The Bourne Enigma

Book 13: Jason Bourne Series

by Eric Van Lustbader

Genres: Spy Thrillers; International Crime & Mystery

Synopsis

On the eve of Russian general Boris Karpov's wedding, Jason Bourne receives an enigmatic message from his old friend and fellow spymaster. In Moscow, what should be a joyous occasion turns bloody and lethal. Now Bourne is the only one who can decipher Karpov's cryptogram. He discovers that Karpov has betrayed his sovereign to warn Bourne of a crippling disaster about to be visited on the world. Bourne has only four days to discover the nature of the disaster and stop it.

The trail Karpov has been following leads Bourne to Cairo and the doorstep of Ivan Borz, the elusive international arms dealer infamous for hiding behind a never-ending series of false identities, a man Bourne has been hunting ever since he abducted former Treadstone director Soraya Moore and her two-year-old daughter and brutally murdered Soraya's husband.

Bourne must travel to war-torn Syria and then Cyprus as he chases the astonishing truth. The clock is ticking, and Bourne has less than four days to solve Karpov's riddle – and hunt down Borz – if he hopes to prevent a cataclysmic international war...

A Hachette Audio production.

Release date: June 21, 2016

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 432

Sample

PROLOGUE

Frankfurt, Germany

The moment Jason Bourne stepped into the Royal Broweiser the hotel staff snapped to attention. Not that they had been standing idle. Herr Hummel, the executive director, would have had their jobs, and in any case they were too well trained. But Herr Bourne, well known to them, was a large tipper, and the staff scurried to take control of his three large, beautiful suitcases, each of which, they surmised, would have cost them six months’ salary.

Bourne, a broad-shouldered, impeccably dressed gentleman of obvious means, had been staying at the Royal Broweiser over the past three or four months at irregular intervals. A businessman he might be, the staff speculated, but his physique marked him as a man who knew his way around a gym. He was always affable, loquacious, a font of slightly off-color jokes that never failed to delight the bellboys, who fell all over themselves to do his bidding. No request was too menial for them; they were happy to be put under his spell.

This morning, Bourne was shown up to his usual suite on the top floor, and, after a special delivery platter from Herr Hummel himself, was left to his own devices. The moment he was alone, he stepped to the window that overlooked Thurn-und-Taxis-Platz in the Old Town, took out his mobile, and pressed a speed-dial number. A moment later, the connection made, a female voice answered.

“I’m installed,” he said. “How long do I have to wait?”

“A few days only.” The voice in his ear warmed him. “We’re tracking him; he’ll soon be on his way.”

“Days…”

“Don’t be like that,” she said. “Do you have any idea what it took to intercept an FSB confidential communique and substitute our own so Vanov was directed to you instead of to Bourne?”

“Who better than me, Irina?” The man posing as Bourne already felt a stirring in his groin. “Still. What am I to do here?”

“I know how deeply you despise Frankfurt, Jason.”

“I love when you call me Jason.”

“I’ll bet you do.” Irina chuckled. “You’re too fucking tense. Find something to relax yourself.”

“You,” he said, almost wistfully. “Only you.”

“Come, come, my animal,” she whispered. “Surely you can—”

She must have heard his groan, though he thought it was barely audible.

“What are you doing, Jason?”

“You know what I’m doing.” His zipper was open, his right hand rubbing his arousal. “Relaxing.”

“Then, by all means,” Irina cooed, “allow me to assist you.”

—

Afterward, he wiped down the windowpane with a damp washcloth. Then, changing into the plush terry robe and slippers provided, he padded down the hallway, taking the elevator to the spa, where he stood under the rain forest shower for twenty minutes, cleansing both his body and his mind.

Upstairs in his room, he put on new clothes, went out and, under a sky burdened with gunmetal clouds, had a too-rich lunch at a café in Römerberg, then visited the Imperial Cathedral and St. Paul’s Church. The following day he spent at the Zoological Garden, staring down a male lion who smelled like death. Bourne detested zoos even more than he hated Frankfurt and Germans in general. The thought of caging such magnificent creatures seemed to him a sin deserving of eternal damnation—if he had believed in such a thing, which, as a pragmatist and an atheist, he didn’t.

