The Bourne Sanction

“Maybe we have different definitions of love,” Bourne said.

She shook her head. “You’ve no right to judge me.”

“Of course you’re right,” Bourne said. “But that wasn’t meant as a judgment. I have difficulty understanding love, that’s all.”

She cocked her head. “Why is that?”

Bourne hesitated before continuing. “I’ve lost two wives, a daughter, and many friends.”

“Have you lost love, too?”

“I have no idea what that means.”

“My brother died protecting me.” Gala began to shake. “He was all I had. No one would ever love me the way he did. After our parents were killed we were inseparable. He swore he’d make sure nothing bad happened to me. He went to his grave keeping that promise.” She sat up straight. Her face was defiant. “Now do you understand?”

Bourne realized that he’d seriously underestimated this dyev. Had he done the same with Moira? Despite admitting his feelings for Moira, he’d unconsciously made the decision that no other woman could be as strong, as imperturbable as Marie. In this, he was clearly mistaken. He had this Russian dyevochka to thank for the insight.

Gala peered at him now. Her sudden anger seemed to have burned itself out. “You’re like Leonid Danilovich in many ways. You no longer will walk off the cliff, you no longer trust in love. Like him, you were damaged in terrible ways. But now, you see, you’ve made your present as bleak as your past. Your only salvation is to find someone to love.”

“I did find someone,” Bourne said. “She’s dead now.”

“Is there no one else?”

Bourne nodded. “Maybe.”

“Then you must embrace her, instead of ru

Three blocks away, parked at the curb, Yakov, the cabbie who had dropped Gala and Bourne off, opened his cell phone, pressed a speed-dial digit on the keypad. When he heard the familiar voice, he said, “I dropped them off at the Metropolya not ten minutes ago.”

“Keep an eye out for them,” the voice said. “If they leave the hotel, tell me. Then follow them.”

Yakov gave his assent, drove back around, installed himself opposite the hotel entrance. Then he dialed another number, delivered precisely the same information to another of his clients.

We just missed the package,” Devra said as they walked away from the wreck. “We’d better get on the road to Istanbul right away. The next contact, Heinrich, has a good couple of hours’ head start.”

They drove through the night, negotiating the twists, turns, and switchbacks. The black mountains with their shimmering stoles of snow were their silent, implacable companions. The road was as pockmarked as if they were in a war zone. Once, hitting a patch of black ice, they spun out, but Arkadin didn’t lose his head. He turned into the skid, tamped gently on the brakes several times while he threw the car into neutral, then turned the engine off. They came to a stop in the side of a snowdrift.

“I hope Heinrich had the same difficulty,” Devra said.

Arkadin restarted the car but couldn’t build up enough traction to get them moving. He walked around to the rear while Devra took the wheel. He found nothing useful inside the trunk, so he trudged several paces into the trees, snapped off a handful of substantial branches, which he wedged in front of the right rear tire. He slapped the fender twice and Devra stepped on the gas. The car wheezed and groaned. The tires spun, sending up showers of granular snow. Then the treads found the wood, rolled up onto it and over. The car was free.

Devra moved over as Arkadin took the wheel. Clouds had slid across the moon, steeping the road in dense shadow as they made their way through the mountain pass. There was no traffic; the only illumination for many miles was the car’s own headlights. Finally, the moon rose from its cloud bed and the hemmed-in world around them was bathed in an eerie bluish light.

“Times like this when I miss my American,” Devra mused, her head against the seat back. “He came from California. I loved especially his stories about surfing. My God, what a weird sport. Only in America, huh? But I used to think how great it would be to live in a land of sunshine, ride endless highways in convertibles, and swim whenever you wanted to.”

“The American dream,” Arkadin said sourly.

She sighed. “I so wanted him to take me with him when he left.”

“My friend Mischa wanted me to take him with me,” Arkadin said, “but that was a long time ago.”

Devra turned her head toward him. “Where did you go?”

“To America.” He laughed shortly. “But not to California. It didn’t matter to Mischa; he was crazy about America. That’s why I didn’t take him. You go to a place to work, you fall in love with it, and now you don’t want to work anymore.” He paused for a moment, concentrated on navigating through a hairpin switchback. “I didn’t tell him that, of course,” he continued. “I could never hurt Mischa like that. We both grew up in slums, you know. Fucking hard life, that is. I was beaten up so many times I stopped counting. Then Mischa stepped in. He was bigger than I was, but that wasn’t it. He taught me how to use a knife-not just stab, but how to throw it, as well. Then he took me to a guy he knew, ski

The headlights of a truck appeared, coming toward them, a horrific dazzle that momentarily blinded both of them. Arkadin slowed down until the truck lumbered past.

“Mischa’s my best friend, my only friend, really,” he said. “I don’t know what I’d do without him.”

“Will I meet him when you take me back to Moscow?”

“He’s in America now,” Arkadin said. “But I’ll take you to his apartment, where I’ve been staying. It’s along the Frunzenskaya embankment. His living room overlooks Gorky Park. The view is very beautiful.” He thought fleetingly of Gala, who was still in the apartment. He knew how to get her out; it wouldn’t be a problem at all.

“I know I’ll love it,” Devra said. It was a relief to hear him talk about himself. Encouraged by his talkative mood, she continued, “What work did you do in America?”

And just like that his mood flipped. He braked the car to a halt. “You drive,” he said.

Devra had grown used to his mercurial mood swings, but watched him come around the front of the car. She slid over. He slammed the passenger’s-side door shut and she put the car in gear, wondering what tender nerve she’d touched.

They continued along the road, heading down the mountainside.

“We’ll hit the highway soon enough,” she said to break the thickening silence. “I can’t wait to crawl into a warm bed.”

Inevitably there came a time when Arkadin took the initiative with Marlene. It happened while she was sleeping. He crept down the hall to her door. It was child’s play for him to pick the lock with nothing more than the wire that wrapped the cork in the bottle of champagne Icoupov served at di

The room smelled of her-of lemons and musk, a combination that set off a stirring below his belly. The moon was full, low on the horizon. It looked as if God were squeezing it between his palms.

Arkadin stood still, listening to her deep even breaths, every once in a while catching the hint of a snore. The bedcovers rustled as she turned onto her right side, away from him. He waited until her breathing settled again before moving to the bed. He climbed, knelt over her. Her face and shoulder were in moonlight, her neck in shadow, so that it appeared to him as if he’d already decapitated her. For some reason, this vision disturbed him. He tried to breathe deeply and easily, but the disturbing vision tightened his chest, made him so dizzy that he almost lost his balance.