Bourne 7 – The Bourne Deception

— Stay here, Arkadin said. -Whatever you do, don‘t come downstairs until I come get you, okay?

The boy, clearly frightened now, nodded.

Quitting the bedroom, Arkadin stole along the hall. The lights might have been extinguished all through the second story, but downstairs they blazed like a house on fire. As he approached the wooden balustrade he heard the moan again, more distinctly this time, and now he began to wonder what Lev Antonin could be doing to his wife to cause her such excruciating terror. Where were the other children while Lev Antonin was punishing his wife? No wonder they hadn‘t come upstairs looking for their brother.

Light rose up the stairs in decreasing amounts as Arkadin crept down bent almost double so he wouldn‘t be seen. He was not more than a third of the way down when he was greeted by a strange tableau. A man was standing with his back to Arkadin. In front of him was Joskar, Lev Antonin‘s wife, hog-tied to a ladder-backed kitchen chair. The gag that had been over her mouth was halfway off, hence the moans emanating from her mouth. One eye was swollen and there were cuts on her face out of which drooled smears of blood. Huddled around her, like chicks around a hen, were three of her four children, all of whose ankles were tied together. Thus hobbled, they couldn‘t move and, given the menacing stance of the man looming over them, surely wouldn‘t. Where was Lev Antonin?

The man took a lazy swing at Joskar Antonin‘s head. -Stop your whining,

he said. -Your fate is sealed. No matter what your husband decides, you and these brats- He kicked out, the sharp toe of his shoe making contact with a hip bone here, a rib there. The children, already crying, began to sob in earnest, and their mother moaned again. -You and these brats are finished. Dead, six feet under, get me?

As Arkadin listened to the man‘s manifesto, something important occurred to him. The man, whoever he was, must be an outsider; otherwise he‘d know that one of Lev Antonin‘s children was still free. Could he be the one who had been killing the gang members? At that moment it seemed to Arkadin to be a good bet, one he ought to put his money on.

Retracing his steps, he returned to the bedroom closet, where he instructed Lev Antonin‘s son to come with him, but to stay quiet no matter what happened. Keeping the cringing boy behind him, he went silently down the steps until he was perhaps halfway down. Nothing much had changed in the scene below, except the gag was back in place and there was more blood on Joskar‘s face.

When Lev Antonin‘s son tried to peep out from behind him, Arkadin pushed him back out of sight behind his legs.

Crouching down, he whispered, — Don‘t move until I tell you it‘s okay.

He recognized the look of abject fear in the boy‘s eyes and something tugged at him, an emotion perhaps, buried beneath the silt of his past. Ruffling the boy‘s hair, he stood and drew the Glock he‘d tucked into the waistband of his pants at the small of his back.

Rising to his full height, he said, — Why don‘t you take a step away from those people.

The man whirled around, his face twisted into an ugly mask for a split second before the soon-to-be-familiar smile full of condescension replaced it. Arkadin recognized that expression and what it revealed about the man behind it. Here was a man who lived for subjugation; the blunt instrument he used to gain it: fear.

— Who the fuck‘re you, and how did you get here? Despite being surprised, despite staring down the barrel of a Glock, there wasn‘t an iota of concern either on his face or in his voice.

— My name is Arkadin, and what the fuck‘re you doing here?

— Arkadin, is it? Well, well…

His smile turned smugly ironic. It was the kind of smile, Arkadin thought, that begged to be expunged, preferably with a balled fist.

— My name‘s Oserov. Vylacheslav Germanovich Oserov, and I‘m here to get you the fuck out of this shithole.

— What?

— That‘s right, jerk-off, my boss, Dimitri Ilyinovich Maslov, wants you back in Moscow.

— Who the hell is Dimitri Ilyinovich Maslov? Arkadin said. -And why should I give a fuck?

At this, Oserov‘s mouth opened and a sound not unlike fingernails drawn down a blackboard emanated from it. With a start, Arkadin realized the other man was laughing.

— You really are a hick. Maybe we should leave you here with all the other cretins. Oserov shook with mirth. -For your information Dimitri Ilyinovich Maslov is the head of the Kazanskaya. He cocked his head. -Ever hear of the Kazanskaya, sonny?

— Moscow grupperovka. Arkadin spoke on autopilot. He was in shock. The head of one of the capital‘s premier mob families had heard of him? He had sent Oserov-and presumably someone else, since Oserov had said — we — here to fetch him? Either idea seemed improbable, but taken together the scenario seemed absurd.

— Who else is with you? Arkadin said, trying desperately to recover his wits.

— Mischa Tarkanian. He‘s with Lev Antonin negotiating your safe passage out, not that you seem worth the effort, now that you‘ve made an appearance.

There was no particular reason for Arkadin to believe that Mischa Tarkanian wasn‘t somewhere on the ground floor-in the toilet, perhaps.

— Here‘s what‘s confusing about your story, gospadin Oserov. I‘m wondering why this Maslov sent an incompetent to do a man‘s job?

Before the Muscovite could form a reply, Arkadin reached around behind him, grabbed the boy by the back of his shirt, and brought him into the light. He needed to regain control, and the boy was his ace in the hole.

— Lev Antonin has four children, not three. How could you make such a basic mistake?

Oserov‘s left hand, which had been at his side, out of Arkadin‘s sight, gave a flick and the knife with which he had been cutting Joskar‘s face whirred through the air. Arkadin jerked the boy away, but it was too late, the blade buried itself to the hilt, and the child was torn from his grasp.