Robert Ludlum's (TM) The Bourne Initiative (Jason Bourne series)(15)

The boat was at anchor three-quarters of the way down the dock, on her left. It was blue-and-white, a motored sailboat with the name Carbon Neutral painted across its stern. It had beautiful lines—sleek and trim—a pleasure boat rather than one made for fishing.

No one welcomed her as she stepped aboard. The deck was clear, but as she neared the cabin she heard music. As she closed on the hatch, which was pinned open, she heard Edith Piaf singing and made a face.

“You’ve dated yourself, I’m afraid,” she said as she descended into the cabin.

“I thought the French music was a fine touch.”

“I’m more a Mylène Farmer fan.”

He grunted, waved her to an upholstered bench that would turn into a bunk this evening.

“Bourne,” he said. “Have you found him?”

“He’s on the Aegean.”

“The Aegean Sea is a very big body of water.”

“Not for everyone. The Americans blew up General Karpov’s boat.”

He raised his eyebrows, thick as hedgerows, expressive as his late father’s. “Did they now? Which Americans?”

Fran?oise laughed shortly. “Dreadnaught.”

He laughed with her. “And Bourne was on board?”

“No idea.”

“Those Americans.” He shook his head. His hair, dictated by the latest fashion, was thick and shiny along the top, shaved close to his scalp on either side. “Can’t count on them being the least bit useful. Bad as the British, these days, and that’s saying something.”

“Turn off that awful caterwauling, if you please.” Fran?oise crossed her long legs. “Something more appropriate.”

The man hit a button, then spun the wheel on his iPod mini and the Junkie XL soundtrack to Mad Max: Fury Road pounded forth from the surround sound speakers.

“No listening device yet devised can hear us through this,” Gora Maslov said. He had taken over from his late father, Dimitri, as head of the Kazanskaya grupperovka, the Russian mafia family that ruled Moscow. In Dimitri’s day, the Kazanskaya had majored in drug-running and black market cars. These days, under Gora’s rule, the family trafficked in the final frontier territories dominated by stolen cyber weapons, virtual currency, organ harvesting, and humans.

“Well,” Gora said, “it seems that being away from Mother Russia continues to agree with you.”

She laughed, her white teeth showing briefly. “I’ve been off to see the world.”

“And how is the world treating you?”

“Like an empress.”

“Impressive.” He grinned. “What would the Sovereign think?”

Fran?oise rose, fetched herself a drink from the built-in across the cabin, since it was clear that Gora wasn’t going to do it. “You know, I think he would approve.” She splashed vodka over ice cubes she grabbed from the half-size fridge. “I mean, he’s also off to see the world, isn’t he?”

She took a long swallow, went and stood before him. Then, without any warning, she slapped him across the face.

“What the fuck?” A red mark blossomed on his cheek, but he seemed unperturbed.

“Keeping me waiting.”

“Business.”

“Bullshit.”

“You take everything too personally.”

She shook her head. “I’m disappointed. For someone who’s ostensibly part of the new wave, you can be disconcertingly old-fashioned.”

“I take after my father.” He watched her with glittering gimlet eyes.

She almost hit him again, but knew hot anger wasn’t the answer. “You’ve been watching too many American gangster films.” She took a sip of the chilled liquor. “Scarface is your favorite, if memory serves.”

“That’s right,” he said tightly. “Keep at it.”

“Or is it Wall Street?”

He stood up abruptly, and she saw the bulk of him, the gym rat physique, the violence that sheathed his muscles just under his skin.

“One day you’ll push me too far.”

She looked up at him from beneath long lashes. “That will be a very bad day for you, Gora.”

His face went tight. “Is that a threat?”

“It’s a promise.”

His hands curled into fists. She knew he longed to incite her, which was why she stayed where she was, calmly sipping her vodka. To use the terms of one of his obsessions, he often reminded her of Sonny Corleone: quick to temper, a beat-down never far from his mind. Also, his Neanderthal Rat Pack attitude toward women—meant to be used, fucked, then thrown onto the scrap heap. But not before he delivered a good thrashing or three.

She’d witnessed that happen over and over again with all his girlfriends, even one-night stands, observing at a remove. The last few years, when she had been away from everything Russian, she had received her intel on him through third parties. His behavior kept repeating without letup; Gora was incapable of change. He was who he was—but then that was true of so many people it might as well be part of the human condition.

“Brother, sit yourself down,” she said in Russian.

“Don’t call me brother, Alyosha.”

“My mistake, Gora.” Having wound him up as revenge for keeping her waiting, it was up to her to get him to throttle back, to defuse the situation. He’d never be able to do it on his own.