Thank the gods and demons Irina called the next day.

“He just landed,” she said. “He should be at the hotel in an hour.”

The morning had dawned gray and ugly, just like the ones before it, except worse—it was raining. This city could drive me mad, he thought, as he broke the connection. But that was all done with now. At last excitement coursed through his veins.

It was showtime.

—

Captain Maksim Vanov, FSB, using the temporary title of cultural attaché, arrived at the hotel in a kind of controlled frenzy. It was his first time in Germany, Russia’s longtime enemy. His grandfather had fought and died in the great patriotic siege of Stalingrad. He had been taught never to forget. As the bellman opened the door to his room at the Royal Broweiser, he shrugged the rain off his trench coat. The bellman hung it in the closet, explained the room’s amenities, then loitered around until Vanov pressed a few euros into his damp palm.

Vanov took out the ancient bronze coin he had worn around his neck since General Karpov himself had given it to him, fingered it until it grew warm from his hand. Then, reluctantly, he let it go.

Unable to wait a moment more, he picked up the phone, asked for Jason Bourne.

“Is he in?” Vanov said in decent German.

“I believe Herr Bourne is taking breakfast in his room this morning. Who shall I say is inquiring?”

“Don’t say a word,” Vanov said. “I’m an old friend and I want to surprise him.”

The eager tone in Vanov’s voice must have persuaded the man at the front desk. He said, “As you wish, Herr Vanov. Good day.”

“Good day to you,” Vanov replied in the formal style so beloved of Germans.

Then he went out, riding the elevator up to the top floor. It was only when he stood before the door to Jason Bourne’s suite that he hesitated, unaccountably gripped by an uncharacteristic bout of anxiety. General Karpov had handpicked him for this most secret and important mission. Having come under the great general’s scrutiny, he did not want to fuck up. Everything must go precisely as the general had outlined it.

The door opened to his tentative knock and there he was: Jason Bourne in the flesh. He was dressed in a polo shirt, jeans, and loafers without socks. The physique, the face were more or less as they had been described to him.

“Jason,” he said carefully. “I work with your old friend Boris.” This is how the general had instructed him to begin.

Bourne frowned. “Boris?”

“Karpov,” Vanov said. “Boris Karpov.”

“Ah, well. Come in.” Bourne gestured to a sideboard. “A drink?”

Vanov raised a hand, palm outward. “Not today.”

“And you are?”

“Captain Vanov.” Vanov glanced around the room, looking for signs of another inhabitant—a woman, perhaps—but didn’t see any. “We have important matters to discuss.”

“Indeed?” Bourne raised his eyebrows. “By all means.” He moved toward the sofa in the suite’s living area. “Shall we make ourselves comfortable?”

“I’d rather stand, if it’s all the same to you.”

Bourne threw him a curious look, but nodded. “Whatever you say, Captain.” He returned to where Vanov stood. “Why didn’t Boris come himself?”

Vanov laughed. “Surely you’re joking. Preparations for his wedding.”

Bourne silently cursed his lapse.

Vanov pulled out the bronze coin on its chain so Bourne could see it. “The general sent me to give you this.” Reaching around behind his neck, he unlocked the chain, dropped it and the coin into Bourne’s open hand. “He said you’d understand.”

Bourne’s expression was rueful. “I’m afraid I don’t.” He looked up at Vanov. “Why don’t you explain it to me?”

Vanov opened his mouth to reply, but almost immediately shut it again. There was something wrong here, something he had felt almost from the moment Bourne had opened the door. What was it?

“Vanov?” Bourne was moving toward him. “Is something wrong? You look like someone just stepped on your grave.”

“Nichevo. Ya prosto chuvstvoval, kholod,” Vanov said. It’s nothing. I just felt a chill.

