Avenue, NW, crossed Cathedral Avenue. The entrance to the zoo appeared up ahead. "The truth is, I don't think David Webb would have lasted to the end of the school year."
"Then I'm pleased I decided to involve you in my real passion." Something seemed to have been settled inside Specter. "It's not often a man gets a chance to rectify his mistakes."
The day was mild enough that the gorilla family had been let out. Schoolchildren clustered noisily at the end of the area where the patriarch sat, surrounded by his brood. The silverback did his level best to ignore them, but when their incessant chatter became too much for him, he walked to the other end of the compound, trailed by his family. There he sat while the same annoyances spiraled out of control. Then he plodded back to the spot where Bourne had first seen him.
Mikhail Tarkanian was waiting for them beside the silverback gorilla area. He looked Specter up and down, clucking over his black eye. Then he took him in his arms, kissed him on both cheeks. "Allah is good, my friend. You are alive and well."
"Thanks to Jason here. He rescued me. I owe him my life." Specter introduced the two men.
Tarkanian kissed Bourne on both cheeks, thanking him effusively.
There came a shuffling of the gorilla family as some grooming got under way.
"Damn sad life." Tarkanian hooked his thumb at the silverback.
Bourne noted that his English was heavily accented in the manner of the tough Sokolniki slum of northeast Moscow.
"Look at the poor bastard," Tarkanian said.
The gorilla's expression was glum-resigned rather than defiant.
Specter said, "Jason's here on a bit of a fact-finding mission."
"Is he now?" Tarkanian was fleshy in the way of ex-athletes-neck like a bull, wary eyes sunk in yellow flesh. He kept his shoulders up around his ears, as if to ward off an expected blow. Enough hard knocks in Sokolniki to last a lifetime.
"I want you to answer his questions," Specter said.
"Of course. Anything I can do."
"I need your help," Bourne said. "Tell me about Pyotr Zilber."
Tarkanian, appearing somewhat taken aback, glanced at Specter, who had retreated a pace in order to center his man's full attention on Bourne. Then he shrugged. "Sure. What d'you want to know?"
"How did you find out he'd been killed?"
"The usual way. Through one of our contacts." Tarkanian shook his head. "I was devastated. Pyotr was a key man for us. He was also a friend."
"How d'you figure he was found out?"
A gaggle of schoolgirls pranced by. When they had passed out of earshot, Tarkanian said, "I wish I knew. He wasn't easy to get to, I'll tell you that."
Bourne said casually, "Did Pyotr have friends?"
"Of course he had friends. But none of them would betray him, if that's what you're asking." Tarkanian pushed his lips out. "On the other hand..." His words trailed off.
Bourne found his eyes, held them.
"Pyotr was seeing this woman. Gala Nematova. He was head-over-heels about her."
"I assume she was properly vetted," Bourne said.
"Of course. But, well, Pyotr was a bit, um, headstrong when it came to women."
"Was that widely known?"
"I seriously doubt it," Tarkanian said.
That was a mistake, Bourne thought. The habits and proclivities of the enemy were always for sale if you were clever and persistent enough. Tarkanian should have said, I don't know. Possibly. As neutral an answer as possible, and closer to the truth.
"Women can be a weak link." Bourne thought briefly of Moira and the cloud of uncertainty that hovered over her from the CI investigation. The idea that Martin could have been seduced into revealing CI secrets was a bitter pill to swallow. He hoped when he read the communication between her and Martin that Soraya had unearthed, he could lay the question to rest.
"We're all sick about Pyotr's death," Tarkanian offered. Again the glance at Specter.
"No question." Bourne smiled rather vaguely. "Murder's a serious matter, especially in this case. I'm talking to everyone, that's all."
"Of course. I understand."
"You've been extremely helpful." Bourne smiled, shook Tarkanian's hand. As he did so, he said in a sharp tone of voice, "By the way, how much did Icoupov's people pay you to call the professor's cell this morning?"
Instead of freezing Tarkanian seemed to relax. "What the hell kind of question is that? I'm loyal, I always have been."
After a moment, he tried to extricate his hand, but Bourne's grip tightened. Tarkanian's eyes met Bourne's, held them.
Behind them, the silverback made a noise, growing restive. The sound was low, like the