Icoupov laughed. “Is that what he told you?”
“It’s what I told him.”
“Then you’re a bigger fool than I thought.”
They circled each other, wary of the slightest move. Even so, Devra managed an icy smile. “He’s changed since he left Moscow. He’s a different person.”
Icoupov made a dismissive sound in the back of his throat. “The first thing you need to get through your head is that Leonid is incapable of change. I know this better than anyone because I spent so many years trying to make him a better person. I failed. Everyone who tried failed, and do you know why? Because Leonid isn’t whole. Somewhere in the days and nights of Nizhny Tagil he was fractured. All the czar’s horses and all the czar’s men can’t put him back together again; the pieces no longer fit.” He gestured with the SIG Sauer’s barrel. “Get out now, get out while you can, otherwise, I promise you he’ll kill you like he killed all the others who tried to get close to him.”
“How deluded you are!” Devra spat. “You’re like all your kind, corrupted by power. You’ve spent so many years removed from life on the streets you’ve created your own reality, one that moves only to the wave of your own hand.” She took a step toward him, which prompted a tense response from him. “Think you can kill me before I kill you? I wouldn’t count on it.” She tossed her head. “Anyway, you have more to lose than I do. I was already half dead when Leonid found me.”
“Ah, I see it now,” Icoupov nodded, “he’s saved you from yourself, he’s saved you from the streets, is that it?”
“Leonid is my protector.”
“God in heaven, talk about deluded!”
Devra’s icy smile widened. “One of us is fatally mistaken. It remains to be seen which one.”
The room is filled with mannequins,” Egon Kirsch had said when he’d described his studio to Bourne. “I keep the light out with blackout shades because these mannequins are my creation. I built them from the ground up, so to speak. They’re my companions, you might say, as well as my creations. In that sense, they can see or, if you like, I
With the map of the room in his mind, Bourne crept through the studio, avoiding the mannequins so as not to make noise or, as Kirsch might have said, so as not to disturb the process of their birth.
“You think I’m insane,” he’d said to Bourne in the museum. “Not that it matters. To all artists-successful or not!-their creations are alive. I’m no different. It’s simply that after struggling for years to bring abstractions to life, I’ve given my work human form.”
Hearing a sound, Bourne froze for a moment, then peered around a mannequin’s thigh. His eyes had adjusted to the extreme gloom, and he could see movement: Arkadin had found the panel and had come through into the studio after him.
Bourne liked his chances here far better than in Kirsch’s apartment. He knew the layout, the darkness would help him, and if he struck quickly, he’d have the advantage of being able to see where Arkadin couldn’t.
With that strategy in mind, he moved out from behind the mannequin, picked his way toward the Russian. The studio was like a minefield. There were three mannequins between him and Arkadin, all set at different angles and poses: One was sitting, holding a small painting as if reading a book; another was standing spread-legged, in a classic shooter’s pose; the third was running, leaning forward, as if stretching to cross the finish line.
Bourne moved around the runner. Arkadin was crouched down on his hams, wisely staying in one place until his eyes adjusted. It was precisely what Bourne had done when he’d entered the studio moments before.
Once again Bourne was struck by the eerie mirror image that Arkadin represented. There was no pleasure and a great deal of anxiety at the most primitive level in watching yourself do his best to find you and kill you.
Picking up his pace, Bourne negotiated the space to where the mannequin sat, reading his painting. Keenly aware that he was running out of time, Bourne moved stealthily abreast of the shooter. Just as he was about to lunge at Arkadin, his cell phone buzzed, the screen lighting up with Moira’s number.
With a silent curse, Bourne sprang. Arkadin, alert for even the tiniest anomaly, turned defensively toward the sound, and Bourne was met with a solid wall of muscle, behind which was a murderous will of fiery intensity. Arkadin swung; Bourne slid backward, between the legs of the shooter mannequin. As Arkadin came after him he ran right into the mannequin’s hips. Recoiling with a curse, he swung at the mannequin. The blade struck the acrylic skin and lodged in the sheet metal underneath. Bourne kicked out while Arkadin was trying to pull the blade free, and made contact with the left side of his chest. Arkadin tried to roll away. Bourne jammed his shoulder against the back of the shooter. It was extremely heavy, he put all of his strength into it, and the mannequin tipped over, trapping Arkadin underneath.
“Your friend gave me no choice,” Bourne said. “He would’ve killed me if I hadn’t stopped him. He was too far away; I had to throw the knife.”
A sound like the crackle of a fire came from Arkadin. It took a moment for Bourne to realize it was laughter. “I’ll make you a bet, Bourne. Before he died, I bet Mischa said you were a dead man.”
Bourne was about to answer him when he saw the dim glint of a SIG Sauer Mosquito in Arkadin’s hand. He ducked just before the.22 bullet whizzed over his head.
“He was right.”
Bourne twisted away, dodging around the other mannequins, using them as cover even as Arkadin squeezed off three more rounds. Plaster, wood, and acrylic shattered near Bourne’s left shoulder and ear before he dived behind Kirsch’s worktable. Behind him, he could hear Arkadin’s grunts combined with the screech of metal as he worked to free himself from the fallen shooter.
Bourne knew from Kirsch’s description that the front door was to the left. Scrambling up, he dashed around the corner as Arkadin fired another shot. A chunk of plaster and lath disintegrated where the.22 impacted the corner. Reaching the door, Bourne unlocked it, pulled it open, and sprinted out into the hallway. The open door to Kirsch’s apartment loomed to his left.
No good can come of us training guns on each other,” Icoupov said. “Let’s try to reason through this situation rationally.”
“That’s your problem,” Devra said. “Life isn’t rational; it’s fucked-up chaos. It’s part of the delusion; power makes you think you can control everything. But you can’t, no one can.”
“You and Leonid think you know what you’re doing, but you’re wrong. No one operates in a vacuum. If you kill Bourne it will have terrible repercussions.”
“Repercussions for you, not for us. This is what power does: You think in shortcuts. Expediency, political opportunities, corruption without end.”
It was at that moment they both heard the gunshots, but only Devra knew they came from Arkadin’s Mosquito. She could sense Icoupov’s finger tighten around the SIG’s trigger, and she went into a semi-crouch because she knew if Bourne appeared rather than Arkadin she would shoot him dead.
The situation had reached a boiling point, and Icoupov was clearly worried. “Devra, I beg you to reconsider. Leonid doesn’t know the whole picture. I need Bourne alive. What he did to Mischa was despicable, but personal feelings have no place in this equation. So much planning, so much spilled blood will come to nothing if Leonid kills Bourne. You must let me stop it; I’ll give you anything-anything you want.”
“Do you think you can buy me? Money means nothing to me. What I want is Leonid,” Devra said just as Bourne appeared through the front doorway.
Devra and Icoupov both turned. Devra screamed because she knew, or she thought she knew, that Arkadin was dead, and so she redirected the Luger from Icoupov to Bourne.
Bourne ducked back into the hallway and she fired shot after shot at him as she walked toward the door. Because her focus was entirely concentrated on Bourne, she took her eyes off Icoupov and so missed the crucial movement as he swung the SIG in her direction.
“I warned you,” he said as he shot her in the chest.
She fell onto her back.
“Why didn’t you listen?” Icoupov said as he shot her again.
Devra made a little sound as her body arched up. Icoupov stood over her.
“How could you let yourself be seduced by such a monster?” he said.
Devra stared up at him with red-rimmed eyes. Blood pumped out of her with every labored beat of her heart.
