minimal, that it was in fact Himmler’s fantastic propaganda machine that gave it the
feared reputation it enjoyed, not anything its members themselves did.”
He smiled, the sun emerging from behind storm clouds. “Now, in that light, let me take
a look at the Typhon intercepts.”
Soraya tolerated this rather condescending introduction, meant to discredit the origin of
the intercepts before she even handed them over. She allowed indignation and
humiliation to pass through her so she could remain calm and focused on her mission.
Pulling the slim briefcase onto her lap, she unlocked the coded lock, extracted a red file
with a thick black stripe across its upper right-hand corner, marking it as DIRECTOR
EYES ONLY-material of the highest security clearance.
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