The Bourne Betrayal (36 page)

“Oh, Oleksandr,” she whispered. “What are we to do?”

The boxer turned his muzzle up to her, licked her face.

She closed her eyes, deepened her breathing. Gradually, feeling the comforting thump-thump of Oleksandr’s heartbeat, she gave in to the stealthy approach of sleep.

MATTHEW
LERNER
and Jon Mueller had met ten years ago by fortuitous accident in a whorehouse in Bangkok. The two men had a lot in common besides whoring, drinking, and killing. Like Lerner, Mueller was a loner, a self-taught genius at tactical operation and strategic analysis. The moment they met, they recognized something in each other that drew them, even though Lerner was CI and Mueller, at the time,
NSA
.

Lerner, walking through the air terminal in Odessa, moving closer to his target, had cause to think of Jon Mueller and all Mueller had taught him when his cell phone rang. It was Weller at D.C. Metro Police, where Lerner had a number of men on his payroll.

“What’s up?” Lerner asked as soon as he’d recognized the desk sergeant’s voice.

“I thought you’d want to know. Overton’s missing.”

Lerner stood still, jostled as other arriving and departing passengers strode by him. “What?”

“Didn’t show for his shift. Not answering his cell. Hasn’t been home. He’s dead gone, Matt.”

Lerner, his mind churning, watched a pair of policemen pass. They stopped for a moment to talk to a comrade who was coming in the opposite direction, then moved on, their eyes alert.

Into the significant silence, Weller ventured a postscript. “Overton was working on a case for you, wasn’t he?”

“That was awhile ago,” Lerner lied. What Overton was doing for him was none of Weller’s business. “Hey, thanks for the heads-up.”

“It’s what you pay me for,” Weller said before hanging up.

Lerner grabbed his small suitcase and moved to the side of the terminal passageway. Instinct told him that Overton was more than missing-he was dead. The question he asked himself now was: How had Anne Held had him killed? Because he knew as sure as he was standing in the Odessa air terminal that Held was behind Overton’s death.

Perhaps he’d seriously underestimated the bitch. Clearly she hadn’t been intimidated by Overton’s house break-in. Just as clearly, she had decided to fight back. Too bad he was so far away. He’d relish butting heads with her. But at the moment, he had bigger fish to fillet.

He opened his cell, dialed an unlisted Washington number. He waited while the call went through the usual security switching. Then a familiar voice answered.

“Hey, Matt.”

“Hey, Jon. I’ve got an interesting one for you.”

Jon Mueller laughed. “All your jobs are interesting, Matt.”

That was true. Briefly, Lerner described Anne Held, bringing Mueller up to date on the situation.

“The escalation caught you by surprise, didn’t it?”

“I underestimated her,” Lerner admitted. He and Jon had no secrets from each other. “Don’t you do the same.”

“Gotcha. I’ll take her out.”

“I mean it, Jon. This is one serious bitch. She’s got resources I know nothing about. I never imagined she could have Overton offed. But don’t make a move before you talk to the secretary. This is his game, it’s his decision whether or not to roll the dice.”

Dr. Pavlyna was waiting for him just past the line of Customs and Immigration kiosks. Lerner hadn’t thought about it, but with a name like that he should’ve realized she’d be a woman. She was now CI chief of station in Odessa. A woman. Lerner made a mental note to do something about that as soon as he got back to D.C.

Dr. Pavlyna was a rather handsome woman, tall, deep-breasted, imposing, her thick, dark hair streaked with gray, though to look at her face she couldn’t be past forty.

They walked through the terminal, out into an afternoon warmer than he’d imagined. He’d never been to Odessa before. He’d been expecting Moscow weather, which he’d unhappily endured several times.

“You’re in luck, Mr. Lerner,” Dr. Pavlyna said as they crossed a road on the way to the parking lot.

“I’ve had contact with this man Bourne you need to find. Not direct contact, mind you. It seems he’s been injured. A knife wound to the side. No vital organs pierced, but a deep wound nonetheless. He’s lost a lot of blood.”

“How d’you know all this if you’ve had no direct contact with him?”

“Fortunately, he’s not alone. He’s with one of us. Soraya Moore. She appeared at my door last night. Bourne was too badly hurt to accompany her, she said. I gave her antibiotics, sutures, and the like.”

“Where are they?”

