Robert Ludlum's (TM) The Bourne Initiative (Jason Bourne series)(27)

“Tell me, Alecks Petrovich, have you found Jason Bourne?”

“Uh, not yet, sir.”

“But you’re close.”

“Yes, sir.”

Savasin finally turned around to face the man he had appointed as head of spetsnaz. “Volodarsky, if you lie to me a second time, I will personally frog-march you downstairs to the cellars.” The cellars were where all the myriad terrors of the infamous Lubyanka prison resided. People who were brought down there were never seen alive again. “Is that clear?”

Volodarsky swallowed hard. “Quite clear, sir.”

“Now, shall I ask my question again?”

“No, sir. We haven’t as yet acquired the specific whereabouts of the target.”

The old man, as stubborn as his dog, reminded Savasin of his father, a man—a veteran of the war—whom Savasin had revered all his life. He’d never had enough time with his father, and every moment of their time together was of immense importance to him. When Savasin had finally laid him to rest, he had not spoken for ten days. He had gone away to the Kamchatka Peninsula, where his father had sometimes—not often enough!—taken him to fish. The glittering ice and softly falling snow seemed like paradise to the young Savasin, and later, after his father was dead, he’d think of those times as if encased in a snow globe, a world sealed off, that only he and his father inhabited. He went there in his mind when his duties became too overbearing or the exigencies of his life went against the grain.

“Alecks Petrovich, I told you not to lie.”

“But, sir, I haven’t—”

“Really?” He sighed. “Alecks, we grew up together, didn’t we?”

“Yes.”

“We attended the same classes, university and all that.”

Volodarsky nodded.

“We break bread together every Friday evening, do we not?”

“We do.”

“And get roaring drunk on the best vodka.” His voice turned icy. “Then please tell me why you haven’t found Jason Bourne. He was the late, unlamented General Karpov’s closest friend, though under what circumstances that came about fairly boggles the mind. Though I have learned not to put anything past him.”

“No, indeed. We’re all learning that.”

A knock on the door deterred the first minister from doling out further verbal torture. But that was okay, for this was only the warmup to the main event. His mouth began to salivate, anticipating Malachev entering. Seeing Volodarsky still there, Malachev would no doubt blanch.

Malachev and Volodarsky did not like each other. It was still unclear to Savasin which one feared the other most. The relationship between the two was heavily reminiscent of the one Savasin had with Konstantin. Not for the first time it occurred to Savasin that he had deliberately set these two together in an attempt to get the better of Konstantin.

“Igor Ivanovich,” he said as he turned around, but the sight of the tall, elegant man standing where Malachev should have been stopped him in his tracks. “Konstantin Ludmirovich,” he said.

A thin smile curved the other’s lips. “Close your mouth, brother. You’re apt to swallow the flies on this floor.” Konstantin Ludmirovich Savasin glanced around the office with obvious distaste. He sniffed, his delicate nostrils dilating alarmingly. “You really ought to have a cleaning crew in here more than once a month.”

Savasin ground his teeth in fury but did not rise to the bait. Instead, he said with a maximum amount of sarcasm, “What brings you into the lion’s den?”

“Is that what this is? Oh, well.” He shrugged. “For one thing, it’s my day for slumming.” His laugh was like fingernails on a chalkboard. “For another, you’ve summoned a high-ranking FSB officer for what appears to be a dressing down.”

“If that’s what it is,” the first minister said, “then you can be sure it’s well deserved.”

“Can I?” Konstantin circled his brother. “Can I, really?” He shook his head. “The fact of the matter is that Alecks Petrovich knows nothing about the Nym.”

Volodarsky swallowed. “The what?”

The new head of FSB’s smile was as sharp as a razor blade. “You see, brother, he doesn’t even know what we’re talking about.”

Savasin lost it for a moment. “Colonel Karpov’s boat, you idiot,” he shouted at Volodarsky.

“That’s an FSB officer you’re yelling at. One you yourself appointed, brother.”

“First Minister to you, Konstantin, as well as to everyone else. I can yell at anyone, even you.”

Konstantin shrugged, shook out a cigarette, lit it, took a good, long inhale. The hiss of indolently expelled smoke grated on Savasin’s nerves. Konstantin was handsome in an odd, saturnine way. His long face dominated by large, liquid eyes that, like their mother’s, were set too close together. He had her skin, as well: pale, almost translucent.

Savasin glared at Volodarsky. “You’re of no use. You don’t even know what your men are doing. Get the fuck out of my office.”

Volodarsky glanced at Konstantin, but the other wasn’t about to meet his eye.

“Don’t look at him. He’ll be of no help to you, take my word,” Savasin said shortly. “Just get out.”