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seizures, but so far I can’t find the pathology.”
“We’re near Long Beach, you’ll get help then,” she said. “I just need to see the insides
of his elbows.”
The doctor’s eyebrows rose. “I beg your pardon?”
“I need to see whether he’s got a tattoo.”
“They all have tattoos, these sailors.” The doctor shrugged. “But go ahead. You won’t
disturb him.”
Moira approached the lower berth, bending over to pull the thin blanket back from the
patient’s arm. As she did so, the doctor stepped forward and struck her a blow on the
back of her head. She fell forward and cracked her jaw on the metal frame of the bunk.
The pain pulled her rudely back from a precipice of blackness, and, groaning, she
managed to roll over. The copper-sweet taste of blood was in her mouth and she fought
against wave after wave of dizziness. Dimly she saw the doctor bent over his laptop, his
fingers racing over the keys, and she felt a ball of ice form in her belly.
He’s going to kill us all. With this thought reverberating in her head, she grabbed the
crossbow off the floor where she’d dropped it. She barely had time to aim, but she was
close enough not to have to be accurate. She breathed a prayer as she let fly.
The doctor arched up as the bolt pierced his spine. He staggered backward, toward
where Moira sat, braced against the berth frame. His arms extended, his fingers clawing
for the keyboard, and Moira rose, swung the crossbow into the back of his head. His
blood spattered like rain over her face and hands, the desk, and the laptop’s keyboard.
Bourne found her on the floor of the infirmary, cradling the computer in her lap. When
he came in, she looked up at him and said, “I don’t know what he did. I’m afraid to shut
it off.”
“Are you all right?”
She nodded. “The ship’s doctor was Sever’s man.”
“So I see,” he said as he stepped over the corpse. “I didn’t believe him when he told
me he had only one man on board. It would be like him to have a backup.”
He knelt down, examined the back of her head. “It’s superficial. Did you black out?”
“I don’t think so, no.”
He took a large gauze pad from the supply cabinet, doused it with alcohol. “Ready?”
He placed it against the back of her head, where her hair was plastered down with blood.
She moaned a little through gritted teeth.
“Can you hold it in place for a minute?”
She nodded, and gently Bourne lifted the laptop into his arms. There was a software
program ru
one yellow, the other red. On the other side of the screen was a green radio button, which
wasn’t blinking.
Bourne breathed a sigh of relief. “He brought up the program, but you got to him
before he could activate it.”
“Thank God,” she said. “Where Arkadin?”
“I don’t know. When the captain told me you’d gone below I took off after you.”
“Jason, you don’t think…”
Putting the computer aside, he helped her to her feet. “Let’s get you back up to the
captain so you can give him the good news.”
There was a fearful look on his face. “And you?”
He handed her the laptop. “Go to the wheelhouse and stay there. And Moira, this time I
really mean it.”
With the crossbow in one hand, he stepped into the passageway, looked right and left.
“All right. Go. Go!”
Arkadin had returned to Nizhny Tagil. Down in the engine room, surrounded by steel
and iron, he realized that no matter what had happened to him, no matter where he’d
gone, he’d never been able to escape the prison of his youth. Part of him was still in the
brothel he and Stas Kuzin had owned, part of him still stalked the nighttime streets,
abducting young girls, their pale, fearful faces turned toward him as deer turn toward
headlights. But what they’d needed from him he couldn’t-or wouldn’t-give them. Instead,
he’d sent them to their deaths in the quicklime pit Kuzin’s regime had dug amid the firs
and the weeping hemlocks. Many snows had passed since he’d dragged Yelena from the
rats and the quicklime, but the pit remained in his memory, vivid as a blaze of fire. If
only he could have his memory wiped clean.
He started at the sound of Stas Kuzin screaming at him. What about all your victims?
But it was Bourne, descending the steel companionway to the engine room. “It’s over,
Arkadin. The disaster has been averted.”
Arkadin nodded, but inside he knew better: The disaster had already occurred, and it
was too late to stop its consequences. As he walked toward Bourne he tried to fix him in
his mind, but he seemed to morph, like an image seen through a prism.
When he was within arm’s length of him, he said, “Is it true what Sever told Icoupov,
that you have no memory beyond a certain point in time?”
Bourne nodded. “It’s true. I can’t remember most of my life.”
Arkadin felt a terrible pain, as if the very fabric of his soul was being torn apart. With
an inchoate cry, he flicked open his switchblade, lunged forward, aiming for Bourne’s
belly.
Turning sideways, Bourne grabbed his wrist, began to turn it in an attempt to get
Arkadin to drop the weapon. Arkadin struck out with his other hand, but Bourne blocked
it with his forearm. In doing so, the crossbow clattered to the deck. Arkadin kicked it into the shadows.
“It doesn’t have to be this way,” Bourne said. “There’s no reason for us to be
enemies.”
“There’s every reason.” Arkadin broke away, tried another attack, which Bourne
countered. “Don’t you see it? We’re the same, you and me. The two of us can’t exist in
the same world. One of us will kill the other.”
Bourne stared into Arkadin’s eyes, and even though his words were those of a madmen
Bourne saw no madness in them. Only a despair beyond description, and an unyielding
will for revenge. In a way, Arkadin was right. Revenge was all he had now, all he lived
for. With Tarkanian and Devra gone, the only meaning life had for him lay in avenging
their deaths. There was nothing Bourne could say to sway him; that was a rational
response to an irrational impulse. It was true, the two of them couldn’t exist in the same
world.
At that moment Arkadin feinted right with his knife, drove left with his fist, rocking
Bourne back onto his heels. At once he stabbed out with the switchblade, burying it in the
meat of Bourne’s left thigh. Bourne grunted, fought the buckling of his knee, and
Arkadin jammed his boot into Bourne’s wounded thigh. Blood spurted, and Bourne fell.
Arkadin jumped on him, using his fist to pummel Bourne’s face when Bourne blocked
his knife stabs.
Bourne knew he couldn’t take much more of this. Arkadin’s desire for revenge had
filled him with an inhuman strength. Bourne, fighting for his very life, managed to
counterpunch long enough to roll out from under Arkadin. Then he was up and ru
an ungainly limp to the companionway.
Arkadin reached up for him as he was half a dozen rungs off the engine room deck.
Bourne kicked out with his bad leg, surprising Arkadin, catching him under the chin. As
he fell back, Bourne scrambled up the rungs as fast as he could. His left leg was on fire,
and he was trailing blood as the wounded muscle was forced to work overtime.
Gaining the next deck, he continued up the companionway, up and up, until he came to
the first level belowdecks, which according to Moira was where the galley was. Finding
it, he raced in, grabbed two knives and a glass saltshaker. Stuffing the shaker into his
pocket, he wielded the knives as Arkadin loomed in the doorway.