the professor’s organization. Who knew how much intel he had about Specter’s network;

Bourne couldn’t afford to let him get away.

The man before him now was flat-faced, his skin slightly greasy. He had a two-day

growth of beard and bad teeth. His breath stank from cigarettes and rotting food. He

pointed his suppressed Glock directly at Bourne’s chest.

“Come out of there,” he said softly.

“It won’t matter whether or not I comply,” Bourne answered. “The herpetologist down

the corridor has surely phoned security. We’re all about to be put into custody.”

“Out. Now.”

The man made a fatal error of gesturing with the Glock. Bourne used his left forearm

to knock the elongated barrel aside. Slamming the gunman back against the opposite wall

of the corridor, Bourne drove a knee into his groin. As the gunman gagged, Bourne

chopped the gun out of his hand, grabbed him by his overcoat, flung him headlong into

the Gaboon viper’s case with such force that he skidded along the floor toward the corner

where the viper lay coiled.

Bourne, imitating the viper, made a rhythmic hissing sound, and the snake raised its

head. At the same moment it heard the hissing of a rival snake, it sensed something living

thrust into its territory. It struck out at the terrified gunman.

Bourne was already pounding down the corridor. The door at the far end gaped open.

He burst out into daylight. Tarkanian was waiting for him, in case he escaped the two

gunmen; he had no stomach to prolong the pursuit. He drove a fist into Bourne’s cheek,

followed that up with a vicious kick. But Bourne caught his shoe in his hands, twisted his

foot violently, spinning him off his feet.

Bourne could hear shouts, the slap and squeak of cheap soles against concrete. Security

was on its way, though he couldn’t see them yet.

“Tarkanian,” he said, and coldcocked him.

Tarkanian went down heavily. Bourne knelt beside him and was giving him mouth-to-

mouth when three security guards rounded the corner, came pounding up to him.

“My friend collapsed just as we saw the men with the guns.” Bourne gave an accurate

description of the two gunmen, pointed toward the open door to the Reptile Discovery

Center. “Can you get help? My friend is allergic to mustard. I think there must have been

some in the potato salad we had for lunch.”

One of the security guards called 911, while the other two, guns drawn, vanished into

the doorway. The guard stayed with Bourne until the paramedics arrived. They took

Tarkanian’s vitals, loaded him onto the gurney. Bourne walked at Tarkanian’s side as

they made their way through the gawking crowds to the ambulance waiting on

Connecticut Avenue. He told them about Tarkanian’s allergic reaction, also that in this

state he was hypersensitive to light. He climbed into the back of the ambulance. One of

the paramedics closed the doors behind him while the other prepared the IV drip of

phenothiazine. The vehicle took off, siren wailing.

Tears streamed down Arkadin’s face, but he made no noise. The pain was excruciating,

but at least the arm was back in its socket. He could move the fingers of his left hand, just barely. The good news was that the numbness was giving way to a peculiar tingling, as if

his blood had turned to champagne.

Devra held the wooden spoon in her hand. “Shit, you almost bit this in two. It must’ve

hurt like a bitch.”

Arkadin, dizzy and nauseous, grimaced in pain. “I could never get food down now.”

Devra tossed aside the spoon as they left the men’s room. Arkadin paid their check,

and they went out of the cafй. The rain had stopped, leaving the streets with that slick,

just-washed look so familiar to him from old American films from the 1940s and 1950s.

“We can go to my place,” Devra offered. “It’s not far from here.”

Arkadin shook his head. “I think not.”

They walked, seemingly aimlessly, until they came to a small hotel. Arkadin booked a

room. The flyblown night clerk barely looked at them. He was only interested in taking

their money.

The room was mean, barely furnished with a bed, a hard-backed chair, and a dresser

with three legs and a pile of books propping up the fourth corner. A circular threadbare

carpet covered the center of the room. It was stained, pocked with cigarette burns. What

appeared to be a closet was the toilet. The shower and sink were down the hall.

Arkadin went to the window. He’d asked for a room in front, knowing it would be

noisier, but would afford him a bird’s-eye view of anyone coming. The street was

deserted, not a car in sight. Sevastopol glowed in a slow, cold pulse.

“Time,” he said, turning back into the room, “to get some things straight.”

“Now? Can’t this wait?” Devra was lying crosswise on the bed, her feet still on the

floor. “I’m dead on my feet.”

Arkadin considered a moment. It was deep into the night. He was exhausted but not yet

ready for sleep. He kicked off his shoes, lay down on the bed. Devra had to sit up to make

room for him, but instead of lying down parallel to him, she resumed her position, head

on his belly. She closed her eyes.

“I want to come with you,” she said softly, almost as if in sleep.

He was instantly alert. “Why?” he said. “Why would you want to come with me?”

She said nothing in reply; she was asleep.

For a time, he lay listening to her steady breathing. He didn’t know what to do with

her, but she was all he had left of this end of Pyotr’s network. He spent some time

digesting what she had told him about Shumenko, Filya, and Pyotr, looking for holes. It

seemed improbable to him that Pyotr could be so undisciplined, but then again he’d been

betrayed by his girlfriend of the moment, who worked for Icoupov. That spoke of a man

out of control, whose habits could indeed filter down to his subordinates. He had no idea

if Pyotr had daddy issues, but given who his daddy was it certainly wasn’t out of the

question.

This girl was strange. On the surface she was so much like other young girls he’d come

across: hard-edged, cynical, desperate, and despairing. But this one was different. He

could see beneath her armor plating to the little lost girl she once had been and perhaps

still was. He put his hand on the side of her neck, felt the slow pulse of her life. He could be wrong, of course. It could all be a performance put on for his benefit. But for the life of him he’d couldn’t figure out what her angle might be.

And there was something else about her, connected to her fragility, her deliberate

vulnerability. She needed something, he thought, as, in the end, we all did, even those

who fooled themselves into thinking they didn’t. He knew what he needed; it was simply

that he chose not to think about it. She needed a father, that was clear enough. He

couldn’t help suspecting there was something about her he was missing, something she

hadn’t told him but wanted him to find. The answer was already inside him, dancing like

a firefly. But every time he reached out to capture it, it just danced farther away. The

feeling was maddening, as if he’d had sex with a woman without reaching an orgasm.

And then she stirred, and in stirring said his name. It was like a bolt of lightning

illuminating the room. He was back on the rainy rooftop, with Mole-man standing over

him, listening to the conversation between him and Devra.

“He was your responsibility,” Mole-man said, referring to Filya.

Arkadin’s heart beat faster. Your responsibility. Why would Mole-man say that if Filya