Robert Ludlum's (TM) The Bourne Initiative (Jason Bourne series)(47)
The intel had been siphoned off of the leak inside Dreadnaught. The fax coughed to life again, spewing out a second sheet. This one had only one paragraph of text, according to which the Bourne Initiative was the designation the now disgraced General MacQuerrie had given to his search for a supposed über cyber weapon a cadre of Russian dissidents had been working on under the supervision of—He now had to break off a moment, pressing his thumb and forefinger against his closed lids in a vain attempt to forestall that tension headache rising like a poisonous toadstool from the hellish depths of wherever it hid itself.
His head throbbing, he took his fingers away, stared down at the four words at the end of the single paragraph: General Boris Illyich Karpov.
Savasin’s stomach gave a great heave. Had he not been told that all of Karpov’s initiatives had been eradicated as completely as if they had never existed? Hadn’t that been guaranteed him? And yet, here was evidence that at least the Americans believed this so-called Bourne Initiative was still alive. Savasin briefly consoled himself with the possibility that this could be a masterful piece of disinformation. But that didn’t last long.
Apart from Bourne, the Americans knew next to nothing about Karpov. Why would they? The general was a mystery even to his own people, and, really, the Americans were idiots. So rule out disinformation. Which left the worst possible scenario: that Karpov had been running a rogue cyber workshop right under their noses, and Savasin’s people had not unearthed it.
Savasin was incensed, as well he should be. He had a brief thought of informing Konstantin, but Savasin was still smarting from the news that the spetsnaz team he had taken over was, to a man, dead. And where was Jason Bourne? God alone knew, and surely God wasn’t speaking to Savasin. Besides, using the FSB had never been the correct method of winkling out what Karpov was up to. There was a better way. More risky, yes, but, as the Americans said, no pain, no gain.
Savasin had barely been in his office two minutes when Malachev appeared. The fact that he had entered without knocking, that the upper eyelid of his left eye was twitching to beat the band, spoke eloquently of his extreme agitation.
Nevertheless, Savasin, whose brother had put him under a very dark cloud indeed, said, “What?”
Instead of being taken aback by his superior’s shortness, Malachev grinned as he placed a mobile phone on Savasin’s desk. “A short video just came in from one of your agents.”
The first minister’s ears pricked up like a hunting dog scenting game. Your agents. Like General Karpov, Savasin had his own cadre of agents in the field, each one on a specific assignment. “Is it the right agent, Igor Ivanovich?”
Malachev gestured. “See for yourself, sir.”
Savasin did. In fact, he watched the surveillance video three times before he lifted his head to look at his second-in-command. Their gazes met like fireworks exploding. “You know what this means, Igor Ivanovich.”
“Indeed, I do, sir. When are you going to spring it on him?”
“Oh, no, no, no. Nothing so straightforward.” His fingers caressed the mobile’s screen. “This calls for something…more elaborate, more byzantine.” A crafty smiled curled his lips at their edges. “Igor Ivanovich.”
“Sir!”
“An extra thousand in the Cypress bank account of the agent who caught this encounter on video.”
“Right away, sir.”
When Savasin was alone, he checked the directory on his second mobile, the one he used only sparingly. Then he took his Makarov from his desk drawer, checked that it was loaded, and, rising, grabbed his overcoat and headed for the door.
Back in his Zil, he gave his driver an address in a district a mile away from where he needed to go. The Zil could wait for him there. He wanted no one, not even his driver and bodyguard, to know his destination.
—
When the Angelmaker entered the surgery, she sensed a change in the atmosphere. Nothing she could put a finger on, but something was definitely different. The doctor rose upon her arrival. He gave her a disapproving face when she signaled him to leave her alone with the patient. Clearly, he didn’t trust her. She couldn’t blame him.
She stepped to the bedside, gazed down at Jason’s face in repose. He had regained much of his color but—and here she reached out, moving her fingertips gently over his cheekbone—in this place where, years ago, Keyre had fractured the bone, the skin tone was slightly different, so subtly that if you didn’t know what to look for you’d not even notice. But the Angelmaker did know, and she saw that the skin over the repaired bone was the tiniest bit paler, as if it belonged to someone else.
“Jason,” she whispered. But all she heard in reply were the rhythmic beeps of the monitor to which he was still hooked up measuring his heart rate, oxygen level, and respiration. She watched the saline and antibiotic solution slowly drip into the vein in the crook of his elbow.
She bent over him, put her lips to his ear. “Jason, it’s raining outside,” she whispered. “Pouring. Thunder rumbling. You have Liis by the hand, you have me under your arm. We’re both bleeding, both hurting. Behind us is the tent. Inside it’s burning; the rain hasn’t yet penetrated. Liis and I are drowning in a night of chaos. You move quickly and stealthily through the camp, avoiding the armed men. We can barely see what’s ahead of us, the rain is so thick. But you know where to go, and I say, ‘I hate you, I hate you, I hate you,’ over and over and over.”