The drainpipe rang dully when Bourne kicked it. A moment later one of the Russians peered over the parapet. Bourne reached up and grabbed him, dragging him across the cement. The Russian tried to chop down on Bourne’s wrist, but was forced to shoot an arm out to keep himself from toppling over. He jerked a knife free and stabbed down toward the spot between Bourne’s shoulder and neck. Bourne gave one final jerk, which launched the Russian headlong over the parapet and down the air shaft.

Bourne shinnied the last foot up the drainpipe and, as the second Russian appeared, levered his legs and torso upward. His ankles scissored around the submachine gun, and yanked it away from the Russian.

For a moment, Bourne lay atop the parapet, balancing himself. The Russian struck at him furiously, knocking him back so that his head and shoulders hung off the roof. The Russian’s hands found Bourne’s throat, his fingers closing around Bourne’s windpipe.

Bourne brought his forearms up, inside the Russian’s arms, and slammed them outward, breaking his hold. Then he kicked the Russian in the face. As he stumbled back, Bourne swiveled off the parapet onto the tarred roof and came after him. He grabbed him by his shirt and slammed the back of his head against the roof. Then, taking advantage of the man’s dazed state, he reached into his mouth and dug out the cyanide capsule disguised as a tooth.

“Who are you?” he said. “Who do you work for?”

The Russian’s eyes cleared, and his jaw began to work.

Bourne held out the poisonous tooth. “Searching for this?”

The Russian went into a frenzy then, but Bourne was prepared for this and, once again, he slammed his head into the rooftop.

“There’s no escape,” Bourne said, “no easy death.”

The Russian looked up at him with eyes the color of dirt. “I know you. You fucked the Domna. We should be working together, not trying to kill each other.”

“Who do you work for?”

“I’ll take you to my boss. He’ll tell you.”

Bourne relieved the Russian of all his weapons, then allowed him to rise.

“You’re a hero to us,” the Russian said.

Bourne gestured with his head. “Let’s go.”

That was when the Russian broke away. Bourne sprinted after him across the roof. He caught him at the edge of the parapet, but instead of fighting to free himself the Russian grabbed Bourne and dragged both of them onto the lip of the parapet. As they teetered on the brink, Bourne realized the Russian’s purpose. He struck the man under the nose; his grip loosened, and Bourne tore himself away just before the Russian followed his colleague down into darkness.

The moment he received the news of M. Marchand’s death in an Arab-town basement, Benjamin El-Arian hastened to the bank building at La Défense. There he had made certain to lock out the Monition Club computers from the servers he had set up in Gibraltar. He had created this fail-safe mechanism for just such a time, not believing, however, that it would ever come. Now that it had, he was doubly grateful for his prudence.

Staring out into the blank night, he reviewed all the decisions he had made during the past six months. Had he made mistakes, and if so, how serious would they turn out to be?

With a disgusted sound, he turned away from the window and, sitting at the head of the conference table, fired up his iPad. What had caused Marchand to go see his terrorist contacts?

Using his twenty-digit password, he logged into the Domna servers and downloaded the phone records for the past three days from the Paris office. Using a software filter, he found all the calls Marchand made, then cross-referenced them against his database of phone numbers. All of them were to parties known to El-Arian, save one. Approximately an hour before the incident in Arab-town and—here he double-checked the timing—just minutes after the visit from the Quai d’Orsay inspector and his guests, Marchand had placed a call to a number that wasn’t in the Domna database.

For a moment, El-Arian sat back, staring at the number. Why had Marchand called it and not him, as he should have done? He snatched up a phone and called a contact in the Paris Préfecture de Police. El-Arian woke him up, but that was all right, he was being paid a generous amount to be on call. El-Arian gave him the number, and the contact said he’d call back as soon as he had an answer.

El-Arian rose and made himself some Caravan black tea at the sideboard. At this hour of the night he needed a good shot of caffeine to keep his mind clear. Marchand had made a fatal error; that wasn’t like him. Something must have occurred during the visit by the Quai d’Orsay to have severely rattled him. But to bring the Arabs into the picture was about the worst move he could have made. El-Arian sipped his tea. It was almost as if Marchand had decided to self-destruct and take the entire Paris Monition Club with him.

El-Arian sighed. The Domna’s Paris operation had moved in all but name. The Monition Club had outlived its usefulness, especially now that the cache of Solomon’s gold was lost. He consoled himself with the fact that the American operation was proceeding on schedule. He glanced at his watch. Skara had twenty hours to complete her part and then every loose end would be tied up. The economic destruction of the United States would be ensured.

The phone rang and El-Arian grabbed it. “Did you get the information?”

“Yes,” his contact said, “but it wasn’t easy. I had to get through three firewalls to find the owner of that number.”

When he told El-Arian the name, Benjamin dropped his teacup and saucer. He didn’t even notice the Caravan tea stains on the bottom of his trousers.

No, no, no, he thought. It can’t be.

24

NIGHT. STILLNESS REIGNED throughout Don Fernando’s house. Through the open windows, the sound of the sea could be heard. The scents of its endless expanse flowed like waves through the rooms. Dinner seemed like weeks ago. By the time Bourne had returned to the restaurant, Don Fernando had dealt with the police and phoned the mortuary.

Kaja went straight to her room as soon as they entered the house and Essai bade them good night. For some time, Bourne and Don Fernando sat in his study dissecting the violence that had occurred earlier. Bourne was wary. Don Fernando was involved in this mystery up to his eyeteeth. He had initiated the Domna’s contact with Estevan Vegas, ostensibly so that the organization could use the oil field in Colombia to hide their shipments to, it now seemed, Damascus. Don Fernando claimed he was playing a double’s game, using the shipments to gather intel on the Domna—specifically Benjamin El-Arian, who had been taking trips to Damascus without the Domna’s knowledge. So far, so good. But tonight’s revelation that the warehouse and shipment belonged to the Russian outfit bent on killing Kaja blew that story to smithereens. Was Don Fernando colluding with this Russian group? If so, he was keeping the identity of the group Kaja’s father worked for a secret from all of them. Once again, Bourne was faced with the question of whether Don Fernando was friend or foe. Therefore, he made no mention of the dozen crates, or that he had discovered their destination. Neither did he tell Don Fernando about his encounter with the Russians on the warehouse roof. In his altered version, the incident ended with the deaths of the gunman and his driver outside the warehouse.

Don Fernando drank several brandies much too quickly. “I have lost a good friend tonight,” he said. He turned to stare out the door to the study. “I don’t think I can bear to have her under my roof for much longer.”

“It’s not her fault.”

“Of course it’s her fault.” Don Fernando sloshed more brandy into his snifter. “I made a mistake, I gave her too much leeway. Finding out about her father’s secret life has turned into a reckless obsession. The bitch brought this on us all.”