Another hundred dollars got Bourne past the shouting, unruly mob. Inside, he ate an indifferent meal of an Oriental salad and almond-crusted chicken breast. From his perch along the glowing bar, he watched the Russian siloviki come and go with their diamond-studded, mini-skirted, fur-wrapped dyevochkas-strictly speaking, young women who had not yet borne a child. This was the new order in Russia. Except Bourne knew that many of the same people were still in power-either ex-KGB siloviki or their progeny lined up against the boys from Sokolniki, who came from nothing into sudden wealth. The siloviki, derived from the Russian word for “power,” were men from the so-called power ministries, including the security services and the military, who had risen during the Putin era. They were the new guard, having overthrown the Yeltsin-period oligarchs. No matter. Siloviki or mobster, they were criminals, they’d killed, extorted, maimed, blackmailed; they all had blood on their hands, they were all strangers to remorse.
Bourne scanned the tables for Gala Nematova, was surprised to find half a dozen dyevs who might have fit the bill, especially in this low light. It was astonishing to observe firsthand this wheat field of tall, willowy young women, one more striking than the next. There was a prevalent theory, a kind of skewed Darwinism-survival of the prettiest-that explained why there were so many startlingly handsome dyevochkas in Russia and Ukraine. If you were a man in his twenties in these countries in 1947 it meant that you’d survived one of the greatest male bloodbaths in human history. These men, being in the vast minority, had their pick of women. Who had they chosen to marry and impregnate? The answer was obvious, hence the acres of dyevs partying here and in every other nightclub in Russia.
Out on the dance floor, a crush of gyrating bodies made identification of individuals impossible. Spotting a redheaded dyev on her own, Bourne walked over to her, gestured if she wanted to dance. The earsplitting house music pumped out of a dozen massive speakers made small talk impossible. She nodded, took his hand, and they shoved, elbowed, and squeezed their way into a cramped space on the dance floor. The next twenty minutes could have substituted for a vigorous workout. The dancing was nonstop, as were the colored flashing lights and the chest-vibrating drumming of the high-octane music spewed out by a local band called Tequilajazz.
Over the top of the redhead Bourne caught a glimpse of yet another blond dyev. Only this one was different. Grabbing the redhead’s hand, Bourne eeled deeper into the gyrating pack of dancers. Perfume, cologne, and sour sweat mixed with the raw tang of hot metal and blazing monster amplifiers.
Still dancing, Bourne maneuvered around until he was certain. The blonde dyev dancing with the broad-shouldered mobster was, indeed, Gala Nematova.
It’ll never be the same,” Dr. Mitten said.
“What the hell does that mean?” Anthony Prowess, sitting in an uncomfortable chair in the NSA safe house just outside Moscow, barked at the ophthalmologist bent over him.
“Mr. Prowess, I don’t think you’re in the best shape to hear a full diagnosis. Why not wait until the shock-”
“A, I’m not in shock,” Prowess lied. “And B, I don’t have time to wait.” That was true enough: Having lost Bourne’s trail, he needed to get back on it ASAP.
Dr. Mitten sighed. He’d been expecting just such a response; in fact, he would’ve been surprised at anything else. Still, he had a professional responsibility to his patient even if he was on retainer to the NSA.
“What it means,” he said, “is that you’ll never see out of that eye again. At least, not in any way that’ll be useful to you.”
Prowess sat with his head back, his damaged eye numbed with drops so the damn ophthalmologist could poke around. “Details, please.”
Dr. Mitten was a tall, thin man with narrow shoulders, a wisp of a comb-over, and a neck with a prominent Adam’s apple that bobbed comically when he spoke or swallowed. “I believe you’ll be able to discern movement, differentiate light from dark.”
“That’s it?”
“On the other hand,” Dr. Mitten said, “when the swelling goes down you may be completely blind in that eye.”
“Fine, now I know the worst. Just fix me the hell up so I can get out of here.”
“I don’t recommend-”
“I don’t give a shit what you recommend,” Prowess snapped. “Do as I tell you or I’ll wring your scrawny little chicken neck.”
Dr. Mitten puffed out his checks in indignation, but he knew better than to talk back to an agent. They seemed born with hair-trigger responses to everything, which their training further honed.
As the ophthalmologist worked on his eye, Prowess seethed inside. Not only had he failed to terminate Bourne, he’d allowed Bourne to permanently maim him. He was furious at himself for turning tail and running, even though he knew that when a victim gains the upper hand you have to exit the field as quickly as possible.
Still, Prowess would never forgive himself. It wasn’t that the pain had been excruciating-he had an extremely high pain threshold. It wasn’t even that Bourne had turned the tables on him-he’d redress that situation shortly. It was his eye. Ever since he was a child, he had a morbid fear of being blind. His father had been blinded in an accidental fall getting off a transit bus, when the impact had detached both his retinas. This was in the days before ophthalmologists could staple retinas back in place. At six years old the horror of watching his father deteriorate from an optimistic, robust man into a bitter, withdrawn nub had imprinted itself forever in his mind. That horror had kicked in the moment Jason Bourne had dug his thumb deep into his eye.
As he sat in the chair, brooding amid the chemical smells emitted by Dr. Mitten’s ministrations, Prowess was filled with determination. He promised himself he’d find Jason Bourne, and when he did Bourne would pay for the damage he’d inflicted, he’d pay dearly before Prowess killed him.
Professor Specter was chairing a chancellors’ meeting at the university when his private cell phone vibrated. He immediately called a fifteen-minute break, left the room, strode down the hall and outside onto the campus.
When he was clear, he opened his cell, and heard Nemetsov’s voice buzzing in his ear. Nemetsov was the man Baronov had called to switch cars with at Crocus City.
“Baronov’s dead?” Specter said. “How?”
He listened while Nemetsov described the attack in the car outside Tarkanian’s apartment building. “An NSA assassin,” Nemetsov concluded. “He was waiting for Bourne, to garrote him as he did Baronov.”
“And Jason?”
“Survived. But the assassin escaped as well.”
Specter felt a wave of relief wash over him. “Find that NSA man before he finds Jason, and kill him. Is that clear?”
“Perfectly. But shouldn’t we also try to make contact with Bourne?”
Specter considered a moment. “No. He’s at his best when working alone. He knows Moscow, speaks Russian fluently, and he has our fake IDs. He’ll do what must be done.”
“You’ve put your faith in this one man?”
“You don’t know him, Nemetsov, otherwise you wouldn’t make such a stupid statement. I only wish Jason could be with us permanently.”
When, sweaty and entangled, Gala Nematova and her boy toy left the dance floor, so did Bourne. He watched as the couple made their way to a table where they were greeted by two other men. They all began to guzzle champagne as if it were water. Bourne waited until they’d refilled their flutes, then swaggered over in the style of these new-style gangsters.
Leaning over Gala’s companion, he shouted in her ear, “I have an urgent message for you.”