Текст книги "The Bourne Dominion (Господство Борна)"

Автор книги: Eric Van Lustbader

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Текущая страница: 22 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

That smile again, dark as pitch. “You won’t kill me because then you will be marked as an enemy of the Domna. They won’t stop until you’re dead.”

“You have it all wrong, Viktor. Iwon’t stop until they’redead.”

Still, the realization did not show in Cherkesov’s eyes. “They have too many allies, some close to you.”

“Like Ivan Volkin?”

Now a black terror transformed Cherkesov’s face. “You know? How could you know?” His entire demeanor had changed. His face was sallow and he appeared to be panting.

“I’ll take care of Ivan Ivanovich in good time,” Boris said. “Right now, it’s your turn.”

Champagne or orange juice, sir?”

“Champagne, thank you,” Bourne said to the young flight attendant as she bent over, a small tray balanced on the spread fingers of one hand.

She smiled sweetly as she handed him the flute. “Dinner will be served in forty minutes, sir. Have you made your choices?”

“I have,” Bourne said, pointing to the menu.

“Very good, sir.” The flight attendant’s smile widened. “If there is anything you require during the flight, my name is Rebeka.”

Alone in his seat, Bourne stared out the Perspex window as he sipped champagne. He was thinking about Boris, wondering why he hadn’t shown himself. In this battle, Boris had the distinct edge. They were friends because Boris said they had been. Bourne had no memory of their first meeting, or what had happened. His first remembered encounter with Boris was in Reykjavik six years ago; before that was a complete blank. He had only Boris’s word that they had been friends. What if Boris had been lying to him all along? This cloud of unknowing was the most frustrating—and dangerous—effect of his amnesia. When people popped up out of his past and claimed to be friends or colleagues he was required to make an instant determination about whether or not they were telling the truth. In the six years Bourne had known Boris, he had always acted like a friend. Two years ago Boris had been wounded in northeastern Iran. Bourne had found him and carried him to safety. They had worked side by side in a number of perilous situations. Bourne never had cause to doubt Boris’s motivations. Until now.

Have you made your choices?An innocent sentence coming from a flight attendant, but it had many layers of meaning she wasn’t aware of. Bourne had had his choices made for him when he plunged into the Mediterranean and surfaced without a memory of who or what he was. Since then, his life had been a struggle to understand the choices he had once made but could no longer remember, a struggle with the choices Alex Conklin had made for him. The latest case in point to surface from the murk of his past: killing Kaja’s mother, Viveka Norén. It nauseated him that Conklin had sent him on a mission of personal vengeance, to—what? To teach a dead man a lesson for trying to assassinate him? The cruelty and heartlessness of Conklin’s choice made Bourne sick to his stomach. And he had been the agent of death. He could not exonerate himself. “ There is no reason.”

No, he thought now, there was no reason.

So, Mademoiselle Gobelins,” El-Arian said, “how may we best serve your needs?”

The moment he sat down beside her Soraya felt as if her skin had been seared. Invisible ants crawled over her flesh, and it was all she could do not to flinch away from him. Even his smile was dark, as if the emotion behind it came from a different place inside him. She felt his enormous psychic energy, and for the first time in her adult life she was afraid of another person. When she was five, her father had taken her to a seer in a seething backwater alley of Cairo. Why he did it, she had no idea. When her mother had found out about it afterward, she had flown into a rage, something Soraya had never before seen her mother do.

When the seer, a surprisingly young man with black eyes and hair and dark skin that looked like the hide of a crocodile, took her hand in his she felt as if the earth beneath her had crumbled, that she was falling into an abyss, that she would never stop falling.

“I have you,” the seer said, as if to comfort her, but she felt like a fly caught in his web, and she had burst into tears.

On the way home, her father had not spoken to her, and she sensed that she had failed an important test, that he would never forgive her, that his love for her was slipping away like grains of sand through her slender fingers. Afterward, following her mother’s terrifying outburst, she sensed that nothing was the same between her parents. Her father had broken some unspoken agreement between them and, just as he couldn’t forgive Soraya, his wife couldn’t forgive him. Six months later, her mother bundled her off to America. As a child or adolescent, she would never see Cairo again.

Soraya, sitting next to Benjamin El-Arian on the second floor of the Nymphenburg Landesbank, experienced again the same frightening sensation of falling into an unfathomable abyss.

El-Arian stirred beside her. “Are you well, Mademoiselle Gobelins?”

“Quite well, thank you,” she said in a thickened voice.

“You look somewhat pale.”

