Текст книги "The Bourne Sanction (Санкция Борна)"

Автор книги: Eric Van Lustbader

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The man on the rooftop had a mole on his cheek, black as sin. Arkadin concentrated on

it as the man pulled Devra off the tar, away from Arkadin.

“Did you tell him anything?” he said without taking his eyes off Arkadin.

“Of course not,” Devra shot back. “What d’you take me for?”

“A weak link,” Mole-man said. “I told Pyotr not to use you. Now, because of you,

Filya is dead.”

“Filya was an idiot!”

Mole-man took his eyes off Arkadin to sneer at Devra. “He was your fucking

responsibility, bitch.”

Arkadin scissored his legs between Mole-man’s, throwing him off balance. Arkadin,

quick as a cat, leapt on him, pummeling him. Mole-man fought back as best he could.

Arkadin tried not to show the pain in his left shoulder, but it was already dislocated and it wouldn’t work correctly. Seeing this, Mole-man struck a blow as hard as he could flush

into the shoulder.

All the breath went out of Arkadin. He sat back, dazed, almost blacked out with pain.

Mole-man scrabbled for his gun, found Arkadin’s instead, and swung it up. He was about

to pull the trigger when Devra shot him in the back of the head with his own gun.

Without a word, he pitched over onto his face. She stood, wide-legged, in the classic

shooter’s stance, one hand supporting the other around the grips. Arkadin, on his knees,

for the moment paralyzed with agony, watched her swing the gun around, point it at him.

There was something in her eyes he couldn’t identify, let alone understand.

Then, all at once, she let out the long breath she’d been holding inside, her arms

relaxed, and the gun came down.

“Why?” Arkadin said. “Why did you shoot him?”

“He was a fool. Fuck me, I hate them all.”

The rain beat down on them, drummed against the rooftop. The sky, utterly dark,

muffled the world around them. They could have been standing on a mountaintop on the

roof of the world. Arkadin watched her approach him. She put one foot in front of the

other, walking stiff-legged. She seemed like a wild animal-angry, bitter, out of her

element in the civilized world. Like him. He was tied to her, but he didn’t understand her, he couldn’t trust her.

When she held out her hand to him he took it.

Nine

I HAVE this recurring nightmare,” Defense Secretary Ervin Reynolds “Bud” Halliday

said. “I’m sitting right here at Aushak in Bethesda, when in comes Jason Bourne and in

the style of The Godfather Part II shoots me in the throat and then between my eyes.”

Halliday was seated at a table in the rear of the restaurant, along with Luther LaValle

and Rob Batt. Aushak, more or less midway between the National Naval Medical Center

and the Chevy Chase Country Club, was a favorite meeting place of his. Because it was

in Bethesda and, especially, because it was Afghani, no one he knew or wanted to keep

secrets from came here. The defense secretary felt most comfortable in off-the-beaten-

path places. He was a man who despised Congress, despised even more its oversight

committees, which were always mucking about in matters that didn’t concern them and

for which they had no understanding, let alone expertise.

The three men had ordered the dish after which the restaurant was named: sheets of

pasta, filled with scallions, drenched in a savory meat-infused tomato sauce, the whole

crowned by rich Middle Eastern yogurt in which flowered tiny bits of mint. The aushak,

they all agreed, was a perfect winter meal.

“We’ll soon have that particular nightmare laid to rest, sir,” LaValle said with the kind

of obsequiousness that set Batt’s teeth on edge. “Isn’t that so, Rob?”

Batt nodded emphatically. “Quite right. I have a plan that’s virtually foolproof.”

Perhaps that wasn’t the correct thing to say. Halliday frowned,.”No plan is foolproof,

Mr. Batt, especially when it involves Jason Bourne.”

“I assure you, no one knows that better than I do, Mr. Secretary.”

Batt, as the seniormost of the seven directorate heads, did not care for being

contradicted. He was a linebacker of a man with plenty of experience beating back

pretenders to his crown. Still, he was aware that he was treading terra incognita, where a

power struggle was raging, the outcome unknown.

