The heavyset man ran thick fingers through the tangle of his beard, which was as black as his eyes.

“You are SVR?” he said in a phlegmy voice. “From Zachek?”

Boris nodded.

“You want to know about Viktor Cherkesov,” the man said. “Why he came here, whom he saw, and what was conveyed.”

“That’s right.”

“This is difficult information to obtain. Furthermore, it puts me in a precarious position.” The heavyset man cleared his throat. “You are prepared to pay.”

Since it wasn’t a question, Boris remained silent.

The man smiled now, revealing a pair of gold incisors. The rest of his teeth looked mossy, and there was an unpleasant odor wafting off him, as if food were rotting in his mouth or stomach. “Let us proceed, then.”

“How much—?”

The man raised a meaty hand. “Ah, no. I have no need of more money. You want information from me; I want the same from you.”

Boris was keeping a clandestine eye on the two men at the walls. They seemed to be interested only in the light filtering through the window. “What sort of information?”

“Do you know a man named Ivan Volkin?”

The question almost took Boris’s breath away. “I’ve heard of him, yes.”

The heavyset man pursed his lips, which were red and full. They looked obscene surrounded by the beard. “This is not what I asked.”

“I’ve met him,” Boris said cautiously.

Something changed in the man’s dark eyes. “Perhaps, then, the information we exchange concerns the same subject.”

Boris spread his hands. “I don’t see how. I want to know why Cherkesov was sent here. I have no interest in Volkin.”

The heavyset man hawked and spat into a small brass bowl at his side. “But you see, it was Volkin whom Cherkesov came here to see.”

Bourne found Kaja, arms wrapped tightly around herself, standing in the loggia. She was watching a nightingale flit through a tree as if trying to find its way back home. He wondered whether Kaja was trying to do the same thing.

She stirred when she heard him but didn’t say a word until the nightingale had settled on a branch and begun its lovely song. By that time, Bourne was standing beside her.

“You don’t seem surprised to see me,” he said.

“I was hoping you’d come. Then it would be just like it is in the movies.”

“You haven’t struck me as the romantic type.”

“No?” She moved beside him, shifting from one hip to the other. “How have I struck you?”

“I think you’re someone who will do anything to get what she wants.”

She sighed. “You think I’ll break Estevan’s heart.”

“He’s a simple man, with simple needs,” Bourne said. “You’re anything but.”

She looked down at her feet. “Suppose you’re right.”

“Then Estevan was a means to an end.”

“For five years I gave him pleasure.”

“Because he believed what you told him.” Bourne turned to her. “Do you think he would have fallen in love with you if he’d known who you really are and what you needed him for?”

“He might have, yes.”

She turned to face him. Moonlight struck her cheeks, but her eyes remained in shadow. Here in Don Fernando’s garlanded loggia, all the ripe lushness of her figure was on display. Bourne had no doubt that she had deliberately positioned herself for maximum sensual effect. She knew very well the powers at her command, and she was unafraid to wield them.

“I don’t want to talk about Estevan anymore.”

“Perhaps, but I need to know—”

She put her hands on either side of his face, her lips close to his. “I want to talk about us.”

And then Bourne understood. He could see the desire burning in her eyes; a desire not for him in the traditional sense. He, like Vegas before him, was a means to an end. All she wanted was to find out the truth about her father. Men could do this, not women, which was why she had turned herself into a serial lover. She attached herself to whichever man she sensed could get her closer to her goal.

“Don Fernando is under the misapprehension that you’re in love with me.”

She frowned. “Misapprehension?”

Then she stepped toward him and kissed him hard on the lips. As she did so, she plastered herself to him. Bourne could feel every hill and valley of her womanly body.

“Don’t,” he said, pushing her away.

She shook her head, her lips slightly parted. “I don’t understand.”

He wondered whether she had tricked herself into believing that she loved him. Was that how she had so successfully deceived Vegas, by deceiving herself?

“You understand perfectly well,” Bourne said.

“You’re wrong.” She shook her head. “Dead wrong.”

Amun!” Soraya cried when she returned to consciousness.

“He’s gone, Soraya.”

Aaron bent over her, his face filled with concern.

“Remember?”

And then she did: the descent into darkness, being nearly strangled to death by Donatien Marchand, Amun running up the stairs, the shots, the blood, and then the fall. Her eyes burned as they welled up and tears spilled out the corners, running down her cheeks, dampening the pillow.

“Where—?”

“You’re in a hospital.”

She turned her head, suddenly aware of the tubes running into her arm.

“I need to see him,” she said.

But when she attempted to rise, Aaron pushed her gently back down.

“And you will, Soraya, I promise you. But not now, not today.”

“I have to.” She became aware that her struggle was for naught; she had no strength. She could not stop crying. Amun dead. She looked up into Aaron’s face.

“Please, Aaron, wake me up.”

“You are awake, Soraya. Thank God.”

“This can’t be happening.” Why was she crying? Her heart seemed to have cracked open. The question of whether her love for Amun was real or not seemed irrelevant now. They had been colleagues, friends, lovers—and now he was gone. She had dealt with loss and death before, but this was on a completely different scale. Dimly, she was aware of her sobbing, and of Aaron holding her, the smell of him mixing with the sickly sweet odors of the hospital. She clung to him. But it was so odd that with Aaron holding her she should have the sense of being alone. Yet she did, and in a sense she felt more alone than she ever had before. Her work was her entire life. Like Jason, she had made little room in it for anyone else—save Amun. And now…

Jason entered her head then. She thought of the losses he had suffered, both professional and personal. She thought mostly of Martin Lindros, the architect of Typhon, her boss, and Jason’s closest friend at the old CI. She had been rocked by Lindros’s death, but how much worse it must have been for Jason. He’d moved heaven and earth to save his friend, only to fail at the very end. Thinking of Jason made her feel less alone, made her feel the oppressiveness of her surroundings, gave her the understanding that she needed to get away, to think, to sort matters out.

“Aaron, you’ve got to get me out of here,” she said with a depth of desperation that startled even herself.

“You have no broken bones, just some bruised ribs. But the doctors are concerned about a concussion—”

“I don’t care,” she cried. “I can’t bear to be in here a moment longer.”

“Soraya, please try to calm down. You’re understandably distraught and—”

She pushed him away, as roughly as she was able. “Stop treating me like a child and listen to what I’m saying, Aaron. Get me the fuck out of here. Now.”

He studied her face for a moment, then nodded. “All right. Give me a moment and I’ll clear it with admissions.”

The moment he left the room, Soraya struggled to a sitting position. This made her head hurt, but she ignored it. She peeled back the tape and slipped the needle out of her arm. Carefully, she swung her legs over the side of the bed. The floor felt cold. Her ankles tingled when she tried to put weight on her legs. She waited for a moment, breathing deeply and evenly to bring more oxygen into her body. Holding on to the bed, she took several tentative steps—one, two, three—like a toddler learning the basics. Painfully slowly, she made her way across the room to the closet and took out her clothes. She was acting now purely on instinct. Walking stiff-legged like a zombie, she made it to the door and hung on there, renewing her energy while she breathed.