Bourne was about to answer him when he saw the dim glint of a SIG Sauer Mosquito in Arkadin's hand. He ducked just before the.22 bullet whizzed over his head.
"He was right."
Bourne twisted away, dodging around the other mannequins, using them as cover even as Arkadin squeezed off three more rounds. Plaster, wood, and acrylic shattered near Bourne's left shoulder and ear before he dived behind Kirsch's worktable. Behind him, he could hear Arkadin's grunts combined with the screech of metal as he worked to free himself from the fallen shooter.
Bourne knew from Kirsch's description that the front door was to the left. Scrambling up, he dashed around the corner as Arkadin fired another shot. A chunk of plaster and lath disintegrated where the.22 impacted the corner. Reaching the door, Bourne unlocked it, pulled it open, and sprinted out into the hallway. The open door to Kirsch's apartment loomed to his left.
No good can come of us training guns on each other," Icoupov said. "Let's try to reason through this situation rationally."
"That's your problem," Devra said. "Life isn't rational; it's fucked-up chaos. It's part of the delusion; power makes you think you can control everything. But you can't, no one can."
"You and Leonid think you know what you're doing, but you're wrong. No one operates in a vacuum. If you kill Bourne it will have terrible repercussions."
"Repercussions for you, not for us. This is what power does: You think in shortcuts. Expediency, political opportunities, corruption without end."
It was at that moment they both heard the gunshots, but only Devra knew they came from Arkadin's Mosquito. She could sense Icoupov's finger tighten around the SIG's trigger, and she went into a semi-crouch because she knew if Bourne appeared rather than Arkadin she would shoot him dead.
The situation had reached a boiling point, and Icoupov was clearly worried. "Devra, I beg you to reconsider. Leonid doesn't know the whole picture. I need Bourne alive. What he did to Mischa was despicable, but personal feelings have no place in this equation. So much planning, so much spilled blood will come to nothing if Leonid kills Bourne. You must let me stop it; I'll give you anything-anything you want."
"Do you think you can buy me? Money means nothing to me. What I want is Leonid," Devra said just as Bourne appeared through the front doorway.
Devra and Icoupov both turned. Devra screamed because she knew, or she thought she knew, that Arkadin was dead, and so she redirected the Luger from Icoupov to Bourne.
Bourne ducked back into the hallway and she fired shot after shot at him as she walked toward the door. Because her focus was entirely concentrated on Bourne, she took her eyes off Icoupov and so missed the crucial movement as he swung the SIG in her direction.
"I warned you," he said as he shot her in the chest.
She fell onto her back.
"Why didn't you listen?" Icoupov said as he shot her again.
Devra made a little sound as her body arched up. Icoupov stood over her.
"How could you let yourself be seduced by such a monster?" he said.
Devra stared up at him with red-rimmed eyes. Blood pumped out of her with every labored beat of her heart. "That's exactly what I asked him about you." Each ragged breath filled her with indescribable pain. "He's not a monster, but if he were you'd be so much worse."
Her hand twitched. Icoupov, caught up in her words, paid no attention until the bullet she fired from her Luger struck his right shoulder. He spun back against the wall. The pain caused him to drop the SIG. Seeing her struggling to fire again, he turned and ran out of the apartment, fleeing down the stairwell and out onto the street.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
WILLARD, relaxing in the steward's lounge adjacent to the Library of the NSA safe house, was enjoying his sweet and milky midmorning cup of coffee while reading The Washington Post when his cell phone buzzed. He checked it, saw that it was from his son, Oren. Of course it wasn't actually from Oren, but Willard was the only one who knew that.
He put down the paper, watched as the photo appeared on the phone's screen. It was of two people standing in front of a rural church, its steeple rising up into the top margin of the photo. He had no idea who the people were or where they were, but these things were irrelevant. There were six ciphers in his