He rose and she took a quick breath, as if released from a vise.

Crossing to a sideboard, he said, “Perhaps a bit of brandy to revive your spirits.”

“Thank you, no.”

He poured the brandy anyway and brought it back in a cut-crystal glass. He sat down beside her and held out the glass. “I insist.”

She saw his dark eyes scrutinizing her expression. He knows, she thought. But what exactly?

She brought a smile to her lips. “I don’t drink alcohol.”

“Neither do I.” He set the brandy aside. “Are you a Muslim?”

She nodded. “I am.”

“Arab.”

She looked at him steadily. He tapped one long forefinger rhythmically against his lips. Slowly. One, two, three, like a hypnotist’s metronome.

“That excludes Iranian, and you’re not Syrian, surely.” His eyebrows rose. “Egyptian?”

Soraya felt the need to gain some control over the conversation. “Where is your family from?”

“The desert.”

“That could be almost anywhere,” Soraya said, “even the Gobi.”

El-Arian smiled like an indulgent uncle. “Hardly.” A soft chime. “Excuse me.” He rose and, digging out his cell phone, stepped out of the office.

Soraya rose and a wave of vertigo caused her to clutch the armrest of the sofa in order to steady herself. Ignoring the continued pounding in her head, she crossed quickly to M. Sigismond’s desk, scanning the contents scattered across the top. Letters and files. Using the knuckle of her forefinger, she moved a sheet of paper slightly so she could read what was on the pages underneath. Her head came up as she heard El-Arian’s voice briefly; when it faded away, accompanied by footfalls, she continued poking around. There were no photos, no mementos, nothing by way of a personal nature. The office was perfectly anonymous, as if it was used only sporadically. She started on the drawers. Wrapping a tissue from a box on the desktop around the handle of a letter opener, she used the blade to open each drawer and survey the contents. She was looking for some evidence that would link M. Marchand’s traitorous dealings with the bank.

A moment later she heard El-Arian’s voice approaching. She closed the drawer, dropped the letter opener, and was back at the sofa, using the tissue to blow her nose when he reappeared, M. Sigismond on his heels.

“My dear Mademoiselle Gobelins, my sincerest apologies for interrupting our meeting.”

“It’s quite all right,” she said, stuffing the tissue away in her pocket.

“Ah, but first impressions are so important, don’t you think?”

“I do.”

He held out his hand and she took it, rising off the cushion.

“M. Sigismond has an appointment. In any event, I believe you will find my office more conducive to concluding our business.”

He led the way down the hall and into a large office suite, this one furnished completely in a modern style. He stepped behind his desk, which held only an old-fashioned blotter, a set of fountain pens, a cut-crystal paperweight with the name of the bank engraved in gold, an ashtray filled with butts, and a multi-line phone. He gestured for her to stand beside him. “Please. I’m having papers drawn up for your intended deposit.” He pulled out a printed card from a drawer. “But first, we must gather some basic information.”

When she was at his side, he pressed a button and a video picture bloomed on the flat-screen panel across the room. Soraya saw herself in M. Sigismond’s office as she rose from the sofa and almost staggered. Her eyes followed herself as she crossed to M. Sigismond’s desk and began her clandestine work.

“I wonder,” El-Arian said, “what you were looking for?”

His hand clamped her wrist in an iron grip and did not let go.

Ivan Volkin was your friend for, what? Thirty years?”

“Longer,” Boris said.

Cherkesov nodded. “And when the time was right, he sold you out.” Some color had returned to his face, and though he was still kneeling, he was breathing more easily. “That’s the way it is in our world. There’s room for comradeship and alliances, but not loyalty. In our world loyalty is too costly. It’s not worth the price.” He tried to shift to get the pressure off his skinned knees. “You think it’s any different with Jason Bourne? The man’s a natural-born killer. What does he know about friendship.”

“More than you.”

“Which is nothing.” Cherkesov shook his head. “I never had a friend in my life—not the way you figure it, anyway. How could I? It would leave me in a vulnerable position.”

Boris turned the knife point slightly. “What the fuck do you call this?”

Cherkesov licked his lips. When he spoke, he words tumbled out, faster and faster. “Don’t you understand what a favor I’ve done you? I’ve given you the opportunity to kill Bourne before he has a chance to betray you the way your friend of over thirty years, Ivan Volkin, has.” Some words seemed to catch in his throat and he coughed, his eyes tearing with the effort. “Volkin has been advising the Domna ever since his so-called retirement from the grupperovkaworld. In fact, I’ll tell you a secret: It was the Domna that put the idea of retirement into his head. Who knows how much the Domna paid him to come work for them?”

