She slammed her elbow into the left-hand agent’s nose, at the vulnerable place where it met the upper lip, so rich with nerve endings. Blood spurted, the agent grabbed his nose, his eyes watering in pain, but Irina was too busy to notice. As she had been taught in martial arts classes, she had pinched the aortic carotid of the agent on her right, stopping the blood flow from his heart to his brain. The agent tried to swipe at her, but there was waning strength in his left arm, and she batted it away without trouble. He was reaching for his handgun when his eyes rolled up in his head and he pitched forward, slamming his forehead against the back of the front seat.
By this time, the driver, with one hand on the wheel, had his own pistol out, but Irina, leaning forward, slapped both palms against his ears with such force he almost blacked out. Taking his pistol from him was a snap. Now she held it against his temple, giving him instructions on where she wanted him to take her and by what route.
Fifteen minutes later, she told him to pull into the curb adjacent to a burned-out building. The street was deserted; the streetlights were blown out. A shadowed night had fallen over the block and its surroundings. Dogs barked, a gun was fired, followed by raucous laughter. High-decibel music shot out of an open window like water from a fire hose.
The driver licked his lips. “You sure you want to get out here?”
Irina clubbed him behind the ear with the butt of the handgun, and he fell sideways, insensate. She leaned across one of the unconscious agents, opened the door, then kicked him into the curb.
Stepping out onto the agent’s broad back, she looked around, breathing in the soot and ashes that identified the block. Glass shards littered the sidewalk, garbage skittered everywhere, fetching against piles of dog shit. She had been here before many times, years ago. She had been taken into this building, now a rancid shell of its former self, just like the block. Her nostrils flared. Funny how strong some memories were. She could still smell the sweat, tobacco, liquor, and fine Italian leather that in her mind were associated with her uncle. At once overcome, she turned, gagging, and vomited onto the FSB agent sprawled in the gutter. Damn her uncle to hell, she thought as she wiped her lips with the back of her hand. The acrid taste of bile was in her mouth, along with the memory-taste of what her uncle spewed down her throat. His big hand pressing like a vise on the top of her head, so powerful, but for an instant trembling as he cried out. And then the hand pushing her roughly away into a shadowed corner of the empty apartment in the building he owned. Then him near her again, his rasping voice in her ear: “This is your fault, understand? If you weren’t so damned pretty…” Breathing heavily, like an overheated engine. “If you tell anyone, your shame will be the death of you.”
Irina looked into the interior of the Skoda. She knew she should kill these men; they were like the green-headed flies of high summer that would not give up trying to bite you until you brought the hammer down, flattening them. But there was another way, a better way.
She could feel them all around: the eyes watching her. Petty thieves, local drug dealers, the indigent, the long-suffering, all holding a grudge against the system that reveled in grinding down the have-nots to little nubs, shadows on a graffitied wall. She wondered what they made of her in her fabulous low-cut dress and satin fuck-me heels. Holding a handgun at her side. It didn’t matter. She wasn’t afraid. Why should she be? Like all predators they could smell what she really was, the wildness inside her. Despite her moneyed background she had more in common with them than she had with Colonel Korsolov’s federal minions.
“Vsë puchkóm!” she yelled. It’s all good. “They’re FSB motherfuckers, boys!” Her voice echoed hollowly. But she knew they heard her, were listening with every fiber of their being, as she would have done had she been in their place. “There’s a treasure trove inside this Skoda and no one to stop you.” And then to herself, “Happy May Day, you poor shits.”
As Irina strode swiftly down the block, she heard their furtive scurrying, like hungry rats awakening from a troubled slumber. Before she had reached the cross street, they had surrounded the Skoda, were picking clean the three unconscious agents, tearing and rending, stomping and kicking as they cursed through gritted teeth. At last, the sweet revenge of the underclass!
Irina continued on her way, leaving her memories behind with the new wave of violence. She felt free, redeemed, defiant. And why not? She knew precisely where she was going.
