"Say it, Misha." Her voice had become anxious and urgent. "You must say the words."

"Okay, Lana. I promise."

She relaxed then, leaned back into the pillows, her eyes falling closed once more. "Good. No one can touch Avilov, not even Papa."

12.

Ivan Volkin had a smile like a fox. He might have cultivated it, but Bourne was of the opinion he'd been born with it.

"You know, we're lucky, you and I," Ivan said.

The bottle of vodka was half empty. An hour or more had passed in talk of Boris, Maslov pere, the grupperovka clans-in other words, the old days. Boris's death had turned Ivan nostalgic and a touch melancholy. There was no use fighting it; Bourne went with the flow, in the process gleaning nuggets of information that one day might serve him well. Now, at last, Ivan was emerging from that faraway world.

"We love what we do," he said, "which is more than you can say for ninety-nine percent of the world."

"How do you know I love what I do?" Bourne said.

"Why, it's clear as a virgin's conscience," Ivan said, his crafty smile spreading to his cheeks and eyes. "Otherwise, you'd be dead by now." Then he laughed. "You know, you drink like a fucking Russian."

And once again Bourne thought of Reykjavk. "One of the things Boris taught me."

"Of course." Ivan nodded. "He would have."

Bourne put the dregs of the vodka aside. He'd had more than enough for one night.

"Al, garzh!" said a familiar voice just over his shoulder. "You have strange friends."

Ivan laughed at her ironic address.

Bourne turned. "Irina."

Ivan, still laughing in delight, lifted a hand in an almost Roman hail, "Ah, Jason, I see you have met my granddaughter, Irina Vasilevna Volkin." He shook his head. "Now why am I not surprised?"

"What are you doing here?" Bourne said with a frown.

Ivan waved her to a seat. "Irochka, come, sit between us."

Bourne turned to her as she sat, poured the last of the vodka into Bourne's glass, and swigged it down. "You're supposed to be in custody."

"Custody?" Ivan's great whiskery brows knit together. "Irochka, what does this mean? Why should you be in custody?"

"I'm afraid it's because of me," Bourne said. "I made a deal with an FSB colonel. He's allowed me forty-eight hours to find Boris's murderer or he's going to charge Irina with the crime. She was supposed to be in custody to keep me honest, he said."

With each word Ivan's countenance darkened like a rainstorm blowing in over mountain peaks. "Colonel? What colonel?"

"His name is Korsolov," Bourne said.

"Chrt voz'm!" Ivan cried. Goddammit.

"You know him, I take it."

"I knew that goat fucker when he was just a snot-nosed kid." Ivan grunted. "Used to wet the bed, he did. Had dreams of falling and dying, his father told me once. He'd wake up in a puddle of pee." He grunted. "Probably still does." He looked out onto the river, at the moonlight reflecting off its surface. "He thinks he's a man now, but I know the truth. He's still that little boy. No time has passed. Boris did not understand this. Or perhaps he understood it too well. Korsolov was someone he could control. Life is like that sometimes. In his line of work, you choose not by competence but by who you can be sure of."

His eyes cut to Bourne. "He's not going to touch a hair on my granddaughter's head, you have my word on that. Is he making your life miserable, too?"

"Peering over my shoulder every chance he gets," Bourne said. "He's a real ljuboptnaya Varvra." A Curious George.

"Now?"

"I ditched the company car with its tracking device, stole a motorcycle, and came here. I'm clean."

"So am I. The three goons who tried to take me in are no longer among the living." Irina said this as if she were making small talk at a social tea.

"Did you take care of them yourself?" Ivan shook his head. "No, krshka, you're too smart for that."

"Now you tell me what's really going on," Bourne said.

Irina sighed. "I need more vodka."