Boris sat back on his heels, considering the implications of what Cherkesov had just said.

Sensing an opening, Cherkesov pressed on. “Listen to me, Boris. I’m of more use to you alive than dead. You and me, we form an alliance. I tell you what the Domna is planning and you use the power of FSB-2 to take Beria and his people down. We can then merge FSB-2 with SVR with you at the head and me advising you. Boris, think of the possibilities of being in charge of clandestine services both inside and outside Russia. The entire world will open up for us!”

“Viktor, you surprise me,” Boris said. “Beneath that thick crust of cynicism, you have a streak of positivity.”

Cherkesov’s fist connected with Karpov’s jaw, knocking him to one side so that the knife pulled away from Cherkesov’s flesh. Cherkesov grabbed for it, splitting a finger open on the edge. Using the spray of blood to blind Boris, he wrenched the knife away and jabbed it hilt-deep into Boris’s belly.

28

BOURNE ROSE AND made his way through the darkened cabin to the first-class galley. He found Rebeka leafing through the latest issue of Der Spiegelas she stood against the stainless-steel counter. She turned when she became aware of him, a smile blooming on her face.

“Good evening, Mr. Childress, what can I get for you?”

“A macchiato, please.”

“Can’t sleep?”

“Bad dreams.”

“Sadly, I know that scenario.” She set aside the magazine. “I’ll bring it to your seat as soon as I’ve brewed it.”

“I’d rather stay here,” he said. “I need to stretch my legs.”

A slight flush ruddied her cheeks just before she turned away. “Of course.” The scent of rose attar lifted off her. “Whatever you fancy.” Her eyes were the color and shape of ripe olives, unexpectedly exotic against her Mediterranean skin and black hair. Like an Egyptian of ancient Alexandria, she had a Roman nose and delicate cheekbones, and stood very tall even in her flats. Perhaps as a child she had studied ballet.

Bourne watched her deftly making the macchiato. “Are you based out of Madrid?”

“Oh, no. Damascus.” She produced a tiny cup, which she placed on the diminutive saucer. “I’ve been living there for the past six years.”

“Do you like it?”

“It’s difficult to make friends.” She shrugged. “But it pays for me to be there. I get a yearly bonus.”

“I haven’t been back to Damascus in some time,” he said truthfully. “I suppose there will be a lot of changes.”

She pulled the espresso and slid it across the counter to him. It had just the right amount of foam. “Yes and no. The modern parts are terribly congested, the traffic is a nightmare, the polluted air stifling, but the Old City is still filled with the gorgeous covered arcades, the leafy squares, and, of course, space around the great mosques.” She frowned. “But there are troubling aspects.”

“The state sponsorship of Hezbollah, for one.”

She nodded, her gaze falling gravely on him. “Also in the last year or so there’s a growing conservative segment of the population that looks favorably on Iran.”

Bourne seized the opening. “So there must be more in the way of security all over the city, starting with the airport.”

Rebeka gave him a rueful smile. “I’m afraid so. The airport, especially. Al-Assad has clamped down at entry points, partly due to pressure from the West.”

“There won’t be any difficulties, will there?”

She laughed softly. “Not for you. Anyway, there’s always a senior security official on hand when passengers deplane to guide you and answer questions.”

Having gotten what he wanted, Bourne threw back his macchiato. Rebeka tore off part of a page from her magazine and wrote on it. As he turned to go, she slid it over to him.

“I’m off for the next three days.” Her warm smile returned. “My number, in case you lose your way.”

Instead of piercing Boris’s flesh, the knife blade retracted into its handle. Laughing, Boris slammed the heel of his hand into Cherkesov’s nose. Blood gouted, the cartilage cracked, and Cherkesov fell onto his backside.

Boris took back the knife. He pressed a hidden button on the handle and the blade popped out. He pressed the button again, locking the blade in place so it would not retract.

He knelt beside Cherkesov. “Now we get to it, Viktor.” He shoved the tip of the blade into Cherkesov’s right nostril. “There are many things, precious to you, I’m sure, you will give up before you tell me what I want to know.”

Cherkesov stared up at him with reddened eyes. “I’ll die first.”

“You’re a liar, kitty cat,” Boris said.

“Huh?” Cherkesov looked up at him.

“You know what happens to liars? No? Wanna guess? No? Okay, they lose their noses.”

