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“So it would seem.” Bourne swallowed some mate. “His name is Semid Abdul-Qahhar.”
“Really? He’s rather famous, isn’t he?”
“In certain circles, yes, he is.”
They looked at each other, and Bourne saw knowledge in her eyes that she had not spoken of. The farooj came, steaming and looking luscious. The babble of voices around them seemed to have built into a crescendo, forcing them to lean across the table to hear each other.
“Semid Abdul-Qahhar is a terrorist,” Rebeka said, “though he pretends to be otherwise.”
“How do you know that?”
“I’m Jewish,” Rebeka said.
Now her interest in the Arab who had defiled the synagogue was clear.
He won’t find anything of interest in my locker,” Boris said.
“Zachek will decide that.”
“I’m somewhat surprised to see you out of your Moscow Central bunker,” Boris said.
“Some matters are worth pursuing yourself,” Beria replied. “Otherwise, where is the satisfaction?”
“You’re wise not to trust Zachek.”
“You found that out the hard way.” Beria folded his arms across his chest. “You know, General, your problem is you’re too trusting. For the life of me I ca
“Flourished,” Boris said. “Use the correct term.”
Beria frowned. “You certainly evince no fear. We’ll soon fix that up.” He smiled cheerfully. “Really, General, no one believes that you would allow Cherkesov to die without him spilling his guts.”
Boris stared up at Beria. Then he crooked his forefinger, signaling for the SVR director to come closer. Beria glanced around as if he suspected a trap, then he leaned over, putting his head close to Boris’s. He smelled of expensive cologne.
“Stalin wore cologne, too, Beria. Did you know that?” Boris clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Men who wear cologne…” He shrugged to the extent he was allowed by the masseur’s weight on his back. “What can I say?”
Beria produced a pained smile. “Zachek will be back in a moment and then everything will change for you. If he finds nothing—”
“Trust me, he won’t.”
“If he finds nothing,” Beria repeated with added emphasis on each word, “then we evacuate you to our safe house. I have men there, experts in their field.”
“I probably know them either by name or by reputation,” Boris said.
Beria looked at him quizzically. “I don’t understand you, General.”
“Few do.” Boris unfurled his left hand and watched as Beria stared at the key.
Beria plucked the key up. “Is this it?”
“It is what Cherkesov was supposed to deliver to Semid Abdul-Qahhar.”
Beria’s head snapped up, his black, feral eyes boring into Boris’s. “That terrorist is here?”
“According to Cherkesov,” Boris said. “His residence is in the old synagogue in Bab Touma. Assuming I’ve been in this hammam for about an hour, the meet is set for two hours from now.”
A flicker of suspicion momentarily crowded out Beria’s expression of triumph. “Why are you telling me this, General?”
“I know when I’ve been outmaneuvered. And I have no wish to be evacuated to a safe house filled with sharp claws and teeth.”
Beria sighed just as Zachek returned and threw the locker key on the floor, shaking his head. “My dear General, I do thank you for being so forthcoming,” Beria said, “but I’m afraid I can’t leave you here. You are a loose end, and I won’t have that.”
He raised his eyes to look at the masseur, and nodded. At once the masseur trapped Boris in a fierce grip. Beria turned, no longer concerned with Boris. He held up the key and Zachek nodded. As the two walked out, Zachek shot Boris one last look that could have meant anything. Boris paid him no mind; his attention was focused fully on what he had to do now.
The masseur was leaning over the table, his left forearm pressed down across the back of Boris’s neck, his right knee on the small of Boris’s back. Boris’s right hand found the wooden peg under the table and pulled it with the same fierce determination he’d once used when pulling the firing pin on a hand grenade.
Without the peg’s support, the front of the table collapsed. The masseur lost his balance, and, with it, the pressure he exerted on Boris’s torso. Boris slid down the table, curled his legs, and twisted out from under the masseur’s sprawled body. As the masseur struggled to rise, Boris punched him in the side of the face. When this had little effect, he drove his knee into the same spot. The masseur collapsed as if poleaxed.
Boris scooped up his locker key and found his way back to where his clothes still hung, careful not to run into Beria and his little prick of a lapdog. If he never saw another SVR agent in his life, he’d die a happy Russian. But he knew that was too much to hope for.
My head hurts.” There was a ringing in Soraya’s right ear that had nothing to do with the bandage covering half her head.
Aaron’s face swam into view. “I know.”
“I mean it really hurts.”
“Be happy you’re not dead. After that little stunt—”
“El-Arian?”
He responded to the anxiety in her voice. “Shot dead.”
“You’re sure?”
“Three shots to the chest and one to the head.” He smiled thinly. “Yes, I’m sure.”
Soraya relaxed visibly and licked her lips. “I’m thirsty.”
Aaron took a plastic cup off a tray, poked a straw into the water he poured in it. He did something to the bed so that Soraya’s head, shoulders, and torso lifted off horizontal without her having to take her head off the pillow.
She began to suck the water up.
“In the hospital again, I’m afraid.” Aaron’s smile turned tentative. “Not too much, we don’t want it coming right back up.” He placed the cup on the tray. When he turned back, his eyes engaged hers. “You almost got yourself killed.”
“Almost doesn’t count.” When he failed to laugh, she said, “You’re welcome.”
“I owe you, Soraya.”
She looked away. “You don’t owe me anything.”
He sighed, hooked his shoe through the rung of a chair, and brought it over so he could sit down beside her. “Why did you run away?”
“I hate hospitals.”
He looked relieved. “I thought you hated me.”
“Men,” she said.
He looked down at his hands. “I’m sorry about Chalthoum.”
Tears began to leak from Soraya’s eyes and Aaron jumped up and used a tissue to blot the corners. Soraya jumped as if burned.
“Get away from me!”
He backed away, his face pale and drawn. Then he turned and stepped to the door. She waited until he pulled down the handle before saying, “Come back.”
He hesitated, then turned. She could see in his eyes that he didn’t know what to do. Something black burned inside her, reveling in her mastery over him. Then, as quickly as the spark flamed up, it died, leaving her empty and shaking.
“Which is it, Soraya?”
“Aaron. Please.”
He approached her with a cautious step and sat gingerly on the edge of the chair, as if ready at any moment to flee. She looked at him. All the fight had left her. She felt as if she had gone through a terrible trial by fire, had seen loves, wants, and needs reduced to ash, leaving her naked, but no longer vulnerable. She sensed her strength returning, but it was a different form of strength, one that would require time to explore.
Her eyes fluttered closed for a moment.
“Soraya?”
She heard the anxiety in his voice and looked at him. “How am I?”
“Better than you have any right to be.” He seemed relieved to be talking about a topic that was quantifiable. “When we brought you in here the doctors were very grave. Frankly, I don’t think they gave you much of a chance. But the wound looked worse than it was. The bullet from El-Arian’s weapon grazed your skull high enough so your vision wasn’t impaired. And we’ve been assured that your hearing will return to normal in time.”