No sooner had Ivan raised a hand than another bottle in its iced container and another shot glass appeared tableside. Ivan made no move, watched as Irina hefted the bottle, unscrewed the top. Filled the shot glass. Then she tilted the bottle to her lips. The contents gurgled down her throat. Ivan appeared unperturbed. She slid the bottle back into its bed of ice, licked her lips, then addressed Bourne.

"My father and older brother worked for Ivan-beneath the table, you understand. Somehow, the FSB found out."

"Boris didn't order the raid," Ivan added. "He was out of the country."

"He was with me in Damascus, as it happens," Bourne said.

Ivan nodded, and Irina continued. "In his absence, the raid was authorized by Korsolov."

"If Boris had been in Moscow," Ivan said, "the raid never would have taken place." There seemed no rancor against Boris; he was, it appeared to Bourne, stating a fact as much to reassure his granddaughter as to inform Bourne.

Irina only shrugged. Whether or not she believed Ivan was unclear. This told Bourne something crucial about her personality. She trusted no one-not even blood. Rare for a Russian.

"Why did you lie to me?" Bourne said, already knowing the answer.

She shrugged again. "What did I know about you?" Then a tiny smile crept across her face like a water spider skimming the surface of a pond. "Now I find you with Krsha."

Krsha literally meant "roof," but it was street slang for the head of the grupperovka. Also the protection money for a business demanded by the mob. Bourne wondered how many of those definitions applied to Irina's use of the word.

"How did you two meet?" she asked now.

"Years ago," Ivan said. He appeared to check his fingernails. "Jason killed Dimitri, you know."

Something came over Irina's face, but it was so enigmatic Bourne couldn't tell precisely what it was.

"Really?" she said. The word was a placeholder, used when an idea or emotion wasn't allowed free rein.

"Scout's honor." Ivan turned to Bourne. "Isn't that what you Americans say?"

"Some of us," Bourne allowed.

"Not you, I would think."

Irina seemed to be mocking him, but as gently as a mother rocks a baby. Her face was devoid of cruelty or scorn. Could she be flirting? Bourne wondered. What could Dimitri Maslov's death mean to her? Obviously, they had had some kind of relationship, since Ivan referred to him only by his given name. In any event, she did not appear to have been broken up by his sudden, violent demise. She must have hated him, Bourne thought. Was that enmity merely an echo of her krsha's feelings, or was it caused by her own encounter with Maslov? Another mystery that required solving.

However, with Irina here it was time to get to the heart of his business with Volkin. "I need a list of names, Ivan-politicians who had a reason, the will, and the wherewithal to plan Boris's assassination." But it wasn't any of them, an insistent voice inside him whispered. It was Sara.

Ivan grunted. "Boris had a long, productive life, which, in Russia, means he had many enemies. Most of them, however, were so afraid of him they would never make a move against him."

"This person," Bourne said, "is a homicidal psychotic as well as a religious fanatic."

This produced a deep laugh. "A religious fanatic? In Russia? You must be joking, Jason."

"I am perfectly serious, Ivan. And, in this instance, our working definition of religious fanatic is a broad one. Our man might just as well be someone who harbors a deep grudge against organized religion as a closet Christian."

"Psychotics are a dime a dozen in politics, never more so in Russia." Ivan tapped a forefinger against his lower lip. "Give me a couple of hours to consider and draw up a list, for all the good it will do you."

"What do you mean?"

"You're looking in the wrong direction. I have it on good authority that Boris wasn't killed by a Russian-politician or otherwise."

There was no denying Ivan Volkin's authority, Bourne knew.

"It seems likely that Boris was murdered by Ivan Borz."

"Borz?"

"You know him?"

"I've tracked Ivan Borz from West Pak to Singapore. I've killed two men claiming to be him; neither of them were."

"This is unsurprising." Ivan crossed one leg over the other. "Let me explain. Boris was most recently in Cairo. He was running a top secret op-secret even, I think, from the Sovereign or the first minister."

"Borz?"