With one flick of Boris’s wrist, the blade slit open Cherkesov’s already bloody nose. Cherkesov arched up; Boris shoved him back down with the flat of his hand.

“Let me the fuck up!”

“Forget it, Viktor, it’s Chinatown.”

“Fuck you, you cocksucker. I’m not telling you a thing.”

“It’s not a question of pain, Viktor, but you already knew that.” Boris wiped the blade on Cherkesov’s trouser leg. “It’s a question of what you can tolerate living without.” He smiled, almost benignly. “Not to worry, I won’t let you die. There’s no escape.” The knife blade made a circuit of Cherkesov’s face. “I mean what I say; I’m an expert, and I have all night long.”

Hendricks was in his office, poring over the file of the three men found dead in Room 916 of the Lincoln Square Hotel. None of them was a guest, none had any identification on him. Their fingerprints had yielded nothing, and now their dental records were being sought, though this would probably be a dead end as well. According to the FBI, who had taken over the case from Metro Homicide, the dental work was definitely not American. Eastern European was the best they could do at the moment, but that covered a lot of territory.

Hendricks paused to drink some ice water.

The one strange thing about all of the victims was the suicide pill—the hollow tooth that contained liquid hydrogen cyanide, an old NKVD marker. Were these men Russians and, if so, what the hell were they doing in Room 916 of the Lincoln Square Hotel?

Hendricks turned the page. Room 916 was on a long-term lease through ServicesSolutions, a company with phantom headquarters in the Caymans. Hendricks had no doubt that ServicesSolutions was a shell corporation for God alone knew who. He rubbed his forehead. Whoever owned ServicesSolutions had some very nasty enemies. He called a colleague in Treasury, gave him what info he had on ServicesSolutions, and asked him to find out who actually owned it. Then he called the head of the task force he had assigned to find Peter Marks. Following the bombing of Peter’s car in the Treadstone garage, the whole building was in lockdown. Everyone who worked or had recently worked in the building was being run down and questioned, but nothing so far. Hendricks had been extremely relieved to learn that no human remains had been found in the car. On the other hand, this concerned him, given Sal’s testimony that he and Peter had been in the same elevator minutes before the explosion. The night watchman had exited at the lobby level, but he was certain Peter had continued down to the garage. So chances were good that Peter was in the garage when the car bomb was detonated, but had not been in the vehicle. What had happened; where was he? Had he gone to ground? That would be a reasonable assumption.

Hendricks rose and crossed the office to fetch more ice for his water pitcher. He stopped stock-still as something occurred to him. What if Peter had been injured? Back at his desk, he asked one of his assistants to call around to every hospital in the Greater DC area, starting with the ones closest to the Treadstone building. Then, as another thought occurred to him, he ordered the assistant to include all EMS and private ambulance services.

“Put every available person on it,” he concluded.

He sat back, swiveled his chair around, and stared out the window. It was a dreary, windswept day. Beads of rain slid down the panes of glass, and, beyond, on the street, people in shiny raincoats were hunched over, umbrellas trembling like leaves, as they slogged their way to and from work.

At the sound of his intercom, he turned back.

“What?” His mind was buzzing with a thousand possibilities.

“Package just arrived for you, sir. It’s been vetted by security.”

“What’s in it?”

“A DVD, sir.”

Hendricks frowned. “Bring it in.”

A moment later, one of his assistants placed the DVD on his desk. Hendricks looked up. “That’s it? No note?”

“Nothing, sir. But it was addressed to you and was stamped PERSONAL AND CONFIDENTIAL.”

Hendricks waved the assistant out, put the DVD aside, and returned to the case of the three dead men in Room 916. He studied the crime scene photos of their faces and bodies, noting that there were no tattoos, which ruled out the Russian mob. So who were these jamokes? They were armed, but that could mean anything. It certainly gave no clue as to their country of origin, let alone their affiliation. The FBI had concluded, however, that they constituted a hit team. Did that mean the team’s target was more than one person? And where was he/she/they now? He turned another page. The FBI had questioned everyone who worked in the hotel, as well as all the guests on the ninth floor. No one had seen or heard anything. Possibly someone was lying, but the FBI report stated its operatives didn’t think so. That left the other possibility: Whoever had been in that room knew how to get into and out of a public building without being spotted. All of this was interesting speculation, but Hendricks couldn’t see how it would help them find out who these people were and who their target was. It was imperative that he find the answers to those questions ASAP. The threat of terrorism overhung them all.

He needed something to make his day. He called a contact of his at CI.