He pushed his plate away. In dealing with these people he knew he was making a

calculated gamble; on the other hand, he felt the spark that emanated from Secretary

Halliday. Batt had entered the nation’s true power grid, a place he’d secretly longed to be, and a powerful sense of elation shot through him.

“Because the plan revolves around DCI Hart,” Batt said now, “my hope is that we’ll be

able to bring down two clay pigeons with one shot.”

“Not another word”-Halliday held up his hand-“to either of us. Luther and I must

maintain plausible deniability. We can’t afford this operation coming back to bite us on

the ass. Is that clear, Mr. Batt?”

“Perfectly clear, sir. This is my operation, pure and simple.”

Halliday grinned. “Son, those words are music to these big ol’ Texan ears.” He tugged

at the lobe of his ear. “Now, I assume Luther here told you about Typhon.”

Batt looked from the secretary to LaValle and back again. A frown formed on his face.

“No, sir, he didn’t.”

“An oversight,” LaValle said smoothly.

“Well, no time like the present.” A smile continued to light Halliday’s expression.

“We believe that one of CI’s problems is Typhon,” LaValle said. “It’s become too

much for the director to properly rehabilitate and manage CI, and keep tabs on Typhon.

As such, responsibility for Typhon will be taken off your shoulders. That section will be

controlled directly by me.”

The entire topic had been handled smoothly, but Batt knew he’d been deliberately

sandbagged. These people had wanted control of Typhon from the beginning. “Typhon is

home-grown CI,” he said. “It’s Martin Lindros’s brainchild.”

“Martin Lindros is dead,” LaValle pointed out needlessly. “Another female is the

director of Typhon now. That needs to be addressed, along with many other decisions

that will affect Typhon’s future. You will also need to be making crucial decisions, Rob,

about all of CI. You don’t want more on your plate than you can handle, do you.” It

wasn’t a question.

Batt felt himself losing traction on a slippery slope. “Typhon is part of CI,” he said as a last, feeble attempt to win back control.

“Mr. Batt,” Halliday interjected. “We have made our determination. Are you with us or

shall we recruit someone else for DCI?”

The man whose call had drawn Professor Specter out into the street was Mikhail

Tarkanian. Bourne suggested the National Zoo as a place to meet, and the professor had

called Tarkanian. The professor then contacted his secretary at the university to tell her

that he and Professor Webb were each taking a personal day. They got in Specter’s car,

which had been driven to the estate by one of his men, and headed toward the zoo.

“Your problem, Jason, is that you need an ideology,” Specter said. “An ideology

grounds you. It’s the backbone of commitment.”

Bourne, who was driving, shook his head. “As far back as I can remember I’ve been

manipulated by ideologues. So far as I can tell, all ideology does is give you tunnel

vision. Everything that doesn’t fit within your self-imposed limits is either ignored or

destroyed.”

“Now I know I’m truly speaking to Jason Bourne,” Specter said, “because I tried my

best to instill in David Webb a sense of purpose he lost somewhere in his past. When you

came to me you weren’t just cast adrift, you were severely maimed. I sought to help heal

you by helping you turn away from whatever it was that hurt you so deeply. But now I

see I was wrong-”

“You weren’t wrong, Professor.”

“No, let me finish. You’re always quick to defend me, to believe I’m always right.

Don’t think I don’t appreciate how you feel about me. I wouldn’t want anything to

change that. But occasionally I do make mistakes, and this was one of them. I don’t know

what went into the making of the Bourne identity, and believe me when I tell you that I

don’t want to know.

“What seems clear to me, however, is that however much you don’t want to believe it,

something inside you, something innate and connected with the Bourne identity, sets you

apart from everyone else.”

Bourne felt troubled by the direction of the conversation. “Do you mean that I’m Jason

Bourne through and through-that David Webb would have become him no matter what?”

“No, not at all. But I do think from what you’ve shared with me that if there had been

no intervention, if there had been no Bourne identity, then David Webb would have been

a very unhappy man.”

