Summary: Corrupt CIA Deputy Director Noah Vosen ascertains the services of a rogue KGB assassin to eliminate all threat of those who are aware of Operation Blackbriar and Treadstone. Once believed to have been killed by American assassin Jason Bourne, Kirill is hired to assassinate a US Senator's daughter and close colleague to the now dead Pamela Landy. A/U Bourne Supremacy/Ultimatum
Disclaimer: I don't own any part of The Bourne Identity series or the characters that portray in the movies. It belongs to Robert Ludlum and the productions companies.
Author's Note: I've notice there is a great shortage of Kirill/Bourne Identity stories so I've decided to write one. I think Karl Urban did a great job than he's given credit for. This will be a one shot if I don't get any reviews. I just don't want to waste my time anymore.
Rating: T
The Bourne Supremacy: Rogue assassin
Austere, polished, and dressed in designer suit costing more than a month salary, Monica R. Simmons sat before the CIA review board at Langley, Virginia for the third time. She was awaiting their final assessment. Once cleared, she would depart for the Czech Republic to head a division at the CIA field office, but it wasn't an easy transition. For two weeks, she'd been under watchful eye and scrutiny, pending an investigation into the deaths of several key members. One notable figure—Pamela Landy—had coincidently fallen down a flight of stairs in her upscale New York apartment and broken her neck. Convenient, especially since the CIA Task Force Chief was due in court before the Senate next month to testify.
An accident? Perhaps? There'd been no signs of forced entry nor did there appear to be a struggle. A shattered glass of wine bearing the remnants of Chateau Merlot was found beside her lifeless body. To the public and avid reporters, it was a 'sad and senseless tragedy'. To the people who lived and breathed conspiracy, Pamela Landy's death was no accident. Even her husband Dr. James Landy, a fifty-seven year old tenured professor at Princeton and taught Quantum Physics demanded answers. But the truth was not his to ascertain; he evidently accepted the same watered down facts to his wife's death.
A terrible misfortune.
Monica steeled her nerves, cupped a hand over her fists and fought the urge to tap her Gucci shoes to beat away the droning silence of the large conference room. She felt the hard edge gazes of men and women holding high ranking positions at the CIA headquarters like the cut of a knife. Questions on top of questions were asked unmercifully. Monica answered each to the best of her knowledge. Finally, one member of the review board cut to the chase and asked directly. What did she know about Jason Bourne?
The person who asked was Peter Holden, sixty years of age, and head of the analytics division. Hard as nails, he was the one man who could raise of a level of discomfort in Monica; nevertheless, she trusted him implicitly. At times, they'd come to a disagreement, but she always relied on his wisdom and sound judgment.
She sat shoulders squared, legs crossed, looking like the obedient Catholic school girl she once was. "He was a rogue agent…a byproduct of Operation Treadstone. Rumor was he was their prototype…the one that started it all."
"You're aware that Pamela Landy and her task force have had several encounters with Jason Bourne. Disastrous encounters to put it plainly up until recently when it was confirmed that Jason Bourne is now, officially, dead."
"Yes, sir," she answered.
"You're also aware that certain critical files were transmitted from her computer to yours," Holden remarked.
"Yes."
"Could please verify the contents within those said files?"
"The files were classified sir," Monica explained, "I wasn't allowed security clears or access to the information within. Pamela Landy simply knew I was returning from Dubai to the US and wanted me to archive the files in the central database here at Langley."
"Why you?"
"I was her friend and colleague. I believed she trusted me."
"And now she's dead. Do you any thoughts on that?"
Lowering her eyes, she recalled the day she received the news of Pamela Landy's death. It was a cold December morning and she'd just came home after taking a brisk run through the back woods of her family's large estate with her dog—Max—a two year old Golden Retriever. Entering her family home, she rubbed her arms furiously to get warm, and then took Max off his leash. He scampered off to the kitchen, knowing he'd find a bowl full of water and Pedigree dog food waiting. He dove his head into the water drinking thirstily and then attacked his food.
"I'm right behind you buddy," a smile tugging her lips, but firstly, she went upstairs to shower before considering what to eat for breakfast.
As she toweled dry her hair, she aimlessly pushed the flashing button on her answering machine and listened to the messages. Jeffrey Wentworth Jr.'s voice came over…unexpectedly and undesirablely. She cringed inwardly. After two months of being brutally rebuff, and humiliated by his secret liaison with his nineteen year old law intern. Jeffrey—thirty-five and a tax attorney—decided to make an impromptu call. His apology sounded winded and his praise and admiration insincere.