11
Svetlana awoke to see Misha’s pale, handsome face looming anxiously above her.
“Where—?” She winced at the pain in her jaw. Her head throbbed. It felt like it was three times its normal size.
“You’re in the hospital,” her brother said. “You were drunk, you stumbled and fell in the hotel room. Luckily, one of Colonel Korsolov’s men found you.”
“Yes. Lucky,” she managed to get out, not without considerable pain. Then full consciousness overwhelmed her. She stared up at Misha with bloodshot eyes. “Boris,” she whispered, her voice tremulous and reedy. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”
“Oh, Lana, I’m so sorry.”
She squeezed her eyes closed. Even that caused her pain, or maybe it was the blood pulsing in her temples. Good God, she thought, how could so much go so wrong so quickly?
“Lana—”
“Don’t,” she said sharply. “Don’t even.”
Silence. Just the inhuman breathing that filled all hospital rooms, along with the sickly sweet smell of sickness, old age, and the aftermath of operations.
She opened her eyes. They were enlarged, filled with tears that welled up and cascaded down the sides of her face. Misha popped a tissue out of a box and wiped her eyes. She wanted to tell him to stop, but she lacked the strength. Or perhaps it was real desire. She loved Misha—despite everything.
“I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”
“You had cause.” Misha balled up the damp tissue and threw it into a plastic can. Everything in the room seemed to be made of plastic. He cleared his throat. “Nevertheless, Lana, I am genuinely sorry. I know you loved him.”
The ghost of a half smile lifted one side of her mouth, all she was capable of at the moment. “You never understood that, did you?”
“Considering who he was—”
“He was Boris Illyich Karpov, Misha. You mean what he was.”
Misha nodded. “All right.”
“You never knew him so you don’t get to judge him, especially now.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Stop saying that. For God’s sake.”
“What do you want me to say, then?”
“Where’s Mama and Papa?”
“Downstairs. Mama’s in tears, of course. And Papa’s pacing a hole in the linoleum. Still, I thought it better I came up to see you first, in case…” His voice drifted off into a kind of darkness Svetlana recognized.
“In case I was unfit to be seen, yes?”
He hesitated, but her eyes bored into his and, as usual, he acquiesced to his sister in warrior mode. He nodded. “I didn’t know how badly you were hurt in the fall.”
“I didn’t fall, Misha.”
“What? But we were told—”
“Since when do you believe what you’re told by government goons?”
“But at your wedding… I mean, there was no reason to lie. Was there?”
“Don’t be a fool. From their perspective, there’s always a reason to lie.”
He perched on the edge of her bed so he could be closer to her. “Tell me, then.”
She licked her lips. “Water, please.”
He filled a plastic cup from the plastic pitcher, pressed a button for the top half of the bed to lift her up. When she’d drained the cup, he said, “More?” She shook her head, winced again, and he took the cup from her, put it aside. “Now.”
She closed her eyes again for a moment. She felt dizzy, the room was spinning, and she was falling, her stomach seeming to rise up into her throat so that she was certain she w
as going to vomit. She popped open her eyes, Misha saw her distress at once.
“Lana.” His hand on her forehead, smoothing back tendrils of hair, soothing her, cooling her as it had when, as a little girl, she’d come down with a fever. Then he’d stay with her, tell her stories so goofy they’d make her laugh, no matter how ill she was. Now, looking at him, she wondered if he would have rather been out playing ball or running with his pals during her confinements, and a wave of tenderness she hadn’t felt for him in many years overcame her.
“Misha.” She took his free hand in hers. “I love you.”
And there was that smile she had come to rely on all through her girlhood, radiating out, encompassing her, making her feel everything would be all right. But it wasn’t all right—not now, maybe never. With Boris gone, everything changed. Everything had turned to ash. Boris had been their last, best hope, and now he was gone. Still, she wasn’t powerless; she had made sure of that.
