Sprawled on the floor, Yetnikova slowly came to her senses. Immediately she began her bluster-cursing and promising dire consequences for the outrages perpetrated on her person. Arkadin didn't hear her; he didn't even see her. He attempted to block out the past, but as always the memories flattened him. They took possession of him, taking him out of himself, producing like a drug a dream-like state that over the years had become as familiar as a twin brother.
Kneeling over Yetnikova, he dodged her kicks, the snapping of her jaws. He withdrew a switchblade from a sheath strapped to the side of his right calf. When he snikked open its long, thin blade, fear finally twisted Yetnikova's face. Her eyes opened wide and she gasped, raising her hands instinctively.
"Why are you doing this?" she cried. "Why?"
"Because of what you've done."
"What? What did I do? I don't even know you!"
"But I know you." Slapping her hands aside, Arkadin went to work on her.
When, moments later, he was done, his vision came back into focus. He took a long, shuddering breath as if shaking off the effects of an anesthetic. He stared down at the headless corpse. Then, remembering, he kicked the head into a corner filled with filthy rags. For a moment, it rocked like a ship on the ocean. The eyes seemed to him gray with age, but they were only filmed with dust, and the release he sought eluded him once again.
Who were they?" Moira asked.
"That's the difficulty," Bourne told her. "I wasn't able to find out. It would help if you could tell me why they're following you."
Moira frowned. "I have to assume it has something to do with the security on the LNG terminal."
They were sitting side by side in Moira's living room, a small, cozy space in a Georgetown town house of red-brown brick on Cambridge Place, NW, near Dumbarton Oaks. A fire was crackling and licking in the brick hearth; espresso and brandy sat on the coffee table in front of them. The chenille-covered sofa was deep enough for Moira to curl up on. It had big roll arms and a neck-high back.
"One thing I can tell you," Bourne said, "these people are professionals."
"Makes sense," she said. "Any rival of my firm would hire the best people available. That doesn't necessarily mean I'm in any danger."
Nevertheless, Bourne felt another sharp pang at the loss of Marie, then carefully, almost reverently, put the feeling aside.
"More espresso?" Moira asked.
"Please."
Bourne handed her his cup. As she bent forward, the light V-neck sweater revealed the tops of her firm breasts. At that moment, she raised her gaze to his. There was a mischievous glint in her eyes.
"What are you thinking about?"
"Probably the same thing you are." He rose, looked around for his coat. "I think I'd better go."
"Jason..."
He paused. Lamplight gave her face a golden glow. "Don't," she said. "Stay. Please."
He shook his head. "You and I both know that's not a good idea."
"Just for tonight. I don't want to be alone, not after what you discovered." She gave a little shiver. "I was being brave before, but I'm not you. Being followed gives me the willies."
She offered the cup of espresso. "If it makes you feel any better, I'd prefer you sleep out here. This sofa's quite comfortable."
Bourne looked around at the warm chestnut walls, the dark wooden blinds, the jewel-toned accents here and there in the form of vases and bowls of flowers. An agate box with gold legs sat on a mahogany sideboard. A small brass ship's clock ticked away beside it. The photos of the French countryside in summer and autumn made him feel both mournful and nostalgic. For precisely what, he couldn't say. Though his mind fished for memories, none surfaced. His past was a lake of black ice. "Yes, it is." He took the cup, sat down beside her.
She pulled a pillow against her breast. "Shall we talk about what we've been avoiding saying all evening?"
"I'm not big on talking."
Her wide lips curved in a smile. "Which one of you isn't big on talking, David Webb or Jason Bourne?"
Bourne laughed, sipped his espresso. "What if I said both of us?"
"I'd have to call you a liar."
"We can't have that, can we?"
"It wouldn't be my choice." She rested one cheek on her hand, waiting. When he said nothing further, she continued. "Please, Jason. Just talk to me."
The old fear of getting close to someone reared its head again, but