She shot to her feet and erased the half dozen messages he left. Was dad displeased? She wondered as she took off her robe and began to don on a blue sweater, black sweat pants and socks. His father was, after all, the Governor of Virginia and his conservative ideals of fidelity even before marriage was the driving force of his campaign as well as family values. She could just picture the Senior Wentworth's face when Jeffrey brought the blond, big breasted bimbo home to a family dinner. Well, he had his chance, but chose to nurse his raging libido.
Sweeping her chestnut hair into a ponytail, Monica studied her plain reflection in the mirror before bounding down the steps to the kitchen. A bowl of Special K in hand she went into the library to read a book from the vast collection of novels her father had amassed through the years. Some were first edition works of great masters: Dickinson, Poe, and Tennyson. Settling for Nora Roberts, she sat down in a comfy sofa chair, and commenced reading. Her telephone blared loudly shattering the peace and solitude one could only find in a paid vacation. Monica scoffed, rolling her eyes, opting for the answering machine to do the job it was built and answer. It was Jeffery again.
She harrumphed and fingered the page to continue reading. Sadly, three minutes into the fourth chapter the phone squealed to life. Aggravated, believing Jeffrey to be the culprit, she jumped to her feet and snatched up the phone. "Listen Jeffrey," she said harshly, "there is nothing more to be said—"
A cold sensation rippled up her spine as Noah Vosen, CIA Deputy Director spoke in a melancholy tone. "Monica, it's Noah Vosen. I hate to be the bearer of bad news but it's about Pamela Landy. She's dead."
Monica felt as though the wind had been knocked out of her chest. Blood drained from her face and her eyes widened in disbelief. Pamela, dead? No. It couldn't be true. She gripped the receiver till she thought it would break in her hand. "How?"
Vosen released a pained sigh as though having to explain the situation again was a toil. "Evidently she'd been drinking she slipped, and fell down the stairs. The maid came in the next morning and found her at the bottom of the stairs. Her funeral is next week Thursday morning at Our Lady of Grace church in New York."
"Dead…"
"I know you two were close."
Tears welled in her eyes, ready to spill down her face, she forced them away. "She was my mentor, sir. She taught me everything she knew."
"How much did she teach you?"
The manner of his question chilled her for some reason. "How to do my job well," she told him, hoping that answer would suffice.
It didn't.
Vosen said, "There is going to be debriefing, a lot of questions asked. Be prepared to answer them Monica."
"What kind of questions sir?" her eyebrows squeezed together.
"You'll be notified when to speak the CIA board." The line went dead and Monica gawked at the phone in her hand like it was an alien object. She set the receiver on the cradle and continued to stare at the phone. Pamela Landy was dead. Questions were going to be asked. Questions? What kind of questions? She felt the answer tick inside of her like bomb waiting to go off. Question on what Pamela told her. Questions on what she knew about Jason Bourne…if she believed he was still alive…his whereabouts. Questions about a rogue KGB assassin and the muck up in Moscow.
Monica didn't know how her body found itself on a sofa before the television. She didn't know how to process what she'd just learned. Flipping to CNN, the news was unfolding a story on Pamela Landy, confirming what Vosen had said as truth. She watched painfully; images rolling to Pamela's chic, upscale Manhattan mansion as disrespectful cameramen took pictures of a black body bag being wheeled out by paramedics. The tears flowed. She no longer suppressed them. She sat and gave into emotion she was trained to repress.
"Thanks for coming Monica," James Landy said, his voice cracking as he fought the bitter urge to fall to pieces. Monica cupped the back of his head, stroking his back in a comforting manner as they embraced on the side walk. Members of the CIA, family, and friends were filing out of the Catholic church and were preparing to head up to the cemetery and then journey to the Landy's residence for the repast.
"It was my pleasure," Monica forced a smile, stepping back to take a closer look at him. James looked tired. His skin was pale and his eyes were red from lack of sleep. But it was to be expected.
"I can't believe she's gone," he shook his head, his mouth pressed together in order to choke his grief. "She was always…I don't know. I guess I figured I would bite the dust before she did."