This idea was not a new one to Bourne. But he’d always assumed the thought occurred

to him because he knew so damnably little about who he’d been. David Webb was more

of an enigma to him than Jason Bourne. That realization itself haunted Bourne, as if

Webb were a ghost, a shadowing armature into which the Bourne identity had been hung,

fleshed out, given life by Alex Conklin.

Bourne, driving up Connecticut Avenue, NW, crossed Cathedral Avenue. The entrance

to the zoo appeared up ahead. “The truth is, I don’t think David Webb would have lasted

to the end of the school year.”

“Then I’m pleased I decided to involve you in my real passion.” Something seemed to

have been settled inside Specter. “It’s not often a man gets a chance to rectify his

mistakes.”

The day was mild enough that the gorilla family had been let out. Schoolchildren

clustered noisily at the end of the area where the patriarch sat, surrounded by his brood.

The silverback did his level best to ignore them, but when their incessant chatter became

too much for him, he walked to the other end of the compound, trailed by his family.

There he sat while the same annoyances spiraled out of control. Then he plodded back to

the spot where Bourne had first seen him.

Mikhail Tarkanian was waiting for them beside the silverback gorilla area. He looked

Specter up and down, clucking over his black eye. Then he took him in his arms, kissed

him on both cheeks. “Allah is good, my friend. You are alive and well.”

“Thanks to Jason here. He rescued me. I owe him my life.” Specter introduced the two

men.

Tarkanian kissed Bourne on both cheeks, thanking him effusively.

There came a shuffling of the gorilla family as some grooming got under way.

“Damn sad life.” Tarkanian hooked his thumb at the silverback.

Bourne noted that his English was heavily accented in the manner of the tough

Sokolniki slum of northeast Moscow.

“Look at the poor bastard,” Tarkanian said.

The gorilla’s expression was glum-resigned rather than defiant.

Specter said, “Jason’s here on a bit of a fact-finding mission.”

“Is he now?” Tarkanian was fleshy in the way of ex-athletes-neck like a bull, wary

eyes sunk in yellow flesh. He kept his shoulders up around his ears, as if to ward off an

expected blow. Enough hard knocks in Sokolniki to last a lifetime.

“I want you to answer his questions,” Specter said.

“Of course. Anything I can do.”

“I need your help,” Bourne said. “Tell me about Pyotr Zilber.”

Tarkanian, appearing somewhat taken aback, glanced at Specter, who had retreated a

pace in order to center his man’s full attention on Bourne. Then he shrugged. “Sure. What

d’you want to know?”

“How did you find out he’d been killed?”

“The usual way. Through one of our contacts.” Tarkanian shook his head. “I was

devastated. Pyotr was a key man for us. He was also a friend.”

“How d’you figure he was found out?”

A gaggle of schoolgirls pranced by. When they had passed out of earshot, Tarkanian

said, “I wish I knew. He wasn’t easy to get to, I’ll tell you that.”

Bourne said casually, “Did Pyotr have friends?”

“Of course he had friends. But none of them would betray him, if that’s what you’re

asking.” Tarkanian pushed his lips out. “On the other hand…” His words trailed off.

Bourne found his eyes, held them.

“Pyotr was seeing this woman. Gala Nematova. He was head-over-heels about her.”

“I assume she was properly vetted,” Bourne said.

“Of course. But, well, Pyotr was a bit, um, headstrong when it came to women.”

“Was that widely known?”

“I seriously doubt it,” Tarkanian said.

That was a mistake, Bourne thought. The habits and proclivities of the enemy were

always for sale if you were clever and persistent enough. Tarkanian should have said, I

don’t know. Possibly. As neutral an answer as possible, and closer to the truth.

“Women can be a weak link.” Bourne thought briefly of Moira and the cloud of

uncertainty that hovered over her from the CI investigation. The idea that Martin could

have been seduced into revealing CI secrets was a bitter pill to swallow. He hoped when

he read the communication between her and Martin that Soraya had unearthed, he could

lay the question to rest.