Ivan nodded. "Boris had sworn to get the sonuvabitch. No one else has been able to get close to him, let alone know what he actually looks like. He's got false Borzes all over, as you yourself discovered. But Boris got a lead he was certain was legitimate. That Borz is a Chechen and has set up an HQ in Cairo."

"A Chechen?" Bourne said. "That sounds unlikely."

"Precisely why Boris thought the lead was genuine." He spread his hands. "And I mean, really, who would look for him in Cairo? The place is a stinking zoo, not to mention hot as Hades."

"Do you have any evidence that Borz himself was in Moscow tonight?"

"Well, if he was, he's gone now, that's almost a certainty." Ivan grunted. "In any event, I've got my antennae up, but I have to tell you that a svloch like him is not on my compatriots' radar screen. They don't deal with Chechens, they don't hire Chechens. They shoot Chechens on sight."

13.

In the dead of night Andrei Avilov awoke in an oversize, luxe room decorated with a definite feminine eye. Outside the curtained window, spotlights lit a thick forest of conical fir trees. It took him a moment to realize he was in the private clinic funded by the Sovereign, overseen by Timur Savasin himself. It was no wonder the decor was frilly enough to give Avilov the willies: the clinic usually housed the discarded mistresses of both the Sovereign and Savasin, the first-class plastic surgery a parting gift, supposed to lessen the blow of rejection for a young woman. The turnover, Avilov thought idly, must be remarkable, to keep three full-time surgeons on staff.

Which reminded him that the left side of his face felt like weasels had ripped his flesh.Not so far off the mark, he thought wryly. Dimly, he recalled his hurried consult with the plastic surgeon. At first, he had balked because she was a woman, even when he saw himself reflected in her canny eyes. He was in no mood for another female, but he'd had no choice. Orders from Timur Savasin himself. Now, hours later, he wished he had a mirror.

"Not to worry," Dr. Nova had said, "I can save the original look of your left eye. If you had been taken to any hospital inside the Ring Road you'd have a permanent droop in that eye and it would water continually. You'd have to keep blotting it, especially outside in the wind."

If she expected him to be grateful she was sorely mistaken. He'd been as sour as an unripe cherry.

"Cheer up, Andrei," she'd said with what seemed to him a metallic smile, "you'll come through this encounter relatively unscathed."

He resented her calling him by his name instead of formally by his rank. "I'll be scarred?"

"In the beginning." She shrugged. "Then, who knows? It will depend on how elastic your skin and muscles are." That sharp-edged smile again. "You can always tell the women you meet it's a dueling scar. That should get them tumbling into bed."

Quits with lying down and feeling woozy in the anesthetic's aftermath, he levered himself up, froze as he felt an immediate throbbing, as if a fistful of pinballs was ricocheting around the inside of his skull. Black spots appeared in his vision, and he blinked them away with grim determination. He drank some water, held ice chips in his mouth, letting the frost soothe away the pain.

"I imagine you're wanting a mirror." He turned at the sound of her voice. Dr. Nova. She had entered the room without him being aware of it-another symptom.

"Didn't I tell you I only wanted a local?"

"I didn't hear that," she said drily. She came and stood by the side of the bed. She seemed entirely unafraid of him. He didn't like that at all.

"Now I need to flush whatever you gave me out of my system."

She was dark-haired, raven-eyed, with an aggressive nose and jaw that helped form the illusion of her being taller than she actually was. "What are you going to do, Andrei? Report me to Daddy?"

Her laughter made him grind his teeth, which, considering his condition, was a mistake. He tried not to wince, missed by a mile.

Her mouth was wide, her lips like ripe fruit. "Face it, Andrei. You're human, after all."

That's not what that bitch Svetlana Novachenko said, he thought darkly.

"You don't think much of women, do you, Andrei." That laugh again, so mocking, so knowing-almost like a man's. "That's all right. I'm used to men like you."

Now she sounded downright contemptuous, and he felt a kind of panic to be trapped under her thumb.