between them. “I’m out of the university. You were right about that.”

“Another bit of good news.”

“Moira, I don’t want my decision to cause any problems between us.”

“That could never happen, Jason, I promise you.” She kissed him on the cheek. “I have

some interviews lined up when I get to Munich, security people I’ve been able to contact

through back channels-two Germans, an Israeli, and a German Muslim, who may be the

most promising of the lot.”

As two of Specter’s young men came through the door, Bourne took Moira into one of

the two sitting rooms. A ship’s brass clock on the marble mantel chimed the change in

watch.

“Quite a grand palace for the head of a university.”

“The professor comes from money,” Bourne lied. “But he’s private about it.”

“My lips are sealed,” Moira said. “By the way, where’s he sending you?”

“Moscow. Some friends of his have gotten into a bit of trouble.”

“The Russian mob?”

“Something like that.”

Best that she believe the simplest explanation, Bourne thought. He watched the play of

lamplight reveal her expression. He was certainly no stranger to duplicity, but his heart

constricted at the thought that Moira might be playing him as she was suspected of

playing Martin. Several times today he had considered bypassing the meet with the new

DCI, but he had to admit to himself that seeing the questioned communication between

her and Martin had become important to him. Once he saw the evidence he’d know how

to proceed with Moira. He owed it to Martin to discover the truth about his relationship

with her. Besides, it was no use fooling himself: He now had a personal stake in the

situation. His newly revealed feelings for her complicated matters for everyone, not the

least himself. Why was there was a price to pay for every pleasure? he wondered bitterly.

But now he stood committed; there was no turning back, either from Moscow or from

discovering who Moira really was.

Moira, moving closer to him, put a hand on his arm. “Jason, what is it? You look so

troubled.”

Bourne tried not to look alarmed. Like Marie, she had the uncanny ability to sense

what he was feeling, though with everyone else he was adept at keeping his expression

neutral. The important thing now was not to lie to her; she’d pick that up in a heartbeat.

“The mission is extremely delicate. Professor Specter has already warned me that I’m

jumping into the middle of a blood feud between two Moscow grupperovka families.”

Her grip on him tightened briefly. “Your loyalty to the professor is admirable. And

after all, your loyalty is what Martin admired most about you.” She checked her watch.

“I’ve got to go.”

She lifted her face to his, her lips soft as melting butter, and they kissed for what

seemed a long time.

She laughed softly. “Dear Jason, don’t worry. I’m not one of those people who ask

about when I’ll see you again.”

Then she turned and, walking into the foyer, saw herself out. A moment later Bourne

heard the cough of a car starting up, the crunch of its tires as it performed a quarter circle back down the gravel drive to the road.

Arkadin awoke grimy and stiff. His shirt was still damp with sweat from his nightmare.

Gray light sifted in through the skewed blinds on the window. Stretching his neck by

rolling his head in a circle, he thought what he needed most was a good long soak, but the

hotel had only a shower in the hallway bathroom.

He rolled over to find that he was alone in the room; Devra had gone. Sitting up, he

slid out of the damp, rumpled bed, scrubbed his rough face with the heels of his hands.

His shoulder throbbed. It was swollen and hot.

He was reaching for the doorknob when the door opened. Devra stood on the

threshold, a paper bag in one hand.

“Did you miss me?” she said with a sardonic smile. “I can see it in your face. You

thought I’d skipped out.”

She came inside, kicked the door shut. Her eyes, unblinking, met his. She put her free

arm up. Her hand squeezed his left shoulder, gently but firmly enough to cause him pain.

“I brought us coffee and fresh rolls,” she said evenly. “Don’t manhandle me.”

Arkadin glared at her for a moment. The pain meant nothing to him, but her defiance

did. He was right. There was much more to her than what she presented on the surface.

He let go and so did she.

“I know who you are,” he said. “Filya wasn’t Pyotr’s courier. You are.”

That sardonic smile returned. “I was wondering how long it would take you to figure it

out.” She crossed to the dresser, lined up the paper cups of coffee, set the rolls on the

flattened bag. She took out a small bag of ice and tossed it to him.

“They’re still warm.” She bit into one, chewed thoughtfully.

Arkadin placed the ice on his left shoulder, sighed inwardly at the relief. He wolfed

down his roll in three bites. Then he poured the scalding coffee down his throat.

“Next I suppose you’re going to hold your palm over an open flame.” Devra shook her

head. “Men.”

“Why are you still here?” Arkadin said. “You could’ve just run off.”

“And go where? I shot one of Pyotr’s own men.”

“You must have friends.”

“None I can trust.”

Which implied she trusted him. He had an instinct she wasn’t lying about this. She’d

washed off the heavy mascara that had run and smudged last night. Oddly, this made her

eyes seem even larger. And her cheeks held a blush now that she’d scrubbed off what had

to be white theatrical makeup.

“I’ll take you to Turkey,” she said. “A small town called Eskisёehir. That’s where I

sent the document.”

Given what he knew, Turkey-the ancient gateway between East and West-made perfect

sense.

The bag of ice slipped off as Arkadin grabbed the front of her shirt, crossed to the

window, threw it wide open. Though the action cost him in pain to his shoulder, he

hardly cared. The early-morning sounds of the street rose up to him like the smell of

baking bread. He bent her backward so her head and torso were out the window. “What

did I tell you about lying to me?”

“You might as well kill me now,” she said in her little-girl voice. “I won’t tolerate your

abuse anymore.”

Arkadin pulled her back inside the room, let go of her. “What are you going to do,” he

said with a smirk, “jump out the window?”

No sooner had the words come out of his mouth than she walked calmly to the window

and sat on the sash, staring at him all the time. Then she tipped herself backward, through the open window. Arkadin grabbed her around the legs and hauled her up from the brink.

They stood glaring at each other, breathing fast, hearts pumping with excess

adrenaline.

“Yesterday, while we were on the ladder, told me that you had nothing much to live

for,” Devra said. “That pretty much goes for me, too. So here we both are, brothers under

the skin, with nothing but each other.”

“How do I know the next link in the network is Turkey?”

She drew her hair back from her face. “I’m tired of lying to you,” she said. “It’s like

lying to myself. What’s the point?”

“Talk is cheap,” he said.

“Then I’ll prove it to you. When we get to Turkey I’ll take you to the document.”

Arkadin, trying not to think too much about what she said, nodded his

acknowledgment of their uneasy truce. “I won’t lay a hand on you again.”

Except to kill you, he thought.

Twelve

THE FREER GALLERY of Art stood on the south side of the Mall, bounded on the

west by the Washington Monument and on the east by the Reflecting Pool, gateway to