Monica allowed herself to laugh a little, thought it seem inappropriate the melodic sound brought a small smile to James Landy's face. "She was tough. The toughest woman alive."
"She admired you," he said. "I think you're the daughter she always wanted."
She lowered her head, sighing, her mouth curling. Despite James' compliment it was difficult to imagine such a relationship. In the three years she'd come to know Pamela, the woman had treated her as anything but. Still, there were moments where she sensed her respect and admiration, which was quickly overshadowed by harsh rebuke.
"Dare I say that you're next in line for her job," James said, interrupting her thoughts.
Monica made a face, "I don't believe so. I think the job is going to Hendricks."
James appeared stunned, "Hendricks? Bill Hendricks? One of Vosen's subordinates." He then turned his gaze to the tall, lean man dressed in a dark grey suit and heavy overcoat. Noah Vosen stood at the top of the stairs amongst two other men; Bill Hendricks was to his right and another man he didn't recognize at the moment. But he was certain he could place the face and name. He took Monica's arm and led her to the parking lot.
"Something wrong James?" she asked, anxiously, noting how quickly he was walking.
"Too many vultures circling," he muttered under his breath. "Tell me," he began once they were a good distance away from the church. "What do you believe about my wife's death?"
Monica blinked, "James?"
"Something's not right Monica, I can feel it," he said tersely. "Pamela had a glass of wine every now and then but she wasn't a 'social' drinker like myself. She liked to keep her focus. Keep her head in the game." He snapped his head back to the church, scowling at the men that were suddenly taking interest in their conversation.
"You suspect foul play," Monica said somberly.
He returned his attention to the woman before him. "I don't suspect it Monica. I know it. Toxicology report claimed she had a blood alcohol level three times the legal amount. But Pamela wasn't a raging alcoholic, not the way their trying to portray her. When I demanded a second report," he winced and glared at Vosen. "They shut me down and said that it wasn't necessary." He looked at Monica, nervousness rising in his eyes. "She was onto something with the last assignment she was working on. Whatever it was it was major and I think it got her killed."
Monica stifled a gasp. Was he talking about Jason Bourne? She was on assignment in Dubai when that fiasco erupted in Berlin. Nevertheless, it didn't prevent Pamela from contacting her and asking to patch crucial information to her computer. Those files were the reason Holden had grilled her a few days before. "Watch your back, Monica. The thought of losing you too would be unbearable. And watch out for Vosen. There's something about that man I don't trust."
Monica smiled, "I can take care of myself."
James reached out and cupped her face. "I pray to God you can." Leaning close, he kissed her cheek before angling his body to climb into the awaiting limo. "I'll keep in touch."
Monica nodded and watched the limo drive down the street. One by one it was joined by a hearse and several other cars that were making its way to the cemetery. She turned to go to her car and follow but bumped into Bill Hendricks. He was a relatively short, stocky man with thinning grey hair. She glowered, not liking the expression his face or the way it seemed he was listening to hers and James' conversation. Even when she was alone with Pamela, he would appear out of thin air to grace them with his presence.
"You two are close," he said.
She darkened her gaze. "As friends always are," she turned to walk to her car and sulked when she heard him following. "I don't need an escort."
"I won't be taking up much of your time," Bill said.
Monica huffed, "Then what do you want? You've already taken my job."
"You current position is still available."
"No thanks, I've decided to head a division in the office in Prague."
"I see, you'll be missed," he grinned. "Vosen would like a word with you tomorrow morning at 9am."
"I have another meeting with the review board at eight am," she replied.
"Then let's make it seven shall we. I trust you will not be late." Hendricks turned sharply, marching back to the church where Vosen stood watching. He gave her a temperate smile then disappeared into a black Mercedes.
By the time she reached home, it was a quarter past seven. It being winter night had come early and the sky was black as coal and twinkling with stars. She was shivering as she entered the house and greeted Max with the pat on the head. She shrugged out her coat and went to the kitchen to fix a microwave dinner. Putting on Mozart, she went to the bar to pour herself a glass of wine. Just as the crystal brim touched her lips, she froze; a wave of panic tearing in every fiber of her being. James' warning against Vosen resounded like a gong in her head. Had Pamela been poisoned?
