agreed that Bourne should start there in his search for Pyotr’s killer.
“Well enough. I’ve been there several times.”
“Still and all, I’ll have a friend, Lev Baronov, meet you at Sheremetyevo. Whatever you require, he’ll provide. Including weapons.”
“I work alone,” Bourne said. “I don’t want or need a partner.”
Specter nodded understandingly. “Lev will be there for support only, I promise he won’t be a hindrance.”
The professor paused a moment. “What worries me, Jason, is your relationship with Ms. Trevor.” Turning so that he faced away from the house, he spoke more softly. “I have no intention of prying into your personal life, but if you’re going overseas-”
“We both are. She’s off to Munich this evening,” Bourne said. “I appreciate your concern, but she’s as tough a woman as I’ve come across. She can take care of herself.”
Specter nodded, clearly relieved. “All right, then. There’s just the matter of the information on Icoupov.” He drew out a packet. “In here are your plane tickets to Moscow, along with the documentation you’ll need. There’s money waiting for you. Lev has the details as to which bank, the account number attached to the safe-deposit box, and a false identity. The account has been established in that name, not in yours.”
“This took some planning.”
“I had it done last night, in the hope that you’d agree to go,” Specter said. “All that remains is for us to take a picture of you for the passport.”
“And if I’d said no?”
“Someone else had already volunteered.” Specter smiled. “But I had faith, Jason. And my faith was rewarded.”
They turned back and were heading for the house when the professor paused.
“One more thing,” he said. “The situation in Moscow vis-а-vis the
“I’ll remember that,” Bourne said, just as one of Specter’s men came hurrying out of the back of the house.
“A woman, Moira Trevor, is here to see Mr. Bourne,” he said in German-inflected Turkish.
Specter turned to Bourne, his eyebrows raised in either surprise or concern, if not both.
“I had no other choice,” Bourne said. “I need to see her before she leaves, and after what happened today I wasn’t about to leave you until the last moment.”
Specter’s face cleared. “I appreciate that, Jason. Indeed, I do.” His hand swept up and away. “Go see your lady friend, and then we’ll make our last preparations.”
I’m on my way to the airport,” Moira said when Bourne met her in the hallway. “The plane takes off in two hours.” She gave him all the pertinent information.
“I’m on another flight,” he said. “I have some work to do for the professor.”
A flicker of disappointment crossed her face before vanishing in a smile. “You have to do what you think is best for you.”
Bourne heard the slight distance in her voice, as if a glass partition had come down 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
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.
