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.”
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
“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
