"My arms are killing me," she said softly. She turned her head and smiled into her daughter's face. "Thank God you're safe, sugarplum."
Scarlett burst into fresh tears. Chrissie looked up at Bourne as he undid her buttons, shrugged her out of the blouse so that the last of the glass shards fell harmlessly on either side of her.
Then he lifted her up. When he'd swung her away from the bed, he put her down. As they stepped over Coven's lifeless body, Chrissie shuddered. They stopped in the room she had been using to get sweaters for her and Scarlett, who, in a kind of delayed reaction, was leaking tears as she knelt to put on her sweater, which was yellow with a pattern of pink bunnies eating ice-cream cones. Halfway down the stairs she began to whimper.
Chrissie put an arm around her. "It's all right, sugarplum. Everything's all right, Mum has you now," she whispered over and over.
When they reached the ground floor, she said to Bourne, "Coven tied my father up, he's here somewhere."
Bourne found him, bound and gagged, in one of the kitchen closets. He was unconscious, either from the blow that caused the bruised swelling on his left temple or from the lack of oxygen. Bourne laid him on the kitchen floor and untied him. It was dark with the power still off.
"My God, is he dead?" Chrissie said as she and Scarlett ran in.
"No. His pulse is strong." He took his finger away from the carotid and began to free him from his bonds.
Chrissie, her courage disintegrating at the sight of her father so helplessly incapacitated, began to soundlessly weep, but this caused Scarlett to sob, so she bit her lip, holding back more tears. She ran cold water in the sink, soaked a dishcloth, and filled up a glass. Crouching down beside her daughter, she placed the folded towel against Bourne's cheek, which had started to swell and discolor.
Her father was thin, in the manner of many older people. His face was time-ravaged and somewhat lopsided, so that Bourne guessed he'd had a stroke not so long ago. Bourne shook him gently, and his eyelids fluttered open, his tongue ran around his dry lips.
"Can you sit him up?" Chrissie asked. "I'll get some water into him."
Supporting her father's back, Bourne sat him up slowly and carefully.
"Dad, Dad?"
"Where is that sonovabitch who hit me?"
"He's dead," Bourne said.
"Come on, Dad, drink some water." Chrissie was observing her father closely, fearful that at any moment he would pass out again. "It'll make you feel better."
But the old man paid her no mind. Instead he was staring intently at Bourne. He licked his lips again and accepted the glass his daughter held for him. His knobby Adam's apple bobbed spastically as he drank. He choked.
"Easy, Dad. Easy."
His hand fluttered up, and she took the rim of the glass away from his mouth. Then his forefinger unfurled, pointing at Bourne.
"I know you." His voice was like sandpaper over metal.
Bourne said, "I don't think so."
"No, no. You came into the Centre when I ran it. That was years ago, of course, when the Centre was in Old Boys' School in George Street. But I'll never forget it because I had to call an ex-colleague by the name of Basil Bayswater, a first-class wanker if ever there was one. He made a killing in the market and retired to Whitney. Spent all his time playing an ancient form of chess or something. Disgraceful waste of time.
"But you." His forefinger touched Bourne's chest. "I never forget a face. I'll be goddamned. You're Professor Webb. That's it! David Webb!"
Chapter Twenty
PETER MARKS RECEIVED the call from Bourne, brief and succinct, and with mixed feelings agreed to come to the address Bourne gave him. In a way, he was surprised that Bourne had called him back. On the other hand, Bourne didn't sound like himself, which caused Marks to wonder what sort of situation he was heading into. His relationship with Bourne was all one-way: through Soraya. He knew something of her history with Bourne, and he'd always wondered whether she had allowed her personal feelings to color her opinion of him.
The official CI line was, and had been for some time, that Bourne's amnesia had made him unpredictable, and therefore dangerous. He was a rogue agent, loyal to no one and nothing, least of all CI. Though CI had been forced to use him in the past, it was always through deception or