Robert Ludlum's (TM) The Bourne Initiative (Jason Bourne series)(109)

“That way,” he said, pointing to their right.

Instead of heading in that direction, Bourne pulled over onto the verge, though there was no traffic visible in either direction. He got out, leaned into the Angelmaker’s open window, and said, “Your turn.”

She dutifully got out, went around to slide behind the wheel. Bourne opened the front passenger’s door, told Savasin to get in the back. Then he took his place beside the Angelmaker.

“Now,” he said to Savasin, “direct us to the closest metro station that will get us nearest to Dima’s place.”

“The Kapotnya Oblast has no nearby metro stop,” Savasin said. “No municipal buses, either.”

“Just get us closest you can then,” Bourne said.

Savasin considered a minute, then said to the Angelmaker, “Go left.” And then, as if to himself, “We’re just inside the Outer Ring Road, eastern Moscow. We need to travel south, but not too far.”

He directed them to the Domodedovskaya metro station.

“This is where you and I get off, Timur.” Bourne turned to the Angelmaker. “Considering how far we’ve been followed, it will be more secure if we split up. Take the car. Change it for another, if you deem it wise. You know Dima’s address. Meet us there.”

The Angelmaker nodded. “Take care of yourself. And do me a favor, keep his highness in line.” With that, she was off, a thick cloud of exhaust trailing after her.

Bourne led Savasin down the steps. The Domodedovskaya station was Brutalist modern. It had none of the opulent charm of the metro stations in and around the Inner Ring Road, where a magical mystery tour of old czarist Russia, post–World War II exuberance, lit by bulbous chandeliers, awaited the gawking tourist.

They took the metro in a leisurely northeasterly direction, emerging in the Alma-Atkinskaya station, in the Brateyvo District, across the Moskva River from Kapotnya. The Alma-Atkinskaya station was even more modern, having an almost space-age look. But that was to be expected from the newest of Moscow’s outlier stations.

Out in the gray night, the snow continued to fall, blurring the ranks of identical gray modern residential high-rises, and haloing the light from the occasional sodium light that wasn’t smashed.

Bourne saw the car first—a black Zil, with a long snout and blacked-out windows. They shot first—two men pointing pistols through zipped-down windows. Pulling Savasin down behind the bulk of the station’s entrance that emerged from underground like a boil spoiling to be lanced, Bourne squeezed off three shots, two of which hit their mark. The hostile fire ceased as quickly as it had begun. The driver put the Zil in gear but made the mistake of flooring the accelerator. The Zil began to skid sideways on the thin coating of ice concealed by the snow. That error in judgment allowed Bourne to fire three times at the driver’s side of the windshield; the third trigger pull told him the magazine was empty. The Zil screamed as if it felt pain, and Bourne was running hard toward the car, Savasin fast on his heels. The Zil, driverless, was still making tight circles when Bourne wrenched open the driver’s door and hauled the dead man out. One bullet had struck his chest, the other his head.

Launching himself forward, Bourne gained control of the car, stopped it long enough for Savasin to scramble in beside him. Bourne went through the clothes of the two shooters, looking for identification, found none. The two men exchanged clothes with the dead shooters. Blood spatters aside, the new outfits suited them better. Plus, the overcoats made them instantly warmer.

Abandoning the Strizh on the backseat, Bourne grabbed the shooter’s pistol. Then he turned to Savasin, who had turned up his collar against the rising wind.

“Shit,” Bourne said.

Savasin, knotting his tie, said, “What is it?”

“The Angelmaker asked how they were able to follow us.” Bourne picked up the train worker’s coat that the first minister had been wearing, pulled out a pin with a gleaming head from the underside of the collar.

“What the hell is that?” Savasin asked, alarmed.

“A miniature GPS tracker,” Bourne said. Dropping the pin, he ground it beneath the heel of his shoe.

“That fucking Ivan Ivanovich,” Savasin said.

“It looks as if your brother has been one step ahead of us.”

“But how the hell would he know we’d run into Ivan Ivanovich?”

“He didn’t,” Bourne said. “But thinking ahead like a chess master, Ivan Ivanovich was just one of his plans. If we escaped his men—which we did—we’d seek out someone who could help us, someone in uniform who could lead us to other uniforms we could put on. The shattered window was his good fortune. The men in uniforms were more or less right in front of us.”

A string of Russian curses exploded from Savasin’s mouth. Then he said: “He’ll pay for this.”

“Forget Konstantin for the moment.” Bourne checked his watch. “We need to get to Dima as quickly as possible.”

Savasin pointed to the section of the Outer Ring Road. “Head north. Good thing I know all the shortcuts in Kapotnya.”

If Morgana was right, they had sixteen hours until the zero-day trigger of the Bourne Initiative was engaged.





41



Soraya, connected to Morgana via her wireless earwig, made all the arrangements. A car was waiting for Morgana and Natalie. However, Natalie asked to be let off before the car got to the airfield where the Dreadnaught jet was standing by.