“You’d turn back time and save Tracy.”
“If I could. But unlike what the screenwriters allowed Superman to do in the film, if I couldn’t, well, at least… at least I’d understand what the bloody hell to do with this grief.” She tried to take a deep breath but succeeded only in choking on her tears. “I feel weighed down, as if I have an anchor tied to my back, or Tracy’s body, cold and stiff and… never moving ever again.”
“That feeling will pass,” Bourne said.
“Yes, I suppose it will, but what if I don’t want it to?”
“Do you want to follow her down into darkness? What about Scarlett, what will happen to her then?”
Chrissie got red in the face and jumped up. Bourne followed her as she stalked into the bedroom, where he found her staring out the French doors at the pear tree, flooded now in silvery moonlight. “Bloody hell, Trace, why are you gone? If she were here now I swear I’d wring her neck.”
“Or at least make her promise to have nothing more to do with Arkadin.”
Bourne hoped injecting Arkadin’s name back into the conversation would lead her back to a memory she might have overlooked. He sensed they might be at a crucial juncture. He had no intention of leaving, as long as she didn’t throw him out. He didn’t think she would, he was her only link with her sister now, he’d been there when Tracy had died. That meant the world to her, he sensed that it brought the two of them closer, made Tracy’s sudden death a bit more bearable.
“Chrissie,” he said gently, “did she ever tell you how she met him?”
She shook her head, then said, “Maybe in Russia. Saint Petersburg? She’d gone there to have a look at the Hermitage. I remember because I was all set to go with her when Scarlett came down with an ear infection, high fever, disorientation, the works.” She shook her head. “God, what different lives the two of us have led! And now… now it’s come to this. Scarlett will be devastated.”
Then she frowned. “Why did you come here, Adam?”
“Because I wanted something to remind me of her, because I had nowhere else to go.” He realized, a bit belatedly, that it was the truth, or at least as much of it as he was prepared to share with her.
“I didn’t, either,” she said with a sigh. “Scarlett was visiting my folks when the call came. She was having a grand time, still is, judging by our last texts.” Her eyes were on him, but again her attention was fixed somewhere else. “Of course you can have a look around, take whatever keepsake you want.”
“I appreciate that.”
She nodded absently, then turned back to her contemplation of the mews and its budding pear tree. A moment later she gave a tiny gasp. “There they are!”
Bourne rose and joined her at the window.
“They’ve returned,” he said. “The house martins.”
Arkadin woke at dawn, climbed into swim shorts, and went out for a run in the surf. The sky was filled with cormorants and pelicans. Greedy gulls walked along the sand, plucking at the remnants of last night’s drunken parties. He ran south until he reached the outskirts of one of the big resort clubs, then turned around. After that he plunged into the water and swam for forty minutes. When he returned to the convent there were more than twenty messages waiting for him on his cell phone. One was from Boris Karpov. He showered and dressed, then chopped up fresh fruit. Pineapple, papaya, bananas, oranges. He ate the sweet chunks with a large dollop of yogurt. Ironically, he was learning to eat healthily in Mexico.
Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he took up his phone and made his first call. He was informed that the most recent shipment from Gustavo Moreno’s pipeline had not reached the client. It had been delayed, or possibly it had gone missing. At the moment, he was told, it was impossible to say. He ordered his man to keep him informed, then disconnected.
Reflecting that he’d have to deal with the missing shipment himself and, if warranted, dole out harsh punishments, he punched in Karpov’s number.
“I’m in LAX,” Boris Karpov said in his ear. “Now what?”
“Now we meet face-to-face,” Arkadin said. “There’s a late-morning flight to Tucson. Call ahead, order a rental car-a two-seater convertible, the older and more battered the better.” He gave Karpov instructions and driving directions. “Approach with the top down. Be prepared to wait at the rendezvous point for an hour, maybe more, until I determine that you have fulfilled all the terms of our meet. Is that clear?”
“I’ll be there,” Karpov said, “before sundown.”
Bourne was still up, listening to the sounds of the flat, the building, the neighborhood, listening to London itself inhale and exhale as if it were a great beast. He turned his head when Chrissie appeared in the living room. An hour before, close to four, she had gone into the bedroom, but by the bedside lamp and the dry rustle of pages turning, he’d known she hadn’t fallen asleep. Possibly she hadn’t even tried.
“Haven’t you gone to sleep yet?” Her voice was soft, almost burred, as if, in fact, she had just woken up.
“No.” He was sitting back on the sofa, his mind still and dark as the bottom of the sea. But sleep hadn’t come. Once, he thought he’d heard her sigh, but it was only the city breathing.
She came and sat down at the other corner of the sofa, tucked her legs under her. “I’d like to be in here, if it’s all right.”
He nodded.
“You haven’t told me anything about yourself.”
Bourne said nothing; he didn’t feel inclined to lie to her.
Outside a car passed, then another. A dog barked in the silence. The city seemed stilled, as if frozen in ice, not even its heart beating.
The ghost of a smile played across her wide lips. “Just like Trace.”
After a time, her eyelids grew heavy. She curled up like a cat with her head on her arms. Now she did sigh and, within moments, was fast asleep. A short time later, so was he.
You must be insane,” Soraya Moore said. “I’m not going to seduce Arkadin for you, Willard, or anyone else.”
“I understand your concern,” Marks said. “But-”
“No, Peter, I don’t think you do. I really and truly don’t. Otherwise there would be no but.”
She got up and walked to the railing. They had been sitting on a bench down by the canal in Georgetown. Lights glittered and boats lay still and sleeping in their berths. Behind them, young people strolled by, drinking and nuzzling. Occasional bursts of laughter erupted from a scrum of teenagers some distance away who appeared to be texting one another. The night was blessedly mild with just a hint of clouds scudding across the filthy-looking sky.
Marks rose and followed her. He sighed, as if he were the aggrieved party, which further antagonized her.
“Why is it,” she said hotly, “that women are so devalued, men only use them for their bodies.”
It wasn’t a question and Marks knew it. He suspected that a good deal of her anger stemmed from the fact that it was him-a good and trusted friend-asking this of her. And of course that had been Willard’s scheme. He knew this assignment would be offensive to Soraya, more so than, perhaps, to other women who had a less positive self-image; he knew that Marks was the only person who would be able to sell it to her. Indeed, Marks was quite certain that if Willard had given her this assignment directly she would have told him to go fuck himself and left without a backward glance. And yet, as Willard must have foreseen, here she was. Though visibly fuming, she hadn’t told him to fuck off.
“For centuries, as women were systematically held down by men, they devised their own unique ways to get what they wanted: money, power, a decision-making position in a male-dominated society.”