“We’re all sick about Pyotr’s death,” Tarkanian offered. Again the glance at Specter.

“No question.” Bourne smiled rather vaguely. “Murder’s a serious matter, especially in

this case. I’m talking to everyone, that’s all.”

“Of course. I understand.”

“You’ve been extremely helpful.” Bourne smiled, shook Tarkanian’s hand. As he did

so, he said in a sharp tone of voice, “By the way, how much did Icoupov’s people pay

you to call the professor’s cell this morning?”

Instead of freezing Tarkanian seemed to relax. “What the hell kind of question is that?

I’m loyal, I always have been.”

After a moment, he tried to extricate his hand, but Bourne’s grip tightened. Tarkanian’s

eyes met Bourne’s, held them.

Behind them, the silverback made a noise, growing restive. The sound was low, like

the sudden ripple of wind disturbing a field of wheat. The message from the gorilla was

so subtle, Bourne was the only one who picked up on it. He registered movement at the

extreme edge of his peripheral vision, tracked for several seconds. He leaned back to

Specter, said in a low, urgent voice. “Leave now. Go straight through the Small Mammal

House, then turn left. A hundred yards on will be a small food kiosk. Ask for help getting

to your car. Go back to your house and stay there until you hear from me.”

As the professor walked swiftly away, Bourne grabbed Tarkanian, pushed him in the

opposite direction. They joined a Home Sweet Habitat scavenger hunt comprising a score

of rowdy kids and their parents. The two men Bourne was tracking hurried toward them.

It was this pair and their rushed anxiety that had aroused the suspicion of the silverback, alerting Bourne.

“Where are we going?” Tarkanian said. “Why did you leave the professor

unprotected?”

A good question. Bourne’s decision had been instantaneous, instinct-driven. The men

headed toward Tarkanian, not the professor. Now, as the group moved down Olmsted

Walk, Bourne dragged Tarkanian into the Reptile Discovery Center. The lights were low

here. They hurried past glass cases that held dozing alligators, slit-eyed crocodiles,

lumbering tortoises, evil-looking vipers, and pebble-skinned lizards of all sizes, shapes,

and dispositions. Up ahead, Bourne could see the snake cases. At one of them, a handler

opened a door, prepared to set out a feast of rodents for the green tree pythons, which, in their hunger, had emerged from their stupor, slithering along the case’s fake tree

branches. These snakes used infrared heat sensors to target their prey.

Behind them, the two men wove their way through the crowd of children. They were

swarthy but otherwise unremarkable in feature. They had their hands plunged into the

pockets of their wool overcoats, surely gripping some form of weapon. They weren’t

hurrying now. There was no point in alarming the visitors.

Passing the European glass lizard, Bourne hauled Tarkanian into the snake section. It

was at that moment that Tarkanian chose to make a move. Twisting away as he lunged

back toward the approaching men, he dragged Bourne for a step, until Bourne struck him

a dizzying blow to the side of the head.

A workman knelt with his toolbox in front of an empty case. He was fiddling with the

ventilation grille at the base. Bourne swiped a short length of stiff wire from the box.

“The cavalry’s not going to save you today,” Bourne said as he dragged Tarkanian

toward a door set flush in the wall between cases that led to the work area hidden from

the public. One of the pursuers was closing in when Bourne jimmied the lock with the bit

of wire. He opened the door, stepped through. He slammed it shut behind him, set the

lock.

The door began to shudder on its hinges as the men pounded on it. Bourne found

himself in a narrow utility corridor, lit by long fluorescent tubes, that ran behind the

cases. Doors and, in the cases of the venomous snakes, feeding windows appeared at

regular intervals along the right-hand wall.

Bourne heard a soft phutt! and the lock popped out of the door. The men were armed

with small-caliber handguns fitted with suppressors. He pushed the stumbling Tarkanian

ahead of him as one of the men stepped through. Where was the other one? Bourne

thought he knew, and he turned his attention to the far end of the corridor, where any

moment now he expected the second man to appear.

