Professor Specter put the albums away. Before he closed the drawer, however, he took

out a pair of photos. Bourne studied the faces of two men. The one in the first photo was

approximately the same age as the professor. Glasses almost comically magnified large,

watery eyes, above which lay remarkably thick eyebrows. Otherwise, his head was bald.

“Semion Icoupov,” Specter said, “leader of the Black Legion.”

He took Bourne out of the basement library, up the steps, out the back of the house into

the fresh air. A formal English garden lay before them, defined by low boxwood hedges.

The sky was an airy blue, high and rich, full of the promise of an early spring. A bird

fluttered between the bare branches of the willow, unsure where to alight.

“Jason, we need to stop the Black Legion. The only way to do that is to kill Semion

Icoupov. I’ve already lost three good men to that end. I need someone better. I need you.”

“I’m not a contract killer.”

“Jason, please don’t take offense. I need your help to stop this attack. Icoupov knows

where the plans are.”

“All right. I’ll find him and the plans.” Bourne shook his head. “But he doesn’t have to

be killed.”

The professor shook his head sadly. “A noble sentiment, but you don’t know Semion

Icoupov like I do. If you don’t kill him, he’ll surely kill you. Believe me when I tell you I’ve tried to take him alive. None of my men has returned from that assignment.”

He stared out across the pond. “There’s no one else I can turn to, no one else who has

the expertise to find Icoupov and end this madness once and for all. Pyotr’s murder

signals the beginning of the endgame between me and the Black Legion. Either we stop

them here or they will be successful in their attack on this target.”

“If what you say is true-”

“It is, Jason. I swear to you.”

“Where is Icoupov?”

“We don’t know. For the last forty-eight hours we’ve been trying to track him, but

everything’s turned up a blank. He was in his villa in Campione d’Italia, Switzerland.

That’s where we believe Pyotr was killed. But he’s not there now.”

Bourne stared down at the two photos he held in his hand. “Who’s the younger man?”

“Leonid Danilovich Arkadin. Up until a few days ago we believed he was an

independent assassin for hire among the families of the Russian grupperovka.” Specter

tapped a forefinger between Arkadin’s eyes. “He’s the man who brought Pyotr to

Icoupov. Somehow-we’re still trying to establish how-Icoupov discovered that it was

Pyotr who had stolen his plans. In any event, it was Arkadin who, along with Icoupov,

interrogated Pyotr and killed him.”

“Sounds as if you’ve got a traitor in your organization, Professor.”

Specter nodded. “I’ve reluctantly come to the same conclusion.”

Something that had been bothering Bourne now rose to the surface of his mind.

“Professor, who called you when we were having breakfast?”

“One of my people. He needed verification of information. I had it in my car. Why?”

“Because it was that call that drew you out into the street just as the black Cadillac

came by. That wasn’t a coincidence.”

A frown creased Specter’s brow. “No, I don’t suppose it could have been.”

“Give me his name and address,” Bourne said, “and we’ll find out for certain.”

The man on the rooftop had a mole on his cheek, black as sin. Arkadin concentrated on

it as the man pulled Devra off the tar, away from Arkadin.

“Did you tell him anything?” he said without taking his eyes off Arkadin.

“Of course not,” Devra shot back. “What d’you take me for?”

“A weak link,” Mole-man said. “I told Pyotr not to use you. Now, because of you,

Filya is dead.”

“Filya was an idiot!”

Mole-man took his eyes off Arkadin to sneer at Devra. “He was your fucking

responsibility, bitch.”

Arkadin scissored his legs between Mole-man’s, throwing him off balance. Arkadin,

quick as a cat, leapt on him, pummeling him. Mole-man fought back as best he could.

Arkadin tried not to show the pain in his left shoulder, but it was already dislocated and it wouldn’t work correctly. Seeing this, Mole-man struck a blow as hard as he could flush

into the shoulder.

All the breath went out of Arkadin. He sat back, dazed, almost blacked out with pain.

Mole-man scrabbled for his gun, found Arkadin’s instead, and swung it up. He was about

to pull the trigger when Devra shot him in the back of the head with his own gun.

Without a word, he pitched over onto his face. She stood, wide-legged, in the classic

shooter’s stance, one hand supporting the other around the grips. Arkadin, on his knees,

for the moment paralyzed with agony, watched her swing the gun around, point it at him.

There was something in her eyes he couldn’t identify, let alone understand.

Then, all at once, she let out the long breath she’d been holding inside, her arms

relaxed, and the gun came down.

“Why?” Arkadin said. “Why did you shoot him?”

“He was a fool. Fuck me, I hate them all.”

The rain beat down on them, drummed against the rooftop. The sky, utterly dark,

muffled the world around them. They could have been standing on a mountaintop on the

roof of the world. Arkadin watched her approach him. She put one foot in front of the

other, walking stiff-legged. She seemed like a wild animal-angry, bitter, out of her

element in the civilized world. Like him. He was tied to her, but he didn’t understand her, he couldn’t trust her.

When she held out her hand to him he took it.

Nine

I HAVE this recurring nightmare,” Defense Secretary Ervin Reynolds “Bud” Halliday

said. “I’m sitting right here at Aushak in Bethesda, when in comes Jason Bourne and in

the style of The Godfather Part II shoots me in the throat and then between my eyes.”

Halliday was seated at a table in the rear of the restaurant, along with Luther LaValle

and Rob Batt. Aushak, more or less midway between the National Naval Medical Center

and the Chevy Chase Country Club, was a favorite meeting place of his. Because it was

in Bethesda and, especially, because it was Afghani, no one he knew or wanted to keep

secrets from came here. The defense secretary felt most comfortable in off-the-beaten-

path places. He was a man who despised Congress, despised even more its oversight

committees, which were always mucking about in matters that didn’t concern them and

for which they had no understanding, let alone expertise.

The three men had ordered the dish after which the restaurant was named: sheets of

pasta, filled with scallions, drenched in a savory meat-infused tomato sauce, the whole

crowned by rich Middle Eastern yogurt in which flowered tiny bits of mint. The aushak,

they all agreed, was a perfect winter meal.

“We’ll soon have that particular nightmare laid to rest, sir,” LaValle said with the kind

of obsequiousness that set Batt’s teeth on edge. “Isn’t that so, Rob?”

Batt nodded emphatically. “Quite right. I have a plan that’s virtually foolproof.”

Perhaps that wasn’t the correct thing to say. Halliday frowned,.”No plan is foolproof,

Mr. Batt, especially when it involves Jason Bourne.”

“I assure you, no one knows that better than I do, Mr. Secretary.”

Batt, as the seniormost of the seven directorate heads, did not care for being

contradicted. He was a linebacker of a man with plenty of experience beating back

pretenders to his crown. Still, he was aware that he was treading terra incognita, where a

power struggle was raging, the outcome unknown.