The Bourne Sanction Page 10

  He turned away from the window. “We’re going. Now.”

  “Pyotr’s people. It was inevitable they’d find us.”

  Much to Arkadin’s surprise she made no protest when he hustled her out of the apartment. The hallway was already reverberating with the tribal beat of heavy shoes on the concrete floor.

  Bourne found walking unpleasant but hardly intolerable. He’d put up with a lot worse than a flayed heel in his time. As he followed the professor down a metal staircase into the basement, he reflected that this was proof again that there were no absolutes when it came to people. He had assumed that Specter’s life was neat, tidy, dull, and quiet, restricted by the dimensions of the university campus. Nothing could be farther from the truth.

  Halfway down, the staircase changed to stone treads, worn by decades of use. Their way was guided by plenty of light from below. They entered a finished basement made up of movable walls that separated what looked like office cubicles outfitted with laptop computers attached to high-speed modems. All of them were staffed.

  Specter stopped at the last cubicle, where a young man appeared to be decoding text that scrolled across his computer screen. The young man, becoming aware of Specter, pulled a sheet of paper out of the printer hopper, handed it to him. As soon as the professor read it a change came over his demeanor. Though he kept his expression neutral, a certain tension stiffened his frame.

  “Good work.” He gave the young man a nod before he led Bourne into a room that appeared to be a small library. Specter crossed to one section of the shelves, touched the spine of a compilation of haiku by the master poet Matsuo Basho¯. A square section of the books opened to reveal a set of drawers. From one of these Specter pulled out what looked like a photo album. All the pages were old, each one wrapped in archival plastic to preserve them. He showed one of them to Bourne.

  At the top was the familiar war eagle, gripping a swastika in its beak, the symbol of Germany’s Third Reich. The text was in German. Just below was the word ostlegionen, accompanied by a color photo of a woven oval, obviously a uniform insignia, of a swastika encircled by laurel leaves. Around the central symbol were the words treu, tapir, gehorsam, which Bourne translated as “loyal, brave, steadfast.” Below that was another color photo of a woven rampant wolf’s head, under which was the designation: ostmanische ss-division.

  Bourne noted the date on the page: 14 December 1941.

  “I never heard of the Eastern Legions,” Bourne said. “Who were they?”

  Specter turned the page and there, pinned to it, was a square of olive fabric. On it had been sewn a blue shield with a black border. Across the top was the word BERGKAUKASIEN—Caucasus Mountains. Directly beneath it in bright yellow was the emblem of three horses’ heads joined to what Bourne now knew was a death’s head, the symbol of the Nazi Schutzstaffel, the Protective Squadron, known colloquially as the SS. It was exactly the same as the tattoo on the gunman’s arm.

  “Not were, are.” Specter’s eyes glittered. “They’re the people who tried to kidnap me, Jason. They want to interrogate me and kill me. Now that they’ve become aware of you, they’ll want to do the same to you.”

  Eight

  THE ROOF or the basement?” Arkadin said.

  “The roof,” she said at once. “There’s only one way in and out of the basement itself.”

  They ran as fast as they could to the stairway, then took the steps two at a time. Arkadin’s heart pounded, his blood raced, the adrenaline pumped into him with every leap upward. He could hear his pursuers laboring up below him. The noose was tightening around him. Racing to the far end of the narrow hallway, he reached up with his right hand, pulled down the metal ladder that led to the roof. Soviet structures of this era were notorious for their flimsy doors. He knew he’d have no trouble breaking out onto the roof. From there, it was a short jump to the next building and the next, then down to the streets, where it would be easy to elude the enemy.

  Boosting Devra’s body through the square hole in the ceiling, he clambered up. Behind him, the shouted calls of the three men: Filya’s apartment had been searched. All of them were coming after him. Gaining the tiny landing, he now faced the door to the roof, but when he tried to push against the horizontal metal bar nothing happened. He pushed harder, with the same result. Fishing a ring of slender metal picks out of his pocket, he inserted one after another into the lock, fiddling it up and down, getting nowhere. Looking more closely, he could see why: The interior of the cheap lock was rusted shut. It wouldn’t open.