Suddenly filled with dread, she hurried to the kitchen to dump both the wine bottle and glass into the sink. Her heart raced as she leaned against the counter. Eying the refrigerator, she went to it and started grabbing every juice box and water bottle she could find but she didn't stop there. Powering the garbage disposal, the food was next. Every left over was discarded and soon she was standing in a kitchen devoid of food. Her breath caught when the microwave beeped. She crossed the floor to it and dumped the Lean Cuisine in the trash.
She might be crazy; might be reading too much into things. But it was better to be safe than dead. Max trotted into the food preparation area and looked up at her, tilting her head as though she'd completely lost her mind. Monica let out a soft chuckle. "I know boy," she said hauling the heavy trash bag outside. "I've lost my damn mind."
Monica dared not think it possible, but Noah Vosen looked rather stunned; as if he was not anticipating her presence in his office the following morning. Hendricks' pointed gaze captured her attention and she returned the look, her mouth set in a grim line. She'd endured the ire of the man on numerous occasions and was quite use to it by now. She knew he despised her for some reason she failed to comprehend. She stifled a laugh lodged deep in her throat; the feeling was mutual. Nonetheless, their displeasure threw her into a loop and she quickly scanned the clock on the wall, arching an eyebrow.
"Did I make some sort of mistake?" she asked breaking the silence. "You wanted to see me, sir?"
Vosen straightened in his high back leather chair. "Of course," he stretched out a hand and gestured for her to take the chair before his desk. Monica settled uneasily into the soft cushion. She felt Hendricks' eyes on the back of her skull and shifted uncomfortably.
"I just wanted to catch you before you left for Prague. I hear congratulations should be in order."
Monica forced a smile. "Thank you, sir. This is a great opportunity. I still have to find someone to babysit Max but all things considering I'll be gone by the end of the week."
"Pamela would be proud. She was, after all, the one who took you under her wing."
She nodded, pressing aside the pain of her lost, "I owe a lot to Ms. Landy."
"We should toast your success," Vosen rose, instructing Hendricks with the nod of his head to pour Brandy into three small glasses. Hendricks handed one glass to Vosen and the other to Monica. She prayed he didn't notice her hand was shaking as she accepted the glass. She calmed as Vosen and Hendricks both downed their drinks. "Something wrong?" he asked.
"I, uh, make a point not to drink while on duty," she set the glass on his desk and leaned back into her chair, a brilliant smile on her face. "But thank you for the kind gesture."
Vosen said nothing for a moment before a smile broke on his face. "I understand." He sank back into his chair. "Well, have a safe trip and I'll keep in touch."
"Thank you, sir."
Hendricks studied carefully how quickly she rose and exited the room; his grey eyes flashing like lightning bolts. "She's onto something." He said once he and Vosen were alone.
"I thought you had your men lace the bottle of wine in her study with Atropine."
"Pamela Landy's death has apparently jolted some level of fear in Ms. Simmons," replied Hendricks.
"Bitch," hissed Vosen. "Even in death she's a menace."
"Sir," Hendricks appealed. "Monica Simmons obviously has no knowledge of Operation Blackbriar and your ties to the organization. There shouldn't be any reason to eliminate her from the equation. I've read Peter Holden's report after he's questioned her on whatever information Pamela Landy might have passed to her. Apparently, she knows nothing."
"Regardless of the fact, I want everyone who's ever had any close contact with Pamela Landy in a body bag by New Years," Vosen reclined deeply in his chair. "Including that idiotic, no brain husband of hers."
"With all due with respect, sir," Hendricks said. "I don't think we need the ire of a United States Senator breathing down our backs."
"Robert Simmons can go to hell for all I care," Vosen narrowed his eyes. "He should have trained his daughter not to be so damn intuitive."
"Our resources are stretched thin," Hendricks said after a pause. "Too many people are watching every move being made by our department. We can't risk sending one of our own after her."
"But we still have him in our employ," Vosen inquired, referring to the latest addition to Operation Blackbriar.
"Yes sir," answered Hendricks. "By all my accounts he's just returned to Prague as we speak."
"Wonderful. If anything goes haywire and Senator Simmons does come barking at our door. We can always blame the Russians."
The final sprint down the street close to the river bank was the hardest. Frostbitten, his heart thudding madly against his ribcage, Kirill pushed his body to the limit. Beads of sweat coated his skin and pasted the t-shirt he wore underneath his thick sweater to his body. He surged forward, using his arms like rudders as he kicked his legs up, and pounded the grey pavement. Rounding the bank, he passed the Prague Castle for a third time as he charged up a flight of steps, and raced down the avenue.
