curses. The Toyota, horn blaring angrily, just missed him as it jounced across M Street.

Bourne was able to make good headway, as the GMC had been slowed by the sludgy

traffic up ahead, splitting off where M Street and Pennsylvania Avenue, NW, intersected

at 29th Street. Just as he neared the light he saw the GMC take off and knew he had been

spotted. The problem with a bicycle, especially one that had caused a minor uproar

lunging through a red light, was that the cyclist became conspicuous, exactly the opposite

of what was intended.

Making the best of a worsening situation, Bourne threw caution to the wind, following

the accelerating GMC into the fork as it took Pennsylvania Avenue. The good news was

that the congestion prevented the GMC from keeping up speed. More good news:

Another red light loomed. This time Bourne was ready for the GMC to plow right

through. Swerving in and out between vehicles, he put on another burst of speed, running

the red light with the big SUV. But just as he was coming abreast of the far crosswalk, a

gaggle of drunk teenagers stumbled off the curb on their way across the avenue. They

closed off the lane behind the GMC and were so raucous they either didn’t hear Bourne’s

warning shout or didn’t care. He was forced to swerve sharply to the right. His front tire

struck the curb, the bike lifted up. People scattered out of its way as it became, in effect, a missile. Bourne was able to keep it going after it landed, but there was simply nowhere

for him to steer it without plowing into another group of kids. He applied the brakes

without enough effect. Leaning to the right, he forced the bike down on its side, ripping

his right trouser leg as it skidded along the cement.

“Are you all right?”

“What were you trying to do?”

“Didn’t you see the red light?”

“You could have killed yourself-or someone else!”

A welter of voices as pedestrians surrounded him, trying to help him out from under

the bicycle. Bourne thanked them as he scrambled to his feet. He ran several hundred

yards down the avenue, but as he feared the GMC was long gone.

Expelling a string of bawdily colorful curses, Arkadin rummaged through the pockets

of Oleg Ivanovich Shumenko, who lay twitching in the bloodstained catwalk deep inside

the Sevastopol Winery. As he did so, he wondered how he could have been such a fool.

He’d done precisely what Shumenko had wanted him to do, which was to kill him. He’d

rather have died than divulge the name of the next man in Pyotr Zilber’s network.

Still, there was a chance that something he had on his person would lead Arkadin

farther along. Arkadin had already made a small pile of coins, bills, toothpicks, and the

like. He unfolded each scrap of paper he came across, but none of them contained either a

name or an address, just lists of chemicals, presumably those the winery required for

fermentation or the periodic cleaning of its vats.

Shumenko’s wallet was a sad affair-sliver-thin, containing a faded photo of an older

couple smiling into the sun and the camera Arkadin took to be Shumenko’s parents, a

condom in a worn foil pouch, a driver’s license, car registration, ID badge for a sailing

club, an IOU chit for ten thousand hryvnia-just under two thousand American dollars-two

receipts, one for a restaurant, the other for a nightclub, an old photo of a young girl

smiling into the camera.

In pocketing the receipts, the only reasonable leads he’d found, he inadvertently

flipped over the IOU. On the reverse was the name DEVRA, written in a sharp, spiky

feminine hand. Arkadin wanted to look for more, but he heard an electronic squawk, then

the bawl of Yetnikova’s voice. He looked around, saw an old-fashioned walkie-talkie

hanging by its strap from the railing. Stuffing the papers into his pocket, he hurried along the catwalk, slid down the ladder, made his way out of the champagne fermentation

room.

Shumenko’s boss, Yetnikova, marched toward him down the labyrinthine corridors as

if she were in the forefront of the Red Army entering Warsaw. Even at this distance, he

could see the scowl on her face. Unlike his Russian credentials, his Ukrainian ones were

paper-thin. They’d pass a cursory test, but after any kind of checking he’d be busted.

“I called the SBU office in Kiev. They did some digging on you, Colonel.”

Yetnikova’s voice had turned from servile to hostile. “Or whoever you are.” She puffed

herself up like a porcupine about to do battle. “They never heard of-”

She gave a little squeak as he jammed one hand over her mouth while he punched her

hard in the solar plexus. She collapsed into his arms like a rag doll, and he dragged her

along the corridor until he came to the utility closet. Opening the door, he shoved her in, went in after her.

Sprawled on the floor, Yetnikova slowly came to her senses. Immediately she began

her bluster-cursing and promising dire consequences for the outrages perpetrated on her

person. Arkadin didn’t hear her; he didn’t even see her. He attempted to block out the

past, but as always the memories flattened him. They took possession of him, taking him

out of himself, producing like a drug a dream-like state that over the years had become as

familiar as a twin brother.

Kneeling over Yetnikova, he dodged her kicks, the snapping of her jaws. He withdrew

a switchblade from a sheath strapped to the side of his right calf. When he snikked open

its long, thin blade, fear finally twisted Yetnikova’s face. Her eyes opened wide and she

gasped, raising her hands instinctively.

“Why are you doing this?” she cried. “Why?”

“Because of what you’ve done.”

“What? What did I do? I don’t even know you!”

“But I know you.” Slapping her hands aside, Arkadin went to work on her.

When, moments later, he was done, his vision came back into focus. He took a long,

shuddering breath as if shaking off the effects of an anesthetic. He stared down at the

headless corpse. Then, remembering, he kicked the head into a corner filled with filthy

rags. For a moment, it rocked like a ship on the ocean. The eyes seemed to him gray with

age, but they were only filmed with dust, and the release he sought eluded him once

again.

Who were they?” Moira asked.

“That’s the difficulty,” Bourne told her. “I wasn’t able to find out. It would help if you

could tell me why they’re following you.”

Moira frowned. “I have to assume it has something to do with the security on the LNG

terminal.”

They were sitting side by side in Moira’s living room, a small, cozy space in a

Georgetown town house of red-brown brick on Cambridge Place, NW, near Dumbarton

Oaks. A fire was crackling and licking in the brick hearth; espresso and brandy sat on the

coffee table in front of them. The chenille-covered sofa was deep enough for Moira to

curl up on. It had big roll arms and a neck-high back.

“One thing I can tell you,” Bourne said, “these people are professionals.”

“Makes sense,” she said. “Any rival of my firm would hire the best people available.

That doesn’t necessarily mean I’m in any danger.”

Nevertheless, Bourne felt another sharp pang at the loss of Marie, then carefully,

almost reverently, put the feeling aside.

“More espresso?” Moira asked.

“Please.”

Bourne handed her his cup. As she bent forward, the light V-neck sweater revealed the

tops of her firm breasts. At that moment, she raised her gaze to his. There was a

mischievous glint in her eyes.

“What are you thinking about?”