you, all right." He flipped a page. "Came here straight from Bucharest."
"The people I represent are Romanian," Bourne said.
Bourne watched Yevgeny Feyodovich paw through the wallet, sifting through three different kinds of identification, including a driver's license and an import-export license. That last was a nice touch, Bourne thought. He'd have to thank Deron when he got back.
At length, Yevgeny handed back the wallet and the passport. Keeping his eye on Bourne, he took out a cell phone, punched in a local number.
"New business," he said laconically. "Ilias Voda, representing Romanian interests, he says." He put the cell phone aside for a moment, said to Bourne, "How much?"
"Is that Lemontov?"
Yevgeny's face darkened. "How much?"
"A hundred kilos now."
Yevgeny stared at him, entranced.
"Twice as much next month if everything pans out."
Yevgeny walked a bit away, putting his back to Bourne while he spoke again into the phone. A moment later, he came back. The cell was already in his pocket.
Another flick of his head caused Bogdan Illiyanovich to remove the gun from Bourne's head, stow it away beneath the long wool coat that flapped around his ankles. He was a thick-necked man with very black hair that was pomaded across his scalp from right to left in a style vaguely reminiscent of the one Hitler had favored. His eyes were like agates, glimmering darkly at the bottom of a well.
"Tomorrow night."
Bourne looked at him steadily. He wanted to get on with it; time was of the essence. Every day, every hour brought Fadi and his cadre closer to unleashing their nuclear weapon. But he saw in Yevgeny's face the cold expression of the hardened professional. It was no good trying to see Lemontov sooner. He was being tested to determine if he was as hardened as they were. Bourne knew that Lemontov wanted time to observe him before he allowed him an audience. Protesting that would be more than foolhardy; it would make him seem weak.
"Give me the time and place," Bourne said.
"After dinner. Be ready. Someone will call your room. The Samarin, yes?"
The waiter who had given him Yevgeny's name, Bourne thought. "I needn't give you my room number, then."
"Indeed not."
Yevgeny Feyodovich held out his hand. As Bourne gripped it, he said, "Gospadin, Voda, I wish you good fortune in your quest." He did not immediately release his ferocious clamp on Bourne's hand. "Now you are within our orbit. Now you are either friend or enemy. I beg you to remember that if you try to communicate with anyone by any means for any reason whatsoever, you are enemy. There will be no second chance." His yellow teeth appeared as his lips drew back from them. "For such a betrayal, you will never leave Odessa alive, you have my assurance on this."
Chapter Fourteen
MARTIN LINDROS, dossiers in hand, was on his way to the Old Man's office for a hastily called briefing when his cell buzzed. It was Anne Held.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Lindros. There's been a change of plan. Please meet the DCI down in the Tunnel."
"Thank you, Anne."
Lindros disconnected, punched the DOWN button. The Tunnel was the underground parking facility where the pool of agency cars was housed and maintained, and where service people on CI-approved lists came and went under the scrutiny of armed agents wearing body armor.
He rode the elevator down to the Tunnel, where he showed his ID to one of the agents on duty. The place was in effect an enormous reinforced concrete bunker: both bomb- and fireproof. There was only one ramp that led up to the street, which could be sealed on both ends at a moment's notice. The Old Man's armored Lincoln limousine sat purring on the concrete, its rear door open. Lindros ducked as he entered, sitting beside the DCI on the plush leather seats. The door closed without his help, electronically locking itself. The driver and his shotgun nodded to him, then the privacy window slid up, sealing the passengers in the spacious rear compartment. The windows in the rear compartment were specially tinted so no one could see in, but the passengers could see out.
"You've brought both dossiers?"
"Yessir." Lindros nodded as he handed over the folders.
"That was good work, Martin." The Old Man scrunched up his face. "I've been summoned by the POTUS." POTUS was the preferred acronym among security people in the district for the president of the United States. "Judging by the crises we're in-external and internal-the question is how bad this interview is going to be."