Robert Ludlum's (TM) The Bourne Initiative (Jason Bourne series)(88)
Konstantin went at the vodka again. “You’re to tell the president and your Pentagon comrades that what you call the Bourne Initiative is nothing more than Russian disinformation.”
“But it isn’t.”
“Of course it isn’t, Marshall. Let’s not start being na?ve this late in the game.”
Mention of the Initiative served to focus him. Fulmer’s mind was starting to thaw, to come unstuck from the deep freeze into which it had been hurled and held by the day’s back-to-back shitstorms—the video evidence of his dalliance; the knowledge that he had done it with…how could he have had such strong feeling for a madam; losing Bourne; and now this…
“Then…”
“This is the start of what you will do for me, Marshall—disseminate disinformation that will give us a leg up on foreign affairs, on alliances with other nations, with negotiations on currently thorny topics with your government.”
He lifted up a slim briefcase, snapped it open, laid a file with official Russian Federation, FSB, and, most tellingly, spetsnaz stamps on its cover. He laid his hand over the file. “In here are documents—genuine documents—from Unit 309, our cyber hacking and disinformation group, backing up your assertion that there is, in fact, no such thing as the Bourne Initiative under that designation or any other.”
He pushed the file over. Fulmer didn’t even look at it.
“No.”
“No?” Konstantin reared back. “What do you mean ‘no’? Those photos, that video will ruin you personally and professionally.”
Fulmer reached for the glass, tipped it to his lips, then decided against it, set the glass down with the vodka untouched. He needed his mind perfectly clear, not clouded by Russian vodka. Now that he had his wits about him again, his feet on the floor, as it were, he could see a path out of the abyss into which he had been cast. In fact, there was no abyss; it was a figment of the shock that had gripped him.
Pushing the glass away, Fulmer looked up at Konstantin. “No, they won’t. Not in this new era. I give it up to Jesus, and all will be well. Oh, some feathers will be ruffled, mainly my wife’s, but she’ll get over it. As for my new job, just look at the president—he gets away with anything and everything. The American public is different now; it gets its news from social media, it can and will forgive just about anything. Arrogance and repentance in equal measure is a formula they swallow hook, line, and sinker.”
He took up the frosty bottle, refilled Konstantin’s glass while leaving his own glass still untouched. “So come, gospodin, and let us come to—how to put it best?—a more equitable arrangement.”
“Boldly played, Marshall. Were I in your position—naturally, I wouldn’t be—but if I were, I imagine I’d do the same.”
Fulmer looked smug.
Konstantin extracted a manila envelope from his briefcase, slid it across the table.
Fulmer’s brows furrowed. “What’s this?”
“Open it, Marshall.”
Now everything was flipped; Savasin calling Fulmer by his Christian name was grating on him. He hesitated a moment, then snatched the envelope, turned it over, and opened it. Inside, he found a series of eight-by-ten photos. With a trembling hand, he spread them out. A ball of ice formed in the pit of his stomach. He was staring incredulously at a series of photos identical to the ones Hornden had shown him on his mobile device. Except for one terrifying difference: in these, he was making love to a young girl. Black as coal, and clearly under age.
“Tell me, Marshall, I assume you’ve heard of kompromat,” Konstantin said in a voice turned silky. “It’s an old KGB trick,” he went on without waiting for an answer. “We used to hire prostitutes—swallows, we called them—to seduce our targets in honey traps. But, as you have so eloquently pointed out, that methodology is old hat; it’s a broken wheel. Times change and so does methodology. We’ve updated kompromat, just as we’ve updated the KGB to the FSB.”
“A devil by any name,” Fulmer managed in a hoarse voice.
Konstantin laughed. His fingertip tapped the photos, one after the other. “Be it ever so humble, Marshall. This is your new home. And I—I am your new master. Your control, in the jargon of espiocrats.”
He continued to tap the photos. “Would you care to take these with you, Marshall? A clear and present reminder of your adjusted situation. No? All right then.” He gathered the photos up, slid them back into the envelope, which he deposited in his briefcase.
“Now, I told you that we had updated kompromat. I’ve just shown you one way. Here’s another. You are very important to our plans, long term as well as short term. We required an unbreakable lock for you, and Alyosha Orlova provided it.”
“What? Who?”
“You know her as Fran?oise Sevigne.” A slow smile spread across Konstantin’s face. “You’ve received some very bad advice lately, Marshall.” Opening the laptop, Konstantin brought it out of sleep, pressed several keys, then swiveled it around so Fulmer could see the screen. “Very bad, indeed.”
Fulmer was looking at the web site of Fellingham, Bodeys, the company to which Fran?oise had suggested he move his business. Which he had done forthwith.
He shrugged. “So?”
“So, this.” Reaching around, Konstantin pressed a key that brought up a list of Fellingham, Bodeys’ clients. Among them were the worst of the worst: Robert Mugabe; Viktor Bout, the former world’s number one arms trader, now in jail; three heads of the most powerful Mexican and Colombian drug cartels; two ISIS commanders; the Somalian Keyre, who took over after Bout was caught. The list of malefactors, criminals, and terrorists, though short, was as bitter and hard to take as a spoonful of castor oil. “These are very bad people, evil people that your money is keeping company with. Who knows what deals Fellingham, Bodeys is devising for their clients—you included, Marshall. And if you don’t comply, we’ll send this list and the details of your ill-gotten gains to Justin Farreng and LeakAGE. We’ll do to you what you did to General MacQuerrie, and you know what happened to him.”