The silence stretched out, growing thicker and more deadly by the second. At last, Kiki uncurled herself, stood up, and said, “I for one have had enough of this gloom and doom. Sitting around feeling angry and frustrated isn’t helping Tyrone and it isn’t helping us find a solution. I’m going out to have a good time at my friend’s club.” She looked from Soraya to Deron and back again. “So who’s going to join me?”
The high-low wail of the police sirens came to Bourne as he sat beside the museum guard in the bulldozer. Up close, she looked younger than he had imagined. Her blond hair, which had been pulled back in a severe bun, had come loose. It flowed down around her pale face. Her eyes were large and liquid-red around the rims now from crying. There was something about them that made him think she’d been born sad.
“Take off your jacket,” he said.
“What?” The guard appeared totally confused.
Without saying anything, Bourne helped her off with her jacket. Pushing up the sleeves of her shirt, he checked the insides of her elbows, but found no Black Legion tattoo. Naked fear had joined the sadness in her eyes.
“What’s your name?” he said softly.
“Petra-Alexandra Eichen,” she said in a quavery voice. “But everyone calls me Petra.” She wiped at her eyes, and gave him a sideways look. “Are you going to kill me now?”
The police sirens were very loud, and Bourne had a desire to get as far away from them as possible.
“Why would I do that?”
“Because I…” Her voice faltered and she choked, it seemed, on her own words, or on an emotion welling up. “I shot your friend.”
“Why did you do that?”
“For money,” she said. “I need money.”
Bourne believed her. She didn’t act like a professional; she didn’t talk like one, either. “Who paid you?”
Fear distorted her expression, magnified her eyes until they seemed to goggle at him. “I… I can’t tell you. He made me promise, he said he’d kill me if I opened my mouth.”
Bourne heard raised voices, using the clipped jargon endemic to police the world over. They’d started their dragnet. He retrieved her gun, a Walther P22, the small caliber being the only option for a silent kill in an enclosed space, even with a suppressor.
“Where’s the suppressor?”
“I threw it down a storm drain,” she said, “as I was instructed to do.”
“Continuing to follow orders isn’t going to help. The people who hired you are going to kill you anyway,” he said as he dragged her down from the bulldozer. “You’re in way over your head.”
She gave a little moan and tried to break away from him.
He grabbed her. “If you want, I’ll let you go straight to the cops. They’ll be here any minute.”
Her mouth worked, but nothing intelligible came out.
Voices came to him, more distinct now. The police were on the other side of the corrugated wall. He pulled her in the opposite direction. “Do you know another way out of here?”
Petra nodded, pointing. She and Bourne ran diagonally across the yard, dodging heavy equipment as they picked their way through the rubble and around deep holes in the earth. Without turning around, Bourne could tell that the cops had entered the far side of the yard. He pushed Petra’s head down as he himself bent over to keep them both from being spotted. Beyond a crane, a crew chief’s trailer was set up on concrete blocks. Temporary electric lines were strung into it from just above the tin roof.
Petra threw herself headlong under the trailer, and Bourne followed. The blocks set the trailer just high enough for them to worm their way on their bellies to the far side, where Bourne saw that a gap had been cut in the chain-link fence.
Crawling through the gap, they found themselves in a quiet alley filled with industrial-size garbage bins and a Dumpster filled with broken tiles, jagged blocks of terrazzo, and pieces of twisted metal, no doubt from whatever buildings had once stood in the now empty space behind them.
“This way,” Petra whispered as she took them out of the alley and down a residential street. Around the corner, she went to a car and opened it with a set of keys.
“Give me the keys,” Bourne said. “They’ll be looking for you.”
He caught them in midair, and they both got in. A block away they passed a cruising police car. The sudden tension caused Petra’s hands to tremble in her lap.
“We’re going right past them,” Bourne said. “Don’t look at them.”
Nothing further passed between them until Bourne said, “They’ve turned around. They’re coming after us.”
Thirty-Three
I’M GOING to drop you off somewhere,” Arkadin said. “I don’t want you in the middle of whatever’s going to come.”
Devra, in the passenger’s seat of the rented BMW, shot him a skeptical look. “That doesn’t sound like you at all.”
“No? Who does it sound like?”
“We still have to get Egon Kirsch.”
Arkadin turned a corner. They were in the center of the city, a place filled with old cathedrals and palaces. The place looked like something out of Grimm’s Fairy Tales.
“There’s been a complication,” he said. “The opposition’s king has entered the chess match. His name is Jason Bourne and he’s here in Munich.”
“All the more reason why I should stay with you.” Devra checked the action on one of the two Lugers that Arkadin had picked up from one of Icoupov’s local agents. “A crossfire has many benefits.”
Arkadin laughed. “There’s no lack of fire to you.”
That was another thing that drew him to her-she wasn’t afraid of the male fire burning in her belly. But he had promised her-and himself-that he would protect her. It had been a very long time since he’d said that to anyone, and even though he’d sworn never to make that promise again, he’d done just that. And strange to say, he felt good about it; in fact, there was a sense now when he was around her that he’d stepped out of the shadows he’d been born into, that had been tattooed into his flesh by so many violent incidents. For the first time in his life he felt as if he could take pleasure in the sun on his face, in the wind lifting Devra’s hair behind her like a mane, that he could walk down the street with her and not feel as if he was living in another dimension, that he hadn’t just arrived here from another planet.
As they stopped at a red light, he glanced at her. Sunlight was streaming into the interior, turning her face the palest shade of pink. At that precise moment he felt something rush out of him and into her, and she turned as if she felt it, too, and she smiled at him.
The light turned green and he accelerated through the cross street. His cell phone buzzed. A glance down at the number of the incoming call told him that Gala was calling. He didn’t answer; he had no wish to talk to her now, or ever, for that matter.
Three minutes later, he received a text message. It read: MISCHA DEAD. KILLED BY JASON BOURNE.
Having followed Rodney Feir and General Kendall over the Key Bridge into Washington proper, Rob Batt made sure his long-lens SLR Nikon was fully loaded with fast film. He shot a series of digital photos with a compact camera, but these were only for reference, because they could be Photoshopped in a heartbeat. To forestall any suspicion that the images might be manipulated, he’d present the undeveloped roll of film to… well, this was his real problem. For a legitimate reason he was persona non grata at CI. It was astonishing how quickly years-long associations vanished. But now he realized he’d mistaken the camaraderie he’d developed with what had been his fellow directors for friendship. As far as they were concerned he no longer existed, so going to them with any alleged evidence that the NSA had turned yet another CI officer would be either ignored or laughed at. Trying to approach Veronica Hart was similarly out of the question. Assuming he could ever get to her-which he doubted- speaking to her now would be like groveling. Batt had never groveled in his life, and he wasn’t going to now.
