Страница 54 из 115
is, you’re mistaken. Leonid told no one where he was going, not even me.”
“You must love this man a great deal.”
“I do.”
“Does he love you?”
When she turned back to him, her eyes were full of tears. “Yes, he loves me.”
“Is that why you took money to spy on Pyotr? Is that why you were partying with that
man tonight at The Chinese Pilot?”
“Christ, none of that matters.”
Bourne sat forward. “I don’t understand. Why doesn’t it matter?”
Gala regarded him for a long time. “What’s the matter with you? Don’t you know
anything about love?” A tear overflowed, ran down her cheek. “Whatever I do for money
allows me to live. Whatever I do with my body has nothing to do with love. Love is
strictly a matter of the heart. My heart belongs to Leonid Danilovich. That’s sacred, pure.
No one can touch it or defile it.”
“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
together. “Embrace love. That’s what I would tell Leonid Danilovich if he were here
instead of you.”
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
down on my back in so much pain my eyes watered. Christ, I couldn’t even breathe.
Mischa asked me if I’d like to be able to do that and I said, ‘Shit, where do I sign up?’”
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