Tarkanian, sensing Bourne’s momentary shift of attention, spun, slamming the side of

his body into Bourne’s. Thrown off balance, Bourne skidded through the open doorway

into the tree python case. With a harsh bark of laughter, Tarkanian rushed on.

A herpetologist in the case to check on the python was already protesting Bourne’s

appearance. Bourne ignored him, reached up, unwound one of the hungry pythons from

the branch nearest him. As the snake, sensing his heat, wrapped itself around his

outstretched arm, Bourne turned and burst out into the corridor just in time to drive a fist into the gunman’s solar plexus. When the man doubled over, Bourne slid his arm out of

the python’s coils, wrapped its body around the gunman’s chest. Seeing the python, the

man screamed. It began to tighten its coils around him.

Bourne snatched the handgun with its suppressor from his hand, took off after

Tarkanian. The gun was a Glock, not a Taurus. As Bourne suspected, these two weren’t

part of the same team that had abducted the professor. Who were they then? Members of

the Black Legion, sent to extract Tarkanian? But if that was the case, how had they

known he’d been blown? No time for answers: The second man had appeared at the far

end of the corridor. He was in a crouch, motioning to Tarkanian, who squeezed himself

against the side of the corridor.

As the gunman took aim at him Bourne covered his face with his folded forearms,

dived headfirst through one of the feeding windows. Glass shattered. Bourne looked up to

see that he was face-to-face with a Gaboon viper, the species with the longest fangs and

highest venom yield of any snake. It was black and ocher. Its ugly, triangular head rose,

its tongue flicked out, sensing, trying to determine if the creature sprawled in front of it was a threat.

Bourne lay still as stone. The viper began to hiss, a steady rhythm that flattened its

head with each fierce exhalation. The small horns beside its nostrils quivered. Bourne had

definitely disturbed it. Having traveled extensively in Africa, he knew something of this

creature’s habits. It was not prone to bite unless severely provoked. On the other hand, he couldn’t risk moving his body at all at this point.

Aware that he was vulnerable from behind as well as in front, he slowly raised his left

hand. The hissing’s steady rhythm didn’t change. Keeping his eyes on the snake’s head,

he moved his hand until it was over the snake. He’d read about a technique meant to calm

this kind of snake but had no idea whether it would work. He touched the snake on the

top of its head with a fingertip. The hissing stopped. It did work!

He grasped it at its neck. Letting go of the gun, he supported the viper’s body with his

other hand. The creature didn’t struggle. Walking gingerly across the case to the far end,

he set it carefully down in a corner. A group of kids were staring, openmouthed, from the

other side of the glass. Bourne backed away from the viper, never taking his eyes from it.

Near the shattered feeding window he knelt down, grasped the Glock.

A voice behind him said, “Leave the gun where it is and turn around slowly.”

The damn thing’s dislocated,” Arkadin said.

Devra stared at his deformed shoulder.

“You’ll have to reset it for me.”

Drenched to the bone, they were sitting in a late-night cafй on the other side of

Sevastopol, warming themselves as best they could. The gas heater in the cafй hissed and

hiccupped alarmingly, as if it were coming down with pneumonia. Glasses of steaming

tea sat before them, half empty. It was barely an hour after their hair’s-breadth escape,

and both of them were exhausted.

“You’re kidding,” she said.

“Absolutely, you will,” he said. “I can’t go to a proper doctor.”

Arkadin ordered food. Devra ate like an animal, shoving dripping pieces of stew into

her mouth with her fingertips. She looked as if she hadn’t eaten in days. Perhaps she

hadn’t. Seeing how she laid waste to the food, Arkadin ordered more. He ate slowly and

deliberately, conscious of everything he put into his mouth. Killing did that to him: All

his senses were working overtime. Colors were brighter, smells stronger, everything

tasted rich and complex. He could hear the acrid political argument going on in the

opposite corner between two old men. His own fingertips on his cheek felt like

sandpaper. He was acutely aware of his own heartbeat, the blood rushing behind his ears.

