such an obvious trap?"
"Because I can." Arkadin sat with his small suitcase on his lap. Inside was the laptop computer.
"I don't believe you."
"I don't give a shit what you believe."
"Another lie, otherwise I wouldn't be here with you now."
He looked at her, shaking his head. "Within ten minutes I could make you cry out, I could make you forget all your previous lovers."
"I'm charmed, truly."
"Mother Teresa, not Mata Hari." He said this with a good measure of disgust, as if her chastity had made him lose respect for her, or at least devalue her.
"Do you imagine I care what a piece of shit like you thinks of me." It was not a question.
They bounced around in the backseat for some time. Then he said, as if continuing the previous conversation, "You're here as an insurance policy. You and Bourne have a connection. At the proper time, I mean to make the most of it."
Soraya, brooding, was silent for the remainder of the ride.
In Marrakech, Arkadin took her along a warren of streets where Moroccans peered at her, licking their lips as if they were trying to measure the tenderness of her flesh. They were engulfed by the madhouse screeches of the jungle. At length, they entered a stuffy shop that stank of machine oil. A small, bald, mole-like man greeted Arkadin in the obsequious manner of an undertaker, rubbing his hands together and bowing continuously. At the rear of the shop was a small Persian carpet. Lifting this aside, he pulled on a thick metal ring, which opened a trapdoor. Switching on a small flashlight, the mole-man descended a metal spiral staircase. At the base, he flicked on a series of fluorescent coils set into a ceiling so low they were forced to stoop as they crab-walked across the polished floorboards. Unlike the shop above, dusty, packed willy-nilly with all manner of cartons, barrels, and crates, the basement was spotless. Along the walls, portable dehumidifiers hummed quietly alongside a row of air purifiers. The basement was divided into neat aisles sided by long, waist-high cabinets, each with three drawers, each one filled with every form of hand weaponry known to modern man. Every weapon was marked and tagged in meticulous fashion.
"Well, since you know my stock," the mole-man said, "I'll leave you to make your choices. Bring what you want to buy upstairs, I'll provide what ammunition you require, and we'll settle the bill."
Arkadin nodded absently. He was consumed with passing from one drawer of the arsenal to another, calculating firepower, ease of use, rapidity of fire, and the practicality of weight and size of each weapon.
When they were alone, he removed from a drawer what looked to Soraya like a searchlight with a large battery pack underneath it. Turning to her, he shook the searchlight. The battery pack opened and locked into place. The item was a folding machine gun.
"I've never seen that before." She was fascinated despite herself.
"It's a prototype, not on the market yet. It's a Magpul FMG, takes standard nine-millimeter Glock ammo but spits it out a shitload faster than a pistol." He ran his hand down the stubby barrel. "Nice, huh?"
Soraya thought it was. She'd dearly like one for herself.
Arkadin must have recognized the avidity of her gaze. "Here."
She took it from him, examined it expertly, broke it down, then put it back together.
"Fucking ingenious." Arkadin seemed in no hurry to take back the FMG. He seemed to be watching her, but, in fact, he was seeing something else, a scene from far away.
In St. Petersburg he'd taken Tracy to her hotel room. She had not asked him to come up, but she hadn't protested when he had. Inside, she put her handbag and key down on a table, walked across the carpet and into the bathroom. She closed the door but he didn't hear the click of a lock.
The river glittered in moonlight, black and thick and full of secrets, like an ancient serpent, always half asleep. It was stuffy in the room, so he went to the window and, unlatching it, opened it. A wind, thick as the river and smelling of it, swirled about the room. He turned, looked at the bed, and imagined Tracy there, her nakedness revealed by the moonlight.
A tiny sound, like a sigh or a catch in the throat, caused him to turn around. The bathroom door, unlatched, had opened, and now another swirl of wind pushed it farther, so that a thin wedge of buttery light fell