Robert Ludlum's (TM) The Bourne Initiative (Jason Bourne series)(59)

“I’m afraid to inform you that Alyosha has put herself in grave danger.”

Ekaterina stared at him for a moment, her anger causing her to tremble.

“Continue,” she said when she had collected herself.

He gestured. “Shall we be seated?”

“I’d rather stand,” Ekaterina said icily. “So would you.”

“Indeed, yes.” Oh, how this vexing woman cowed him, he thought in anguish. He wished he were back on the dismal streets of Kapotnya, Makarov in hand, like Gary Cooper in High Noon, about to settle old scores.

He spread his hands. “Well, here it is in a nutshell. Alyosha has got herself involved with some high-grade criminals, in an enterprise that—”

“Impossible!” Another explosion.

“My dear Ekaterina, for some unknown reason, your daughter has gone and hooked herself up with her brother.”

“Alyoshka has no brother.”

“All right, then. Her half brother.”

Ekaterina’s eyes opened wide. “Gora?” An emphatic shake of her head. “No, you must be mistaken. She and I see eye-to-eye on Gora: we both hate him.”

“I assure you I’m not.” He dug into his breast pocket. This gesture caused Cerberus to start into motion again until he withdrew his hand, held up the mobile phone so both Ekaterina and her giant minion could see. “I have the proof right here.”

“Fuck you.” With fists dug into her flaring hips, she said: “Show me.”

With the mobile held in front of him, screen first, he activated a video. “We are in Kalmar.”

“Where the hell is that?”

“East coast of Sweden. Close to Russia.” He watched her face closely as the video showed her Alyosha moving along the docks to lean against a railing and, moments later, being joined by a man.

“Who’s that?” Ekaterina said, squinting. “Who is Alyoshka talking with?”

“A man named Larry London,” Savasin said. “Although that’s a legend. His real name is Nikolay Ivanovich Rozin.”

“Never heard of either of them.”

“Information is my business. For the past ten years, Nikolay Ivanovich has been out in the cold, as we say in the trade. Deep undercover in the West. But my brother recently named him head of spetsnaz.”

Ekaterina’s indrawn gasp was audible. “What is she doing with him?”

“I’m afraid that’s not the worst of it, Ekaterina. Please watch.”

Her gaze was fixed to the screen as her daughter took her leave of the false Larry London and stepped down to one of the floating docks where strings of boats were docked on either side. Just before Alyosha stepped aboard a boat near the far end and the video ended, the camera was able to pick out its name, stenciled on the stern.

Ekaterina gave another, deeper gasp. “Yegor Maslov!” She put a hand to her mouth. “Carbon Neutral. That’s Gora’s boat.”

“I’m very much afraid it is.” Savasin shut down the file. “And there you have it.”

Ekaterina, eyes glazed over, sank back down onto the sofa cushion. Cerberus returned to the piano. Taking this as a cue, Savarin perched beside her on the edge, all the while keeping an eye on Cerberus’s profile. He had switched from classical to pop, was in the middle of a curious slowed-down rendition of Kate Bush’s “Running Up That Hill.” As a pianist he had a knack for bringing out the heartache in a melody.

Savasin filled his host’s glass, handed it to her. She drank it as if in a trance.

“What are we to do, Timur Ludmirovich? Alyoshka has fallen into the wrong hands.”

“First, we must determine how far she has fallen,” Savasin said briskly, all business now that he had delivered his hammer blow. “Then we must determine how to extricate her.”

He watched Ekaterina’s dark-blue eyes turn toward him. “We are at a distinct disadvantage.”

“Perhaps,” he acknowledged. “But then again perhaps not.”

“What are you babbling about?” Ekaterina snapped. She was coming out of her shock with almost superhuman alacrity.

“Don’t you see? My brother has appointed a man to be the chief of FSB’s special operations who is clandestinely in collusion with the head of the Kazanskaya mafia.” He grinned broadly. “The whole thing is—I don’t know, what’s the right word—delicious!”

“I don’t believe that would be my word,” Ekaterina sniffed. “But I take your point.” Then, turning, she addressed the old gardener. “Papa, did you get all this?”

When the old man stood up straight, Savasin could see that he was ex-military. He had steel-gray hair, cropped very short, and eyes of the same color as his daughter’s.

“Every word,” he said in a surprisingly strong voice. Without being beckoned forward, he crossed the atelier, bringing a wooden, round-topped stool with him, warding off Cerberus, who had leapt up in mid-melody in order to assist Ekaterina’s father.

“What a world,” he said, as he sat on the stool facing them across the low table. “I hope I die before it gets much worse.”

“Papa, shush!” Ekaterina said in mock dismay. Turning to Savasin, she said, “He’s always saying things like that. It doesn’t mean he means it.”