“How are the plans proceeding with security at Indigo Ridge?”

“The place is in a fucking uproar.” The disgust in his voice was evident. “This isn’t our thing and no one knows how best to go about it.” He took a breath. “We sure could use your help, Mr. Secretary.”

“You want help, talk to Director Danziger,” Hendricks said with a poisoned glee. “That’s why he gets to sit in the big chair.”

His contact chuckled. “You’re killing us, Mr. Secretary.”

“Not me.”

“By the way, there’s a minor buzz around here concerning your new co-director of Treadstone, Peter Marks.”

Hendricks caught his breath. “What about him?”

“Word is he’s missing.”

Hendricks said nothing.

“Peter still has a lot of friends here, Mr. Secretary. If there’s anything we can do.”

“Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind,” Hendricks said before he disconnected.

He thought about how right Maggie had been in suggesting this course of action with Danziger. Phoning his Indigo Ridge security group, he told them they were back on standby. He could allow Danziger’s fucking up to go only so far. Indigo Ridge needed to be secured.

But his pleasure at the prospect of riding to the rescue was short-lived, what with an attempt on Peter’s life, Peter missing, and the FBI material on the triple homicide at the Lincoln Square Hotel staring him in the face. Then his phone rang.

“No luck with any of the hospitals,” his assistant said, “and we went all the way out to Virginia and Maryland. Same with EMS.”

Hendricks closed his eyes. A headache was starting way back behind his left eye. “Have you any good news?”

“Well, that depends. One of the private ambulance companies reported a stolen vehicle not long ago.”

“Has it been found?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, dammit, find the fucking thing!”

He slammed down the phone so hard the DVD jumped off the desk. He looked at it, then picked it up, watching the rainbow rise and fall on its metallic surface. Opening the tray on his computer tower, he settled the DVD and slid the tray home. He heard the mechanism spinning up, then his video software program appeared full-screen and the DVD began to play. Out of the black screen, Maggie’s face appeared like a vision from a nighttime mist.

Christopher, by the time you see this I will be long gone. Please don’t try to contact me.”

She paused, as if knowing Hendricks had reached for his cell phone, which he had. He felt his fingers tremble with the slender weight of it, as if he were touching the nape of her neck.

“My name isn’t Margaret Penrod and my profession isn’t landscape architecture. Almost nothing I told you is true, though the truth began to leak out despite myself.”

Her eyes glittered, and even though Hendricks felt a fiery demon clawing at the lining of his gut, he was powerless to look away from her image, which shimmered like sunlight on water on the flat screen of his computer.

“You must hate me now, which I suppose is inevitable. But before you judge me, you must understand something.”

Her expression changed, and Hendricks sensed that she was reaching out for something—a remote control, as it turned out. The frame drew back from her face to reveal her naked body. It was covered in blood.

Hendricks hunched forward on the edge of his chair. “Maggie, what the fuck?” Then he realized that the woman he was looking at, the woman to whom he’d made love, had possibly given his heart to, wasn’t Maggie. “Who are you?” he whispered.

The lens moved back farther until Hendricks could see that she was standing in a hotel room. At that instant, he was overcome with what might have been a hot flash. He felt his gorge rising. And rising more, as the video camera moved lower and panned the floor behind his naked lover.

And there they were. Hendricks let out a low groan. The three members of the death squad, all dead. At his lover’s hand? His mind seemed to implode. How was that possible? As if to answer his question, Maggie continued:

“These men were sent to kill me because I protected you. And now I have to leave Room Nine Sixteen, leave DC, leave America. I’m on my final journey.” The camera returned to her, zeroing in on her face. “I was supposed to bring you here, Christopher. Room Nine Sixteen was to be our secret love nest where our every move, every word we exchanged would be recorded and then disseminated to the media. To ruin you. I couldn’t let that happen. And now instead of a love nest, Room Nine Sixteen has become a charnel house. Perhaps that’s a fitting end for the two of us, I don’t know anymore.” Her face was obscured for a few seconds as she brushed wisps of hair from her eyes. “The only thing I do know is that you’re too precious to me to hurt. If I don’t go now you will be in terrible danger.”

Her smile was rueful, almost sad. “I won’t say that I love you because it will only sound hollow and false to your ears. It sounds fatuous, stupid, even. How could I love you when we have known each other a matter of days? How could I love you when all I’ve done is lie to you? How is it that the earth is the third planet from the sun? No one knows; no one canknow. Some things just are, sunk in their mystery.”