He was, in short, a walking, talking exposed nerve.

He both loved and hated being in this state. The feeling was a form of ecstasy. He

remembered coming across a dog-eared paperback copy of The Teachings of Don Juan

by Carlos Castaneda, had learned to read English from it, a long, torturous path. The

concept of ecstasy had never occurred to him before reading this book. Later, in

emulation of Castaneda, he thought of trying peyote-if he could find it-but the idea of a

drug, any drug, set his teeth on edge. He was already lost quite enough. He held no desire

to find a place from which he could never return.

Meanwhile the ecstasy he was in was a burden as well as a revelation, but he knew he

couldn’t long stand being that exposed nerve. Everything from a car backfiring to the

chirrup of a cricket crashed against him, as painful as if he’d been turned inside out.

He studied Devra with an almost obsessive concentration. He noticed something he

hadn’t seen before-likely, with her gesticulating, she’d distracted him from noticing. But

now she’d let down her guard. Perhaps she was just exhausted or had relaxed with him.

She had a tremor in her hands, a nerve that had gone awry. Clandestinely, he watched the

tremor, thinking it made her seem even more vulnerable.

“I don’t get you,” he told her now. “Why have you turned against your own people?”

“You think Pyotr Zilber, Oleg Shumenko, and Filya were my own people?”

“You’re a cog in Zilber’s network. What else would I think?”

“You heard how that pig talked to me up on the roof. Shit, they were all like that.” She

wiped grease off her lips and chin. “I never liked Shumenko. First it was gambling debts I

had to bail him out of, then it was drugs.”

Arkadin’s voice was offhand when he said, “You told me you didn’t know what the

last loan was for.”

“I lied.”

“Did you tell Pyotr?”

“You’re joking. Pyotr was the worst of the lot.”

“Talented little bugger, though.”

Devra nodded. “So I thought when I was in his bed. He got away with an awful lot of

shit because he was the boss-drinking, partying, and, Jesus, the girls! Sometimes two and

three a night. I got thoroughly sick of him and asked to be reassigned back home.”

So she’d been Pyotr’s squeeze for a short time, Arkadin thought. “The partying was

part of his job, though, forging contacts, ensuring they came back for more.”

“Sure. Trouble was he liked it all too much. And inevitably, that attitude infected those

who were close to him. Where d’you think Shumenko learned to live like that? From

Pyotr, that’s who.”

“And Filya?”

“Filya thought he owned me, like chattel. When we’d go out together he’d act as if he

was my pimp. I hated his guts.”

“Why didn’t you get rid of him?”

“He was the one supplying Shumenko with coke.”

Quick as a cat, Arkadin leaned across the table, looming. “Listen, lapochka, I don’t

give a fuck who you like or don’t like. But lying to me, that’s another story.”

“What did you expect?” she said. “You blew in like a fucking whirlwind.”

Arkadin laughed then, breaking a tension that was stretched to the breaking point. This

girl had a sense of humor, which meant she was clever as well as smart. His mind had

made a connection between her and a woman who’d once been important to him.

“I still don’t understand you.” He shook his head. “We’re on different sides of this

conflict.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. I was never part of this conflict. I didn’t like it; I only

pretended I did. At first it was a goal I set for myself: whether I could fool Pyotr, and

then the others. When I did, it just seemed easier to keep going. I got paid well, I learned quicker than most, I got perks I never would have gotten from being a DJ.”

“You could’ve left anytime.”

“Could I?” She cocked her head. “They would’ve come after me like they’re coming

after you.”

“But now you’ve made up your mind to leave them.” He cocked his head. “Don’t tell

me it’s because of me.”

“Why not? I like sitting next to a whirlwind. It’s comforting.”

Arkadin grunted, embarrassed again.

“Besides, the last straw came when I found out what they’re planning.”

“You thought of your American savior.”

“Maybe you can’t understand that one person can make a difference in your life.”

“Oh, but I can,” Arkadin said, thinking of Semion Icoupov. “In that, you and I are the

same.”