“She didn’t say, and I didn’t ask.
SOP
.”

“That’s a pity,” Lerner said, meaning it. He wondered what the hell Soraya was doing here. How had she known Bourne was here unless Martin Lindros had sent her? But why would he do thatBourne notoriously worked alone . . . the assignment made no sense. Lerner would dearly have liked to call Lindros on his decision, but of course he couldn’t. His own presence here was a secret, a point made clear to Dr. Pavlyna when the Old Man had called her.

They’d stopped at a new silver Skoda Octavia RS, a small but neat sports wagon. Dr. Pavlyna opened the doors, and they got in.

“The
DCI
himself told me to give you all the assistance I could organize.” Dr. Pavlyna drove through the lot, paid her ticket. “There have been some newer developments. It seems Bourne is wanted by the police for the killing of four men.”

“That means he’s going to have to get out of Odessa as quickly and as stealthily as possible.”

“That’s certainly what I would do.” She waited for an opening in the traffic flow and pulled out.

Lerner’s practiced eye took in everything around him. “This is a relatively big city. I’m sure there are a number of ways to get out.”

“Naturally.” Dr. Pavlyna nodded. “But very few of them will be open to him. For instance, the heightened police presence at the airport. He can’t get out that way.”

“Don’t be so sure. The guy’s a fucking chameleon.”

Dr. Pavlyna, moved left, accelerating into the passing lane. “You forget that he’s badly wounded. Somehow the police know this. It would be too much of a risk.”

“What then?” Lerner said. “Train, car?”

“Neither. The railway system won’t get him out of Ukraine; driving would take too long and prove too hazardous-roadblocks and the like. Especially in his condition.”

“That leaves boat.”

Dr. Pavlyna nodded. “There’s a passenger ferry from Odessa to Istanbul, but it only runs once a week. He’d have to hole up for four days before the next one sails.” She considered for a moment as she put on more speed. “Odessa’s lifeblood is commerce. Freight and rail ferries run several times a day between here and a number of destinations: Bulgaria, Georgia, Turkey, Cyprus, Egypt. Security is relatively slack. In my opinion, that’s far and away his best bet.”

“Then you’d better get us there first,” Lerner said, “or we’ll lose him for sure.”

Yevgeny Feyodovich strode purposely into the Privoz farmers’ market. He headed directly toward Egg Row without his usual stops to smoke and gab with his circle of buddies. This morning, he had no time for them, no time for anything but getting the hell out of Odessa.

Magda, the partner with whom he owned the kiosk, was already there. It was Magda’s farm from which the eggs came. He was the one with the capital.

“Had anyone come around asking for me?” he said as he came around behind the counter.

She was uncrating the eggs, separating the colors and sizes. “Quiet as a churchyard.”

“Why did you use that phrase?”

Something in the tone of his voice made her stop what she was doing, look up. “Yevgeny Feyodovich, whatever is the matter?”

“Nothing.” He was busy gathering up personal items.

“Huh. You look like you’ve seen the sun at midnight.” She put her fists on her ample hips. “And where d’you think you’re going? We’ll be swamped here morning till sunset today.”

“I have a business matter to attend to,” he said hurriedly.

She barred his way. “Don’t think you can leave me like this. We have an agreement.”

“Get your brother to help you.”

Magda puffed her chest out. “My brother’s an idiot.”

“Then he’s tailor-made for the job.”

He shouldered her roughly out of the way while her face was filling with blood. Putting his back to the whole scene, he strode quickly away, ignoring her indignant screeches, the stares of nearby vendors.

This morning on his way to the market, he’d received a call with the chilling news that Bogdan Illiyanovich had been shot to death on his way to leading the Moldavian Ilias Voda into the trap set for him by Fadi, the terrorist. Yevgeny had been paid well to be the roper, the one who brought the mark-in this case Voda-to the access point. Until he’d received a call from one of his friends in the police, he’d had no idea what Fadi wanted with Ilias Voda or that it would involve multiple murders. Now Bogdan Illiyanovich was dead, along with three of Fadi’s men and, worst of all, a police officer.

Yevgeny knew that if anyone got caught, his name would be the first one to pop up. He was about the last person in Odessa able to withstand a full-on police investigation. His livelihood-his very life-depended on him being anonymous, clinging to the shadows. Once the spotlight was shone on him, he was a dead man.

