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that the world should spin on as it always had, utterly indifferent and uncaring.
She ducked into a little tea shop, and as she rummaged in her handbag for her cell
phone she saw the pack of cigarettes. A cigarette would calm her nerves, but standing out
in the chilly street while she smoked would make her feel more of a lost soul. She
decided to have a smoke on the way back to her car. Placing her cell phone on the table,
she stared down at it as if it were alive. She ordered chamomile tea, which calmed her
enough for her to pick up her phone. She punched in Deron’s number, but when she
heard his voice her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth.
Eventually, she was able to get out her name. Before he could ask her how the mission
went she asked to speak with Kiki, Deron’s girlfriend. Where that came from, she had no
idea. She’d met Kiki only twice. But Kiki was a woman and, instinctively, with an
atavistic cla
When Kiki came on the line, Soraya asked if she could come to the little tea shop in
Alexandria. When Kiki asked when, Soraya said, “Now. Please.”
The first thing you have to do is stop blaming yourself,” Kiki said after Soraya had
finished recounting in painful detail what had happened at the NSA safe house. “It’s your
guilt that’s paralyzing you, and believe me you’re going to need every last brain cell if
we’re going to get Tyrone out of that hole.”
Soraya looked up from her pallid tea.
Kiki smiled, nodding. In her dark red dress, her hair up in a swirl, hammered-gold
earrings depending from her earlobes, she looked more regal, more exotic than ever. She
towered over everyone in the tea shop by at least six inches.
“I know I have to tell Deron,” Soraya said. “I just don’t know what his reaction is
going to be.”
“His reaction won’t be as bad as what you fear,” Kiki said. “And after all, Tyrone is a
grown man. He knew the risks as well as anyone. It was his choice, Soraya. He could’ve
said no.”
Soraya shook her head. “That’s just it, I don’t think he could, at least not from the way
he sees things.” She stirred her tea, more to forestall what she knew she had to say. Then
she looked up, licked her lips. “See, Tyrone’s got a thing for me.”
“Doesn’t he ever!”
Soraya was taken aback. “You know?”
“Everyone who knows him knows, honey. You just have to look at him when the two
of you are together.”
Soraya felt her cheeks flush. “I think he would’ve done anything I asked of him no
matter how dangerous, even if he didn’t want to.”
“But you know he wanted to.”
It was true, Soraya thought. He’d been excited. Nervous, but definitely excited. She
knew that ever since Deron had taken him under his wing he’d chafed at being cooped up
in the hood. He was smarter than that, and Deron knew it. But he had neither the interest
nor the aptitude for what Deron did. Then she came along. He’d told her he saw her as his
ticket out of the ghetto.
Yet she still had a knot in her chest, a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. She could
not get out of her head the image of Tyrone on his knees, hooded, arms held behind him
on the tabletop.
“You just turned pale,” Kiki said. “Are you all right?”
Soraya nodded. She wanted to tell Kiki what she had seen, but she couldn’t. She
sensed that to talk about it would give it a reality so frightening, so powerful it would
throw her back into panic.
“Then we ought to go.”
Soraya’s heart tripped over itself. “No time like the present,” she said.
As they went out the door, she pulled out the pack of cigarettes and threw it in a nearby
trash can. She didn’t need it anymore.
As pla
Lorraine’s apartment. It was just past 10 AM; his meet with Maslov wasn’t until noon.
He needed a shower, a shave, and some rest.
Lorraine was kind enough to provide the necessities for all three. She gave Bourne a
set of towels, a disposable razor, and said if he gave her his clothes she’d wash and dry
them for him. In the bathroom Bourne stripped, then opened the door enough to hand the
dirty clothes to Lorraine.
“After I put these in the wash, Gala and I are going out to get food. Can we bring you
anything?”
Bourne thanked her. “Whatever you’re having will be fine.”
He closed the door, crossed to the shower, turned it on full force. Opening the
medicine cabinet, he took out rubbing alcohol, a gauze pad, surgical tape, and antibiotic
cream. Then he went back to the toilet, put the seat cover down, and cleaned his abraded
heel. It had taken a lot of abuse and was red and raw looking. Squeezing the cream onto
the gauze, he placed it over the wound and taped it up.
Then he took his cell phone off the edge of the sink where he’d placed it when
undressing, and dialed the number Boris Karpov had given him.
Would you mind going without me?” Gala said, as Lorraine reached into the hall closet
for her fur coat. “All of a sudden I’m not feeling well.”
Lorraine walked back to her. “What is it?”
“I don’t know.” Gala sank onto the white leather sofa. “I’m kind of dizzy.”
Lorraine took hold of the back of her head. “Bend over. Put your head between your
knees.”
Gala did as she was told. Lorraine crossed to the sideboard, took out a bottle of vodka,
and poured some into a glass. “Here, take a drink. It’ll settle you.”
Gala came up as gingerly as a drunk walks. She took the vodka, threw it down her
throat so fast she almost choked. But then the fire hit her stomach and the warmth began
to spread through her.
“Okay?” Lorraine asked.
“Better.”
“All right. I’m going to buy you some hot borscht. You need to get some nourishment
into you.” She drew on her coat. “Why don’t you lie down?”
Once again Gala did as she was told, but after her friend left, she rose. She’d never
found the sofa comfortable. Making sure of her balance, she went down the hall. She
needed to crash on a proper bed.
As she was passing the bathroom, she heard a sound like talking, but Bourne was in
there by himself. Curious, she moved closer, then put her ear to the door. She could hear
the rushing of the shower more clearly, but also Bourne’s voice. He must be on his cell
phone.
She heard him say “Medvedev did what?” He was talking politics to whoever was on
the other end of the line. She was about to take her ear away from the door when she
heard Bourne say, “It was bad luck with Tarkanian… No, no, I killed him… I had to, I
had no other choice.”
Gala pulled away as if she’d touched her ear to a hot iron. For some time, she stood
staring at the closed door, then she backed away. Bourne had killed Mischa! My God, she
said to herself. How could he? And then, thinking of Arkadin, Mischa’s best friend, My
God.
Twenty-Six
DIMITRI MASLOV had the eyes of a rattlesnake, the shoulders of a wrestler, and the
hands of a bricklayer. He was, however, dressed like a banker when Bourne met him
inside a warehouse that could have doubled as an aircraft hanger. He was wearing a
chalk-striped three-piece Savile Row suit, an Egyptian cotton shirt, and a conservative
tie. His powerful legs ended in curiously dainty feet, as if they’d been grafted on from
another, far smaller body.
“Don’t bother telling me your name,” he said as he accepted the ten thousand Swiss
francs, “as I always assume they’re fake.”