  He turned back, staring down the ladder. Here came his pursuers. He had nowhere to go.

  On June 22, 1941, Germany invaded Soviet Russia,” Professor Specter said. “As they did so they came upon thousands upon thousands of enemy soldiers who either surrendered without a fight or were flat-out deserting. By August of that year the invading army had interned half a million Soviet prisoners of war. Many of them were Muslims—Tatars from the Caucasus, Turks, Azerbaijani, Uzbek, Kazakhs, others from the tribes in the Ural Mountains, Turkestan, Crimea. The one thing all these Muslims had in common was their hatred of the Soviets, Stalin in particular. To make a very long story short, these Muslims, taken as prisoners of war, offered their services to the Nazis to fight alongside them on the Eastern Front, where they could do the most damage both by infiltration and by decoding Soviet intelligence transmissions. The Führer was elated; the Ostlegionen became the particular interest of Reichsführer SS Heinrich Himmler, who saw Islam as a masculine, war-like religion that featured certain key qualities in common with his SS philosophy, mainly blind obedience, the willingness for self-sacrifice, a total lack of compassion for the enemy.”

  Bourne was absorbing every word, every detail of the photos. “Didn’t his embrace of Islam fly in the face of the Nazi racial order?”

  “You know humans better than most, Jason. They have an infinite capacity for rationalizing reality to fit their personal ideas. So it was with Himmler, who had convinced himself that the Slavs and the Jews were subhuman. The Asian element in the Russian nation made those people who were descended from the great warriors Attila, Genghis Khan, Tamerlane fit his criteria of superiority. Himmler embraced the Muslims from that area, descendants of the Mongols.

  “These men became the core of the Nazi Ostlegionen, but the cream of the crop Himmler reserved for himself, training them in secret with his best SS leaders, honing their skills not simply as soldiers, but as the elite warriors, spies, and assassins it was widely known he’d yearned to command. He called this unit the Black Legion. You see, I’ve made an exhaustive study of the Nazis and their Ostlegionen.” Specter pointed to the shield of three horses’ heads joined by the death’s head. “This is their emblem. From 1943 on it became more feared than even the SS’s own twin lightning bolts, or the symbol of its adjunct, the Gestapo.”

  “It’s a little late in the day for Nazis to be a serious threat,” Bourne said, “don’t you think?”

  “The Black Legion’s Nazi affiliation has long since vanished. It’s now the most powerful and influential Islamic terrorist network no one has heard of. Its anonymity is deliberate. It is funded through the legitimate front, the Eastern Brotherhood.”

  Specter took out another album. This one was filled with newspaper clippings of terrorist attacks all over the world: London, Madrid, Karachi, Fallujah, Afghanistan, Russia. As Bourne paged through the album, the list grew.

  “As you can see, other, known terrorist networks claimed responsibility for some of these attacks. For others, no claim was made, no terrorists were ever linked to them. But I know through my sources that all were perpetrated by the Black Legion,” Specter said. “And now they’re planning their biggest, most spectacular attack. Jason, we think that they’re targeting New York. I told you Pyotr Zilber, the young man the Black Legion murdered, was special. He was a magician. He’d somehow managed to steal the plans for the target of the Legion’s attack. Normally, of course, the planning would all be oral. But apparently
the target of this attack is so complex, the Black Legion had to obtain the actual plans of the structure. That’s why I believe it to be a large building in a major metropolitan area. It’s absolutely imperative that we find that document. It’s the only way we’ll know where the Black Legion intends to strike.”

  Arkadin sat on the floor of the small landing, his legs on either side of the opening down to the top residential floor.

  “Shout to them,” he whispered. Now that he was situated on the high ground, so to speak, he wanted to draw them to him. “Go on. Let them know where you are.”

  Devra screamed.

  Now Arkadin heard the hollow ring of someone climbing the metal ladder. When a head popped up, along with a hand holding a gun, Arkadin slammed his ankles into the man’s ears. As his eyes began to roll up, Arkadin snatched the gun from his hand, braced himself, and broke the man’s neck.

