna. They won’t stop until you’re dead.”
“You have it all wrong, Viktor. I won’t stop until they’re dead.”
Still, the realization did not show in Cherkesov’s eyes. “They have too many allies, some close to you.”
“Like Ivan Volkin?”
Now a black terror transformed Cherkesov’s face. “You know? How could you know?” His entire demeanor had changed. His face was sallow and he appeared to be panting.
“I’ll take care of Ivan Ivanovich in good time,” Boris said. “Right now, it’s your turn.”
Champagne or orange juice, sir?”
“Champagne, thank you,” Bourne said to the young flight attendant as she bent over, a small tray balanced on the spread fingers of one hand.
She smiled sweetly as she handed him the flute. “Di
“I have,” Bourne said, pointing to the menu.
“Very good, sir.” The flight attendant’s smile widened. “If there is anything you require during the flight, my name is Rebeka.”
Alone in his seat, Bourne stared out the Perspex window as he sipped champagne. He was thinking about Boris, wondering why he hadn’t shown himself. In this battle, Boris had the distinct edge. They were friends because Boris said they had been. Bourne had no memory of their first meeting, or what had happened. His first remembered encounter with Boris was in Reykjavik six years ago; before that was a complete blank. He had only Boris’s word that they had been friends. What if Boris had been lying to him all along? This cloud of unknowing was the most frustrating—and dangerous—effect of his amnesia. When people popped up out of his past and claimed to be friends or colleagues he was required to make an instant determination about whether or not they were telling the truth. In the six years Bourne had known Boris, he had always acted like a friend. Two years ago Boris had been wounded in northeastern Iran. Bourne had found him and carried him to safety. They had worked side by side in a number of perilous situations. Bourne never had cause to doubt Boris’s motivations. Until now.
Have you made your choices? An i
No, he thought now, there was no reason.
So, Mademoiselle Gobelins,” El-Arian said, “how may we best serve your needs?”
The moment he sat down beside her Soraya felt as if her skin had been seared. Invisible ants crawled over her flesh, and it was all she could do not to flinch away from him. Even his smile was dark, as if the emotion behind it came from a different place inside him. She felt his enormous psychic energy, and for the first time in her adult life she was afraid of another person. When she was five, her father had taken her to a seer in a seething backwater alley of Cairo. Why he did it, she had no idea. When her mother had found out about it afterward, she had flown into a rage, something Soraya had never before seen her mother do.