— Nikolai, you cocksucker, he said in guttural Russian, — who the fuck killed you before I could bring you back to Mother Russia? Now I have been deprived of the pleasure of making you sing your head off.
Then, seeing Bourne, he stopped dead in his tracks.
— Jason! Colonel Boris Karpov bellowed like a Russian ox. -I should have known you‘d be at the heart of this bloody maze.
His gaze moved downward, taking in the blood-soaked form of the young woman cradled in Bourne‘s arms. At once, he yelled for a medic.
— It‘s too late for her, Boris, Bourne said in a deadened voice.
Karpov came across the room and knelt beside Bourne. His blunt fingers moved delicately over the shards of glass embedded in Tracy‘s back.
— What a terrible way to die.
— They‘re all terrible, Boris.
Karpov handed Bourne a hip flask. -Too true.
The medic from Boris‘s assault team, also in riot gear, showed up out of breath. He went to Tracy, tried to find a pulse, and shook his head sadly.
— Casualties? Karpov asked, without taking his eyes off Bourne.
— One dead, two wounded, not seriously.
— Who died?
— Milinkov.
Karpov nodded. -Tragic, but the building is secured.
Bourne felt the fire of the slivovitz all the way down to his stomach. The growing warmth felt good, as if he‘d regained solid footing.
— Boris, he said softly, — have your man take Tracy. I don‘t want to leave her.
— Of course. Karpov signaled to the medic, who lifted Tracy from Bourne‘s lap.
Bourne watched her as she was carried out of the conference room. He felt her loss, her struggle to come to terms with her duplicitous life and her sense of isolation, living half in the shadows of a world most people were unaware of, let alone able to understand. Her struggle was his struggle, and the pain she felt because of her life was one with which he was all too familiar. He didn‘t want to see her go, didn‘t want to let go of her, as if a part of him, suddenly found, had been ripped away just as abruptly.
— What is this? Boris said, holding up the painting.
— It‘s a Goya, a previously unknown work of the famous Black Paintings series, which makes it virtually priceless.
Boris grinned. -I hope you don‘t covet this, Jason.
— To the victor belong the spoils, Boris. So Yevsen was your mission in Khartoum.
Karpov nodded. -I‘ve been working in North Africa for months now, trying to track down Nikolai Yevsen‘s arms-smuggling suppliers, clients, and pipeline. And you?
— I spoke to Ivan Volkin-
— Yes, he told me. That old man has a soft spot for you.
— When Arkadin discovered that his attempt on my life had failed, he came up with another plan, which was to get me here. Why, I don‘t know.
With a quick glance over to the corpse lying on the other side of the room, Karpov said, — It‘s a mystery, one of many here. We were hoping to find both Yevsen‘s supplier and client list, but the hard drives on his remote servers appear to have been wiped clean.
— It wasn‘t Yevsen who did it, Bourne said. He rose, and Boris with him.
— He was here with Tracy, he had no idea about your raid.
Boris scratched his head. -Why would Arkadin send you here, especially in the company of that beautiful young woman?
— Pity we can‘t ask Yevsen, Bourne said. -Which begs the question: Who wiped Yevsen‘s servers clean? Someone made off with his entire network. It had to have been one of Yevsen‘s own men-someone high up who had the access codes to the servers.
— Anyone who ever dared move against Nikolai Yevsen wound up disappeared.
— As long as he was alive. Bourne, whose mind finally had identified enough of the silken strands to make sense of the spider‘s web, tilted his head and beckoned Karpov to walk with him. -But look at him now, he isn‘t a danger to anyone, including Arkadin.
Boris‘s countenance grew dark. -Arkadin?
Together they walked down the corridor, manned now by Boris‘s military cadre, to the men‘s room.
— I‘ll have my medic check you out.
Bourne waved away his words. -I‘m fine, Boris. He was marveling at the scope of Arkadin‘s demonic genius.
Inside, Bourne went to the line of sinks and began to wash the blood and bits of glass off himself. As he did so, Karpov handed him a roll of paper towels.
