Robert Ludlum's (TM) The Bourne Initiative (Jason Bourne series)(9)

“All right. Go ahead and bulldoze the fucker.”

“Really? It’s such a beautiful dacha.”

Savasin laughed under his breath. Malachev was so transparent—one of his assets, as far as Savasin was concerned: “Keep the reins tight on your horses; feed them only oats you grow yourself,” his father had taught him; the old man might have been cruel, might have loved his vodka a bit too much, but he was no one’s fool. It was a good lesson for Malachev to learn: seeing the dacha he coveted leveled, and he himself giving the order for its destruction.

Afterward, in the plush backseat of the armor-plated limousine transporting them back to Moscow Center, Malachev said, “Sir, what was it exactly you were looking for?”

Savasin sat back, thinking that if it were Karpov sitting next to him, after having searched a rogue general’s dacha, he would already know the answer. But then Karpov was nobody’s lapdog, not even the Sovereign’s; that sonuvabitch did whatever the hell he pleased, including marrying a Ukrainian with dissident ties. Clever people like him had no business wielding so much power in the Federation; they were far too dangerous.

He sighed now, staring out at the blurred landscape, which was becoming more muscular with Brutalist buildings shoulder to shoulder like staunch Russian soldiers the closer they got to the ring road that girdled the metropolis.

“It seems that the general had any number of secret initiatives he was commanding before he died.”

“Without the Sovereign’s knowledge?”

Malachev seemed shocked, but was he really? Savasin asked himself. “Precisely. I am assured we’ve dismantled them all.”

“Why do I sense the other shoe is about to drop?”

“You’re right,” Savasin said smugly. “General Karpov’s best friend, the American Jason Bourne, was in country several times over the last year.”

“He was at the general’s wedding, I recall.”

The first minister nodded. “Indeed. But he returned later on, around the time that Ivan Volkin died. I have no doubt Bourne murdered him, and took with him an enormous amount of money I believe Karpov had stolen from who knows where.”

“So Bourne is ground zero for answers,” Malachev said, finally getting with the program.

“There is no question in my mind.” Savasin shifted from one buttock to another to ease a cramp in his calf. “Which is why I would dearly like to dispatch a Vympel spetsnaz death squad to take Bourne out—if we only knew where he was. With his termination we will finally be able to bury the last of Boris Illyich Karpov.”

“That’s Volodarsky’s bailiwick,” Malachev pointed out. “I’ve warned you about him.”

“Stop.” Savasin had taken out his mobile. “Volodarsky has assured me he’s close to pinning Bourne’s location down.” He began to text as they arrived at their destination. “But just in case, Igor, I wish you to make your own inquiries. Discreetly, of course.”

“Always,” Malachev said, letting himself out.

Savasin did not miss the wolfish smile on his second-in-command’s face.



Fran?oise Sevigne heard the knock on the hotel room door and, with one last emoji, sent her last text before dropping her mobile into her oversize handbag. Fran?oise came away from the window overlooking the marina in Kalmar, Sweden. Kalmar was in the southeast of the country, with easy access to the Baltic, via the Kalmar Strait, a narrow body of water separating the Swedish mainland from its largest island.

She opened the door for Justin Farreng, a slim, sandy-haired man with a perpetually harried expression. He slipped into the room, and she closed the door after him, double locking it. He was on her in an instant, his need overwhelming. She welcomed it as a mother welcomes the need of her child, as a totality, as something only she can assuage.

He took her up against the wall, as he often did, a breathless time when they made love like war, their clothes rucked, the fabrics rubbing skin to red welts, their voices rising and falling like a tide. The second time was in bed, naked, comfortable and comforting, slower but also fierce, in the way they threw each other around, like wrestlers grappling. Then rest. Perhaps twenty minutes of deep sleep for him, a letting go of the anxieties he carried around as a salesman clutches his samples case. The third time was languid, warm water cascading down on them from the showerhead. He lifted her as easily as he would lift a child, hands cupped against her buttocks, their heat rebuilding itself from glowing embers, heating the water as well as themselves. Steam enveloped them.

Later, reclining on the bed, propped up on one elbow, she watched while he dressed. “You’re leaving early.”

“I have a tight schedule.”

She laughed softly, scrambled over the bed, sat at the foot, legs spread, thrilling to how instantly his gaze was magnetized.

“Stay,” she said.

“I can’t. I’m meeting—”

She spread her thighs further. Their insides were still wet. “A man like you…”

Half dressed, he came toward her, close enough for her to unzip his trousers. She pulled him down on top of her, guided him into her.

She stared up into his eyes but saw nothing of interest. Weeks ago, she had realized there was nothing but shiny surface frosting. What lay beneath was nothing—nothing at all. Justin had been born into poverty. His father took six weeks to die from a factory accident that took his leg and part of his hip. No one could be bothered to reduce his pain, let alone try to save his life. As a consequence, Justin had one holy mother of an axe to grind with the world at large. He was a very determined man; this made him incautious, even reckless. Foolish, in other words, though there could be no doubt that in matters of getting his revenge he was smart as a whip.