Backtracking to the toolshed, he took a pruner and a wire stripper to the parapet. There, at the crevice where it met the tiled floor of the roof, he found the wires that connected the garden‘s lights. Using the pruning shears, he cut off a six-foot length of wire. As he walked back to the doorway, he stripped the insulation off both ends.
At the door, he felt above for the alarm wire, stripping off two sections of the insulation and attaching the bare ends of the length of lighting wire he‘d cut to the bare alarm wire. When he was certain the connections were secure, he cut the alarm wire midway between the jerry-rigged splices he‘d made.
Cautiously, he opened the door only wide enough to slip inside. The splices had worked; the alarm was silent. He crept down the narrow, steep staircase to the third floor. His first order of business was to find Arkadin, the man who‘d lured him here, so he could kill him. The second was finding Tracy and getting her out.
Tracy was standing by the window, looking out at the chaotic street, when she heard the door open behind her. Assuming it was Noah, she turned back into the room, only to confront a man with a shaved head, a goatee, black shot through with white, a ring of diamonds in the lobe of one ear, and a tattoo of a fanged bat on the side of his neck. With his wide shoulders, barrel chest, and thick legs, he looked like a wrestler or one of those mutant extreme fighters she‘d seen once or twice on American TV.
— So you‘re the one who brought my Goya, the Bat-man said as he sauntered over to the table where the painting lay in all its grotesque grandeur. He had a way of walking, a rolling gait one saw only on muscle-men and sailors.
— That‘s Noah‘s, Tracy said.
— No, my dear Ms. Atherton, it‘s mine, the Bat-man said in grating, thickly accented English. -Perlis merely bought it for me. He held the painting up in front of him. -It‘s my payment. His chuckle was like the gurgle of a dying man. -A unique prize for unique services rendered.
— You know my name, she said, moving toward the table with its platters and thick glass bowls of food, — but I don‘t know yours.
— Are you certain you want to know it? He continued to examine the Goya with a connoisseur‘s practiced eye. And then, without allowing her space to answer: — Ah, well, then, it‘s Nikolai Yevsen. Perhaps you‘ve heard of me, I own Air Afrika, I own this building.
— Frankly, I never heard of you or of Air Afrika. My business is art.
— Is that so? Yevsen placed the Goya back onto the table, across which he faced her. -Then what are you doing with Jason Bourne?
— Jason Bourne? She frowned. -Who‘s Jason Bourne?
— The man you brought here with you.
Her frown deepened. -What are you talking about? I came alone. Noah can vouch for that.
— Perlis is busy at the moment, interrogating your friend Mr. Bourne.
— I don‘t- The rest of her words choked in her throat when saw a snubnosed.45 in his left hand.
28
IF YOUR BUSINESS is art, Yevsen said, — what are you doing with an assassin, a spy, a man with no scruples, no heart? A man who would put a bullet through your head as soon as look at you.
— But who‘s threatening to shoot me? Tracy said.
— You or him? — You brought him here to kill me. Yevsen had a face that conveyed brute force, blunt power. He was a man used to getting what he wanted from anyone, at any time. -I have to ask myself why you would do that.
— I don‘t know what you mean.
— Who are you working for? Really.
— I work for myself. I have for years.
Yevsen pursed his lips, which were thick as slabs of raw meat, and as ruddy. -Let me make this easy for you, Ms. Atherton. In my world there are only two kinds of people: friends and enemies. You have to decide which one you are, right now, this minute. If you don‘t answer truthfully I will put a bullet through your right shoulder. Then I‘ll ask again. Silence or a lie will only gain you a bullet through your left shoulder. Then I‘ll go to work on that beautiful face of yours. He waggled the gun at her. -One thing is certain, when I get through with you, you won‘t be a pretty sight. That ghastly chuckle again. -No Hollywood casting agents will come calling, that I can guarantee you.
— The man I‘m with is Adam Stone, that‘s really all I know.
— See, the problem, Ms. Atherton, is that I‘m not feeling it-the truth, I mean.
— That is the truth.
He took a step toward her so that he was pressed up against the far side of the table. -Now you‘ve offended me. You think I‘ll believe you brought someone here without knowing anything about him but his name-which in fact isn‘t his name at all.
Tracy closed her eyes. -No, of course not. She took a deep breath and stared straight into Yevsen‘s coffee- colored eyes. -Yes, I knew his real name was Jason Bourne, and, yes, it was my job not only to bring Noah the Goya, but to ensure Bourne would get here.
Yevsen‘s eyes narrowed. -Why was Bourne sent here? What is he after?
— Don‘t you know? You sent one of your Russian assassins, a man with a scar and a tattoo of three skulls on his neck, to kill Bourne in Seville.
— The Torturer? Yevsen‘s face twisted in obvious disgust. -I‘d sooner cut off my arm than hire that piece of filth.
