When the seer, a surprisingly young man with black eyes and hair and dark skin that looked like the hide of a crocodile, took her hand in his she felt as if the earth beneath her had crumbled, that she was falling into an abyss, that she would never stop falling.

“I have you,” the seer said, as if to comfort her, but she felt like a fly caught in his web, and she had burst into tears.

On the way home, her father had not spoken to her, and she sensed that she had failed an important test, that he would never forgive her, that his love for her was slipping away like grains of sand through her slender fingers. Afterward, following her mother’s terrifying outburst, she sensed that nothing was the same between her parents. Her father had broken some unspoken agreement between them and, just as he couldn’t forgive Soraya, his wife couldn’t forgive him. Six months later, her mother bundled her off to America. As a child or adolescent, she would never see Cairo again.

Soraya, sitting next to Benjamin El-Arian on the second floor of the Nymphenburg Landesbank, experienced again the same frightening sensation of falling into an unfathomable abyss.

El-Arian stirred beside her. “Are you well, Mademoiselle Gobelins?”

“Quite well, thank you,” she said in a thickened voice.

“You look somewhat pale.”

He rose and she took a quick breath, as if released from a vise.

Crossing to a sideboard, he said, “Perhaps a bit of brandy to revive your spirits.”

“Thank you, no.”

He poured the brandy anyway and brought it back in a cut-crystal glass. He sat down beside her and held out the glass. “I insist.”

She saw his dark eyes scrutinizing her expression. He knows, she thought. But what exactly?

She brought a smile to her lips. “I don’t drink alcohol.”

“Neither do I.” He set the brandy aside. “Are you a Muslim?”

She nodded. “I am.”

“Arab.”

She looked at him steadily. He tapped one long forefinger rhythmically against his lips. Slowly. One, two, three, like a hypnotist’s metronome.

“That excludes Iranian, and you’re not Syrian, surely.” His eyebrows rose. “Egyptian?”

Soraya felt the need to gain some control over the conversation. “Where is your family from?”

“The desert.”

“That could be almost anywhere,” Soraya said, “even the Gobi.”

El-Arian smiled like an indulgent uncle. “Hardly.” A soft chime. “Excuse me.” He rose and, digging out his cell phone, stepped out of the office.

Soraya rose and a wave of vertigo caused her to clutch the armrest of the sofa in order to steady herself. Ignoring the continued pounding in her head, she crossed quickly to M. Sigismond’s desk, scanning the contents scattered across the top. Letters and files. Using the knuckle of her forefinger, she moved a sheet of paper slightly so she could read what was on the pages underneath. Her head came up as she heard El-Arian’s voice briefly; when it faded away, accompanied by footfalls, she continued poking around. There were no photos, no mementos, nothing by way of a personal nature. The office was perfectly anonymous, as if it was used only sporadically. She started on the drawers. Wrapping a tissue from a box on the desktop around the handle of a letter opener, she used the blade to open each drawer and survey the contents. She was looking for some evidence that would link M. Marchand’s traitorous dealings with the bank.

A moment later she heard El-Arian’s voice approaching. She closed the drawer, dropped the letter opener, and was back at the sofa, using the tissue to blow her nose when he reappeared, M. Sigismond on his heels.

“My dear Mademoiselle Gobelins, my sincerest apologies for interrupting our meeting.”

“It’s quite all right,” she said, stuffing the tissue away in her pocket.

“Ah, but first impressions are so important, don’t you think?”

“I do.”

He held out his hand and she took it, rising off the cushion.

“M. Sigismond has an appointment. In any event, I believe you will find my office more conducive to concluding our business.”

He led the way down the hall and into a large office suite, this one furnished completely in a modern style. He stepped behind his desk, which held only an old-fashioned blotter, a set of fountain pens, a cut-crystal paperweight with the name of the bank engraved in gold, an ashtray filled with butts, and a multi-line phone. He gestured for her to stand beside him. “Please. I’m having papers drawn up for your intended deposit.” He pulled out a printed card from a drawer. “But first, we must gather some basic information.”

When she was at his side, he pressed a button and a video picture bloomed on the flat-screen panel across the room. Soraya saw herself in M. Sigismond’s office as she rose from the sofa and almost staggered. Her eyes followed herself as she crossed to M. Sigismond’s desk and began her clandestine work.

“I wonder,” El-Arian said, “what you were looking for?”

His hand clamped her wrist in an iron grip and did not let go.

Ivan Volkin was your friend for, what? Thirty years?”

“Longer,” Boris said.

Cherkesov nodded. “And when the time was right, he sold you out.” Some color had returned to his face, and though he was still kneeling, he was breathing more easily. “That’s the way it is in our world. There’s room for comradeship and alliances, but not loyalty. In our world loyalty is too costly. It’s not worth the price.” He tried to shift to get the pressure off his skinned knees. “You think it’s any different with Jason Bourne? The man’s a natural-born killer. What does he know about friendship.”

“More than you.”

“Which is nothing.” Cherkesov shook his head. “I never had a friend in my life—not the way you figure it, anyway. How could I? It would leave me in a vulnerable position.”

Boris turned the knife point slightly. “What the fuck do you call this?”

Cherkesov licked his lips. When he spoke, he words tumbled out, faster and faster. “Don’t you understand what a favor I’ve done you? I’ve given you the opportunity to kill Bourne before he has a chance to betray you the way your friend of over thirty years, Ivan Volkin, has.” Some words seemed to catch in his throat and he coughed, his eyes tearing with the effort. “Volkin has been advising the Domna ever since his so-called retirement from the grupperovka world. In fact, I’ll tell you a secret: It was the Domna that put the idea of retirement into his head. Who knows how much the Domna paid him to come work for them?”

Boris sat back on his heels, considering the implications of what Cherkesov had just said.

Sensing an opening, Cherkesov pressed on. “Listen to me, Boris. I’m of more use to you alive than dead. You and me, we form an alliance. I tell you what the Domna is planning and you use the power of FSB-2 to take Beria and his people down. We can then merge FSB-2 with SVR with you at the head and me advising you. Boris, think of the possibilities of being in charge of clandestine services both inside and outside Russia. The entire world will open up for us!”

“Viktor, you surprise me,” Boris said. “Beneath that thick crust of cynicism, you have a streak of positivity.”

Cherkesov’s fist connected with Karpov’s jaw, knocking him to one side so that the knife pulled away from Cherkesov’s flesh. Cherkesov grabbed for it, splitting a finger open on the edge. Using the spray of blood to blind Boris, he wrenched the knife away and jabbed it hilt-deep into Boris’s belly.

28

BOURNE ROSE AND made his way through the darkened cabin to the first-class galley. He found Rebeka leafing through the latest issue of Der Spiegel as she stood against the stainless-steel counter. She turned when she became aware of him, a smile blooming on her face.

“Good evening, Mr. Childress, what can I get for you?”