From a distance, he could see the tiny flat in which he's occupied for the last three weeks. He trained his eyes on the grey building and forced his body to point where he might up collapse from the sheer exertion. Mentally, he counted the last thirty seconds that would bring the physical rendition to an end. He came to an abrupt stop, replenished his lungs with air, and checked his wristwatch. He made good time. Better than yesterday and the day before. He gave a quick nod of approval and started to jog lightly, bringing his heart rate slowly down. He was getting stronger…back to his previous condition before his encounter with the American—Jason Bourne. The memory pierced his mind; made him grimace. He strived not to relive the day of his greatest failure but it goaded him; cost him the employ of one of his wealthiest clients, and landed him in deep water with the CIA.
Kirill imagined spending the remainder of his life in some secret government prison, but life and the man holding caged had other plans. He would be given immunity and new identity in exchange for services rendered on the condition he was to never reveal who he worked for. Kirill accepted. He had no choice. He preferred fresh air to the dark hole they had waiting for him. Once an agreement had been made, he was flown—under a new alias—out of Moscow to recuperate in a private hospital in London. It didn't take long for the nurses and doctors to get him back on his feet or for him to start working.
It was a simple job. Poisoning. He didn't have to put much effort into the task and for some reason or another he was disappointed. He yearned for the thrill of the hunt. To mark his target through sniper scopes or hear the wisp of a silencer on his 9mm as he plug two bullets into the body of his victim. His work was highly praised and he received a fat prize in the form of a hefty bonus and a slender, blond haired model the second he returned to his place of residence. The money he took as well as the blond whom he cast out two hours later with a hundred dollar bill shoved in her lace bra.
Kirill checked his watch again. Ten minutes to six. The sun had not yet risen over the rolling hills in the distant horizon. Desiring the solitude and warmth of his small apartment, he turned and walked swiftly to the building. He didn't have to worry about being seen. It was still too dark and too cold to tempt a single person outside. With a single key, he opened the door, and entered the foyer. Jogging up two flights, he slipped out the second floor window, and scaled the wall to the third floor bathroom window of his apartment. All was quiet as he crept through the window; nevertheless, he lingered in silence inside the tiny bathroom before finally turning the knob to walk out into the narrow hallway.
Paranoid. Yes. His catastrophe in Moscow still haunted him. Oftentimes he was plague in the middle of night and envisioned the American—Bourne—standing at the foot of his bed with a gun in his hand; back to finish the job. He was a strange one. Why did he spare his life? Hunched over the steering wheel, bleeding profusely, he sensed his presence at the driver side window. He waited for his end to come. Waited for that single shot that would snuff out his life and put an end to his accursed existence. Instead, Bourne had walked away.
Kirill went to the kitchen and on a gas powered stove he set a kettle to boil. Returning to the bathroom, he stripped off his damp clothes, and showered. The hot water soothed his aching muscles and he lolled his head backwards to let the water cascade on his face. If not for the water boiling on the stove, he might've remained for an hour. Regrettably, he turned off the faucet, wrapped a towel about his slim waist and headed to the bedroom. Fully dressed, he was in the kitchen moments later pouring steaming water into a mug. He placed an herb tea bag into the cup. As he started to make a meager breakfast of toast and a boiled egg, a light on his VAIO laptop blinked to life. Pausing, Kirill glared at the blank screen before making his way towards the table, and sitting in front of the computer. He typed an encrypted password. Seconds later, the screen phased to reveal the image of a woman.
She was plain, but far from being totally unattractive. In reality, she could pass for beautiful with a little care and make-up. Her chestnut hair was swept into a conservative up-do. Bright hazel eyes, projected intelligence and the spark of an inquisitive nature. Her proud nose was straight and rose just above a pliant, generous mouth. For a moment, Kirill was captivated by that mouth. It looked soft and was rosy pink. Surprisingly, he found himself wondering what it would feel like to kiss that mouth.
Kirill grunted; thrust the tainted thought from his head. This was no time to sit and daydream about a woman who had clearly upset the wrong people. He noted the urgency. Top priority. It was to be a clean kill. His specialty. He printed out her image and the details to her profile. He re-typed his password, knowing in an instant the information would be purged from his laptop. Forgoing breakfast, Kirill adjourned to his bedroom to study his latest target.