Misha leaned over, kissed her carefully on both cheeks. When he drew back, he said, “Lana, what happened to you? Please tell me.”
She shook her head, though pain shot down her neck. “Absolutely not. Misha, you’re the golden boy, the chosen one of the family. Papa counts on you as heir to the business. You must remain innocent—beyond reproach.”
He shook his head. “I don’t understand. What has that to do with—”
“I’m the black sheep of the family, Misha. The less you know about my life the better.”
“Lana.” He took her hand in both of his. “Don’t do this to me. Don’t shut me out.”
“I’m protecting you, Misha.”
“You’ve always protected me,” he said with the kind of gratitude tinged with regret. “But this… I mean if it’s true it wasn’t an accident, I absolutely have to know. I’m your brother. You must tell me what happened. I know you won’t tell Mama and Papa.”
“Misha…”
“Please.”
So she did. She told him how Lieutenant Avilov had held her captive, provoked her, at last told her what had happened to Boris. “Then he took me by force,” she said.
“He… Lana, he raped you?”
“You should see what I did to his face,” she said grimly. “No, I take that back. I don’t want you anywhere near that pig. He’s far too dangerous—for you, toxic.”
“Bljákha-múkha!”
Svetlana tried to smile. Even his curses were G-rated. “My face will heal. I’ll be fine,” she said. “He’s going to need plastic surgery to be able to look at himself in the mirror.”
“Good for you.” A wan smile flickered across Misha’s face, was quickly replaced by his look of concern. “But, Lana, he raped you. Say the word and Papa will press charges.”
“I’m not going to press charges, Misha.”
He reared back. “What?”
Svetlana gingerly touched her wounded jaw and cheek with the tips of her fingers. “Avilov works for Timur Savasin.”
“The first minister.” Misha’s face had drained of blood.
Svetlana nodded. “The first minister.”
“It doesn’t matter.” Misha seemed to have recovered his equilibrium. “It doesn’t matter who he works for, he can’t—”
“You see, Misha, this is why I didn’t want to tell you. You know nothing of this kind of business.”
“I’ll explain the situation to Papa. I—”
“No!” She gripped his hand, her nails making white crescents in his palm. “I forbid it. Misha, do you hear me? You’ll tell Papa nothing of this. You’ll go back to work and do nothing.” Her eyes searched his. “Promise me.”
Misha hesitated, then nodded. “All right.”
“Say it, Misha.” Her voice had become anxious and urgent. “You must say the words.”
“Okay, Lana. I promise.”
She relaxed then, leaned back into the pillows, her eyes falling closed once more. “Good. No one can touch Avilov, not even Papa.”
12
Ivan Volkin had a smile like a fox. He might have cultivated it, but Bourne was of the opinion he’d been born with it.
“You know, we’re lucky, you and I,” Ivan said.
The bottle of vodka was half empty. An hour or more had passed in talk of Boris, Maslov pére, the grupperovka clans—in other words, the old days. Boris’s death had turned Ivan nostalgic and a touch melancholy. There was no use fighting it; Bourne went with the flow, in the process gleaning nuggets of information that one day might serve him well. Now, at last, Ivan was emerging from that faraway world.
“We love what we do,” he said, “which is more than you can say for ninety-nine percent of the world.”
“How do you know I love what I do?” Bourne said.
“Why, it’s clear as a virgin’s conscience,” Ivan said, his crafty smile spreading to his cheeks and eyes. “Otherwise, you’d be dead by now.” Then he laughed. “You know, you drink like a fucking Russian.”
And once again Bourne thought of Reykjavík. “One of the things Boris taught me.”
“Of course.” Ivan nodded. “He would have.”
Bourne put the dregs of the vodka aside. He’d had more than enough for one night.
“Alë, garázh!” said a familiar voice just over his shoulder. “You have strange friends.”
Ivan laughed at her ironic address.
Bourne turned. “Irina.”
