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 powerful siloviks in Russia.
Volkin pulled back as if stung by Bourne's words. He shot Gala an accusatory glance, as if Bourne were a scorpion she'd brought into his den. Turning back to Bourne he said, "Have you any proof of this?"
"Don't be absurd. However, I can tell you the name of the man I report to: Boris Illyich Karpov."
"Is that so?" Volkin produced a Makarov handgun, placed it on his right knee. "If you're lying..." He picked up a cell phone he scavenged miraculously from out of the clutter, and quickly punched in a number. "We have no amateurs here."
After a moment he said into the phone, "Boris Illyich, I have here with me a man who claims to be working for you. I would like to put him on the line, yes?"
With a deadpan face, Volkin handed over the cell.
"Boris," Bourne said, "it's Jason Bourne."
"Jason, my good friend!" Karpov's voice reverberated down the line. "I haven't seen you since Reykjavik."
"It seems like a long time."
"Too long, I tell you!"
"Where have you been?"
"In Timbuktu."
"What were you doing in Mali?" Bourne asked.
"Don't ask, don't tell." Karpov laughed. "I understand you're now working for me."
"That's right."
"My boy, I've longed for this day!" Karpov let go with another booming laugh. "We must toast this moment with vodka, but not tonight, eh? Put that old goat Volkin back on the line. I assume there's something you want from him."
"Correct."
"He hasn't believed a word you've told him. But I'll change that. Please memorize my cell number, then call me when you're alone. Until we speak again, my good friend."
"He wants to talk to you," Bourne said.
"That's understandable." Volkin took the cell from Bourne, put it to his ear. Almost immediately his expression changed. He stared at Bourne, his mouth slightly open. "Yes, Boris Illyich. Yes, of course. I understand."
Volkin broke the connection, stared at Bourne for what seemed a long time. At length, he said, "I'm going to call Dimitri Maslov now. I hope to hell you know what you're doing. Otherwise, this is the last time anyone will see you, either alive or dead."
Chapter Twenty-Two
TYRONE WENT immediately into one of the cubicles in the men's room. Fishing out the plastic tag Deron had made for him, he clipped it on the outside of his suit jacket, a suit that looked like the regulation government suits all the other spooks wore here. The tag identified him as Special Agent Damon Riggs, out of the NSA field office in LA. Damon Riggs was real enough. The tag came straight from the NSA HR database.
Tyrone flushed the toilet, emerged from the cubicle, smiled frostily at an NSA agent bent over one of the sinks washing his hands. The agent glanced at Tyrone's tag, said, "You're a long way from home."
"And in the middle of winter, too." Tyrone's voice was strong and firm. "Damn, I miss goin' top-down in Santa Monica."
"I hear you." The agent dried his hands. "Good luck," he said as he left.