the corner sidewalk, backing a clutch of pedestrians into those behind them, to a round of
curses. The Toyota, horn blaring angrily, just missed him as it jounced across M Street.
Bourne was able to make good headway, as the GMC had been slowed by the sludgy
traffic up ahead, splitting off where M Street and Pennsylvania Avenue, NW, intersected
at 29th Street. Just as he neared the light he saw the GMC take off and knew he had been
spotted. The problem with a bicycle, especially one that had caused a minor uproar
lunging through a red light, was that the cyclist became conspicuous, exactly the opposite
of what was intended.
Making the best of a worsening situation, Bourne threw caution to the wind, following
the accelerating GMC into the fork as it took Pennsylvania Avenue. The good news was
that the congestion prevented the GMC from keeping up speed. More good news:
Another red light loomed. This time Bourne was ready for the GMC to plow right
through. Swerving in and out between vehicles, he put on another burst of speed, running
the red light with the big SUV. But just as he was coming abreast of the far crosswalk, a
gaggle of drunk teenagers stumbled off the curb on their way across the avenue. They
closed off the lane behind the GMC and were so raucous they either didn’t hear Bourne’s
warning shout or didn’t care. He was forced to swerve sharply to the right. His front tire
struck the curb, the bike lifted up. People scattered out of its way as it became, in effect, a missile. Bourne was able to keep it going after it landed, but there was simply nowhere
for him to steer it without plowing into another group of kids. He applied the brakes
without enough effect. Leaning to the right, he forced the bike down on its side, ripping
his right trouser leg as it skidded along the cement.
“Are you all right?”
“What were you trying to do?”
“Didn’t you see the red light?”
“You could have killed yourself-or someone else!”
A welter of voices as pedestrians surrounded him, trying to help him out from under
the bicycle. Bourne thanked them as he scrambled to his feet. He ran several hundred
yards down the avenue, but as he feared the GMC was long gone.
Expelling a string of bawdily colorful curses, Arkadin rummaged through the pockets
of Oleg Ivanovich Shumenko, who lay twitching in the bloodstained catwalk deep inside
the Sevastopol Winery. As he did so, he wondered how he could have been such a fool.
He’d done precisely what Shumenko had wanted him to do, which was to kill him. He’d
rather have died than divulge the name of the next man in Pyotr Zilber’s network.
Still, there was a chance that something he had on his person would lead Arkadin
farther along. Arkadin had already made a small pile of coins, bills, toothpicks, and the
like. He unfolded each scrap of paper he came across, but none of them contained either a
name or an address, just lists of chemicals, presumably those the winery required for
fermentation or the periodic cleaning of its vats.
Shumenko’s wallet was a sad affair-sliver-thin, containing a faded photo of an older
couple smiling into the sun and the camera Arkadin took to be Shumenko’s parents, a
condom in a worn foil pouch, a driver’s license, car registration, ID badge for a sailing
club, an IOU chit for ten thousand hryvnia-just under two thousand American dollars-two
receipts, one for a restaurant, the other for a nightclub, an old photo of a young girl
smiling into the camera.
In pocketing the receipts, the only reasonable leads he’d found, he inadvertently
flipped over the IOU. On the reverse was the name DEVRA, written in a sharp, spiky
feminine hand. Arkadin wanted to look for more, but he heard an electronic squawk, then
the bawl of Yetnikova’s voice. He looked around, saw an old-fashioned walkie-talkie
hanging by its strap from the railing. Stuffing the papers into his pocket, he hurried along the catwalk, slid down the ladder, made his way out of the champagne fermentation
room.
Shumenko’s boss, Yetnikova, marched toward him down the labyrinthine corridors as
if she were in the forefront of the Red Army entering Warsaw. Even at this distance, he
could see the scowl on her face. Unlike his Russian credentials, his Ukrainian ones were
paper-thin. They’d pass a cursory test, but after any kind of checking he’d be busted.
“I called the SBU office in Kiev. They did some digging on you, Colonel.”
Yetnikova’s voice had turned from servile to hostile. “Or whoever you are.” She puffed
herself up like a porcupine about to do battle. “They never heard of-”
She gave a little squeak as he jammed one hand over her mouth while he punched her
hard in the solar plexus. She collapsed into his arms like a rag doll, and he dragged her
along the corridor until he came to the utility closet. Opening the door, he shoved her in, went in after her.
Sprawled on the floor, Yetnikova slowly came to her senses. Immediately she began
her bluster-cursing and promising dire consequences for the outrages perpetrated on her
person. Arkadin didn’t hear her; he didn’t even see her. He attempted to block out the
past, but as always the memories flattened him. They took possession of him, taking him
out of himself, producing like a drug a dream-like state that over the years had become as
familiar as a twin brother.
Kneeling over Yetnikova, he dodged her kicks, the snapping of her jaws. He withdrew
a switchblade from a sheath strapped to the side of his right calf. When he snikked open
its long, thin blade, fear finally twisted Yetnikova’s face. Her eyes opened wide and she
gasped, raising her hands instinctively.
“Why are you doing this?” she cried. “Why?”
“Because of what you’ve done.”
“What? What did I do? I don’t even know you!”
“But I know you.” Slapping her hands aside, Arkadin went to work on her.
When, moments later, he was done, his vision came back into focus. He took a long,
shuddering breath as if shaking off the effects of an anesthetic. He stared down at the
headless corpse. Then, remembering, he kicked the head into a corner filled with filthy
rags. For a moment, it rocked like a ship on the ocean. The eyes seemed to him gray with
age, but they were only filmed with dust, and the release he sought eluded him once
again.
Who were they?” Moira asked.
“That’s the difficulty,” Bourne told her. “I wasn’t able to find out. It would help if you
could tell me why they’re following you.”
Moira frowned. “I have to assume it has something to do with the security on the LNG
terminal.”
They were sitting side by side in Moira’s living room, a small, cozy space in a
Georgetown town house of red-brown brick on Cambridge Place, NW, near Dumbarton
Oaks. A fire was crackling and licking in the brick hearth; espresso and brandy sat on the
coffee table in front of them. The chenille-covered sofa was deep enough for Moira to
curl up on. It had big roll arms and a neck-high back.
“One thing I can tell you,” Bourne said, “these people are professionals.”
“Makes sense,” she said. “Any rival of my firm would hire the best people available.
That doesn’t necessarily mean I’m in any danger.”
Nevertheless, Bourne felt another sharp pang at the loss of Marie, then carefully,
almost reverently, put the feeling aside.
“More espresso?” Moira asked.
“Please.”
Bourne handed her his cup. As she bent forward, the light V-neck sweater revealed the
tops of her firm breasts. At that moment, she raised her gaze to his. There was a
mischievous glint in her eyes.