America I’m not so formal; everyone calls me Kiki.”
The two women touched hands. Kiki’s grip was cool and dry. She regarded Soraya out
of large coffee-colored eyes. She had the smoothest skin Soraya had ever seen, which she
instantly envied. Her hair was very short, marvelously cut like a cap to fit her elongated
skull. She wore a brown ankle-length dress that clung provocatively to her slim hips and
small breasts.
Deron briefly outlined the problem while he brought up the DARPA software
architecture on one of his computer terminals. While Kiki checked it out, he filled her in
on the basics. “We need something that can bypass the firewall, and is undetectable.”
“The first isn’t all that difficult.” Kiki’s long, delicate fingers were flying over the
keyboard as she experimented with the computer code. “The second, I don’t know.”
“Unfortunately, that’s not the end of it.” Deron positioned himself so he could peer
over her shoulder at the terminal. “This particular software controls two thousand CCTV
cameras. Our friends here need to get in and out of the facility without being detected.”
Kiki stood up, turned around to face them. “In other words all two thousand cameras
have to be covered.”
“That’s right,” Soraya said.
“You don’t need a hacker, dear. You need the invisible man.”
“But you can make them invisible, Kiki.” Deron slid his arm around her slender waist
“Can’t you?”
“Hmm.” Kiki peered again at the code on the terminal. “You know, there looks like
there may be a recurring variance I might be able to exploit.” She hunkered down on a
stool. “I’m going to transfer this upstairs.”
Deron winked at Soraya, as if to say, I told you so.
Kiki routed a number of files to her computer, which was separate from Deron’s. She
spun around, slapped her hands on her thighs, and got up. “Okay, then, I’ll see you all
later.”
“How much later?” Soraya said, but Kiki was already taking the stairs three at a time.
Moscow was wreathed in snow when Bourne stepped off the Aeroflot plane at
Sheremetyevo. His flight had been delayed forty minutes, the jet circling while the
runways were de-iced. He cleared Customs and Immigration and was met by a small, cat-
like individual wrapped in a white down coat. Lev Baronov, Professor Specter’s contact.
“No luggage, I see,” Baronov said in heavily accented English. He was as wiry and
hyperactive as a Jack Russell terrier as he elbowed and barked at the small army of gypsy
cab drivers vying for a fare. They were a sad-faced lot, plucked from the minorities in the Caucasus, Asians and the like whose ethnicity prevented them from getting a decent job
with decent pay in Moscow. “We’ll take care of that on the way in to town. You’ll need
proper clothes for Moscow’s winter. It’s a balmy minus two Celsius today.”
“That would be most helpful,” Bourne replied in perfect Russian.
Baronov’s bushy eyebrows rose in surprise. “You speak like a native, gospadin
Bourne.”
“I had excellent instructors,” Bourne said laconically.
Amid the bustle of the flight terminal, he was studying the flow of passengers, noting
those who lingered at a newsagent or outside the duty-free shop, those who didn’t move
at all. Ever since he emerged into the terminal he’d had the unshakable feeling that he
was being watched. Of course there were CCTV cameras all over, but the particular
prickling of his scalp that had developed over the years of fieldwork was unerring.
Someone had him under surveillance. This fact was both alarming and reassuring-that
he’d already picked up a tag meant someone knew he was scheduled to arrive in
Moscow. NSA could have scanned the departing flight manifests back at New York and
picked up his name from Lufthansa; there’d been no time to take himself off the list. He
looked only in short touristic glances because he had no desire to alert his shadow that he was on to him.
“I’m being followed,” Bourne said as he sat in Baronov’s wheezing Zil. They were on
the M10 motorway.
“No problem,” Baronov said, as if he was used to being tailed all the time. He didn’t
even ask who was following Bourne. Bourne thought of the professor’s pledge that
Baronov wouldn’t get in his way.
Bourne paged through the packet Baronov had given him, which included new ID, a
key, and the box number to get money out of the safe-deposit vault in the Moskva Bank.
“I need a plan of the bank building,” Bourne said.
“No problem.” Baronov exited the M10. Bourne was now Fyodor Ilianovich Popov, a
midlevel functionary of GazProm, the gargantuan state-run energy conglomerate.
“How well will this ID hold up?” Bourne asked.
“Not to worry.” Baronov grinned. “The professor has friends in GazProm who know
how to protect you, Fyodor Ilianovich Popov.”
Anthony Prowess had come a long way to keep the ancient Zil in sight and he wasn’t
about to lose it, no matter what evasive maneuvers the driver took. He’d been waiting at
Sheremetyevo for Bourne to come through Immigration. General Kendall had sent a
recent surveillance photo of Bourne to his cell. The photo was grainy and two-
dimensional because of the long telephoto lens used, but it was a close-up; there was no
mistaking Bourne when he arrived.
For Prowess, the next few minutes were crucial. He had no illusions that he could
remain unnoticed by Bourne for any length of time; therefore, in the short moments while
his subject was still unself-conscious, he needed to drink in every tic and habit, no matter how minuscule or seemingly irrelevant. He knew from bitter experience that these small
insights would prove invaluable as the surveillance ground on, especially when it came
time to engage the subject and terminate him.
Prowess was no stranger to Moscow. He’d been born here to a British diplomat and his
cultural attachй wife. Not until Prowess was fifteen did he understand that his mother’s
job was a cover. She was, in fact, a spy for MI6, Her Majesty’s Secret Service. Four years
later Prowess’s mother was compromised, and MI6 spirited them out of the country.
Because his mother was now a wanted woman, the Prowesses were sent to America, to
begin a new life with a new family name. The danger had been ground so deeply into
Prowess that he’d actually forgotten what they were once called. He was now simply
Anthony Prowess.
As soon as he’d built up qualified academic credits, he applied to the NSA. From the
moment he’d discovered that his mother was a spy, that was all he’d wanted to do. No
amount of pleading from his parents could dissuade him. Because of his ease with foreign
languages and his knowledge of other cultures, the NSA sent him abroad, first to the
Horn of Africa to train, then to Afghanistan, where he liaised with the local tribes
fighting the Taliban in rough mountain terrain. He was a hard man, no stranger to
hardship, or to death. He knew more ways to kill a human being than there were days in
the year. Compared with what he’d been through in the past nineteen months, this
assignment was going to be a piece of cake.
Seventeen
BOURNE AND BARONOV sped down Volokolamskoye Highway. Crocus City was
an enormous high-end mall. Built in 2002, it was a seemingly endless array of glittering
boutiques, restaurants, car showrooms, and marble fountains. It was also an excellent
place to lose a tail.
While Bourne shopped for suitable clothes, Baronov was busy on his cell phone. There