Gustavo Moreno‘s laptop in Los Angeles without either the FSB-2 or the Kazanskaya being any the wiser.
He found a bed-and-breakfast-what the Balinese called a home stay-on the outskirts of Gianyar center. Before he settled down for the night he took out the rifle, put it together, loaded it, unloaded it, broke it down. He did this twelve times exactly. Then he pulled the mosquito netting closed, lay down on the bed, and stared unblinking at the ceiling.
And there was Devra, pale, already a ghost, as he had found her in the artist‘s apartment in Munich, shot by Semion Icoupov when her concentration was diverted by Bourne entering the room. Her eyes searched his, looking for something. If only he knew what.
Even this evil demon of a man had his vanities: Since Devra‘s death, he had convinced himself that she was the only woman he had loved or could have loved, because this fueled his desire for one thing: revenge. He had killed Icoupov, but Bourne was still alive. Not only had Bourne been complicit in Devra‘s death, but he had also killed Mischa, Arkadin‘s best friend.
Now Bourne had given him a reason to live. His plan to take over the Black Legion-in order to complete his revenge against Icoupov and Sever-
wasn‘t enough, though his plans for it were large and far ranging, beyond anything either Icoupov or Sever could conceive. But he craved more: a specific target on which to vent his rage.
Beneath the mosquito netting he periodically broke out into a cold sweat; his brain seemed to be alternately on fire or as sluggish as if it had been submerged in ice. Sleep, already barely known to him, was now out of the question. But he must have fallen asleep at some point because in the darkness he was gripped by a dream: Devra, holding out her slim, white arms to him. Yet when he entered their embrace, her mouth yawned wide, covering him with spewed black bile. She was dead, but he could not forget her, or what she caused in him: the tiniest fissure in the speckled granite of his soul, through which her mysterious light had begun to trickle, like the first snowmelt of spring.
Moira awoke without the feel of Bourne beside her. Still half asleep, she rolled out of bed, crushing the flower petals they‘d found strewn there on their return from their evening at the beach club. Padding across the cool tile floor, she slid open the glass doors. Bourne was sitting on the terrace that overlooked the Lombok Strait. Fingers of salmon-colored clouds drifted just above the eastern horizon. Though the sun had yet to appear, its light shone upward like a beacon beating back the tattered remnants of night.
Opening the door, she went out onto the terrace. The air was rich with the scent of the potted tuberose sitting on the rattan desk. Bourne became aware of her the moment the door slid back, and he half turned.
Moira put her hands on his shoulders. -What are you doing?
— Thinking.
She bent down, touched his ear with her lips. -About what?
— About what a cipher I am. I‘m a mystery to myself.
Typical of him, there was no self-pity in his voice, only frustration. She thought a moment. -You know when you were born.
— Of course, but that‘s the beginning and the end of it.
She came around in front of him. -Maybe there‘s something we can do about that.
— What d‘you mean?
— There‘s a man who lives thirty minutes from here. I‘ve heard stories about his amazing abilities.
Bourne looked at her. -You‘re kidding, right?
She shrugged. -What have you got to lose?
The call came and, with an eagerness he hadn‘t felt since before Devra was killed, Arkadin climbed onto the motorbike he had ordered the day before. He rechecked a local map and set off. Past the temple complex at Klungkung, right at Goa Lawah, the thruway dipped down closer to the ocean on their right. Then the modern four- lane highway vanished, leaving him back on a twolane blacktop. Just east of Goa Lawah he turned north, heading along a narrow track into the mountains.
To begin with, Suparwita said, — what is the day of your birth?
— January fifteenth, Bourne replied.
Suparwita stared at him for a very long time. He sat perfectly still on the hard-packed earth floor of his hut. Only his eyes moved, minutely, but very quickly, as if they were making complex mathematical calculations. At length, he shook his head. -The man I see before me does not exist-
— What do you mean? Bourne said sharply.
– therefore, you were not born on the fifteenth of January.
— That‘s what my birth certificate says. Marie had researched it herself.
— You speak to me of a certificate of birth. Suparwita spoke slowly and carefully, as if each word were precious. -Which is a piece of paper only.
He smiled, and his beautiful white teeth seemed to light up the dimness. -I know what I know.
Suparwita was a large man for a Balinese, with skin dark as mahogany, perfect, unblemished and unlined, making it impossible to guess his age. His hair was thick, black, and naturally wavy. It was pushed back from his forehead by what seemed to Bourne to be the same crown-like band the pig spirit wore. He had powerful-looking arms and shoulders without the usual Western over-muscled definition. His hairless body looked smooth as glass. He was naked from the waist up; below he wore a traditional Balinese sarong of white, brown, and black. His brown feet were bare.
After breakfast, Moira and Bourne had mounted a rental motorbike and headed into the lush, green countryside, to a thatched-roof house at the end of a narrow dirt path in the jungle, the home of the Balinese holy man named Suparwita who, she claimed, could find out something of Bourne‘s lost past.
Suparwita had greeted them warmly and without surprise as they approached, as if he had been expecting them. Gesturing for them to come inside, he had served them small cups of Balinese coffee and freshly made fried banana fritters, both sweetened with palm sugar syrup.
