Robert Ludlum's (TM) The Bourne Initiative (Jason Bourne series)(61)

“Of course I am.” Savasin was confused by the sudden switch in topic. “He was an eminence grise, a kind of consigliere to a number of the grupperovka leaders.”

Dima nodded. “That’s right. Last year, Volkin was killed in Moscow by Jason Bourne.”

“That is known to me,” Savasin said in a calmer voice. “The American agent provocateur did us all a favor.”

“He did what the FSB—even the Sovereign—could not do.”

“What’s your point?”

Dima lifted a hand. “Please sit down.”

Savasin waited the requisite amount of time so as not to give the impression that he was following an order. When he was seated, Dima said, “As it happens, Bourne did me a favor, as well.”

Savasin frowned. “How, precisely?”

“Ivan Volkin was a fucking pain in my side.”

The curse coming out of the old man’s mouth was initially startling, but then it got the first minister to thinking that he had sized up the situation all wrong. Sitting before him wasn’t any old dotty man, indulged and put to use by his daughter as a gardener. Dima was the power here, not Ekaterina. Savasin almost slapped himself. Egged on by his superior position, he had been blinded by his hubris.

“Then we have something in common,” he said in his most accommodating voice.

“That we do, Tamerlane,” Dima said. “More than you know.”





22



The late hour was growing even later. The low lamplight was even lower. Harry Hornden had not returned. Fulmer sat very still, stewing in his own juices. On the one hand, he wanted to get out of here, find Max, and turn him over to Department of Homeland Security. On the other hand, and to his complete surprise, he felt a keen desire to stay here with Gwyneth. It had been a long time since Fulmer had found himself smitten the way he was with this woman. He was floored. How could his wife and children have so quickly come to seem part of another universe, existing as no more than photos in a drawer in a desk in an office belonging to someone he once might have known?

Gwyneth had her back to him. She was pouring herself another drink. His gaze was fixed on the taut globes of her buttocks, as visible as the arcing crease between them.

“Marshall,” she said, “may I ask why you’re still here?” She turned around. “After all, you have what you came for.”

“What is that you’re drinking?” Fulmer said, levering himself off the sofa.

“Absinthe.” Gwyneth held up her stemmed cordial glass. The drink was emerald green. “The real thing.”

Fulmer had heard vague stories about absinthe but he had felt no particular reason to give them his attention. He watched, fascinated, as Gwen placed a cube of sugar in a slotted spoon, placed the spoon over the glass, and slowly poured a thin stream of water from a chilled carafe over the sugar cube. The result was startling; the drink clouded up, turning a pale, icy green.

“It’s a liqueur. French,” she said, putting the paraphernalia down. “It was brought back here by the black expats who spent time in Paris.”

“Well, then I definitely have no interest.”

Gwyneth pursed her lips. “Who is it you don’t care for? The French or blacks?”

“The French are idiots. The French love themselves. The French think they know everything about everything, and yet they can’t even run their own country. I hate the French.”

“And blacks?”

“The French took them in, didn’t they? Accepted them as equals. I told you they were idiots.”

“Here, try this.” Gwyneth held out the glass. “Maybe this will assuage some of your hatred.”

“Nothing’s going to do that.”

That smile again, the slight curving of those luscious lips. “As long as you’re here.”

She came and stood in front of him, so close he could feel the heat emanating from her. He had no choice but to inhale her scent.

“What’s that perfume you’re wearing?”

“Do you like it?”

“I do.”

She smiled. “I’m not wearing perfume.”

If Fulmer were capable of blushing, which he was not, his neck and cheeks would be aflame. To take his mind off his reaction to her, he took the proffered glass.

“You know, absinthe was made for late-night drinking.”

He took a sip, experienced many flavors at once: licorice, a very distinct herbal undertone, and a certain bitterness, as if he had been gnawing on a root.

“What do you think?”

“It isn’t terrible.” He took another sip.

Gwyneth laughed. “It contains thujone, an essential component of wormwood, as well as a combination of powerful herbs. The mind is cleared, energizing the body, while the alcohol serves as a relaxant. Really, there’s nothing else like it.”

She regarded him from beneath long lashes. “And as for the French, they know how to have sex.”

Fulmer engaged her eyes with his own. “I don’t like that Max put his hands on you.”

She sipped the absinthe while the glass was still in his hand. “Max paid for that privilege, Marshall. You, on the other hand—”

As he grabbed her around her narrow waist, the cordial glass fell to the carpet, spilling what was left of the absinthe on his shoes. Too wrapped up in closing with her, he scarcely gave it a thought.