Kaja went straight to her room as soon as they entered the house and Essai bade them good night. For some time, Bourne and Don Fernando sat in his study dissecting the violence that had occurred earlier. Bourne was wary. Don Fernando was involved in this mystery up to his eyeteeth. He had initiated the Domna’s contact with Estevan Vegas, ostensibly so that the organization could use the oil field in Colombia to hide their shipments to, it now seemed, Damascus. Don Fernando claimed he was playing a double’s game, using the shipments to gather intel on the Domna—specifically Benjamin El-Arian, who had been taking trips to Damascus without the Domna’s knowledge. So far, so good. But tonight’s revelation that the warehouse and shipment belonged to the Russian outfit bent on killing Kaja blew that story to smithereens. Was Don Fernando colluding with this Russian group? If so, he was keeping the identity of the group Kaja’s father worked for a secret from all of them. Once again, Bourne was faced with the question of whether Don Fernando was friend or foe. Therefore, he made no mention of the dozen crates, or that he had discovered their destination. Neither did he tell Don Fernando about his encounter with the Russians on the warehouse roof. In his altered version, the incident ended with the deaths of the gunman and his driver outside the warehouse.
Don Fernando drank several brandies much too quickly. “I have lost a good friend tonight,” he said. He turned to stare out the door to the study. “I don’t think I can bear to have her under my roof for much longer.”
“It’s not her fault.”
“Of course it’s her fault.” Don Fernando sloshed more brandy into his snifter. “I made a mistake, I gave her too much leeway. Finding out about her father’s secret life has turned into a reckless obsession. The bitch brought this on us all.”
It was three o’clock by the time Don Fernando showed Bourne to his bedroom, which, along with the other guest bedrooms, was grouped in a wing on the opposite side of the house from the master suite. Don Fernando lit a cigar and puffed on it contemplatively. He seemed to have calmed down from his brief tirade, but who could really tell?
“You did well tonight,” Don Fernando said, but now his thoughts seemed far away.
“I’m going to look in on Kaja,” Bourne told him.
Don Fernando nodded, but as Bourne turned to go, he caught Bourne’s arm. His eyes had snapped back into focus. “Listen, Jason, if anyone can take the Domna down, it’s you. But be warned, the Domna is a modern-day hydra. As of this moment, Benjamin El-Arian is its head, but there are others waiting in the wings.”
“I’ve been thinking about that,” Bourne said. “Maybe it’s not El-Arian I need to concern myself with. Maybe it’s Semid Abdul-Qahhar.”
Bourne knocked softly on the door to the bedroom Kaja was meant to share with Vegas. He heard a muffled sound, opened the door, and stepped into the room. The lights were off. Moonlight fell across the bed, bathing Kaja in blue light as she lay staring up at the ceiling. With her face mostly in shadow, it was impossible to read her expression.
“Did you get him?”
“The gunman is dead,” Bourne said. “Along with several others.”
She sighed. “Thank you.”
A soft wind blew through the partly open windows, and the curtains shivered.
“I killed Estevan.” Her voice, raw with emotion, betrayed her; she had been crying.
“Don’t do that,” Bourne said.
“Why not? It’s true.”
“You should have thought of that before you used him as cover.”
She threw an arm across her eyes. “I did think about it,” she said. “But I was concentrated on my own survival.”
“You’re only human.” Bourne came and stood by her bed. “You should get some rest.”
A laugh that was half a cry was torn from her throat, and she took her arm away to look at him. “You must be joking.”
He sat on the bed beside her. Her scars shone livid in the pale light. She turned her head to one side and, in a strangled voice, said, “I bring death wherever I go.”
“Now you’re being melodramatic.”
“Am I? Estevan is dead because of me. Don Fernando doesn’t want any part of me; I’m sure he told you as much.”
When Bourne put a hand on her wrist he could feel her pulse, steady and strong. “Staying here is a dead end.”
The wind fluttered the curtains like owl’s wings. The moonlight made the bedspread glitter.
Her head turned toward him. “The men you killed, were they the Russians?”
