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.”
“Hey,” her companion shouted back with no little belligerence, “who the fuck’re you?”
“Wrong question.” Glaring at him, Bourne pushed up the sleeve of his jacket just long
enough to give him a glimpse of his fake Anubis tattoo.
The man bit his lip and sat back down as Bourne reached over, pulled Gala Nematova
away from the table.
“We’re going outside to talk.”
“Are you crazy?” She tried to squirm away from his grip. “It’s freezing out there.”
Bourne continued to steer her by her elbow. “We’ll talk in my limo.”
“Well, that’s something.” Gala Nematova bared her teeth, clearly unhappy. Her teeth
were very white, as if scrubbed to within an inch of their lives. Her eyes were a remote
chestnut, large with uptilted corners that revealed the Asian blood in her ancestry.
A frigid wind swept off the canal, blocked only partially by the gridlock of expensive
cars and bombily. Bourne rapped on the Porsche’s door and the driver, recognizing him,
unlocked the doors. Bourne and the dyev piled in.
Gala, shivering, hugged her inadequately short fur coat around her. Bourne asked the
driver to turn up the heat. He complied, sank down in his fur-collared greatcoat.
“I don’t care what message you have for me,” Gala said sullenly. “Whatever it is, the
answer’s no.”
“Are you sure?” Bourne wondered where she was going with this.