“I think it would do more than inconvenience you, Viktor Delyagovich,” Karpov said without inflection. “It would be the beginning of your end and the triumph of Nikolai Patrushev, your bitterest enemy.”
“These days, I have bigger fish to fry than Nikolai Patrushev.” Cherkesov said this softly, contemplatively, as if he had forgotten that Karpov was there at all. Then, all at once, he snapped out of it, his eyes refocusing on the colonel. “So killing you is out, which is fortunate, Boris Illyich, because I like you. More to the point, I admire your tenacity as well as your intelligence. Which is why I won’t even bother to bribe you.” He grunted, a sort of laugh gone bad. “You might be the last honest man in Russian intelligence.” He waved the Tokarev. “So where does that leave us?”
“Stalemate,” Karpov offered.
“No, no, no. Stalemate is good for no one, especially you and me, especially at this moment in time. You gave Imov the evidence against Bukin, Imov gave you an assignment. We both have no choice but for you to carry it out.”
“That would be suicide for you,” Karpov pointed out.
“Only if I stay on as head of FSB-2,” Cherkesov said.
Karpov shook his head. “I don’t understand.”
Cherkesov had a miniature two-way radio to his ear. “Come down now,” he said to whoever was on the other end of the line.
There was a smirk on his face that Karpov had never seen before. He took a step toward the colonel and, in a moment, gestured. “Look who’s coming, Boris Illyich.”
Karpov turned and saw Melor Bukin picking his way through the rubble.
“Now,” Cherkesov said, slapping the Tokarev into Karpov’s hand, “do your duty.”
Karpov held the Tokarev behind his back as Melor Bukin approached them. He wondered what Cherkesov had told him, because Bukin was totally relaxed and unsuspecting. His eyes opened wide when Karpov brought out the Tokarev and aimed it at him.
“Viktor Delyagovich, what is the meaning of this?” he said.
Karpov shot him in the right knee, and he went down like a smokestack being demolished.
“What are you doing?” he cried as he clutched his ruined knee. “Are you mad?”
Karpov advanced on him. “I know about your treachery and so does President Imov. Who are the other moles inside FSB-2?”
Bukin stared up at him wide-eyed. “What, what? Moles? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Karpov calmly and deliberately blew his left kneecap to smithereens. Bukin screamed and writhed on the ground like a worm.
“Answer me!” Karpov commanded.
Bukin’s eyes were bloodshot. He was pale and trembling in shock and agony. “Boris Illyich, doesn’t our history mean anything? I’m your mentor, I was instrumental in bringing you into FSB-2.”
Karpov loomed over him. “All the more reason that I be the one to clean your dirty house.”
“But, but, but,” Bukin sputtered, “I was just following orders.” He pointed at Cherkesov. “His orders.”
“How easily he lies,” Cherkesov said.
“No, Boris Illyich, it’s the truth, I swear.”
Karpov squatted by Bukin’s side. “I know how we can solve this problem.”
“I need a fucking hospital,” Bukin moaned. “I’m bleeding to death.”
“Tell me the names of the moles,” Karpov said. “Then I’ll take care of you.”
Bukin’s bloodshot eyes darted between him and Cherkesov.
“Forget him,” Karpov said. “I’m the one standing between you and bleeding out here in this cesspit.”
Bukin swallowed heavily, then gave up the names of three men inside FSB-2.
“Thank you,” Karpov said. He stood up and shot Bukin between the eyes.
Then he turned to Cherkesov and said, “What’s to stop me from killing you or taking you in?”
“You may be incorruptible, Boris Illyich, but you know which side of the bread is buttered, or will be.” Cherkesov took out a cigarette and lit up. He did not once look at his fallen lieutenant. “I can clear the way for you to become head of the FSB-2.”
“So can President Imov.”
“True enough.” Cherkesov nodded. “But Imov can’t guarantee that one of the other commanders won’t drop polonium into your tea or slip a stiletto between your ribs one night.”
Karpov knew very well that Cherkesov still had the power to identify and sweep away any of his potential enemies inside FSB-2. He was the only one who could clear Karpov’s path.
“Let me get this straight,” he said. “You’re proposing that I take your job?”
“Yes.”
“And what of you? Imov will want your head.”
“Of course he will, but he’ll have to find me first.”
“You’ll go into hiding, become a fugitive?” Karpov shook his head. “I don’t see that future for you.”
“Neither do I, Boris Illyich. I am going to the seat of a higher power.”
“Higher than the FSB?”
“Higher than the Kremlin.”
Karpov frowned. “And what would that be?”
Cherkesov’s eyes glittered. “Tell me, Boris Illyich, have you ever heard of Severus Domna?”
22
MARKS GRABBED HIS left thigh, grimacing in pain. The unseen sniper continued to pepper the area. Bourne darted out, took hold of Marks, and dragged him to safety.
“Keep your head down, Peter.”
“Tell that to your pal Moreno,” Marks said. “My fucking head is down.”
“You’re welcome.” Bourne inspected the wound, determining that the bullet hadn’t severed an artery. Then he ripped a sleeve off Marks’s shirt and used it as a tourniquet, tying it around his thigh above the wound.
“I’m not going to forget this,” Marks said.
“No, only I do that,” Bourne said with such a sardonic edge that Marks had to laugh, albeit drily.
Bourne edged around the front of the Opel. He breathed easily and deeply as he scanned the thick line of trees. He’d been up in one of them not so very long ago, and he used his eidetic memory, honed by his Treadstone training, to reconstruct the best possible places for a sniper to secrete himself. By the way both Ottavio Moreno and Marks fell he had a clear idea of where the shooter must be. He put himself in the sniper’s head: Where would he put himself that both had a clear view of the front door and was deeply sheltered?
He heard Chrissie calling, and from the level of anxiety in her voice realized that she must have been shouting to him for some time. Crawling back to the other end of the Opel, he called, “I’m okay. Stay inside until I come get you.”
Scuttling back to the taillights, he sprinted out of cover, hurling himself into the tree line. A volley of shots smacked into the Opel’s front end. From the beginning of the attack, he’d counted the shots. After the last flurry, he’d calculated that the sniper needed time to reload. A couple of seconds was all he needed to reach the protection of the trees. Now he went hunting.
In among the pines and oaks, perpetual shadows clung to the thick jigsaw of branches. Here and there, light filtered through in tiny diamonds, winking and glittering as the wind stirred the woods. Bourne, in a semi-crouch, picked his way through the underbrush, taking care not to crunch down on twigs or pinecones. He made no sound. Every five or six paces he stopped, watching and listening as a fox or a stoat will, alert for both prey and enemies.
He caught sight of a small flash of black-and-brown, blurred, winking out almost before it had a chance to register. He headed toward it. Briefly he considered taking to the trees, but was concerned that dislodged debris would give away his position. At some point he changed direction, veering away, circling to come upon the sniper from the side. As he continued, he repeatedly checked behind and above him for any sign of the sniper.
The glint of metal up ahead pushed him onward at a more rapid pace. Peering out from behind the bole of an oak, he could see the right shoulder and hip of the sniper. He knelt behind a dense patch of underbrush, then scuttled around behind him. A narrow gap between two pines afforded him an excellent view of the front door and driveway. Bourne caught a glimpse of Ottavio Moreno on the ground in a pool of blood. Marks was hidden behind the flank of Moreno’s Opel. Bourne supposed the sniper was waiting for someone to move. He seemed bent on shooting to death everyone who ventured outside the house. Was he NSA, CI, or a soldier of Severus Domna? Only one way to find out.