her thigh. She was wearing American designer jeans, an open-necked shirt, sandals on her feet. "The process of examining your past is designed to help you regain control over yourself."
"You mean my homicidal tendencies," he said.
"Why would you choose to say it that way, Leonid?"
He looked deeply into her eyes. "Because it's the truth."
Marlene's eyes grew dark. "Then why are you so reluctant to talk to me about the things I feel will help you?"
"You just want to worm your way inside my head. You think if you know everything about me you can control me."
"You're wrong. This isn't about control, Leonid."
Arkadin laughed. "What is it about then?"
"What it's always been-it's about helping you control yourself."
A light wind tugged at her hair, and she smoothed it back into place. He noticed such things and attached to them psychological meaning. Marlene liked everything just so.
"I was a sad little boy. Then I was an angry little boy. Then I ran away from home. There, does that satisfy you?"
Marlene tilted her head to catch a bit of sunlight that appeared through the tossed leaves of the fig tree. "How is it you went from being sad to being angry?"
"I grew up," Arkadin said.
"You were still a child."
"Only in a manner of speaking."
He studied her for a moment. Her hands were crossed on her lap. She lifted one of them, touched his cheek with her fingertips, traced the line of his jaw until she reached his chin. She turned his face a bit farther toward her. Then she leaned forward. Her lips, when they touched his, were soft. They opened like a flower. The touch of her tongue was like an explosion in his mouth.
Arkadin, damping down the dark eddy of his emotion, smiled winningly. "Doesn't matter. I'm never going back."
"I second that emotion." Devra nodded, then rose. "Let's see if we can get proper lodgings. I don't know about you but I need a shower. Then we'll see about contacting Haydar without anyone knowing."
As she began to turn away, he caught her by the elbow.
"Just a minute."
Her expression was quizzical as she waited for him to continue.
"If you're not my enemy, if you haven't been lying to me, if you want to stay with me, then you'll demonstrate your fidelity."
"I said, yes, I would do what you asked of me."
"That might entail killing the people who are surely guarding Haydar."
She didn't even blink. "Give me the fucking gun."
Veronica Hart lived in an apartment complex in Langley, Virginia. Like so many other complexes in this part of the world, it served as temporary housing for the thousands of federal government workers, including spooks of all stripes, who were often on assignment overseas or in other parts of the country.
Hart had lived in this particular apartment for just over two years. Not that it mattered; since coming to the district seven years ago she'd had nothing but temporary lodgings. By this point she doubted she'd be comfortable settling down and nesting. At least, those were her thoughts as she buzzed Soraya Moore into the lobby. A moment later a discreet knock sounded, and she let the other woman in.
"I'm clean," Soraya said as she shrugged off her coat. "I made sure of that."
Hart hung her coat in the foyer closet, led her into the kitchen. "For breakfast I have cold cereal or"-she opened the refrigerator-"cold Chinese food. Last night's leftovers."
"I'm not one for conventional breakfasts," Soraya said.
"Good. Neither am I."
Hart grabbed an array of cardboard cartons, told Soraya where to find plates, serving spoons, and chopsticks. They moved into the living room, set everything on a glass coffee table between facing sofas.
Hart began opening the cartons. "No pork, right?"
Soraya smiled, pleased that her boss remembered her Muslim strictures. "Thank you."
Hart returned to the kitchen, put up water for tea. "I have Earl Grey or oolong."
"Oolong for me, please."
Hart finished brewing the tea, brought the pot and two small handleless cups back to the living room. The two women settled themselves on opposite sides of the table, sitting cross-legged on the abstract patterned rug. Soraya looked around. There were some basic prints on the wall, the kind you'd expect to find at any midlevel hotel chain. The furniture looked rented, as anonymous as anything else. There were no photos, no sense of Hart's background or family. The only unusual feature was an upright piano.
"My only real possession," Hart said, following Soraya's gaze. "It's a Steinway K-52, better known as a Chippendale hamburg. It's got a