Back in the day, Tyrone had worked for Deron, a tall, handsome black man with a British education and cultured accent that stood him in good stead with his international clientele of shady art dealers trafficking in Deron’s magnificent forgeries. Deron also created all of Jason Bourne’s forged documents, and some of his weapons as well. It was because of Bourne’s friend Soraya Moore that Tyrone had decided to heed Deron’s advice, leave the hood behind, apply himself, and train for work at CI. He’d never worked harder in his life, but the rewards had been many and worth it.

“What the bloody hell happened?” Deron said, as he helped Tyrone carry Peter into the house.

“Fucking meat grinder is what happened.”

Peter seemed delirious, rambling incoherently about making calls, dire warnings, pieces of a puzzle.

“Any idea what he’s on about?” Deron asked.

Tyrone shook his head. “Shit, no. All he was goin’ on about on the way over was I shouldn’t take him to a hospital.”

“Hmm, Jason wouldn’t want that, either.”

Tyrone helped his former mentor lay Peter on the sofa.

“Details,” Deron said.

Tyrone recounted the scene with the ambulance, the men shot, the driver beating up on Peter. “I brought him right over here,” he concluded, handing over the Glock he’d snatched up from the gutter before helping Peter onto his motorcycle.

“I hope you didn’t handle it too much.”

“Little as I could,” Tyrone said.

Deron nodded, clearly pleased. After carefully putting the gun into a plastic bag, he surveyed the battleground of Peter’s body. “You know him?”

“Yeah. He Soraya’s pal, Peter Marks. Used to work with her at Typhon before she was canned.”

Deron went to fetch his extensive first-aid kit. Peter was still softly raving. “Call him, tell him…”

Tyrone bent over him. “Who, Peter? Who do you want to call?”

Peter just thrashed, mumbled words tumbling from his bloodstained lips.

“Hold him down so he doesn’t hurt himself,” Deron said.

“This here Peter left CI,” Tyrone went on. “Don’t know what he been up to since then, but seeing him like this, it sure as fuck can’t be healthy.”

Deron returned, knelt down beside Marks, and opened the case. “Son, you have got to work on your King’s English.”

“Say what?”

Deron gave a short laugh. “Never mind. We’ll work on your pronunciation later.” He administered a shot into Peter’s arm.

“No, no!” Peter cried, his eyes not quite focused. “Must call, must tell him…” But then the anesthetic took him and, calmed, he slipped into unconsciousness.

Deron pulled apart Peter’s shirt, sticky with blood. Peter’s chest was studded with glass and metal shards, a miniature graveyard. “Right now, Tyrone, let’s you and me make this man right.”

Soraya heard the pounding of feet, and she turned, in a half crouch, ready to defend herself. But it was Amun, sprinting into the feeble light of the staircase.

“Are you all right?” he said from the foot of the stairs.

She nodded, unable for the moment to speak coherently. She was still reeling from Marchand’s second attack on her, and her chest hurt like hell. Marchand had seemed like the quintessential academic; she had never thought him capable of such viciousness, and thereby she had learned an important lesson.

Amun, taking the stairs two steps at a time, said, “That the whoreson, Marchand?”

She nodded again. “Dead.” It was the only word she was capable of uttering.

“It’s over now. They’re all dead down there. What a rotten nest of vipers. We should—”

His head exploded and he pitched forward into her arms. She screamed, staggering backward. He was deadweight. She saw a moving shadow, caught a glimpse of a red polo shirt. The man at the far end of the alley! Then a flash of metal. Another shot clanged off the stair railing, and, with her burden, she somersaulted backward, pitching down into the blackness.

Two shots followed. Then another, loud as a cannon shot.

Then nothing, not even an echo.

Oblivion.

18

“WAIT!” BORIS SAID. “Stop!”

“What?”

Despite the steady rain, Lana Lang was driving very fast down a street that paralleled the Mosque’s west side. The moment they had slewed into the dark, gloomy street, the hairs on the back of Karpov’s hands began to rise and he felt an unpleasant stirring of anxiety in the pit of his stomach.

“Stop!” he shouted. “Back up!”

“What for? We’re almost there.”

Leaning over, he grabbed the gearshift and began to jerk wildly on it.

“What the hell are you doing?” she cried.

“Reversing out of here!”

“Cut it out.” She fought him. “You’re stripping the goddamn gears.”

“Then you do it.” He wouldn’t give up. “Step on the fucking—”

A hail of bullets smashed the windshield, struck Lana Lang in the face, making her dance like a puppet. Boris, ducking down in the foot well, depressed the clutch with one hand and shoved Lana’s foot down on the accelerator with the other.

The car screeched and moaned like a banshee. The drumbeat of rain sounded on the roof as it reversed, scraping along a brick wall. A shrieking commenced as sparking metal was stripped off the car’s passenger’s side. The door started to cave in, slamming into Boris’s right side. He fell across Lana’s lap. Her torso was being held upright by the seat belt across her chest, but there was no life left in her. Blood was everywhere, a fountain of it, a pool, a river running through the careening car.

More bullets, shattering the headlights, shredding the front fenders. Then Karpov had pulled the wheel over and the car straightened out. It shot out of the street like a streak of lightning.

The screech of brakes, the war-like blare of horns, shouts of fear and outrage. The fusillade had stopped and Boris risked looking up above the scarred dashboard. The car sat crosswise, blocking the street. Lana’s corpse was preventing him from getting behind the wheel.

Just then an air horn sounded, deep and braying. He looked in the other direction and saw an enormous refrigeration truck bearing down on him. It was going too fast—in the foul weather he knew the shocked driver wouldn’t be able to stop it in time.

He turned and tried to open the door, but it was so crumpled it was jammed shut. No amount of tugging and hammering was going to open it. And anyway, it was too late. With the roar and squeal of a rabid animal, the truck was on top of him.

We owe you a great debt,” Don Fernando Hererra said. “You did us a great service.”

“And now I’d like my payment,” Bourne said. “I’m not an altruist.”

“Oh, but you’re wrong, Jason.” Don Fernando crossed one elegant leg over the other, opened a beautifully filigreed humidor, offered a robusto to Bourne, who declined. Don Fernando plucked one out and went about the elaborate ritual of cutting and lighting it. “You’re one of the world’s last true altruists.” He puffed, getting the cigar going. “In my opinion, that is what defines you.”

The two men were sitting in Don Fernando’s comfortable living room. Vegas was lying down in one of the bedrooms, Don Fernando having administered a light sedative. As for Rosie, she’d disappeared into one of the guest bathrooms, saying she was in desperate need of a long, hot shower.

That left Bourne and his host, a man whom he had gotten to know first in Seville, where they had matched wits and sparred verbally, and later, more intimately, in London following the violent death of the old man’s son.

“I want half an hour alone with Jalal Essai,” Bourne said.

A smile haloed Don Fernando’s lips. He leaned forward. “More sherry?” He refilled Bourne’s glass, which stood beside a plate of Serrano ham, pink and smoky, and rough-cut chunks of Manchego cheese.

Bourne sat back. “Where is Essai, anyway?”