“Prostite menya za to chto y tak govoru,” Bourne replied without missing a beat, “no eto ne meloche.” Pardon me for saying so, but that didn’t seem like nothing.

Vanov stepped back abruptly, bumping into the end of the sofa. “You’re not Jason Bourne,” he said. “The general briefed me. Bourne’s accent is pure Moscow. Yours is Chertanovo.”

Bourne’s smile widened. “I’ve spent more time in Moscow’s slums, including Chertanovo, over the intervening years, Captain. Of course my accent has changed.”

Vanov was shaking his head. “You cannot fool me—whoever you are.”

He made to grab the coin out of Bourne’s hand, but Bourne was ready. He slammed his knuckles into Vanov’s throat. Choking, Vanov fell, his hands clutching at his throat. His eyes watered as he tried to gasp for air.

Bourne hunkered down in front of him. “I’m not going to waste time debating whether or not I’m the general’s old friend Jason Bourne.”

His fist unfurled to reveal the coin. Vanov kicked out, caught Bourne on the inside of his knee, bringing him down. Vanov managed to strike him three times with the edge of his hand, making Bourne’s eyes water, before Bourne drew a steel baton out of a holster at his waist, snapped it against the back of Vanov’s right hand, fracturing it. Then he struck Vanov a softer blow on the side of his head.

“Please,” he said, “let’s not make this more unpleasant than it already is.” He touched the coin with the tips of his fingers. “Now tell me about this and the message you were told to give to Bourne.”

Vanov spat a gob of blood onto Bourne’s shirt. “I’m not telling you a thing.”

Bourne sighed. “Sorry, Captain.” His hand reached out in a blur, grabbed Vanov by his shirtfront, and hauled him to his feet as he himself stood. “I’m afraid we’re going to have to do this the unpleasant way. Unpleasant for you, I mean.” He grinned. “Fun for me.”

He half-dragged a stumbling Vanov through the suite into the tiled bathroom. Without warning, he struck Vanov on the cheekbone, the baton opening a bloody line. Vanov staggered backward. Bourne caught him, stood him upright, and struck him again in precisely the same place. A bright red spray issued forth as the cut penetrated to the bone.

“You see how it is, Captain,” Bourne said. “In here, with all this tile, it’s so easy to clean off the blood.” His smile turned sinister. “And, unless you answer my questions, there’s so much more to come.”

He struck Vanov again and again, and the tiles ran red.

—

Bourne sat on the edge of the bathtub, staring down at the thing that had been FSB Captain Vanov. He rose, crossed to the sink, washed his hands and dried them.

“How did it go?” Irina asked when he reached her on his mobile.

“Bad news,” he answered. “There was no message per se.”

“I don’t understand.” Irina’s voice was no longer a purr.

“Instead, I have a coin.”

“A coin?” Her tone had turned dark, ominous.

“That’s it. The message was a coin. Old. Ancient, maybe.”

“And what did he tell you the coin means?”

“He didn’t. He wouldn’t talk.”

“Not a word?”

“He’s a fucking FSB captain,” Bourne said, “trained to withstand interrogation.”

She sighed. “Plan B, then. You’ll have to give the coin to Bourne and sell me to him.”

“No problem.”

“Don’t get cocky,” she warned.

“I’m only cocky with you.”

“Listen to me, moy golodnyy zver’.” My hungry animal. “If you underestimate Bourne even a little bit he’ll tear you limb from limb, and that will make me very unhappy.”

“We can’t have that,” he said. “I couldn’t bear it.”

Ringing off, he went to the doorsill of the bathroom, removed his blood-spattered loafers, and padded back through the suite to the bedroom. He snapped open one of the three large suitcases, removed an electric rotary saw with an extralong cord, rolls of thick plastic and duct tape, and a pair of shears. He returned with his haul to the bathroom. Stepping back into his loafers, he crossed to the bathtub and spread one of the rolls of plastic over the drain in the tub and the area of the floor closest to the tub. Navigating to a music app on his mobile, he activated the streaming service. Music flooded the bathroom; he turned up the volume. He plugged the saw into the wall outlet, set the shark-toothed blade against Vanov’s right shoulder, and watched it cut a bloody path through skin, viscera, muscle, and bone.

