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Racing around the turn, he gained the landing of the second floor. He’d memorized the
plans Baronov’s friend had procured for him and had pla
trusting to chance that he’d get in and out of the bank without being identified. It was
clear Vasily Legev, having recognized gospadin Popov, would blow the whistle on him
while he was inside the safe-deposit viewing cubicle. As Bourne broke out into the
corridor he encountered one of the bank’s security men. Grabbing him by the front of his
uniform, Bourne jerked him off his feet, swung him around, and hurled him down the
stairs at the ascending NSA agent.
Racing down the corridor, reached the door to the fire stairs, opened it, and went
through. Like many buildings of its vintage this one had a staircase that rose around an
open central core.
Bourne took off up the stairs. He passed the third floor, then the fourth. Behind him, he
could hear the fire door bang open, the sound of hurried footsteps on the stairs behind
him. His maneuver with the guard had slowed down the agent, but hadn’t stopped him.
He was midway to the fifth and top floor when the agent fired on him. Bourne ducked,
hearing the spang! of the ricochet. He sprinted upward as another shot went past him.
Reaching the door to the roof at last, he opened it, and slammed it shut behind him.
Harris Low was furious. With all the perso
That’s what you get, he thought as he raced up the stairwell, when you leave the details to the Russians. They were great at brute force, but when it came to the subtleties of
undercover work they were all but useless. Those two plainclothes officers, for instance.
Over Low’s objections they hadn’t waited for him, had gone into the vault after Bourne
themselves. Now he was left with mopping up the mess they’d made.
He came to the door to the roof, turned the handle, and banged it open with the flat of
his shoe. The tarred rooftop, the low winter sky glowered at him. Walther PPK/S at the
ready, he stepped out onto the roof in a semi-crouch. Without warning, the door slammed
shut on him, driving him back onto the small landing.
Up on the roof, Bourne pulled open the door and dived through. He struck Low three
blows, directed first at the agent’s stomach and then at his right wrist, forcing Low to let go of the gun. The Walther flew down the stairwell, landing on a step just above the
fourth floor.
Low, enraged, drove his fists into Bourne’s kidney twice in succession. Bourne
collapsed to his knees, and Low kicked him onto his back then straddled his chest,
pi
Bourne struggled to get his arms free, but he had insufficient leverage. He tried to get a
breath, but Low’s grip on him was so complete that he was unable to get any oxygen into
his system. He stopped trying to free his arms and pressed down with the small of his
back, providing a fulcrum for his legs, which he drew up, then extended toward his head.
He brought his calves together, sandwiching Low’s head between them. Low tried to
shake them off, violently twisting his shoulders back and forth, but Bourne held on,
increasing his grip. Then, with an enormous effort, Bourne spun them both to the left.
Low’s head hit against the wall, and Bourne’s arms were free. Unwinding his legs, he
slammed the palms of his hands against Low’s ears.
Low shouted in pain, kicked away, and scrambled back down the stairs. Bourne, on his
knees, could see that Low was heading for the Walther. Bourne rose. Just as Low reached
it, Bourne launched himself down and across the air shaft. He landed on Low, who
whipped the Walther’s short but thick barrel into Bourne’s face. Bourne reared back, and
Low bent him over the railing. Four floors of air shaft loomed below, ending in an
unforgiving concrete base. As they locked in their struggle, Low slowly, inexorably,
brought the muzzle of the Walther to bear on Bourne’s face. At the same time, the heel of
Bourne’s hand was pushing Low’s head up.
Low shook loose from Bourne’s grip, lunged at him in an effort to pistol-whip him into
unconsciousness. Bourne bent his knees. Using Low’s own momentum, he slid one arm
under the agent’s crotch, and lifted him up. Low tried to get a fix on Bourne with the
Walther, failed, swung his arm back to deliver another blow with the barrel.
Using all his remaining strength, Bourne hefted him up and over the banister, dumping
him down the air shaft. Low plummeted, a tangle of arms and legs, until he hit the
bottom.
Bourne turned, went back out onto the roof. As he loped across it, he could hear the
familiar rise and fall of police sirens. He wiped blood off his cheek with the back of his
hand. Reaching the other side of the roof, he climbed atop the parapet, leapt across the
intervening space onto the roof of the adjoining building. He did this twice more until he
felt that it was safe for him to return to the street.
Twenty-Five
SORAYA HAD NEVER understood the nature of panic, despite the fact that she grew
up with an aunt who was prone to panic attacks. When the attacks came on her aunt said
she felt as if someone had put a plastic dry-cleaning bag over her head; she felt as if she were being smothered to death. Soraya would watch her huddled in a chair or curled up
on her bed and wonder how on earth she could feel such a thing. There weren’t even any
plastic dry-cleaning bags allowed in the house. How could a person feel as if she were
suffocating when there wasn’t anything on her face?
Now she knew.
As she drove out of the NSA safe house without Tyrone, as the high reinforced metal
gates swung closed behind her, her hands trembled on the wheel, her heart felt as if it was jumping painfully inside her breast. There was a film of sweat on her upper lip, under her
arms, and at the nape of her neck. Worst of all, she couldn’t catch her breath. Her mind
raced like a rat in a cage. She gasped, sucking ragged gulps of air in to her lungs. She felt, in short, as if she were being smothered to death. Then her stomach rebelled.
As quickly as she was able she pulled to the side of the road, got out, and stumbled into
the trees. Falling to her hands and knees, she vomited up the sweet, milky Ceylon tea.
Jason, Tyrone, and Veronica Hart were now all in terrible jeopardy because of rash
decisions she’d made. She quailed at the thought. It was one thing to be chief of station in Odessa, quite another to be director. Maybe she’d taken on more than she could handle,
maybe she didn’t have the steel nerve that was required to make tough choices. Where
was her vaunted confidence? It was back there in the NSA interrogation cell with Tyrone.
Somehow she made it to Alexandria, where she parked. She sat in the car bent over,
her clammy forehead pressed to the steering wheel. She tried to think coherently, but her
brain seemed encased in a block of concrete. At last, she wept bitterly.
She had to call Deron, but she was petrified of his reaction when she told him that she
had allowed his protйgй to be captured and tortured by the NSA. She had fucked up big
time. And she had no idea how to rectify the situation. The choice LaValle had given her-
Veronica Hart for Tyrone-was unacceptable.
After a time, she calmed down enough to get out of the car. She moved like a
sleepwalker through crowds of people oblivious to her agony. It seemed somehow wrong