As the trio on stage opened a box full of noise Halliday once again mentally reread the file on Boris Karpov, as if this time he‘d find some further information—anything, including a surveillance photo, no matter how grainy or out of focus, of the colonel. No such photo existed, of course, no more intel than the four threadbare paragraphs on the single sheet of paper watermarked TOP SECRET. Because of the administration‘s dismissive relationship with Russia, the NSA had limited knowledge of the workings inside the Russian political system, not to mention FSB-2, whose actual mission was highly covert, far more so than the FSB, the political inheritor of what had once been the KGB.

―Mr. Smith, you appear distracted,‖ the Russian said. They had agreed on using the pseudonyms Mr. Smith and Mr. Jones in public.

The secretary‘s head swung around. He was profoundly uncomfortable underground, unlike Karpov who more and more seemed to him like a creature of the dark. Raising his voice to be heard over the rhythmic clangor, he said,

―Nothing could be farther from the truth, Mr. Jones. I‘m just taking in with a sightseer‘s bliss the particular atmosphere you‘ve chosen.‖

The colonel chuckled deep in his throat. ―You have a droll sense of humor, yes?‖

―You have me entirely.‖

The colonel laughed out loud. ―We‘ll see about that, Mr. Smith. Since we do not even know our wives, it seems unlikely we should know our…

counterparts.‖

The small hesitation had Halliday wondering whether Karpov was going to say adversaries instead of the neutral word he‘d chosen. He didn‘t bother to wonder whether the Russian was aware of his political position, because it didn‘t matter. All that concerned him was whether the deal about to be proposed would help him.

The trio lurched into another tempo, the secretary‘s only clue that they‘d segued into another selection, and he hunched forward over the too-bitter beer he‘d hardly touched. No Coors in this joint. ―Let‘s get on with it, shall we?‖

―Without delay.‖ Colonel Karpov placed his hands on his golden forearms.

The knuckles were scarred and yellow with calluses, which made them look as ridged as the Rockies. ―I know, Mr. Smith, that I don‘t have to explain who Jason Bourne is, yes?‖

At the name Halliday‘s expression hardened. He felt as if the Russian had sprayed him with Freon. ―Your point?‖ he said woodenly.

―My point, Mr. Smith, is this: I will kill Jason Bourne for you.‖

Halliday didn‘t waste time in asking how Karpov knew he wanted Bourne dead—there had been enough NSA activity in Moscow the last month when Bourne was there to make it abundantly clear to a deaf, dumb, and blind man that he was targeted for termination.

―Very magnanimous of you, Mr. Jones.‖

―No, sir, not magnanimous. I have my own reasons for wanting him dead.‖

At this admission the secretary relaxed slightly. ―All right, let‘s say you do kill Bourne. What do you want in return?‖

There was in what anyone else might be termed a twinkle in the colonel‘s eye, but to Halliday, who was still trying to get the measure of him, it seemed as if someone had walked over Bourne‘s grave. Death had winked at him.

―I know that look, Mr. Smith. I know you‘re expecting the worst—a high payment. But in exchange for you giving me license to take Bourne out with full immunity against the consequences of collateral disturbance or damage, I want you to eliminate a vexing thorn in my side.‖

―Whom you can‘t terminate yourself.‖

Karpov nodded. ―You have me entirely, Mr. Smith.‖

The two men laughed at the same time, but their tones were absolutely different.

―So.‖ Halliday made a tent of his fingers. ―Who is the target?‖

―Abdulla Khoury.‖

The secretary‘s heart sank. ―The head of the Eastern Brotherhood? Christ on a crutch, you might as well ask me to assassinate the pope.‖

―Assassinating the pope would do neither of us any good. But killing Abdulla Khoury, well, that‘s another matter entirely, yes?‖

―Of course, yes. The man‘s a radical Islamic maniac as well as a menace.

Right now he‘s holding hands with the president of Iran. But the Eastern Brotherhood is a worldwide organization. Khoury has many friends in very high places.‖ The secretary shook his head with a good deal of vehemence.

―Attempting to terminate him would be political suicide.‖

Karpov nodded. ―All this is unquestionably true. But what about the Eastern Brotherhood‘s terrorist activities?‖

Halliday snorted. ―A pipe dream; rumors, at best. No one in our secret services has ever found a scrap of reliable evidence that it has ties to any terrorist organization. And believe me, we‘ve tried.‖

―Of this I have no doubt, which means that you didn‘t find any evidence of terrorist activity in Professor Specter‘s residence.‖

―There‘s no doubt the good professor was a terrorist hunter, but as for allegations he was anything more…‖ Halliday shrugged.

A sudden smile wreathed the colonel‘s face, and all at once an unmarked manila envelope was on the table between them. ―Then you‘ll find this of particular value.‖ As if maneuvering his queen into checkmate position, Karpov slid the envelope over to Halliday.

As the secretary slit open the envelope and scanned the contents, Karpov continued. ―As you know, FSB-2 is primarily concerned with international drug trafficking.‖

―So I‘ve heard,‖ Halliday said drily, because he knew damn well that FSB-2‘s purview was much wider than that.

―Ten days ago,‖ Karpov went on, ―we initiated the final phase of a drug bust in Mexico, one we‘d been working on for more than two years because one of our Moscow grupperovka, the Kazanskaya, has been searching for a secure pipeline as it moved into the drug trade.‖

Halliday nodded. He knew a bit about the Kazanskaya, one of Moscow‘s most notorious criminal families, and its head, Dimitri Maslov.

―We were entirely successful, I‘m pleased to say,‖ the colonel continued.

―In the final sweep of the dead drug lord Gustavo Moreno‘s house we confiscated a notebook computer before it could be destroyed. The information you‘re reading now was printed out from the hard drive.‖

The tips of Halliday‘s fingers had gone cold. The printout was dense with figures, cross-references, annotations. ―This is a money trail. The Mexican drug ring was financed by the Eastern Brotherhood. Fifty percent of the profits went to buying weapons, which were trans-shipped to various ports in the Middle East by Air Afrika Airways.‖

―Which is wholly owned by Nikolai Yevsen, the world‘s largest arms dealer.‖ The colonel cleared his throat. ―You see, Mr. Smith, there are powerful elements in my government aligned with Iran because we want their oil and they want our uranium. Energy trumps everything else these days, yes?