Twenty minutes later, he had all the pieces of Vanov’s corpse wrapped in sections of the plastic and sealed securely with the duct tape. He had saved the decapitated head for last, staring into the eyes, wondering what they had seen at the moment of death. He popped it into a smaller length of plastic, sealed it up. Then he spent another forty minutes sterilizing the bathroom of any trace of blood, bits of bone, and DNA, using chemicals he’d packed along with the saw, plastic, and tape. Humming to the music from his mobile, he filled the now-empty suitcase with as many pieces of the body as would fit. The overflow went into the second suitcase. Then he stripped naked, lay down on the bed, and took a nap.

—

Precisely an hour later, he woke, rose, crossed to the dresser, and ate every single item on the platter of food Herr Hummel had sent up. Fastidiously wiping his fingertips and his glistening lips, he opened the third suitcase, which was filled with what seemed to be an entire wardrobe of clothes. He needed to pick out an outfit that most resembled the one Vanov had worn.

Ninety minutes after that, he called for the porter, accompanied him down in the elevator with the three shining suitcases. He was checked out by Herr Hummel himself. The man who had been Jason Bourne and was now Maksim Vanov, unbeknownst to the hotel’s executive director, made sure he thanked Herr Hummel for his generous welcoming gift.

“Fantastisch! Much appreciated, mein Herr,” he said as he took back the credit card in the name of Jason Bourne.

Herr Hummel, beaming, all but clicked his heels in delight. “I and all the staff are already looking forward to your next visit, Herr Bourne.”

He exited the Royal Broweiser, his three bags wheeled behind him like ducklings all in a row. With the suitcases neatly stowed in the boot of his rental car, he handed the porter and the valet each generous tips, slid behind the wheel, and drove off.

On the outskirts of the city, he stopped at the edge of a deserted lake Irina had previously scoped out, into which he rolled the two suitcases containing the remains of the real Captain Vanov. They disappeared in tiny bursts of bubbles, like a child playing underwater. Then he dried off his feet and shins, pulled on his socks, rolled down his trousers, and laced up his shoes. He drove back into the city, arriving just after seven p.m. at the Meisterstuck Hotel in Stresemannallee. He entered as Maksim Vanov, cultural attaché.

It was not yet dinnertime in Frankfurt, and when he knocked on the door to the room at the end of the third floor, Jason Bourne was still there, packing for his flight to Moscow.

“Jason,” he said, when the door swung open, “I’ve been sent by Boris.”

Bourne frowned. “Boris?”

“Karpov. Boris Karpov. Your old friend.”

“I don’t know who you are.” Bourne stood in the doorway, blocking Vanov’s way.

“Maksim Vanov, Captain, FSB, at your service.”

Still Bourne hesitated.

“I’ve been sent by a friend. May I come in?” Vanov’s murderer said in Russian. “The matter is urgent and talking like this in the hallway isn’t—”

“Derzhite vashi ruki, gde ya mogu videty ih.” Keep your hands where I can see them. Vanov lifted his hands, palms outward, Bourne stepped aside and allowed him in.

“I vash russkiy yazayk prevoshoden, mne govorili.” Your Russian is excellent, as I was told.

“Ya imel prevoshodnayh prepodavateley,” Bourne replied. I had excellent teachers.

