The Bourne Sanction Read Free

opting not to contact the contract killer directly. From an early age Pyotr had learned that there was no such thing as being too security-minded. There was a heavy burden of responsibility being born into a family with secrets. From his lofty perch on the overlook just off Via Totone, Pyotr had a breathtaking panorama of the red-brown tile roofs of the chalets and apartment houses, the palm-lined squares of the town, the cerulean waters of the lake, the mountains, their shoulders mantled with capes of mist. The distant drone of powerboats, leaving frothy scimitars of white wake, came to him intermittently while he sat in his gray BMW . In truth, part of his mind was already on his imminent trip. Having gotten the stolen document, he had sent it on the long journey along his network to its ultimate end.
    Being here excited him in the most extraordinary way. His anticipation of what was to come, of the accolades he would receive, especially from his father, sent an electric charge through him. He was on the brink of an unimaginable victory. Arkadin had called him from the Moscow airport to tell him that the operation had been successful, that he had in his possession the physical proof Pyotr required.
    He had taken a risk going after Maks, but the man had murdered Pyotr’s brother. Was he supposed to turn his cheek and forget the affront? He knew better than anyone his father’s stern dictum to keep to the shadows, to remain hidden, but he thought this one act of vengeance was worth the risk. Besides, he’d handled the matter via intermediaries, the way he knew his father would have.
    Hearing the deep growl of a car engine, he turned, saw a dark blue Mercedes come up the rise toward the overlook.
    The only real risk he was taking was going to happen right now, and that, he knew, couldn’t be helped. If Leonid Arkadin was able to infiltrate Colony 13 in Nizhny Tagil and kill Borya Maks, he was the man for the next job Pyotr had in mind. One his father should have taken care of years ago. Now he had a chance to finish what his father was too timid to attempt. To the bold belonged the spoils. The document he’d procured was proof positive that the time for caution was at an end.
    The Mercedes drew to a stop beside his BMW , a man with light hair and even lighter eyes emerging with the fluidity of a tiger. He was not a particularly large man, he wasn’t overmuscled like many of the Russian grupperovka personnel; nevertheless something inside him radiated a quiet menace Pyotr found impressive. From a very young age Pyotr had been exposed to dangerous men. At the age of eleven he had killed a man who had threatened his mother. He hadn’t hesitated in the slightest. If he had, his mother would have died that afternoon in the Azerbaijani bazaar at the hands of the knife-wielding assassin. That assassin, as well as others over the years, had been sent by Semion Icoupov, Pyotr’s father’s implacable nemesis, the man who at this moment was safely ensconced in his villa on Viale Marco Campione, not a mile from where Pyotr and Leonid Arkadin now stood.
    The two men did not greet each other, did not address each other by name. Arkadin took out the stainless-steel briefcase Pyotr had sent him. Pyotr reached for its twin inside the BMW . The exchange was made on the hood of the Mercedes. The men put the cases down side by side, unlocked them. Arkadin’s contained Maks’s severed thumb, wrapped and bagged. Pyotr’s contained thirty thousand dollars in diamonds, the only currency Arkadin accepted as payment.
    Arkadin waited patiently. As Pyotr unwrapped the thumb he stared out at the lake, perhaps wishing he were on one of the powerboats slicing a path away from land. Maks’s thumb had withered slightly on the journey from Russia. A certain odor emanated from it, which was not unfamiliar to Pyotr Zilber. He’d buried his share of family and compatriots. He turned so the sunlight struck the tattoo, produced a small magnifying glass