“Sure I’m sure. I’ve had it with you guys trying to find out where Leonid Danilovich
is.”
Leonid Danilovich, Bourne said to himself. There’s a name the professor never
mentioned.
“The reason we keep hounding you is he’s sure you know.” Bourne had no idea what
he was saying, but he felt if he kept running with her he’d be able to open her up.
“I don’t.” Now Gala sounded like a little girl in a snit. “But even if I did I wouldn’t rat him out. You can tell Maslov that.” She fairly spat out the name of the Kazanskaya’s
leader, Dimitri Maslov.
Now we’re getting somewhere, Bourne thought. But why was Maslov after Leonid
Danilovich, and what did any of this have to do with Pyotr’s death? He decided to
explore this link.
“Why were you and Leonid Danilovich using Tarkanian’s apartment?”
Instantly he knew he’d made a mistake. Gala’s expression changed dramatically. Her
eyes narrowed and she made a sound deep in her throat. “What the hell is this? You
already know why we were camped out there.”
“Tell me again,” Bourne said, improvising desperately. “I’ve only heard it thirdhand.
Maybe something was left out.”
“What could be left out? Leonid Danilovich and Tarkanian are the best of friends.”
“Is that where you took Pyotr for your late-night trysts?”
“Ah, so that’s what this is all about. The Kazanskaya want to know all about Pyotr
Zilber, and I know why. Pyotr ordered the murder of Borya Maks, in prison, of all places-
High Security Prison Colony 13. Who could do that? Get in there, kill Maks, a
Kazanskaya contract killer of great strength and skill, and get out without being seen.”
“That’s precisely what Maslov wants to know,” Bourne said, because it was the safe
comment to make.
Gala picked at her nail extensions, realized what she was doing, stopped. “He suspects
Leonid Danilovich did it because Leonid is known for such feats. No one else could do
that, he’s sure.”
Time to press her, Bourne decided. “He’s right on the money.”
Gala shrugged.
“Why are you protecting Leonid?”
“I love him.”
“The way you loved Pyotr?”
“Don’t be absurd.” Gala laughed. “I never loved Pyotr. He was a job Semion Icoupov
paid me handsomely for.”
“And Pyotr paid for your treachery with his life.”
Gala seemed to peer at him in a different light. “Who are you?”
Bourne ignored her question. “During that time where did you meet Icoupov?”
“I never met him. Leonid served as intermediary.”
Now Bourne’s mind raced to put the building blocks Gala had provided into their
proper order. “You know, don’t you, that Leonid murdered Pyotr.” He didn’t of course
know that, but given the circumstances it seemed all too likely.
“No.” Gala blanched. “That can’t be.”
“You can see how it must be what happened. Icoupov didn’t kill Pyotr himself, surely
that much must be clear to you.” He observed the fear mounting behind her eyes. “Who
else would Icoupov have trusted to do it? Leonid was the only other person to know you
were spying on Pyotr for Icoupov.”
The truth of what he said was written on Gala’s face like a road sign appearing out of
the fog. While she was still in shock, Bourne said, “Please tell me Leonid’s full name.”
“What?”
“Just do as I tell you,” Bourne said. “It may be the only way to save him from being
killed by the Kazanskaya.”
“But you’re Kazanskaya.”
Pushing up his sleeve, Bourne gave her a close-up look at the false tattoo. “A
Kazanskaya was waiting for Leonid in Tarkanian’s apartment this evening.”
“I don’t believe you.” Her eyes widened. “What were you doing there?”
“Tarkanian’s dead,” Bourne said. “Now do you want to help the man you say you
love?”
“I do love Leonid! I don’t care what he did.”
At that moment, the driver cursed mightily, turned in his seat. “My client’s coming.”
“Go on,” Bourne urged Gala. “Write his name down.”
“Something must’ve happened in the VIP,” the driver said. “Shit, he looks pissed. You
gotta get outta here now.”
Bourne grabbed Gala, opened the street-side door, nearly burying it in the fender of a
hurtling bombily. He flagged it down with a fistful of rubles, made the transfer from
Western luxury to Eastern poverty in one stride. Gala Nematova broke away from him as
he was entering the Zhig. He clutched her by the back of her fur coat, but she shrugged it
off, began to run. The cabbie stepped on the gas, the stench of diesel fumes foaming up
into the interior, choking them so badly Bourne had to crank open a window. As he did
so, he saw two men who’d been at her table come out of the club. They looked right and
left. One of them spotted Gala’s running figure, gestured to the other one, and they took
off after her.
“Follow those men!” Bourne shouted to the cabbie.
The cabbie had a flat face with a distinctly Asian caste. He was fat, greasy, and spoke
Russian with an abominable accent. Clearly, Russian wasn’t his first language. “You’re
joking, yes?”
Bourne thrust more rubles at him. “I’m joking, no.”
The cabbie shrugged, crashed the Zhig into first gear, depressed the gas pedal.
At that moment the two men caught up with Gala.
Twenty
AT PRECISELY that moment, Leonid Danilovich Arkadin and Devra were deciding
how to get to Haydar without Devra’s people knowing about it.
“Best would be to extract him from his environment,” Arkadin said. “But for that we
need to know his habitual movements. I don’t have time-”
“I know a way,” Devra said.
The two of them were sitting side by side on a bed on the ground floor of a small inn.
The room wasn’t much to look at-just a bed, a chair, a broken-down dresser-but it had its
own bathroom, a shower with plenty of hot water, which they’d used one after the other.
Best of all, it was warm.
“Haydar’s a gambler,” she continued. “Almost every evening he’s hunkered down in
the back room of a local cafй. He knows the owner, who lets them play without imposing
a fee. In fact, once a week he joins them.” She glanced at her watch. “He’s sure to be
there now.”
“What good is that? Your people are sure to protect him there.”
“Right, that’s why we aren’t going to go near the place.”
An hour later, they were sitting in their rented car on the side of a two-lane road. All
their lights were off. They were freezing. Whatever snow had seemed imminent had
passed them by. A half-moon rode in the sky, an Old World lantern revealing wisps of
clouds and bluish crusty snowbanks.
“This is the route Haydar takes to and from the game.” Devra tilted her watch face so it
was illuminated by the moonglow coming off the banked snow. “He should show any
minute now.”
Arkadin was behind the wheel. “Just point out the car, leave the rest to me.” One hand
was on the ignition key, the other on the gearshift. “We have to be prepared. He might
have an escort.”
“If he’s got guards they’ll be in the same car with him,” Devra said. “The roads are so
bad it will be extremely difficult to keep him in sight from a trailing vehicle.”
“One car,” Arkadin said. “All the better.”
A moment later the night was momentarily lit by a moving glow below the rise in the
road.
“Headlights.” Devra tensed. “That’s the right direction.”