Robert Ludlum's (TM) The Bourne Initiative (Jason Bourne series)(101)

“Time to go,” Morgana said softly. “He was pleased to hear from you, yes?”

“Insofar as Gora can be pleased, yes, I suppose so. I told him I wanted more money.”

“That I’m sure he could understand. And when you told him you might be able to bring a friend this time?”

“He laughed.” Natalie spat into the water, scattering the spiders, who must be thinking, What gods are these? “He laughs like a fucking hyena.”

They had been through all this before, of course, but Morgana’s plan was so acutely calibrated it paid to repeat every step of it multiple times. Plus, it calmed her—like a well-worn prayer before bedtime.

Natalie took Morgana shopping for a dress shorter than any Morgana had ever tried on, let alone worn, heels far higher than any she had ever tried on, let alone worn, and the right pieces of paste jewelry—a bracelet and a necklace just a touch longer than a choker.

“Men like a jewel nestled in the hollow of your throat,” Natalie told her. “It reminds them of where their tongue will be in the middle of the night.”

When she saw Morgana dressed for the evening with Gora, she said, “You look like ten thousand bucks.”

“You mean like a slut.”

Natalie shrugged. “Like everything, it’s a matter of perspective. I think you’re hot; so will Gora.”

Morgana lifted the hem of the dress to reveal the small pistol in its chamois holder strapped high up on her inner thigh.

Natalie winked. “Now for the pièce de résistance. Makeup!”

—



The same two goons Morgana had seen when she had spied on Fran?oise stepping aboard Gora’s boat were still at their posts, eyeing everyone who came within fifty paces with undisguised suspicion.

Natalie swallowed the pill Morgana had given her. “This had better work,” she muttered under her breath as they strutted down the wooden planks.

“Maybe they won’t pat us down,” Morgana said, out of the corner of her mouth.

“Right. I think this is nuts, but for the money you’re paying me you’re the boss.”

It was dark; the sun had set more than an hour ago, and lights sparkled along the pier. The water around Gora’s boat danced in reflections of the cabin and deck lamps. The sky was a milky gray, the undersides of clouds pale as fish bellies. The goons recognized Natalie, but the one who had hustled her off days ago gave no indication he recalled the incident.

They gestured, and Natalie stood very still. They checked her evening bag, though it was clearly too small to hold a weapon of any serious danger. As they patted Natalie down, quickly and expertly, they flashed glimpses of their Strizh pistols in snug shoulder holsters. Natalie was clean. Then they turned their attention to Morgana. She spread her legs a little, as if she were bracing herself against the rocking of a small boat.

They found the pistol, of course, and grabbing her by the arm, hustled her onto the deck and into the main salon, Natalie just behind.

One of the goons held up the pistol. “Look what we found,” he said in guttural Russian.

“On which one?” Gora said. He had been sprawled on one of a pair of sofas, but now he sprang up. Perhaps deliberately, he was flanked by a pair of marble busts of Roman caesars set on black columns. He wore a cream-colored silk shirt, lightweight slacks, and huaraches. He glared at Natalie. “Is this some kind of payback?”

“It was on the other one,” the goon said, handing over the pistol to his boss. “The new girl.”

“That so?” Gora turned his attention to Morgana. “What’s your name?” he said, switching to English.

“Lana.”

He was standing right in front of her now, close enough for her to smell his scent, part cologne, part sweat.

It was emblematic of how he viewed her that he did not ask for her last name; either he didn’t care or he assumed she would lie. “Do you know who I am, Lana?”

“I don’t care who you are,” Morgana said, “as long as I get paid at the end of the session.”

“The session,” Gora said mockingly. “How professional are we?” With his dark brows knit together, his tone hardened as he brandished the pistol. “What the fuck d’you think you’re doing, bringing a weapon like this onto my boat?”

“Having a little fun.” Morgana’s heart was pounding so hard it was giving her a headache.

“Fun?” Gora echoed. “Okay, bitch, I’ll show you some fun.” He aimed the pistol at Natalie’s forehead.” His eyes never left Morgana’s. “Shall I pull the trigger?”

The point was not to bat even an eyelid. “Go ahead.”

“Blow your friend’s brains out.”

“If that’s your pleasure.”

A flicker of hesitation passed across Gora’s face, like a fleeting shadow, and was gone. His expression hardened like clay in the sun. “If you mean to play chicken with me, you’ve made a serious mistake.” He pulled the trigger.

A spray of water hit Natalie square between the eyes.

The goons looked stunned, Natalie blew water out of her nostrils, and Gora stood still as a statue, while Morgana laughed and laughed until tears came to her eyes. By that time, Gora was laughing, too.

“Jesus Christ,” he said. “Jesus Christ.” Then, waving a hand: “Someone fetch her a towel.”