She took it from him, examined it expertly, broke it down, then put it back together.
“Fucking ingenious.” Arkadin seemed in no hurry to take back the FMG. He seemed to be watching her, but, in fact, he was seeing something else, a scene from far away.
In St. Petersburg he’d taken Tracy to her hotel room. She had not asked him to come up, but she hadn’t protested when he had. Inside, she put her handbag and key down on a table, walked across the carpet and into the bathroom. She closed the door but he didn’t hear the click of a lock.
The river glittered in moonlight, black and thick and full of secrets, like an ancient serpent, always half asleep. It was stuffy in the room, so he went to the window and, unlatching it, opened it. A wind, thick as the river and smelling of it, swirled about the room. He turned, looked at the bed, and imagined Tracy there, her nakedness revealed by the moonlight.
A tiny sound, like a sigh or a catch in the throat, caused him to turn around. The bathroom door, unlatched, had opened, and now another swirl of wind pushed it farther, so that a thin wedge of buttery light fell across the carpet. He entered the wedge of light, and his gaze penetrated into the bathroom. He saw Tracy’s back, or rather a slice of it, pale and unblemished. Lower was the swell of her buttocks and the deep crease between. The pulse of pleasure in his groin was so extreme it bordered on pain. There was that thing about her-his hatred and his dependence-that made him weak. He despised himself, but he could not help moving toward the door and pushing it farther open.
The door, old and peeling, creaked, and Tracy peered at him over her shoulder. Her body was revealed to him in all its glory. She looked at him with a pity and loathing that brought an animal sound to his lips. Hurriedly, he pulled the door shut. When she emerged, he could not look at her. He heard her cross the room and close the window.
“Where were you brought up?” she said.
It was not a question, but a slap in the face. He could not answer her, and for that-for many things-he burned to kill her, to feel the cartilage in her throat rupture beneath the pressure of his fingers, to feel her blood running hotly in his hands. Yet he was bound to her, as she was bound to him. They were locked in hateful orbit, with no possibility of escape.
But Tracy did escape, he thought now, into death. He missed her, hated himself for missing her. She was the only woman who had refused him. Up until now, that is. As his eyes refocused on Soraya folding up the FMG, he felt a premonitory shiver run through him. For a moment, he saw her skull, and she looked like death. Then everything snapped back into focus and he could breathe again.
Unlike Tracy, her skin was burnished a golden bronze. Like Tracy, she had revealed herself to him when she stripped off the T-shirt he had loaned her to use as a tourniquet for Moira’s thigh. She had heavy breasts, the nipples dark and erect. He could see them now, beneath her top, see them as clearly as if she were still half naked.
“It’s because you can’t have me,” Soraya said as if reading his mind.
“On the contrary, I could have you right now.”
“Rape me, you mean.”
“Yes.”
“If you were going to,” she said, turning her back on him, “you would have already.”
He came up behind her and said, “Don’t tempt me.”
She whirled around. “Your rage is toward men, not women.”
He glared at her, unmoving.
“You get off on killing men and seducing women. But rape? You’d no more consider raping a woman than I would.”
His mind raced back to his hometown of Nizhny Tagil, where he had briefly become a member of Stas Kuzin’s gang, rounding up girls off the streets to stock Kuzin’s savage brothel. Night after night he’d heard the girls’ screams and cries as they were raped and beaten. In the end, he’d killed Kuzin and half his gang.
“Rape is for animals,” he said in a thick voice. “I’m not an animal.”
“That’s your life: the struggle to be a man, not an animal.”
He looked away.
“Did Treadstone do this to you?”
He laughed. “Treadstone was the least of it. It was everything that happened before, everything I try to forget.”
“Curious. For Bourne it’s just the opposite. His struggle is to remember.”
“He’s lucky, then,” Arkadin snarled.
“It’s a great pity you’re enemies.”
“God made us enemies.” Arkadin took the weapon from her. “A god named Alexander Conklin.”
Do you know how to die, Bourne?” Tanirt whispered.
“You were born on Siwa’s day: the last day of the month, which is both the ending and the beginning. Do you understand? You are destined to die and be born again.” This was what Suparwita had told him only days ago in Bali.
“I’ve died once,” he said, “and was reborn.”
“Flesh, flesh, only flesh,” she muttered. And then: “This is different.”
Tanirt said this with a force he felt through every fiber of his being. He leaned toward her, the promise of her thighs and her breasts drawing him into her orbit.
He shook his head. “I don’t understand.”
Her hands gripped him, pulling him even closer. “There is only one way to explain.” She turned and led him back into the sweets shop. In the far corner she pushed several fragrant bales out of the way, revealing a wooden staircase, full of dust and crystals of palm sugar. They ascended to an upper floor that was, or until recently had been, someone’s living quarters. The owner’s daughter, judging by the posters of film and rock stars on the walls. It was brighter up here, the windows bringing in blinding sunlight. But it was also as hot as a fever. Tanirt appeared unaffected.
In the center of the floor she turned to him. “Tell me, Bourne, what do you believe in?”
He did not answer.
“The hand of God, fate, destiny? Any of those things?”
“I believe in free will,” he said at last, “in the ability to make one’s own choices without interference, either by organizations or by fate, whatever you want to call it.”
“In other words, you believe in chaos, because man doesn’t control anything in this universe.”
“That would mean I’m helpless. I’m not.”
“So neither Law nor Chaos.” She smiled. “Yours is a special path, the path between, where no one before you has gone.”
“I’m not sure I’d put it that way.”
“Of course you wouldn’t. You’re not a philosopher. How would you put it?”
“Where is this going?” he said.
“Always the soldier, the impatient soldier,” Tanirt said. “Death. It’s going toward the nature of your death.”
“Death is the end of life,” Bourne said. “What else is there to know about its nature?”
She went to one of the windows and opened it. “Tell me, please, how many of the enemy can you see?”
Bourne stood beside her, feeling her intense warmth as if she were an engine that had been running at speed for a long time. From this lofty vantage point, he could see a fair number of streets and observe their occupants.
“Somewhere between three and nine. It’s difficult to be precise,” he said after several minutes. “Which one will kill me?”
“None of them.”
“Then it will be Arkadin.”
Tanirt cocked her head. “This man Arkadin will be the herald, but he won’t be the one who kills you.”
Bourne turned to her. “Then who?”
“Bourne, do you know who you are?”
He had been with her long enough to know that he wasn’t expected to answer.
“Something happened to you,” Tanirt said. “You were one person, now you’re two.”
She put the flat of her hand on his chest and his heart seemed to skip a beat-or, more accurately, to race past it. He gave a little gasp.
“These two people are incompatible-in every way incompatible. Therefore, there is a war inside you, a war that will lead to your death.”