The Bourne Deception - By Robert Ludlum & Eric van Lustbader Page 0,7

gripped by a terrible chill that worked its way into his bones before he’d even begun his double-kick upward.

By the time he broke the surface, the tanker was a blur, steaming toward the docks at Long Beach. Treading water, he swiveled his body around as a submarine captain might swivel his periscope to get the lay of the land, as it were. The vessel nearest to him was a fishing trawler, but until it was an emergency, he wanted no part of it. The captain would be bound to report rescuing a man overboard to the American Coast Guard, which was precisely what Arkadin didn’t want: Bourne was sure to check the records.

He felt no panic, or even concern. He knew he wouldn’t drown. He was a powerful swimmer with great endurance, even after his exhausting hand-to-hand fight with Bourne aboard the tanker. The sky was blue, except where the brown haze hung over the shore, stretching inland to Los Angeles. The waves lifted him up and swept him into their valleys. He kicked to maintain his position. Now and again curious gulls wheeled overhead.

After twenty minutes his patience was rewarded. A sixty-foot pleasure craft hove into view, moving at about four times the speed of the trawler. Soon it was near enough to him for him to begin waving. Almost immediately the boat altered course.

Another fifteen minutes and he was on board, wrapped in two towels and a blanket because his core temperature had dropped below acceptable levels. His lips were blue and he was shivering. The owner, whose name was Manny, fed him some brandy and a chunk of Italian bread and cheese.

“If you excuse me a minute, I’ll get on the horn with the Coast Guard, tell them I’ve picked you up. What’s your name?”

“Willy,” Arkadin lied. “But I wish you wouldn’t.”

Manny made an apologetic gesture with his meaty shoulders. He was of middle height, red-faced, balding. He was dressed casually but expensively. “Sorry, pal. Rules of the road.”

“Wait, Manny, wait. It’s like this.” Arkadin was speaking English with a native’s Midwestern twang. His time in America had served him well on many fronts. “Are you married?”

“Divorced. Twice.”

“See there? I knew you’d understand. See, I’d chartered a boat to take my wife out for a nice day, maybe head over to Catalina for drinks. Anyway, how was I to know my girlfriend stowed away on board. I’d told her I was going fishing with the guys so she thought she’d surprise me.”

“She did surprise you.”

“Shit,” Arkadin said, “did she ever!” He finished off his brandy, shook his head. “Anyhoo, things got kinda wild. I mean all hell broke loose. You don’t know my wife, she can be a real queen bitch.”

“I think I was married to her once.” Manny sat back down. “So what did you do?”

Arkadin shrugged. “What could I do? I jumped overboard.”

Manny threw his head back and laughed. He slapped his thigh. “Goddammit! Willy, you sonovabitch!”

“So you see why it’d be so much better if no one knows you picked me up.”

“Sure, sure, I understand, but still ”

“Manny, what’s your line of work, if I might ask?”

“I own a company that imports and sells high-end computer chips.”

“Well, now, isn’t that something?” Arkadin had said. “I think I might have a deal that could net both of us a boatload of money.”

Arkadin, finishing the last of his lawar at the Gianyar market, laughed to himself. Manny got two hundred thousand dollars, and through one of his regular business shipments Arkadin received the Mexican drug lord 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