She gestured. “You look so uncomfortable.”

“Come on,” he said, standing. He led her back past the kitchen, poked his head in for a

moment, then took her into the men’s room.

“Get out,” he ordered a man at the sink.

He checked the stall to make sure they were alone. “I’ll tell you how to fix this

damnable shoulder.”

When he gave her the instructions, she said, “Is it going to hurt?”

In answer, he put the handle of the wooden spoon he’d swiped from the kitchen

between his teeth.

With great reluctance Bourne turned his back on the Gaboon viper. Many things flitted

through his mind, not the least of which was Mikhail Tarkanian. He was the mole inside

the professor’s organization. Who knew how much intel he had about Specter’s network;

Bourne couldn’t afford to let him get away.

The man before him now was flat-faced, his skin slightly greasy. He had a two-day

growth of beard and bad teeth. His breath stank from cigarettes and rotting food. He

pointed his suppressed Glock directly at Bourne’s chest.

“Come out of there,” he said softly.

“It won’t matter whether or not I comply,” Bourne answered. “The herpetologist down

the corridor has surely phoned security. We’re all about to be put into custody.”

“Out. Now.”

The man made a fatal error of gesturing with the Glock. Bourne used his left forearm

to knock the elongated barrel aside. Slamming the gunman back against the opposite wall

of the corridor, Bourne drove a knee into his groin. As the gunman gagged, Bourne

chopped the gun out of his hand, grabbed him by his overcoat, flung him headlong into

the Gaboon viper’s case with such force that he skidded along the floor toward the corner

where the viper lay coiled.

Bourne, imitating the viper, made a rhythmic hissing sound, and the snake raised its

head. At the same moment it heard the hissing of a rival snake, it sensed something living

thrust into its territory. It struck out at the terrified gunman.

Bourne was already pounding down the corridor. The door at the far end gaped open.

He burst out into daylight. Tarkanian was waiting for him, in case he escaped the two

gunmen; he had no stomach to prolong the pursuit. He drove a fist into Bourne’s cheek,

followed that up with a vicious kick. But Bourne caught his shoe in his hands, twisted his

foot violently, spinning him off his feet.

Bourne could hear shouts, the slap and squeak of cheap soles against concrete. Security

was on its way, though he couldn’t see them yet.

“Tarkanian,” he said, and coldcocked him.

Tarkanian went down heavily. Bourne knelt beside him and was giving him mouth-to-

mouth when three security guards rounded the corner, came pounding up to him.

“My friend collapsed just as we saw the men with the guns.” Bourne gave an accurate

description of the two gunmen, pointed toward the open door to the Reptile Discovery

Center. “Can you get help? My friend is allergic to mustard. I think there must have been

some in the potato salad we had for lunch.”

One of the security guards called 911, while the other two, guns drawn, vanished into

the doorway. The guard stayed with Bourne until the paramedics arrived. They took

Tarkanian’s vitals, loaded him onto the gurney. Bourne walked at Tarkanian’s side as

they made their way through the gawking crowds to the ambulance waiting on

Connecticut Avenue. He told them about Tarkanian’s allergic reaction, also that in this

state he was hypersensitive to light. He climbed into the back of the ambulance. One of

the paramedics closed the doors behind him while the other prepared the IV drip of

phenothiazine. The vehicle took off, siren wailing.

Tears streamed down Arkadin’s face, but he made no noise. The pain was excruciating,

but at least the arm was back in its socket. He could move the fingers of his left hand, just barely. The good news was that the numbness was giving way to a peculiar tingling, as if

his blood had turned to champagne.

Devra held the wooden spoon in her hand. “Shit, you almost bit this in two. It must’ve

hurt like a bitch.”

Arkadin, dizzy and nauseous, grimaced in pain. “I could never get food down now.”

Devra tossed aside the spoon as they left the men’s room. Arkadin paid their check,

and they went out of the cafй. The rain had stopped, leaving the streets with that slick,

just-washed look so familiar to him from old American films from the 1940s and 1950s.