“These men became the core of the Nazi Ostlegionen, but the cream of the crop

Himmler reserved for himself, training them in secret with his best SS leaders, honing

their skills not simply as soldiers, but as the elite warriors, spies, and assassins it was widely known he’d yearned to command. He called this unit the Black Legion. You see,

I’ve made an exhaustive study of the Nazis and their Ostlegionen.” Specter pointed to the

shield of three horses’ heads joined by the death’s head. “This is their emblem. From

1943 on it became more feared than even the SS’s own twin lightning bolts, or the

symbol of its adjunct, the Gestapo.”

“It’s a little late in the day for Nazis to be a serious threat,” Bourne said, “don’t you

think?”

“The Black Legion’s Nazi affiliation has long since vanished. It’s now the most

powerful and influential Islamic terrorist network no one has heard of. Its anonymity is

deliberate. It is funded through the legitimate front, the Eastern Brotherhood.”

Specter took out another album. This one was filled with newspaper clippings of

terrorist attacks all over the world: London, Madrid, Karachi, Fallujah, Afghanistan,

Russia. As Bourne paged through the album, the list grew.

“As you can see, other, known terrorist networks claimed responsibility for some of

these attacks. For others, no claim was made, no terrorists were ever linked to them. But I know through my sources that all were perpetrated by the Black Legion,” Specter said.

“And now they’re planning their biggest, most spectacular attack. Jason, we think that

they’re targeting New York. I told you Pyotr Zilber, the young man the Black Legion

murdered, was special. He was a magician. He’d somehow managed to steal the plans for

the target of the Legion’s attack. Normally, of course, the planning would all be oral. But apparently the target of this attack is so complex, the Black Legion had to obtain the

actual plans of the structure. That’s why I believe it to be a large building in a major

metropolitan area. It’s absolutely imperative that we find that document. It’s the only way we’ll know where the Black Legion intends to strike.”

Arkadin sat on the floor of the small landing, his legs on either side of the opening

down to the top residential floor.

“Shout to them,” he whispered. Now that he was situated on the high ground, so to

speak, he wanted to draw them to him. “Go on. Let them know where you are.”

Devra screamed.

Now Arkadin heard the hollow ring of someone climbing the metal ladder. When a

head popped up, along with a hand holding a gun, Arkadin slammed his ankles into the

man’s ears. As his eyes began to roll up, Arkadin snatched the gun from his hand, braced

himself, and broke the man’s neck.

The moment he let go the man vanished, clattering back down the ladder. Predictably,

a hail of gunfire shot through the square opening, the bullets embedding themselves in

the ceiling. The moment that abated, Arkadin shoved Devra through the opening,

followed her, sliding down with the insides of his shoes against the outside of the ladder.

As Arkadin had hoped, the remaining two men were stunned by the fall of their

compatriot and held their fire. Arkadin shot one through the right eye. The other retreated around a corner as Arkadin fired at him. Arkadin gathered the girl, bruised but otherwise

fine, ran to the first door, and pounded on it. Hearing a querulous man’s voice raised in

protest, he pounded on the opposite door. No answer. Firing his gun at the lock, he

crashed open the door.

The apartment was unoccupied, and from the looks of the piles of dust and filth no one

had been in residence in quite some time. Arkadin ran to the window. As he did so, he

heard familiar squeals. He stepped on a pile of rubbish and out leapt a rat, then another

and another. They were all over the place. Arkadin shot the first one, then got hold of

himself and slid the window up as far as it would go. Icy rain struck him, sluiced down

the side of the building.

Holding Devra in front of him, he straddled the sash. At that moment he heard the third

man calling for reinforcements, and fired three shots through the ruined door. He

manhandled her out onto the narrow fire escape and edged them to his left, toward the

vertical ladder bolted to the concrete that led to the roof.

Save for one or two security lights, the Sevastopol night was darker than Hades itself.

The rain slanted in needled sheets, beating against his face and arms. He was close

enough to reach out for the ladder when the wrought-iron slats on which he was walking

gave way.

Devra shrieked as the two of them plummeted, landing against the railing of the fire

escape below. Almost immediately this rickety affair gave way beneath their weight and

they toppled over the end. Arkadin reached out, grabbed a rung of the ladder with his left

hand. He held on to Devra with his right. They dangled in the air, the ground too far for

him to risk letting go. Plus there was no convenient fully loaded Dumpster to break their

fall.

He began to lose his grip on her hand.

“Draw yourself up,” he said. “Put your legs around me.”

“What?”

He bellowed the command at her and, flinching, she did as he ordered.

“Now lock your ankles tight around my waist.”

This time she didn’t hesitate.

“All right,” Arkadin said, “now reach up, you can just make the lowest rung-no, hold

on to it with both hands.”

The rain made the metal slippery, and on the first attempt Devra lost her grip.

“Again,” Arkadin shouted. “And this time don’t let go.”

Clearly terrified, Devra closed her fingers around the rung, held on so tightly her

knuckles turned white. As for Arkadin, his left arm was being slowly dislocated from its

socket. If he didn’t change his position soon, he’d be done for.

“Now what?” Devra said.

“Once your grip on the rung is secure, uncross your ankles and pull yourself up the

ladder until you can stand on a rung.”

“I don’t know if I have the strength.”

He lifted himself up until he’d wedged the rung in his right armpit. His left arm was

numb. He worked his fingers, and bolts of pain shot up into his throbbing shoulder. “Go

ahead,” he said, pushing her up. He couldn’t let her see how much pain he was in. His left

arm was in agony, but he kept pushing her.

Finally, she stood on the ladder above him. She looked down. “Now you.”

His entire left side was numb; the rest of him was on fire.

Devra reached down toward him. “Come on.”

“I’ve got nothing much to live for, I died a long time ago.”

“Screw you.” She crouched down so when she reached down again she grabbed onto

his arm. As she did so, her foot slipped off the rung, slid downward and against him with

such force she almost dislodged them both.

“Christ, I’m going to fall!” she screamed.

“Wrap your legs back around my waist,” he shouted. “That’s right. Now let go of the

ladder one hand at a time. Hold on to me instead.”

When she’d done as he said, he commenced to climb up the ladder. Once he was high

enough to get his shoes onto the rungs the going was easier. He ignored the fire burning

up his left shoulder; he needed both hands to ascend.

They made the roof at last, rolling over the stone parapet, lying breathless on tar

streaming with water. That was when Arkadin realized the rain was no longer hitting his

face. He looked up, saw a man-the third of the trio-standing over him, a gun aimed at his

face.

The man grinned. “Time to die, bastard.”