Bourne stood silent, observing Vanov in such a studied, intense fashion that the person beneath the Vanov identity actually felt slightly unnerved. If he were to be honest with himself, he hadn’t felt that watery sensation in the pit of his stomach since the time he had been jumped in a back alley of Chertanovo. He’d just celebrated his thirteenth birthday by drinking himself half-blind on 180-proof slivovitz. Five punks had surrounded him, deriding him in Fenya, the language of Russian prisons. They used the slurs like weapons as they herded him into a cul-de-sac and their leader began the beatdown. He was carrying little money and no items of value, such as a watch or a ring. Infuriated, they surely would have killed him, if Irina hadn’t interceded. She shot the leader dead with an old Makarov she had somehow managed to purchase on the black market, despite her tender age. How she had managed this he could not imagine. In any event, the dead punk’s compatriots vanished like yesterday’s newspapers. That was the precise moment—when he had seen her applying her trade for real—that he knew he loved her more than he would love anyone else during his lifetime.

Bourne, glancing at his wristwatch, said, “Time, Captain. I leave for the airport in less than an hour.”

“Then my timing couldn’t be more perfect,” Vanov said, brushing aside his brief upsurge of memory. Irina could do that to him, often at the most inopportune moments. He couldn’t stop it; he was helpless to control anything about her, even his own memories—as if part of her had lodged itself inside him just before the moment of their separation in their mother’s womb.

Vanov produced the bronze coin, holding it out in the palm of his hand. “Does this knock out any cobwebs?”

—

Bourne stared at the coin for a moment before looking up to study Captain Vanov’s face with every ounce of his experience and skills. Boris had told him Vanov would be coming to see him when he had called to invite Bourne to his wedding.

“You don’t seem happy for me, my friend,” he’d said.

“Happy enough,” Bourne replied. “I’m just wondering about the rush. I’ve never heard you mention Svetlana before.”

“Love comes to all of us, my friend, if we’re lucky. Even you, Jason. Even you.”

Bourne had momentarily stiffened, wondering if Boris, with all his tentacled sources, knew about Sara. But how could he? He’d met her, of course, but that was before there had been anything between her and Bourne. Still, when it came to love Bourne found it imperative to be paranoid. He had vowed never to put Sara in more danger than she was used to, even if that meant walking away from her and his feelings for her. He’d done it before; he’d do it again. On the other hand, he was becoming aware of the increasing difficulty in cutting off his feelings at the knees, and this, a weakness for someone in his line of work, was cause for concern.

“Don’t worry,” Boris had continued, “I know you were on your way to Moscow anyway. Are you any closer to finding Ivan Borz?”

“When it comes to Borz, ‘closer’ is a relative term.”

“But you will find him.” It hadn’t been a question. Boris never questioned Bourne’s abilities.

“Yes.”

“Just make sure you kill him this time. The sonuvabitch has a knack of cheating death almost as often as you do. He’s so slippery, so full of changes in identity if I didn’t know better I’d think you’d tutored him.”

“Now that would present a problem.”

“I’m sending Vanov with something for you.” The darkening of Boris’s voice had alerted Bourne that they had entered the real reason for the call. “Keep it safe, at all costs.”

“What is it?”

“A lifeline.”

“What?”

“A lifeline for the end of the world.”

And with that cryptic comment Boris had rung off.

Now, in the hotel room in Frankfurt, Bourne took the coin at last—Boris’s lifeline. He turned it, looking at it from all angles. “Clearly, it’s ancient, from the Roman Empire. Other than that…” He glanced up at Vanov, shook his head.

Vanov looked crestfallen, an emotion that was genuine. “Ah, pity. The general instructed me to bring it to you. He said you would know what it means.”

Bourne nodded noncommittally.

—

“There was no verbal or written message with it?” Bourne asked.

“There will be many people you don’t know at the wedding. Some may know you and not be pleased to see you. I’m to set you up with someone who will be of use to you in this and other matters. She will help in whatever you may require.” Captain Vanov handed Bourne a slip of paper. “Here is her mobile number. When you land at Sheremetyevo, call her.”

Bourne frowned “Who is this wonder woman?”

“Her name is Irina. Irina Vasilýevna. She is very well connected in many of Moscow’s influential siloviki and oligarch circles. She’s also conversant with other—or, how shall I better put it—unofficial personnel.”

“She’s into Moscow’s black market?”

“Her father and brother were.”