“Yes. Not grupperovka, though.”
“SVR.”
“Not like any government operatives I’ve ever encountered or heard about.”
She rose up on her elbows. “Who, then? Please tell me.”
The brief conversation with the Russian up on the roof swirled through Bourne’s head. “You’re a hero to us.” “Whoever they are,” he said, “they’re working against the Domna.”
Her eyes glittered. “I don’t understand.”
“Your father worked for them even while he was employed by the Domna to kill Alex Conklin.”
A sharp intake of breath. “He was a mole?”
“I believe so, yes.”
Bourne took a deep breath and let it out. “I also think Don Fernando is working for them.”
Don Fernando, wreathed in smoke as if he were on fire, watched Bourne disappear down the hallway. Then he turned and rapped softly on one of the bedroom doors. A moment later Essai poked his head out.
Don Fernando nodded to him, and he slipped out of his room, closing the door behind him. Stepping across the hall, he opened the door to Bourne’s bedroom.
“Good luck,” Don Fernando whispered.
Essai nodded.
“He’s exceedingly dangerous.”
“Please,” Essai said, entering Bourne’s room.
He shut the door silently, and Don Fernando melted away down the hallway.
Essai sat in a chair in the corner of Bourne’s darkened bedroom. The curtains were drawn back from the window that looked out the south side of the house onto a grove of palms. Piercing the glass, moonlight threw blue smears across one wall. Otherwise, shadows hung in the room like bats. Essai was completely invisible.
Waiting, he thought about his life, about the path he had chosen and others he might have taken instead. He was not content. As far as he was concerned, there was time to be content when he was dead. Life was a constant state of flux, which meant anxiety, tension, and conflict. But what lay most heavily on his mind was how easily friends became enemies by betraying you. He had believed in Severus Domna, had for a time even believed in Benjamin El-Arian. Possibly in the case of El-Arian he had engaged in self-delusion masquerading as wishful thinking. Looking back on it now, he could link small incidents like a string of rotten pearls that should have alerted him to El-Arian’s true purpose. Not the least were his trips to Munich and then, more recently, Damascus. In hindsight, it was clear that in Munich he had been meeting secretly with Semid Abdul-Qahhar, plotting the alliance that would ultimately corrupt the Domna beyond its founders’ recognition.
A faint sound, no more than the scratching of a field mouse, brought him to full alert. On either side of the window the curtains shifted, and, with them, the pattern of moonlight on the opposite wall. Like a cloud passing in front of the moon, a shadow appeared. For long moments it remained stationary. Then, ever so slowly, it moved against the windowpanes, so gently that if Essai hadn’t known better he might have mistaken it for the fluttering of a moth.
He watched, gimlet-eyed, as the window slowly slid up until there was enough space for the shadow to climb silently through.
Only when the shadow turned toward the bed did Essai say, “He’s not here.”
“Where is he?” Marlon Etana said.
“I warned you,” Essai said.
Etana turned slowly around. “I never cared for your warnings.”
“I need Bourne. I told you quite clearly this afternoon on the boat.
”
“I didn’t see much point in paying attention.”
Essai cleared his throat. “You’re going to have to explain that.”
“Why?”
Essai brought the Makarov pistol he was holding into the moonlight. It had a suppressor screwed onto the muzzle.
Etana eyed it with what appeared to be a mixture of amusement and resignation. “You see, Essai, this is the difference between us. I shouldn’t have to tell you; you should know why Bourne has to die.”
Essai waved the Makarov. “Humor me.”
Etana sighed. “Bourne killed our people in Tineghir last year. In particular, he murdered Idir.”
“Idir Syphax, yes.” Essai nodded. “So it’s true, then.”
“What are you talking about? You know Idir and I had been friends since childhood.”
Essai tilted his head to one side. “Rather more than friends, it now appears.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Save it.” The flat of Essai’s hand cut through the air. “I am not so much a hypocrite as other Arabs. I only care about your sexual orientation as it affects me. Bourne killed your lover—”
“Idir had a wife and children.”
“The fact that Bourne killed your lover doesn’t make it right to seek revenge.”
