And so, vis-a-vis Abdulla Khoury, I find myself in the awkward position of possessing evidence implicating him in terrorist activities, yet unable to act on that evidence.‖ He cocked his head. ―Possibly you can help me out.‖

Calming the thundering of his heart, Halliday said, ―Why do you want Khoury out of the picture?‖

―I could tell you,‖ Karpov said, ―but then, regrettably, I‘d have to kill you.‖

It was an old joke, and a stale one, but there was again in the colonel‘s pale, implacable eyes the eerie twinkle that chilled the secretary to the bone, and absurdly it occurred to him that Karpov might not be joking. This was not a theory he was eager to pursue, so he made his decision quickly.

―Terminate Jason Bourne and I will use the full might of the American government to put Abdulla Khoury where he belongs.‖

But the colonel was already shaking his head. ―Not good enough, Mr.

Smith. An eye for an eye, this is the true meaning of quid pro quo, yes?‖

―We don‘t assassinate people, Colonel Karpov,‖ Halliday said stiffly.

The Russian snickered unkindly. ―Of course not,‖ he said drily, then shrugged. ―No matter, Secretary Halliday. I have no such compunctions.‖

Halliday hesitated but a moment. ―Yes, of course, in the heat of the moment I forgot our protocols, Mr. Jones. Send me the entire contents of the hard drive and it will be done.‖ Bracing himself, he stared into those pale eyes. ―Agreed?‖

Boris Karpov gave a sharp military nod. ―Agreed.‖

When the colonel exited the jazz club, he located Halliday‘s Lincoln and Secret Service bodyguards arrayed along this block of Rumfordstrasse like tin soldiers. Walking in the opposite direction, he turned a corner, fished inside his mouth, and removed the plastic prosthetics that had changed the shape of his jawline. He grabbed the veiny bulb of his latex nose and pulled it and the actor‘s putty off, removed the gray-colored contact lenses, stowing them in a plastic case. Himself again, he laughed. There was a colonel in FSB-2 by the name of Boris Karpov; in fact, Karpov and Jason Bourne were friends, which was why Leonid Danilovich Arkadin had chosen Karpov to impersonate. The irony appealed to him: Bourne‘s friend proposing to terminate him. Plus, Karpov was a strand in the web he was spinning.

There was no danger from the American politician. Arkadin knew full well that Halliday‘s people had no idea what Karpov looked like. Nevertheless, even if his Treadstone training had taught him never to leave anything to chance, there was a very good reason why he had become the visual approximation of Karpov.

Anonymous within the swirl of passengers, he boarded the U-bahn at Marienplatz. Three stops and four blocks later, at the specified location, he found a perfectly nondescript car waiting for him. As soon as he climbed in, it took off, heading toward Franz Josef Strauss International Airport. He was booked on the 1:20 AM Lufthansa flight to Singapore, where he‘d catch the 9:35 AM flight to Denpasar in Bali. It had been far easier to trace Bourne‘s whereabouts—the people at NextGen Energy Solutions where Moira Trevor worked knew where the two of them had gone—than to steal Gustavo Moreno‘s laptop.

But he had a number of men inside the Kazanskaya. One of them had been fortunate enough to be in Gustavo Moreno‘s house an hour before the FSB-2

bust went down. He absconded with the incriminating evidence that would now plant Abdulla Khoury six feet under. As soon as Arkadin shot Bourne dead.

Jason Bourne was at peace. At long last his grieving for Marie was over, the guilt lifted from his heart. He lay side by side with Moira, on a bale, a huge Balinese daybed with a thatched roof, supported by four carved wooden posts. The bale was set into a low stone wall to one side of a three-tiered infinity pool that overlooked the Lombok Strait in southeast Bali. Because the Balinese were aware of everything and forgot nothing, after the first day their bale was set up for them each morning when they arrived for their pre-breakfast swim, and their waitress would bring without being asked the drink that Moira loved most: a Bali Sunrise, consisting of chilled sour orange, mango, and passion fruit juices.

―There is no time but time,‖ Moira said dreamily.

Bourne stirred. ―Translation.‖

―Do you know what time it is?‖

―I don‘t care.‖

―My point,‖ she said. ―We‘ve been here ten days; it feels like ten months.‖ She laughed. ―I mean that in the best way possible.‖

Swifts darted like bats from tree to tree, or skimmed the surface of the highest pool. The muted crash of the surf lulled them from below. Moments ago two small Balinese girls had presented them with a handful of fresh blossoms in a bowl of palm leaves they had woven by hand. Now the air was perfumed with the exotic scents of frangipani and tuberose.

Moira turned to him. ―It‘s as they say: On Bali time stands still, and in that stillness lie many lifetimes.‖

Bourne, his eyes half closed, was dreaming of another life—his life—but the images were dark and murky, as if seen through a projector with a faulty bulb. He‘d been here before, he knew it. There was a vibration from the wind, the restful sea, the smiling people, the island itself to which something inside him resonated. It was déjà-vu, yes, but it was also more. Something had called him back here, had drawn him like a magnet to true north, and now that he was here he could almost reach out and touch it. Yet still its secret eluded him.

What had happened here? Something important, something he needed to remember. He sank deeper into his dream of a life lived on the edge of yesterday. In the dream he roamed across Bali until he came to the Indian Ocean. There, rising out of the creaming surf, was a pillar of fire. It rose up into the clear blue sky until its tip touched the sun. As a shadow he went across the sand, soft as talcum, to embrace the flames.

He awoke, wanting to tell Moira about his dream, but for some reason he didn‘t.

That evening, on the way down to the beach club at the foot of the cliff on which the hotel was perched, Moira stopped at one of the many shrines strewn around the property. It was made of stone, its haunches draped with a checkered black-and-white cloth. A small yellow umbrella shaded the upper part; onto it had been laid a number of offerings of brightly colored flowers in woven palm leaf cups. The cloth and the umbrella were signs that the local spirit was in residence. The cloth‘s pattern had a meaning also: White and black represented the Balinese duality of gods and demons, good and evil.

Kicking off her sandals, Moira stepped onto the square stone in front of the shrine, put her palms together at forehead height, and bowed her head.

―I didn‘t know you were a practicing Hindu,‖ Bourne said when she was finished.

Moira picked her sandals up, swung them at her side. ―I was thanking the spirit for our time here, for all the gifts Bali has to offer.‖ She gave him a wry smile. ―And I was thanking the spirit of the suckling pig we ate yesterday for sacrificing himself for us.‖