“They’re dead?”

Vanov nodded. “Three years now.” Strange, he thought, how speaking of his own father’s and brother’s deaths meant nothing to him. It was as if he were speaking of fictional characters—or ones who had never existed. Of course, it was different for Irina. She and their father had been very close. Their father had confided everything in her, and for this he had been supremely grateful.

“I won’t need her,” Bourne said.

“The general insists his wedding run perfectly smoothly. These are his explicit orders.” With an obsequious smile, Vanov moved toward the door. With his hand on the doorknob, he turned, “Good luck, Mr. Bourne. I trust you’ve brought a heavy overcoat. In Moscow you will hear winter’s footsteps hard on your heels.”

1

My bear, where have you been?” Svetlana asked.

“Working, my pet,” General Boris Karpov said as he came out of the enormous bathroom of their palatial Moscow hotel suite.

“Working?” Svetlana evinced an exaggerated pout. “On this day of all days?”

Karpov sighed as he plucked his freshly pressed dress uniform jacket off the wooden caddy. “Unfortunately, the world doesn’t stop to celebrate our wedding.”

Svetlana Novachenko had a face like a porcelain doll—a porcelain doll with killer cheekbones, emerald eyes, and hair the color of champagne. That she was half Ukrainian, rather than full Russian, was no impediment to Boris Karpov marrying her. He was the head of the combined FSB and FSB-2, the inheritors of the KGB, the president’s infamous alma mater. As such, he was in a highly privileged position in the Russian Federation, medaled, feted at the Kremlin, invited to every glittering political affair, surrounded by the czars’ jewel box interiors. He’d even had dinner once or twice with the president himself. All this was to say that Boris Karpov could marry whomever he wanted, so long as she wasn’t a Jew.

Svetlana Novachenko wasn’t a Jew. She was a member of a wealthy and powerful mixed Russian and Ukrainian industrial family that traced its lineage back to Czar Nicholas I.

“What were you really doing, Boris?”

She was stretched out now on a velvet chaise longue, her slim, magnificent body naked and glistening. Her arms were raised over her head in a provocative pose deliberately mimicking Francisco Goya’s La Maja Desnuda.

“If you must know,” Boris said, fastening the brass buttons of his jacket with its six rows of medals emblazoned across its left breast, “Cairo Station was in a bit of a muddle, having discovered the Israelis had been spying on them electronically.”

“Cairo, is it? So far from where we are here in the bosom of Mother Russia.”

He gave her a sideways glance. “I rarely know when you’re being facetious.”

“Oh, yes you do, darling.” Svetlana smiled with her small white teeth. “You simply won’t admit it.” She extended her arms over her head even farther, throwing her breasts into high relief. “You’re sure you’re not carrying out yet another stage in the Sovereign’s pernicious campaign against Ukraine?”

Boris frowned, trying his best to ignore her attempt at seduction. “You don’t believe me?”

“The Sovereign seems to have bent all his energies on reclaiming what Russia has lost over the years. Aren’t you part of that?”

“Don’t be absurd.”

“Do you not credit what he just stated publicly?”

“He makes many statements, Lana.”

“This one is more despicable than the others. Last night he defended the treaty the Soviet Union signed with Nazi Germany on the eve of the World War Two, under which they secretly carved up Poland and other countries like the butchers they were. The Sovereign is no better than Molotov and Ribbentrop, proof positive he’s a madman.”

Boris said nothing. He was irrationally resentful that she had exponentially expanded the knot of anxiety in his stomach that for weeks he had been trying to control. And on their wedding night!

“And what has this war stance gotten him? Privation here at home for the populace as Western embargos cut deep, the ruble is at an all-time low, and the stock market is in free fall. Even the billionaires’ concerns grow daily as they see their money hordes receding like the tide. Face it, the Sovereign is in trouble. He’s shoved the entire Federation onto a slippery slope.”

“What slippery slope are you referring to?” Though Boris knew all too well to what she was referring.