That was why he was on the run, why he was obliged in the most urgent terms to leave his past behind and relocate, hopefully outside Ukraine altogether. He was thinking Istanbul, of course. The man who had hired him for this godforsaken job was in Istanbul. Since Yevgeny was the only one who’d come out of this fiasco alive, perhaps the man would give him a job. Going to one of Yevgeny’s current drug sources was out of the question. That entire chain of custody was in jeopardy now. Best to sever his ties to them completely, start over. In Yevgeny’s chosen field, Istanbul was a more hospitable base than many he could think of, especially those closer to hand.

He hurried through the crowds that had begun to clog the access points. He was impelled by an uncomfortable prickling at the back of his neck, as if he was already in the crosshairs of an unknown assassin.

He was just passing a stack of crates in which beakless chickens were roiling as though they’d already lost their heads when he saw a pair of policemen threading their way through the pedestrian traffic. He didn’t have to ask anyone why they were there.

Just as he was shying away, a woman stepped out from between two stacks of crates. Already on edge, he took an involuntary step back, his fingers curled around the grip of his gun.

“The police are here, they’ve set a trap,” the woman said.

She looked slightly Arabian to him, but that could mean anything. Half of his world was part Arabian.

She gestured urgently. “Come with me. I can get you out of here.”

“Don’t make me laugh. For all I know you’re working for the
SBU
.”

He started to move away from her, away from the two policemen he’d seen. Soraya shook her head. “They’re waiting for you that way.”

He continued on. “I don’t believe you.”

She went with him, shouldering her way through the thick stream of people until she was slightly ahead of him. All at once she stopped, indicated with her head. An unpleasant ball of ice formed in Yevgeny’s lower belly.

“I told you it was a trap, Yevgeny Feyodovich.”

“How do you know my name? How do you know the police are after me?”

“Please. There’s no time.” She plucked at his sleeve. “This way, quickly! It’s your only hope of evading them.”

He nodded. What else could he do? She took him back to the city of chicken crates, then through them. They had to walk sideways to make it through the narrow lanes. On the other hand, the crate stacks, rising above their heads, kept them invisible to the police moving through the market.

At last, they broke out onto a street, hurried across it against traffic. He could see that they were heading toward a battered old Skoda.

“Please get in back,” she said curtly as she slid behind the wheel.

In something of a blind panic, Yevgeny Feyodovich did as she ordered, wrenching open the door, climbing in. He slammed the door shut, and she pulled out from the curb. That was when he became aware of someone sitting unmoving on the seat next to him.

“Ilias Voda!” His voice sounded bleak.

“You’ve stepped in it this time.” Jason Bourne relieved him of gun and knife.

“What?” Yevgeny Feyodovich, shocked to be unarmed, was even more so to see how white and drawn Voda was.

Bourne turned to him. “In this town you’re thoroughly fucked, tovarich.”

Deron had often said that Tyrone could be like a dog with a bone. He’d get certain ideas stuck in his head and he couldn’t-or wouldn’t-let them go until they were resolved. He was like this with the two people he’d seen chopping up the cop’s body then burning down M&N Bodywork. He followed the inevitable aftermath like the most rabid fan of American Idol. The fire department came, and then the cops. But nothing remained inside the concrete-block building except ash and cinders. Moreover, it was District NE, which meant nobody really gave a shit. Inside an hour, Five-O had given up and, with a collective sigh of relief, had hightailed it to safety in the white parts of the city.

But Tyrone knew what had happened. Not that anyone had asked him. Not that he would have told them shit had they bothered to interview him. In fact, he didn’t even call his friend Deron in Florida to tell him.

In his world, you took the knife off your hoop enemy when you beat him to a pulp for dissing you, or your sister, or your girlfriend, whatever. So at ten or eleven, you gained a measure of respect, which increased exponentially when your Masta Blasta slipped you a Saturday-night special with a taped butt and the serial numbers filed off.

Then, of course, you had to use it, because you didn’t want to be a hop-along, a wannabe nobody would hang with or, worse, a mentard. It wasn’t so difficult, really, because you already had some experience blowing people’s heads off playing Postal 2 and Soldier of Fortune. As it turned out, the real thing wasn’t much different. Just that you had to be careful afterward so the kill wouldn’t turn into a career-ending move.