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cruel face, the unmistakable hundred-mile stare of the American soldier in combat. In the
back of his mind, he knew the NSA had found him.
Bourne’s lapse of concentration allowed the strangler to free himself, jerk the ends of
the wire so that it dug deeper into Bourne’s throat. Bourne’s windpipe was totally cut off.
Blood was ru
noises bubbled up from deep inside him. He blinked away tears and sweat, used his last
ounce of strength to jam his thumb into the agent’s eye. Keeping up the pressure despite
blows to his midsection gained him a temporary respite: The wire slackened. He gasped
in a railing breath, and dug deeper with his thumb.
The wire slackened further. He heard the car door open. The strangler’s face wrenched
away from him, and the car door slammed shut. He heard ru
the time he managed to unwind the wire, to cough and gasp air into his burning lungs, the
street was empty. The NSA agent was gone.
Bourne was alone in the Volga with the corpse of Lev Baronov, dizzy, weak, and sick
at heart.
Eighteen
I CAN’T SIMPLY contact Haydar,” Devra said. “After what happened in Sevastopol
they’ll know you’ll be going after him.”
“That being the case,” Arkadin said, “the document is long gone.”
“Not necessarily.” Devra stirred her Turkish coffee, thick as tar. “They chose this
backwater because it’s so inaccessible. But that works both ways. Chances are Haydar
hasn’t yet been able to pass the document along.”
They were sitting in a tiny dust-blown cafй in Eskisёehir. Even for Turkey this was a
backward place, filled with sheep, the smells of pine, dung, and urine, and not much else.
A chill wind blew across the mountain pass. There was snow on the north side of the
buildings that made up the village, and judging by the lowering clouds more was on its
way.
“Godforsaken is too good a word for this hellhole,” Arkadin said. “For shit’s sake,
there isn’t even a cell phone signal.”
“That’s fu
shithole, weren’t you.”
Arkadin felt an almost uncontrollable urge to drag her around the back of the rickety
structure and beat her. But he held his hand and his rage, husbanding them both for
another day when he would gaze down at her as if from a hundred miles away, whisper
into her ear, I have no regard for you. To me, your life is without meaning. If you have
any hope of staying alive even a little longer, you’ll never again ask where I was born,
who my parents were, anything of a personal nature whatsoever.
As it turned out, among her other talents Marlene was an accomplished hypnotist. She
told him she wanted to hypnotize him in order to get at the root of his rage.
“I’ve heard there are people who can’t be hypnotized,” Arkadin said. “Is that right?”
“Yes,” Marlene said.
It turned out he was one of them.
“You simply will not take suggestion,” she said. “Your mind has put up a wall it’s
impossible to penetrate.”
They were sitting in the garden behind Semion Icoupov’s villa. Owing to the steep lay
of the land it was the size of a postage stamp. They sat on a stone bench beneath the
shade afforded by a fig tree, whose dark, soon-to-be-luscious fruit was just begi
curl the branches downward to the stony earth.
“Well,” Arkadin said, “what are we to do?”
“The question is what are you going to do, Leonid.” She brushed a fragment of leaf off
her thigh. She was wearing American designer jeans, an open-necked shirt, sandals on
her feet. “The process of examining your past is designed to help you regain control over
yourself.”
“You mean my homicidal tendencies,” he said.
“Why would you choose to say it that way, Leonid?”
He looked deeply into her eyes. “Because it’s the truth.”
Marlene’s eyes grew dark. “Then why are you so reluctant to talk to me about the
things I feel will help you?”
“You just want to worm your way inside my head. You think if you know everything
about me you can control me.”
“You’re wrong. This isn’t about control, Leonid.”
Arkadin laughed. “What is it about then?”
“What it’s always been-it’s about helping you control yourself.”
A light wind tugged at her hair, and she smoothed it back into place. He noticed such
things and attached to them psychological meaning. Marlene liked everything just so.
“I was a sad little boy. Then I was an angry little boy. Then I ran away from home.
There, does that satisfy you?”
Marlene tilted her head to catch a bit of sunlight that appeared through the tossed
leaves of the fig tree. “How is it you went from being sad to being angry?”
“I grew up,” Arkadin said.
“You were still a child.”
“Only in a ma
He studied her for a moment. Her hands were crossed on her lap. She lifted one of
them, touched his cheek with her fingertips, traced the line of his jaw until she reached
his chin. She turned his face a bit farther toward her. Then she leaned forward. Her lips,
when they touched his, were soft. They opened like a flower. The touch of her tongue
was like an explosion in his mouth.
Arkadin, damping down the dark eddy of his emotion, smiled wi
matter. I’m never going back.”
“I second that emotion.” Devra nodded, then rose. “Let’s see if we can get proper
lodgings. I don’t know about you but I need a shower. Then we’ll see about contacting
Haydar without anyone knowing.”
As she began to turn away, he caught her by the elbow.
“Just a minute.”
Her expression was quizzical as she waited for him to continue.
“If you’re not my enemy, if you haven’t been lying to me, if you want to stay with me,
then you’ll demonstrate your fidelity.”
“I said, yes, I would do what you asked of me.”
“That might entail killing the people who are surely guarding Haydar.”
She didn’t even blink. “Give me the fucking gun.”
Veronica Hart lived in an apartment complex in Langley, Virginia. Like so many other
complexes in this part of the world, it served as temporary housing for the thousands of
federal government workers, including spooks of all stripes, who were often on
assignment overseas or in other parts of the country.
Hart had lived in this particular apartment for just over two years. Not that it mattered;
since coming to the district seven years ago she’d had nothing but temporary lodgings.
By this point she doubted she’d be comfortable settling down and nesting. At least, those
were her thoughts as she buzzed Soraya Moore into the lobby. A moment later a discreet
knock sounded, and she let the other woman in.
“I’m clean,” Soraya said as she shrugged off her coat. “I made sure of that.”
Hart hung her coat in the foyer closet, led her into the kitchen. “For breakfast I have
cold cereal or”-she opened the refrigerator-“cold Chinese food. Last night’s leftovers.”
“I’m not one for conventional breakfasts,” Soraya said.
“Good. Neither am I.”
Hart grabbed an array of cardboard cartons, told Soraya where to find plates, serving
spoons, and chopsticks. They moved into the living room, set everything on a glass
coffee table between facing sofas.
Hart began opening the cartons. “No pork, right?”
Soraya smiled, pleased that her boss remembered her Muslim strictures. “Thank you.”
Hart returned to the kitchen, put up water for tea. “I have Earl Grey or oolong.”