Svetlana sighed, which only served to thrust her breasts out even more. “Vankor,” she said with that canny look in her eye that had made Boris fall in love with her.

“What about it?” He felt a stab of fear rush through him. Her combination of intelligence and uncanny intuition was bringing her far too close to the nub of the matter.

“My bear, do you think I don’t know how the Sovereign has severely altered the Federation energy strategy? Russia owns the oil-rich Vankor fields free and clear; through Vankorneft it has the expertise and the infrastructure to run it, and yet the Sovereign has just struck a secret deal with the Chinese, allowing them to buy ten percent of Vankorneft.” She eyed Boris. “Why on earth would the Sovereign chip off a piece of one of the Federation’s crown jewels?”

Boris said nothing, knowing she liked to answer her own questions.

“Because, my bear, the Sovereign is frantic for money. The economy is deteriorating at an alarming rate. It takes billions to keep an army on the ground away from home. Mother Russia has to feed all those breakaway rebels in Eastern Ukraine, not to mention subsidize all of Crimea now. And with the ruble in free fall, the stock market so depressed that yesterday Apple’s net worth exceeded that of our entire market, where is the money coming from? Desperate times call for desperate measures—and you caught in the middle. This is what worries me the most.”

Svetlana misinterpreted his pained expression. “My bear, you are programmed to lie—even to me. I might say, especially to me.”

He turned to face her. “And why would that be?”

“Your ‘important business’ on your wedding day wouldn’t happen to be maskirovka?”

Karpov laughed. There were times, like now, when her intelligence and intuition truly frightened him. “My entire adult life I’ve been spinning webs of concealment, plausible deniability, and carefully leaked dezinformatsiya designed to confuse, befuddle, and lead astray our enemies so that they cannot predict what we will do next, let alone be able to respond to it.”

Svetlana’s arms came down as she sat up straighter. “You know, there are some who claim your wanting to marry me is nothing more than maskirovka.”

“What?”

“Because of my family.”

He stared at her as if he’d suddenly found a viper in his room.

“That you don’t really love me. That you have agreed to enter into a marriage of convenience.”

“Hey.” Boris laughed again, but it was all sharp edges, nothing amused about it. “I have the ear of the president. I don’t need your family.” But seeing the serious look on her face, he sobered quickly. His face clouded over. “Who?” he said. “Who would be passing such disgusting dezinformatsiya?”

“If you knew would you cut out his tongue?”

Boris grunted. “I’m not medieval; I’m not Ivan the Terrible.”

“Also up for debate.”

Boris’s heavy eyebrows lifted. “Who is feeding you such nonsense?”

“You know perfectly well who: First Minister Timur Savasin. But don’t worry, my love. If I believed a word of it do you think I’d be marrying you?”

But now Boris looked truly unhappy.

“It’s true you have the ear of the Sovereign. But if his right-hand man is passing lies, I can’t believe the Sovereign isn’t aware of it. You have to admit the Sovereign is a piece of work, adoring his Hemingway, going hunting, riding around half-naked on a horse.”

“He longs only to repair what was sundered decades ago. He wants the repatriation of the countries that were part of the Soviet Union.”

“Countries whose faltering economies put such a strain on Moscow it was forced to let them go. Good riddance, I say!”

“The Russian Federation is too small for this new world order, Svetlana. We need to spread our wings once more.”

“Now you sound like Hitler.”

“Bite your tongue! The president wants only what was once his. And so do all Russians. His popularity is soaring.”

“‘What was once his.’ Do you even hear yourself? Ukraine, Lithuania, Poland, Latvia, Estonia, and all the rest were occupied by Russian troops at the end of World War Two. They never belonged to Moscow, and they sure as hell don’t belong to the Sovereign, the Czar-Batyushka.”

“I wish you wouldn’t call him that.”

“Why not? I’m not the one who traffics in lies and deceit.”

“If I thought you had a Ukrainian heart…”

Svetlana’s flush had crept from her cheeks to her throat and the to