  The moment he let go the man vanished, clattering back down the ladder. Predictably, a hail of gunfire shot through the square opening, the bullets embedding themselves in the ceiling. The moment that abated, Arkadin shoved Devra through the opening, followed her, sliding down with the insides of his shoes against the outside of the ladder.

  As Arkadin had hoped, the remaining two men were stunned by the fall of their compatriot and held their fire. Arkadin shot one through the right eye. The other retreated around a corner as Arkadin fired at him. Arkadin gathered the girl, bruised but otherwise fine, ran to the first door, and pounded on it. Hearing a querulous man’s voice raised in protest, he pounded on the opposite door. No answer. Firing his gun at the lock, he crashed open the door.

  The apartment was unoccupied, and from the looks of the piles of dust and filth no one had been in residence in quite some time. Arkadin ran to the window. As he did so, he heard familiar squeals. He stepped on a pile of rubbish and out leapt a rat, then another and another. They were all over the place. Arkadin shot the first one, then got hold of himself and slid the window up as far as it would go. Icy rain struck him, sluiced down the side of the building.

  Holding Devra in front of him, he straddled the sash. At that moment he heard the third man calling for reinforcements, and fired three shots through the ruined door. He manhandled her out onto the narrow fire escape and edged them to his left, toward the vertical ladder bolted to the concrete that led to the roof.

  Save for one or two security lights, the Sevastopol night was darker than Hades itself. The rain slanted in needled sheets, beating against his face and arms. He was close enough to reach out for the ladder when the wrought-iron slats on which he was walking gave way.

  Devra shrieked as the two of them plummeted, landing against the railing of the fire escape below. Almost immediately this rickety affair gave way beneath their weight and they toppled over the end. Arkadin reached out, grabbed a rung of the ladder with his left hand. He held on to Devra with his right. They dangled in the air, the ground too far for him to risk letting go. Plus there was no convenient fully loaded Dumpster to break their fall.

  He began to lose his grip on her hand.

  “Draw yourself up,” he said. “Put your legs around me.”

  “What?”

  He bellowed the command at her and, flinching, she did as he ordered.

  “Now lock your ankles tight around my waist.”

  This time she didn’t hesitate.

  “All right,” Arkadin said, “now reach up, you can just make the lowest rung—no, hold on to it with both hands.”

  The rain made the metal slippery, and on the first attempt Devra lost her grip.

  “Again,” Arkadin shouted. “And this time don’t let go.”

  Clearly terrified, Devra closed her fingers around the rung, held on so tightly her knuckles turned white. As for Arkadin, his left arm was being slowly dislocated from its socket. If he didn’t change his position soon, he’d be done for.

  “Now what?” Devra said.

  “Once your grip on the rung is secure, uncross your ankles and pull yourself up the ladder until you can stand on a rung.”

  “I don’t know if I have the strength.”

  He lifted himself up until he’d wedged the rung in his right armpit. His left arm was numb. He worked his fingers, and bolts of pain shot up into his throbbing shoulder. “Go ahead,” he said, pushing her up. He couldn’t let her see how much pain he was in. His left arm was in agony, but he kept pushing her.

  Finally, she stood on the ladder above him. She looked down. “Now you.”

  His entire left side was numb; the rest of him was on fire.

  Devra reached down toward him. “Come on.”

  “I’ve got nothing much to live for, I died a long time ago.”

  “Screw you.” She crouched down so when she reached down again she grabbed onto his arm. As she did so, her foot slipped off the rung, slid downward and against him with such force she almost dislodged them both.

  “Christ, I’m going to fall!” she screamed.

  “Wrap your legs back around my waist,” he shouted. “That’s right. Now let go of the ladder one hand at a time. Hold on to me instead.”

  When she’d done as he said, he commenced to climb up the ladder. Once he was high enough to get his shoes onto the rungs the going was easier. He ignored the fire burning up his left shoulder; he needed both hands to ascend.