Ivan, still laughing in delight, lifted a hand in an almost Roman hail, “Ah, Jason, I see you have met my granddaughter, Irina Vasilýevna Volkin.” He shook his head. “Now why am I not surprised?”
“What are you doing here?” Bourne said with a frown.
Ivan waved her to a seat. “Irochka, come, sit between us.”
Bourne turned to her as she sat, poured the last of the vodka into Bourne’s glass, and swigged it down. “You’re supposed to be in custody.”
“Custody?” Ivan’s great whiskery brows knit together. “Irochka, what does this mean? Why should you be in custody?”
“I’m afraid it’s because of me,” Bourne said. “I made a deal with an FSB colonel. He’s allowed me forty-eight hours to find Boris’s murderer or he’s going to charge Irina with the crime. She was supposed to be in custody to keep me honest, he said.”
With each word Ivan’s countenance darkened like a rainstorm blowing in over mountain peaks. “Colonel? What colonel?”
“His name is Korsolov,” Bourne said.
“Chërt voz’mí!” Ivan cried. Goddammit.
“You know him, I take it.”
“I knew that goat fucker when he was just a snot-nosed kid.” Ivan grunted. “Used to wet the bed, he did. Had dreams of falling and dying, his father told me once. He’d wake up in a puddle of pee.” He grunted. “Probably still does.” He looked out onto the river, at the moonlight reflecting off its surface. “He thinks he’s a man now, but I know the truth. He’s still that little boy. No time has passed. Boris did not understand this. Or perhaps he understood it too well. Korsolov was someone he could control. Life is like that sometimes. In his line of work, you choose not by competence but by who you can be sure of.”
His eyes cut to Bourne. “He’s not going to touch a hair on my granddaughter’s head, you have my word on that. Is he making your life miserable, too?”
“Peering over my shoulder every chance he gets,” Bourne said. “He’s a real ljubopýtnaya Varvára.” A Curious George.
“Now?”
“I ditched the company car with its tracking device, stole a motorcycle, and came here. I’m clean.”
“So am I. The three goons who tried to take me in are no longer among the living.” Irina said this as if she were making small talk at a social tea.
“Did you take care of them yourself?” Ivan shook his head. “No, króshka, you’re too smart for that.”
“Now you tell me what’s really going on,” Bourne said.
Irina sighed. “I need more vodka.”
No sooner had Ivan raised a han
d than another bottle in its iced container and another shot glass appeared tableside. Ivan made no move, watched as Irina hefted the bottle, unscrewed the top. Filled the shot glass. Then she tilted the bottle to her lips. The contents gurgled down her throat. Ivan appeared unperturbed. She slid the bottle back into its bed of ice, licked her lips, then addressed Bourne.
“My father and older brother worked for Ivan—beneath the table, you understand. Somehow, the FSB found out.”
“Boris didn’t order the raid,” Ivan added. “He was out of the country.”
“He was with me in Damascus, as it happens,” Bourne said.
Ivan nodded, and Irina continued. “In his absence, the raid was authorized by Korsolov.”
“If Boris had been in Moscow,” Ivan said, “the raid never would have taken place.” There seemed no rancor against Boris; he was, it appeared to Bourne, stating a fact as much to reassure his granddaughter as to inform Bourne.
Irina only shrugged. Whether or not she believed Ivan was unclear. This told Bourne something crucial about her personality. She trusted no one—not even blood. Rare for a Russian.
“Why did you lie to me?” Bourne said, already knowing the answer.
She shrugged again. “What did I know about you?” Then a tiny smile crept across her face like a water spider skimming the surface of a pond. “Now I find you with Krýsha.”
Krýsha literally meant “roof,” but it was street slang for the head of the grupperovka. Also the protection money for a business demanded by the mob. Bourne wondered how many of those definitions applied to Irina’s use of the word.
“How did you two meet?” she asked now.
“Years ago,” Ivan said. He appeared to check his fingernails. “Jason killed Dimitri, you know.”