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 believe that they have the gift of sight, and what creature can look upon his creator without going mad or blind, or both?"
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