Boris did not bother to check the body. He knew a dead man when he saw one. Backing out, he went quickly through the shop. He was pounding down the stairs when he heard the high-low wail of police sirens. He continued down as fast as he could, stopping only at the front door to peer through the pane of beveled glass. At least three police cruisers were pulling up in front of the building, cops piling out, drawing their service pistols and heading his way.

Shit, Boris thought, it’s a trap!

He turned and sprinted up the stairs. The window along the staircase was too narrow for him to squeeze through. He kept going.

Behind him, the front door opened, the cops rushing in. He’d had several encounters with the German police and was not anxious to have another.

Shouldering his way back into the watchmaker’s, he darted into the back workshop and tried to fling open the window. It wouldn’t budge. He tried the crusted swing lock, but it was stuck and the sash had been painted over so many times it was almost impossible to make out the seam between window and sill.

He could hear the police stomping up the stairs, calling out to one another as they progressed up toward the second floor. Boris heard the word “Uhrmacher,” and all doubt evaporated as to their destination. Here they came.

He turned and, scrabbling among the late Herr Bolger’s instruments, found what he was looking for, then scored the edges of the glass pane. Knocking it out, he caught it before it fell and smashed into the alley. The police streamed through Bolger’s doorway. Without a second thought, Boris climbed through and, squirming uncomfortably, set the pane back in place.

He found himself on a brick ledge slanted down to keep the rain from seeping into the window. He edged to his right and almost slipped off. He grabbed onto a metal downspout bolted to the wall at intervals with galvanized brackets. The police were in the workshop. They had found the body. A loud commotion ensued. Someone was barking into a walkie-talkie, no doubt calling in the murder. Boris froze, aware that he couldn’t remain here long. Sooner rather than later, someone was going to try to open the window, and then the glass pane he had wedged in would fall out.

Looking to his left, he saw that there was only more ledge all the way to the corner of the building. He took a chance and, grabbing the downspout with both hands, leaned out to see what was beyond it. His heart leapt: He saw an architectural detail—a niche into which he was sure he could wedge himself out of sight.

It was not that far to the ground, but jumping even from this modest height was out of the question. The two galvanized garbage cans below had spiked tops, presumably to keep out the prying paws of rats and the homeless. Besides, at any moment, he expected police to arrive at either end of the alley. In fact, he was surprised they hadn’t already.

Tightening his grip on the downspout, he turned his face in to the building’s facade. Then, leaning his upper body against the downspout, he swung his left leg around the metal tube and onto the ledge on the other side. Now for the tricky part. He had to transfer his weight from his right leg to his left. Doing this left him vulnerable until he was fully across. He was contemplating this when the glass pane he had wedged into its frame exploded outward and fell to shatter on the spiked lids of the garbage cans. He had to move now!

He transferred his weight. He still didn’t have a completely secure foothold with his left leg, so he was obliged to put the bulk of his weight against the downspout. He swung and immediately heard a pop, then another. He looked down. Two of the brackets had popped off from the downspout, which was never meant to hold such weight. The downspout bowed out, and, for a terrifying moment, Boris was certain he was going to plummet straight down onto those wicked-looking spikes. Then he had transferred his weight completely, both feet were on the ledge, and, turning gingerly, he wedged himself safely into the niche. Just in time, too. The police were swarming all over the alley.

12

BOURNE AWOKE BEFORE dawn. Night’s shadows still filled the corners of the living room. Rosie had made up their one upholstered chair with bed linens and a pillow that smelled deeply of pine. For a moment Bourne sat immobile. He had been dreaming of the Nordic disco, of the bright lights, the pounding music, and the woman in the bathroom stall. But instead of pointing a gun at him, it was her finger. Instead of being blond and blue-eyed, she was dark-haired and brown-eyed. She was Rosie. Rosie had opened her mouth to say something to him, something important, he was sure with that certainty that exists only in dreams. Then he had rocketed awake.

Why?

Was it movement? He looked around, but the room was still and serene.

What then?

He rose and stretched his tight muscles. It was when he was moving through the first cycle of exercises he practiced daily that he understood.

The sound of an engine, still far away, had penetrated his sleep, drawing him back to Colombia. Grabbing a sturdy carving knife out of the handmade rack on the kitchen counter, he went outside, shivering in the chill. The rain was gone, but a silvery mist obscured the ground and swirled somnolently through the treetops. In the east, pearl gray was grudgingly giving way to the pallid pink of the moment before sunrise. He saw two battered jeeps behind the house. They looked like World War II issue.

The sound rose into the coming morning.

Bourne cocked his head, listening more closely. And there it was, still faint but unmistakable: thwop-thwop-thwop.

He turned and was about to run inside when Vegas emerged toting a SAM—a Russian Strela-2 shoulder missile launcher with what appeared to be a laser-guided SCS-132 photo optic scope.

Bourne laughed. “You weren’t kidding about being prepared.”

“It’s not just me I have to protect now,” Vegas said. “It’s Rosie.”

They both turned to the north and, breathless moments later, the helicopter appeared through the rising mist. As Vegas rested the missile launcher on his shoulder and peered through the scope, machine-gun fire whistled over their heads.

“Perfect!” Vegas said and squeezed the trigger.

The missile shot off with a boom that echoed through the mountains. The helicopter was still rising over the top of the mist-shrouded ridge when the missile struck it head-on. It burst into a fireball, spewing molten bits of metal and plastic like an erupting volcano.

By that time Bourne and Vegas had taken shelter behind one of the old jeeps.

“You’d better get Rosie,” Bourne said. “We need to get out of here as soon as possible. Are these jeeps gassed up?”

Vegas nodded. “All part of being prepared.”

He’d started to head off to the house when they both again heard the telltale thwop-thwop-thwop!

“I hope you have another missile,” Bourne said.

Vegas sprinted into the house. The second Domna helicopter was rising over the same ridge as the first one, but it abruptly veered off, taking a more indirect route toward the house. The crew inside had obviously seen the fireball; they would be more cautious in their approach.

Vegas returned. “All loaded up!”

Slamming the launcher back onto his shoulder, he peered into the sight. The copter had taken refuge behind a stand of tall pines. Not that it mattered. The laser-guided sight would home in on it even if it dropped from view.

“Here we go!” Vegas cried, and Bourne took a step away from him. He squeezed the trigger.

Nothing happened.

The moment Soraya met Amun Chalthoum at de Gaulle she knew bringing Aaron was a mistake. She and Aaron had driven out prior to their morning meeting with Laurent’s boss at the Monition Club, and the moment Amun had clapped eyes on Aaron it was hate at first sight.