a stupid statement. I only wish Jason could be with us permanently."
When, sweaty and entangled, Gala Nematova and her boy toy left the dance floor, so did Bourne. He watched as the couple made their way to a table where they were greeted by two other men. They all began to guzzle champagne as if it were water. Bourne waited until they'd refilled their flutes, then swaggered over in the style of these new-style gangsters.
Leaning over Gala's companion, he shouted in her ear, "I have an urgent message for you."
"Hey," her companion shouted back with no little belligerence, "who the fuck're you?"
"Wrong question." Glaring at him, Bourne pushed up the sleeve of his jacket just long enough to give him a glimpse of his fake Anubis tattoo.
The man bit his lip and sat back down as Bourne reached over, pulled Gala Nematova away from the table.
"We're going outside to talk."
"Are you crazy?" She tried to squirm away from his grip. "It's freezing out there."
Bourne continued to steer her by her elbow. "We'll talk in my limo."
"Well, that's something." Gala Nematova bared her teeth, clearly unhappy. Her teeth were very white, as if scrubbed to within an inch of their lives. Her eyes were a remote chestnut, large with uptilted corners that revealed the Asian blood in her ancestry.
A frigid wind swept off the canal, blocked only partially by the gridlock of expensive cars and bombily. Bourne rapped on the Porsche's door and the driver, recognizing him, unlocked the doors. Bourne and the dyev piled in.
Gala, shivering, hugged her inadequately short fur coat around her. Bourne asked the driver to turn up the heat. He complied, sank down in his fur-collared greatcoat.
"I don't care what message you have for me," Gala said sullenly. "Whatever it is, the answer's no."
"Are you sure?" Bourne wondered where she was going with this.
"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.