Robert Ludlum's (TM) The Bourne Initiative (Jason Bourne series)(60)

“Hah!” her father interjected, draining Savasin’s glass of what was left of the vodka. He made a face. “Vile stuff. I don’t know how you drink it.”

Ekaterina shook her head with a small smile. Clearly, Savasin thought, she was used to indulging the old man’s whims.

“Timur Ludmirovich Savasin, First Minister of the Russian Federation,”—her arm swept out—“may I introduce you to my father, Dima Vladimirovich Orlov.”

Orlov sat with straight spine on the backless stool, crossed his arms over his chicken chest. “Such an exalted figure here in my daughter’s humble atelier.” He wagged his head from side to side. “The modern world moves in mysterious ways; its wonders to perform.”

“I wonder,” Savasin said, wanting to regain control of the situation before this dotty old man ran it off the rails, “do you think it wise to paraphrase the Christian Bible to me?”

Orlov regarded him a moment, a small, disconcerting smile playing about his lips. “Mr. First Minister, are you by any chance referring to the following quote: ‘God moves in mysterious ways; His wonders to perform; He plants His footsteps in the sea, and rides upon the storm’?”

“Indeed, I am,” Savasin said, feeling quite proud of himself.

“The verse is quite beautiful—moving even, is it not?” He cocked his head. “No, but I suppose to a Communist ideologue such as yourself the verse, in mentioning the power of God, is anathema.”

“I can recognize the poetry in the Christian Bible as well as anyone,” Savasin replied somewhat defensively.

“That’s quite a statement, First Minister. Are you certain you want to stand behind it?”

“Why, of course.”

“Well, as it happens that quote isn’t found anywhere in the Christian Bible, whose poetry you purport to admire. It is from a nineteenth-century hymn written by the English poet and hymnodist, Richard Cowper.”

Savasin’s hands curled into fists at his side. He dug his fingernails into his palms in order to keep himself calm, cool, and collected. Having been led like a lamb to the slaughter by this curious relic, it wasn’t an easy task.

“I’m wondering now,” he said slowly and icily, “whether you and your daughter want my help in extricating Alyoshka from—”

“Please don’t call her that,” Ekaterina said.

“It’s not your place,” Dima Orlov said.

“My place?” This was too much. “I am first minister. It’s my place to—”

“Yes, yes, I know who you are,” the old man said testily. “However, I am now of the opinion that you are ignorant of who I am.”

There now was a deathly silence in the atelier. Cerberus had stopped playing. Having detached himself from the piano bench, he took up a position within what Savasin considered striking distance from him. Beset on what seemed all sides, he did not like that at all.

Already regretting his decision to come here, he said, “You appear to have me at a disadvantage, Dima Vladimirovich.”

“Appear? Appear!” Dima exclaimed. “There are no ifs ands or buts about it. Are there, Katya?”

“No, Papa, there aren’t.” She seemed curious and fascinated at the same time. “Your name rings no bells with the first minister.”

“Should it?” Savasin said, equally testily. If not for the looming presence of Cerberus, he might well have stood up and made his exit. Then he thought of the dead dog in the gutter and he remained in place.

“Well, you are the first minister, after all. You are privy to reams and reams of information about the citizens of the Russian Federation, not to mention your enemies. But not me.” Dima was grinning. “But that’s all to the good. It means my people have done their job.”

“Your people?” What people could the old man have? Savasin wondered. In his mind, maybe. He glanced at Ekaterina, but it was like looking at a brick wall. She had nothing for him.

Dima’s grin was widening. “Let me tell you what I believe is happening here, First Minister. You didn’t come to see Katya to help her with our beloved Alyoshka. You came here to elicit my daughter’s help in whatever scheme you have concocted to take your brother, Konstantin, down a couple of pegs.” He unwound his arms to wave one hand. “I won’t ask you whether I’m right, to give you the opportunity to continue dissembling. The three of us must now face the truth of the matter.”

“What truth?” Savasin said, the sharp edge making his voice brittle.

“Patience, Timur Ludmirovich,” Ekaterina advised.

But Savasin, having endured one humiliation after another, starting with that creep Cerberus, was in no mood to be patient. He leapt up and, keeping one eye on the moving mountain, pointed at them. “I’ve had it with you two. An hour from now I’ll be back with a cadre of FSB agents. We’ll see how clever you are when I start interrogating you in the basement of the Lubyanka.”

Ekaterina looked up at him from out of damnably serene eyes. “Calm yourself, Tamerlane.”

At the use of the name of the great conqueror for which Timur was interchangeable, Savasin tried to bank his fury.

“Gospodin Tamerlane,” Dima said, “I am quite certain that you are familiar with the name Ivan Volkin.”