Etana let out a cruel laugh. “You’re a good one to talk. Your entire life is bent toward revenge against your daughter’s death.”
“Bourne is a dead man walking. As you very well know, he is being stalked by a general of the FSB-2, who, frankly, has a far better chance of—”
“Russians,” Etana said contemptuously. “But who cares? You’re protecting Bourne now.”
“For the moment, yes. Without him I can’t bring down the Domna. You have to forget about him. His death is foretold, but not by your hand.”
Etana stiffened. “It must be by my hand.”
Essai sighed. “Give it up, Marlon.”
“I can’t,” Etana said. “I won’t.”
“You have no choice.” Essai rose.
Etana was on him before he had fully reached his feet. The two of them tumbled over the back of the chair, but, despite the Makarov, Essai was in the vulnerable position. When the back of his knees struck the chair seat he lost his balance and couldn’t get a clear shot off. Instead he swung the elongated barrel, opening a red crescent just below Etana’s eye. Etana struck him a vicious blow on his sternum, and stars exploded behind his eyes. His breath felt hot in his throat and his lungs had trouble sucking in air.
The two men fought silently and efficiently. They were evenly matched, if not in strength, then in their intimate knowledge of each other, accumulated during their years of friendship. None of that mattered now, the shared history, the scheming together, watching each other’s backs. Now only a desperate struggle for survival mattered. One of them would not leave the bedroom alive, and they both knew it.
Essai heard the metallic click, sensed Etana’s switchblade, and drove his elbow hard into Etana’s stomach. He could see the blade then, thin and wicked looking. It reflected the moonlight as it arced in toward him. But Etana’s pass at him was off the mark. The tip of the blade grazed his shirt, the fabric rent open. His skin prickled as if being overrun by ants.
He drove Etana back, fighting to break away so that he could use the Makarov and end the battle. But Etana grabbed hold of him with one hand and would not allow him to gain advantage. Close in, the switchblade was the weapon of choice. If wielded correctly, it could do more damage in one swift cut than a five-minute pounding by a pair of fists.
Essai struck Etana in the mouth. The lips split and blood filled Etana’s mouth, staining his teeth vermilion. He spat blood into Essai’s eyes and, as Essai reeled back, slashed him with the knife. Essai felt the hot slash and gasped inwardly. He tried for Etana’s mouth again, missed, his fist smashing into Etana’s cheek instead.
Etana reeled away, taking Essai with him. Essai’s hip struck a night table, the lamp tilting against him. He snatched it up and slammed the base against the back of Etana’s hand. The switchblade skittered across the floor, fetching up on the rug at the edge of the bed. Etana swung Essai around and smashed his arm against the wall. He tried to claw the pistol out of Essai’s hand, and Essai drove his elbow into Etana’s rib cage.
The two men stumbled backward and hit the floor, rolling over. The pistol went off as it hit the floorboards, the bullet burying itself in the ceiling. Etana’s head struck the bed frame, and Essai began a flurry of punches that had Etana’s head swinging back and forth like a pendulum. Etana slumped over, and Essai glimpsed the switchblade out of the corner of his eye. Shoving Etana off him, he stretched out to grab it. As he did so, Etana chopped the edge of his hand down on the back of Essai’s neck. Snatching up the switchblade, Etana pulled Essai’s head back and slashed his throat from ear to ear.
Patterns of shadow and light crawled across the hotel room’s standard-issue carpet, mimicking the vehicular traffic on the street outside. Maggie stood in the room to which she was supposed to bring Christopher. One hand was at her temple, the other at her side. Silently, she counted the lenses of the miniaturized video cameras: in the bar, the TV cabinet, one corner where the ceiling met the wall. Even the bathroom had one hidden in a strategic position. The microphones were all on standby, waiting for a word to be spoken. Through one of its many subsidiaries, the Domna had rented this room for a month. The day after it was booked, three of its techs spent several hours painstakingly installing the electronic equipment then, using plaster and paint, covering up their work.
