open door. Taking the steps two at a time, he tried to shoulder his way through the knot of men who, though elderly, were certainly not passive, especially when it came to decorum and protocol. As one, they formed a living wall, pushing back at him in the manner of a phalanx of Roman soldiers advancing on the barbarian enemy. The gunman, taken aback, retreated.
The pause gave Bourne the time he needed to slip away from the professors, down the corridor with its sounds of well-shod feet and hushed conversations bouncing off the polished marble floor. A line of square windows, high up, bestowed sunlight on the crowns of the students' heads like a benediction. The wooden doors blurred by as Bourne made for the rear of the Centre. Bells sounded for the beginning of the four o'clock classes.
He raced around a corner, into the short corridor leading to the rear door. But the Severus Domna gunman pushed through it. They were alone in the back corridor. The gunman had his overcoat draped over his right arm and hand, which held the silenced pistol. He aimed it at Bourne, who was still sprinting.
Bourne went down, sliding on his backside along the marble floor as a shot whizzed by overhead. He barreled into the gunman with the soles of his shoes, knocking him over. The pistol flew out of his grip. Bourne rolled over, slammed his knee into the point of the gunman's chin. His body went slack.
Voices echoed down the corridor from just around the corner. Scrambling to his feet, Bourne scooped up the pistol, then dragged the gunman out the rear door, down the steps, and deposited him behind a thick boxwood hedge. He pocketed the pistol and continued along the university pathways at a normal pace. He passed fresh-faced students, laughing and chatting, and a dour professor, huffing as he scurried, late for his next lecture. Then Bourne was out onto St Giles' Street. In typical English fashion, the afternoon had turned gloomy. A chill wind swept across the gutters and storefronts. Everyone was bent over, shoulders hunched, dashing like boats fleeing an oncoming storm. Bourne, blending in as he always did, hurried to his car.
* * *
Go," Moira said, when she was out of recovery and had gained full consciousness.
Soraya shook her head. "I'm not leaving you."
"The worst has already happened," Moira said quite rightly. "There's nothing left here for you to do."
"You shouldn't be alone," Soraya insisted.
"Neither should you. You're still with Arkadin."
Soraya smiled, somewhat sadly, because everything Moira said was true. "Still and all - "
"Still and all," Moira said, "someone's coming to look after me, someone who loves me."
Soraya was slightly taken aback. "Is it Jason? Is Jason coming for you?"
Moira smiled. She had already drifted off to sleep.
Soraya found Arkadin waiting for her. But first she needed to speak with the young neurosurgeon, who was, in his own way, optimistic in his prognosis.
"The main thing in instances like these where nerves and tendons are involved is how quickly the patient receives medical attention." He spoke formally, as if he were Catalan, rather than a Mexican. "In this respect, your friend is extremely fortunate." He tipped his hand over, palm down. "However, the wound was ragged rather than clean. Plus, whatever she was cut with wasn't clean. As a result, the procedure took longer, and was both more delicate and more complicated than it might otherwise have been. Again, fortunate that you called me. I don't say this out of self-aggrandizement. It's a matter of record, a fact. No one else could have managed the procedure without botching or missing something."
Soraya sighed with relief. "Then she'll be fine."
"Naturally, she'll be fine," the neurosurgeon said. "With a proper course of rehab and physical therapy."
Something dark clutched at Soraya's heart. "She'll walk naturally, won't she? I mean, without a limp."
The neurosurgeon shook his head. "In a child, the tendons are elastic enough that it might be possible. But in an adult that elasticity - or rather a good part of it - is gone. No, no, she'll have a limp. How noticeable it will be depends entirely on the outcome of her rehab. And of course, her will to adapt."
Soraya thought for a moment. "She knows all this?"
"She asked and I told her. It's better that way, believe me. The mind needs more time to adapt than the body does."
"Can we get out of here now?" Arkadin said, after the neurosurgeon had vanished down the corridor.
Shooting