Staring LaValle in the face, she handed it over.
“Excuse me, Director.” Tyrone held out his hand. “The electronic tape.”
“Oh, yes, I forgot,” Soraya said. “Mr. LaValle, would you please hand the file to Mr. Elkins.”
LaValle checked the file more closely, saw a ribbon of shiny metal sealing the file. “Don’t bother. I can peel this back myself.”
“Not if you want to read the intercepts,” Tyrone said. “Unless the tape is opened with this”-he held up a small plastic implement-“the file will incinerate within seconds.”
LaValle nodded his approval of the security measures Soraya had taken.
As he gave the file to Tyrone, Soraya said, “Since our last meeting my people have intercepted more communication from the same entity, which increasingly seems to be the command center.”
LaValle frowned. “A command center? That’s highly unusual for a terrorist network, which is, by definition, made up of independent cadres.”
“That’s what makes the intercepts so compelling.”
“It also makes them suspect, in my opinion,” LaValle said. “Which is why I’m anxious to read them myself.”
By this time, Tyrone had slit the metallic security tape, handed the file back. LaValle’s gaze dropped as he opened the file and began to read.
At this point Tyrone said, “I need to use the bathroom.”
LaValle waved a hand. “Go ahead,” he said without looking up.
Kendall watched him as he went up to Willard, who was on his way over with the drinks, to ask for directions. Soraya saw this out of the corner of her eye. If all went well, in the next couple of minutes Tyrone would be standing in front of the door down to the basement at the precise moment Kiki sent the virus to the NSA security system.
Ivan Volkin was a hairy bear of a man, salt-and-pepper hair standing straight up like a madman, a full beard white as snow, small but cheerful eyes the color of a rainstorm. He was slightly bandy-legged, as if he’d been riding a horse all his life. His lined and leathery face lent him a certain dignified aspect, as if in his life he’d earned the respect of many.
He greeted them warmly, welcoming them into an apartment that appeared small because of the stacks of books and periodicals that covered every conceivable horizontal surface, including the kitchen stovetop and his bed.
He led them down a narrow, winding aisle from the vestibule to the living room, made room for them on the sofa by moving three teetering stacks of books.
“Now,” he said, standing in front of them, “how can I be of help?”
“I need to know everything you can tell me about the Black Legion.”
“And why are you interested in such a tiny footnote to history?” Volkin looked at Bourne with a jaundiced eye. “You don’t have the look of a scholar.”
“Neither do you,” Bourne said.
This produced a spraying laugh from the older man. “No, I suppose not.” Volkin wiped his eyes. “Spoken like one soldier to another, eh? Yes.” Reaching around behind him, he swung over a ladder-backed chair, straddled it with his arms crossed over the top. “So. What specifically do you want to know?”
“How did they manage to survive into the twenty-first century?”
Volkin’s face immediately shut down. “Who told you the Black Legion survives?”
Bourne did not want to use Professor Specter’s name. “An unimpeachable source.”
“Is that so? Well, that source is wrong.”
“Why bother to deny it?” Bourne said.
Volkin rose, went into the kitchen. Bourne could hear the refrigerator door open and close, the light clink of glassware. When Volkin returned, he had an iced bottle of vodka in one hand, three water glasses in the other.
Handing them the glasses, he unscrewed the cap, filled their glasses halfway. When he’d poured for himself, he sat down again, the bottle standing between them on the threadbare carpet.
Volkin raised his glass. “To our health.” He emptied his glass in two great gulps. Smacking his lips, he reached down, refilled it. “Listen to me closely. If I were to admit that the Black Legion exists today there would be nothing left of my health to toast.”
“How would anyone know?” Bourne said.
“How? I’ll tell you how. I tell you what I know, then you go out and act on that information. Where d’you think the shitstorm that ensues is going to land, hmm?” He tapped his barrel chest with his glass, slopping vodka onto his already stained shirt. “Every action has a reaction, my friend, and let me tell you that when it comes to the Black Legion every reaction is fatal for someone.”
Since he’d already as much as admitted that the Black Legion had, in fact, survived the defeat of Nazi Germany, Bourne brought the subject around to what really concerned him. “Why would the Kazanskaya be involved?”
“Pardon?”
“In some way I can’t yet understand the Kazanskaya are interested in Mikhail Tarkanian. I stumbled across one of their contract killers in his apartment.”
Volkin’s expression turned sour. “What were you doing in his apartment?”
“Tarkanian’s dead,” Bourne said.
“What?” Volkin exploded. “I don’t believe you.”
“I was there when it happened.”
“And I tell you it’s impossible.”
“On the contrary, it’s a fact,” Bourne said. “His death was a direct result of him being a member of the Black Legion.”
Volkin crossed his arms over his chest. He looked like the silverback in the National Zoo. “I see what’s happening here. How many ways will you try to get me to talk about the Black Legion?”
“Every way I can,” Bourne said. “The Kazanskaya are in some way in league with the Black Legion, which is an alarming prospect.”
“I may look as if I have all the answers, but I don’t.” Volkin stared at him, as if daring Bourne to call him a liar.
Though Bourne was certain that Volkin knew more than he would admit, he also knew it would be a mistake to call him on it. Clearly, this was a man who couldn’t be intimidated, so there was no point in trying. Professor Specter had warned him not to get caught up in the grupperovka war, but the professor was a long way away from Moscow; his intelligence was only as accurate as his men on the ground here. Instinct told Bourne there was a serious disconnect. So far as he could see there was only one way to get to the truth.
“Tell me how to get a meet with Maslov,” he said.
Volkin shook his head. “That would be most unwise. With the Kazanskaya in the middle of a power struggle with the Azeri-”
“Popov is only my cover name,” Bourne said. “Actually, I’m a consultant to Viktor Cherkesov”-the head of the Federal Anti-Narcotics Agency, one of the two or three most powerful siloviks in Russia.
Volkin pulled back as if stung by Bourne’s words. He shot Gala an accusatory glance, as if Bourne were a scorpion she’d brought into his den. Turning back to Bourne he said, “Have you any proof of this?”
“Don’t be absurd. However, I can tell you the name of the man I report to: Boris Illyich Karpov.”
“Is that so?” Volkin produced a Makarov handgun, placed it on his right knee. “If you’re lying…” He picked up a cell phone he scavenged miraculously from out of the clutter, and quickly punched in a number. “We have no amateurs here.”
After a moment he said into the phone, “Boris Illyich, I have here with me a man who claims to be working for you. I would like to put him on the line, yes?”
With a deadpan face, Volkin handed over the cell.
“Boris,” Bourne said, “it’s Jason Bourne.”
“Jason, my good friend!” Karpov’s voice reverberated down the line. “I haven’t seen you since Reykjavik.”
“It seems like a long time.”
“Too long, I tell you!”
“Where have you been?”
“In Timbuktu.”
“What were you doing in Mali?” Bourne asked.
“Don’t ask, don’t tell.” Karpov laughed. “I understand you’re now working for me.”