It was lonely in here, and she felt the pain of that loneliness as if it were a loss of a limb. The room had been prepared so lovingly, and yet now she hated it with every fiber of her being. She was not the same woman who had arrived in Washington, DC, to do Christopher in. The change had occurred magically, overnight, and it staggered her. She sat on the bed now, head in her hands as the lozenges of shadow and light danced slowly around her.
She had less than twenty hours to lure Christopher up here, to seduce him into a constellation of compromising positions, and get him to say the words that would lead to his disgrace. Weeks ago the plan seemed stellar; it also seemed like fun. Unlike other countries, which the Domna had successfully infiltrated through political and financial means, the United States had proved far more difficult, due to its diverse population, vast expanses, and resounding resilience. It, among all the developed nations, had a highly elaborate network of checks and balances that had foiled the machinations of even the Domna hierarchy.
She had been against attacking America’s currency through manipulations of the worldwide gold market, which had been the Domna’s plan until Jason Bourne had stopped it cold last year. But she had to admit that changing the target to the Indigo Ridge mine and its vast rare earth riches was brilliant. Members of the Domna’s Chinese arm had been successful in choking off the export of rare earths, and now the US military’s orders for cutting-edge weaponry were at a complete standstill. Phase One complete. Phase Two, far more difficult to achieve, was the Indigo Ridge mine itself. Through its American operatives, the Domna had received advance word of the US government’s intention of reopening the mine by floating an IPO on the stock market. Security was bound to be the primary issue on the American president’s mind. Benjamin El-Arian had made a list of the people the president was likely to appoint to direct security at Indigo Ridge. Maggie had seen the shockingly short list, which contained only three names: Brad Findlay, the head of Homeland Security; M. Errol Danziger, the director of Central Intelligence; and Christopher. Danziger was out because, as Benjamin told her, CI’s bailiwick was outside the precincts of the United States. The obvious choice was Findlay, but Benjamin knew that the president trusted Hendricks over the others. In El-Arian’s opinion, the extreme high priority of the security mission made Hendricks’s appointment a fait accompli. Therefore Christopher had been targeted. The idea was to cause a scandal th
at would derail the security plans while, at the same time, diverting key people’s attention from Indigo Ridge during the time the Domna needed to accomplish Phase Two.
But now… Now Maggie didn’t know. From one breath to the next everything seemed to have shifted around her, or maybe she was seeing the world with different eyes. Which was why she had taken the astonishing opportunity Christopher had laid in her lap during their picnic lunch. She had advised him to give up duty at Indigo Ridge—she knew precisely what he had been alluding to—and dump it into Danziger’s incompetent lap. That was the only way she could think of to save Christopher—and, by extension, herself. Once off Indigo Ridge, he would be of no use to the Domna. She could fold her operation and flush it.
She wondered why Benjamin hadn’t called her yet. Surely he would have gotten word of the security shift by now. The suspense was like a knife in her gut. With a soft groan, she reached over for the phone, dialed room service, and ordered a porterhouse, steak fries, and creamed spinach. She might as well eat well in her misery.
She lay back on the bedspread, her arms outstretched on either side. She inhaled the recycled air of the room while she stared at the ceiling. Traffic sounds filtering in from outside now seemed cold, alien, lethal. She shivered, even though her body seemed feverish. Shadows sliding along the pale blue ceiling created images like clouds in the sky. Startlingly, she saw her father. When she dreamed of him, he was always leaving, the shadow of his great woolly overcoat filling the doorway to their house in Stockholm. Beyond, there was only the snow, sparkling in the wan northern sunlight like piles of sugar. And always he would fade into that sea of whiteness, as if he had never existed. She would wake from these dream-memories thinking that she knew what his life had been like. Other times, she wasn’t so certain. And sometimes she was afraid that her memories of him were part of a fantasy she had concocted as a child, afraid that it would all fall apart in the light of day. But no, she had to have faith, she had to believe the path she had chosen was the right one, the only one she could have taken. Yet so much blood had been spilled, so much grief and heartache. Her mother gone, and Mikaela dead. She had to believe that these deaths had a purpose, otherwise she would lose her mind.