Hendricks, scrutinizing her face through the squeezing of his heart, saw that she didn’t blink, her eyes didn’t cut away, two basic tells of the liar. She wasn’t lying, or she was very, very good, better than any liar he had ever met. He looked into those eyes and was lost.

“Apart from my father, I have never loved anyone before you, and my love for him is very different than it is for you. Something happened when we met, a mysterious current went through me and changed me. There is no better way to explain it. That’s all I know.”

She leaned forward suddenly, her face blurring as she planted her lips on the lens. “My name is Skara. Good-bye, Christopher. If you can’t forgive me, then remember me. Remember me when you are protecting Indigo Ridge.”

A smear of colors, a vertiginous blur of motion as she pushed the lens aside. Then Hendricks was faced with blackness, the fizzing of the electronic void, and the painful galloping of his heart.

Dawn had broken and so had Cherkesov. Boris had done as much damage as he needed to do. Cherkesov, it turned out, was deathly afraid of going blind. A swipe of the knife blade just under his right eye had been enough for the resistance to bleed out of him. He handed over what he had been bringing from the Mosque in Munich to Damascus.

“It’s a key,” he told Boris, through thickened, bloodstained lips.

“What does it open?”

“Only Semid Abdul-Qahhar knows.”

Boris frowned. “Didn’t Semid Abdul-Qahhar give you the key to bring here?”

“Semid Abdul-Qahhar is here, not in Munich. I was to deliver the key to him in person.”

“How?” Boris said. “Where?”

“He maintains a residence.” Cherkesov’s lips quivered in the parody of a smile. “You’ll like this, Boris Illyich. His residence is in the Old City, in the former Jewish Quarter, in the last remaining synagogue still standing. It had been abandoned for years, ever since the Syrian Jews fled to America.”

“So Semid Abdul-Qahhar took it over, figuring his enemies would never think to look for him there.”

Cherkesov nodded, and groaned. “I need to lie down. I need to sleep.”

“Not yet.” Boris grabbed him by his sodden shirtfront as he was leaning back. “Tell me the time of the rendezvous and the protocol.”

A thin line of pink spittle exited the corner of Cherkesov’s mouth. “He’s expecting me. You’ll never have a chance.”

“Leave that to me,” Boris said.

Cherkesov began to laugh until he coughed up blood. Then he looked up at Boris. “Look at me. Look what you’ve done.”

“It’s a sad day for you, Viktor. I agree, but I can’t sympathize.” Boris shook his former boss until his teeth chattered. “Now, fucker, tell me the details, and you can cry yourself to sleep.”

Soraya stood perfectly still. El-Arian’s touch was toxic, as if he had somehow exposed her to polonium-210 and now she was rotting from the inside out, weak and defenseless.

“Who are you, mademoiselle?”

Soraya said nothing and stared straight ahead. The pounding in her head made it difficult to gather her defenses.

“It seems that we’re a mystery to each other, M. El-Arian.”

He wrenched at her wrists and she gasped. “Enemies by whatever names we call ourselves.”

“Did Marchand order Laurent’s death, or did you?”

“Marchand was a bureaucrat.” El-Arian’s voice was like the scrape of sandpaper. “His mind was fixed on petty things. He lacked the vision to conceive of the traitor’s death.”

She looked at him, then, a terrible mistake. She was riveted, paralyzed. Never before had she believed in the concepts of Good and Evil, but his mesmeric eyes struck her as windows into an unbearable evil.

She grabbed the paperweight and smashed it into El-Arian’s temple. He relinquished his hold on her as he staggered back into the chair. It spun away from him on its casters and he pitched down onto the floor. Soraya turned and ran out of the office, down the hall. She heard a discreet alarm sound—El-Arian must have pressed a panic button. A security guard appeared, pulling a sidearm from a black leather holster. Rushing him, she smashed her elbow into his throat, and he went down. She bent to take his weapon, but he grabbed her and she had to kick him in the face to free herself. She passed up the elevator; it would be a death trap. Racing down the hallway, past open doors and startled faces, she reached the top of one of the staircases leading down to the ground floor. Behind her, she heard El-Arian cursing her.

She took the stairs two at a time, stumbling a bit because of the incessant pounding in her head, but managed to hold herself upright with one hand clutching the polished wooden banister. But she was less than halfway down when a pair of security guards converged from either side of the ground floor and rushed the stairs. Both men had their service revolvers out.

Soraya turned back, but El-Arian fairly flew down the stairs. He had a gun in his hand. He reached out and, as she tried to dive away from him, snatched her into his grasp.