  They made the roof at last, rolling over the stone parapet, lying breathless on tar streaming with water. That was when Arkadin realized the rain was no longer hitting his face. He looked up, saw a man—the third of the trio—standing over him, a gun aimed at his face.

  The man grinned. “Time to die, bastard.”

  Professor Specter put the albums away. Before he closed the drawer, however, he took out a pair of photos. Bourne studied the faces of two men. The one in the first photo was approximately the same age as the professor. Glasses almost comically magnified large, watery eyes, above which lay remarkably thick eyebrows. Otherwise, his head was bald.

  “Semion Icoupov,” Specter said, “leader of the Black Legion.”

  He took Bourne out of the basement library, up the steps, out the back of the house into the fresh air. A formal English garden lay before them, defined by low boxwood hedges. The sky was an airy blue, high and rich, full of the promise of an early spring. A bird fluttered between the bare branches of the willow, unsure where to alight.

  “Jason, we need to stop the Black Legion. The only way to do that is to kill Semion Icoupov. I’ve already lost three good men to that end. I need someone better. I need you.”

  “I’m not a contract killer.”

  “Jason, please don’t take offense. I need your help to stop this attack. Icoupov knows where the plans are.”

  “All right. I’ll find him and the plans.” Bourne shook his head. “But he doesn’t have to be killed.”

  The professor shook his head sadly. “A noble sentiment, but you don’t know Semion Icoupov like I do. If you don’t kill him, he’ll surely kill you. Believe me when I tell you I’ve tried to take him alive. None of my men has returned from that assignment.”

  He stared out across the pond. “There’s no one else I can turn to, no one else who has the expertise to find Icoupov and end this madness once and for all. Pyotr’s murder signals the beginning of the endgame between me and the Black Legion. Either we stop them here or they will be successful in their attack on this target.”

  “If what you say is true—”

  “It is, Jason. I swear to you.”

  “Where is Icoupov?”

  “We don’t know. For the last forty-eight hours we’ve been trying to track him, but everything’s turned up a blank. He was in his villa in Campione d’Italia, Switzerland. That’s where we believe Pyotr was killed. But he’s not there now.”

  Bourne stared down at the two photos he held in his hand. “Who’s the younger man?”

  “Leonid Danilovich Arkadin. Up until a few days ago we believed he was an independent assassin for hire among the f
amilies of the Russian grupperovka.” Specter tapped a forefinger between Arkadin’s eyes. “He’s the man who brought Pyotr to Icoupov. Somehow—we’re still trying to establish how—Icoupov discovered that it was Pyotr who had stolen his plans. In any event, it was Arkadin who, along with Icoupov, interrogated Pyotr and killed him.”

  “Sounds as if you’ve got a traitor in your organization, Professor.”

  Specter nodded. “I’ve reluctantly come to the same conclusion.”

  Something that had been bothering Bourne now rose to the surface of his mind. “Professor, who called you when we were having breakfast?”

  “One of my people. He needed verification of information. I had it in my car. Why?”

  “Because it was that call that drew you out into the street just as the black Cadillac came by. That wasn’t a coincidence.”

  A frown creased Specter’s brow. “No, I don’t suppose it could have been.”

  “Give me his name and address,” Bourne said, “and we’ll find out for certain.”

  The man on the rooftop had a mole on his cheek, black as sin. Arkadin concentrated on it as the man pulled Devra off the tar, away from Arkadin.

  “Did you tell him anything?” he said without taking his eyes off Arkadin.

  “Of course not,” Devra shot back. “What d’you take me for?”

  “A weak link,” Mole-man said. “I told Pyotr not to use you. Now, because of you, Filya is dead.”

  “Filya was an idiot!”

  Mole-man took his eyes off Arkadin to sneer at Devra. “He was your fucking responsibility, bitch.”

  Arkadin scissored his legs between Mole-man’s, throwing him off balance. Arkadin, quick as a cat, leapt on him, pummeling him. Mole-man fought back as best he could. Arkadin tried not to show the pain in his left shoulder, but it was already dislocated and it wouldn’t work correctly. Seeing this, Mole-man struck a blow as hard as he could flush into the shoulder.