soon as Bourne was inside, Deron gave him a huge hug. "Dammit, man, you're worse than a will-o'-the-wisp, first I see you, then I don't."
"That's the idea, isn't it?"
Then he glanced down at Bourne's bandaged hands. "What the fuck?"
"I had a run-in with something that tried to eat me."
Deron laughed. "Well, you must be okay then. Come on in." He led Bourne into his house in Northeast Washington. He was a tall, slim, handsome man with skin the color of light cocoa. He had a clipped British accent. "How about a drink or, better yet, something to eat?"
"Sorry, old friend, no time. I'm flying out to London tonight."
"Well, then, I've got just the passport for you."
Bourne laughed. "Not this time. I'm here to pick up the package."
Deron turned and looked at him. "Ah, after all this time."
Bourne smiled. "I've finally found the proper home for it."
"Excellent. The homeless make me sad." Deron took Bourne through the rambling house and into his enormous studio, fumey with oil paint and turpentine. There was a canvas on a wooden easel. "Take a look at my newest child," he said before disappearing into another room.
Bourne came around and took a look at the painting. It was almost finished - enough, anyway, to take his breath away. A woman in white, carrying a parasol against a burning sun, walked in high grass, while a young boy, possibly her son, looked on longingly. The depiction of the light was simply extraordinary. Bourne stepped in, peering closely at the brushstrokes, which matched perfectly those of Claude Monet, who had painted the original La Promenade in 1875.
"What do you think?"
Bourne turned. Deron had returned with a hard-sided attache case. "Magnificent. Even better than the original."
Deron laughed. "Good God, man, I hope not!" He handed Bourne the case. "Here you are, safe and sound."
"Thanks, Deron."
"Hey, it was a challenge. I forge paintings and, for you, passports, visas, and the like. But a computer? To tell you the truth the composite housing was a bitch. I wasn't sure I'd gotten it quite right."
"You did a great job."
"Another satisfied customer," he said with a laugh.
They began to drift back through the house.
"How's Kiki?"
"As ever. She's back in Africa for six weeks working to improve the locals' lot. It's lonely here without her."
"You two should get married."
"You'll be the first to know, old man." They were at the front door. He shook Bourne's hand. "Ever get up to Oxford?"
"As a matter of fact, yes."
"Give the Grand Old Dame my regards."
"I will." Bourne opened the door. "Thanks for everything."
Deron waved away his words. "Godspeed, Jason."
Bourne, on the night flight to London, dreamed that he was back in Bali, at the top of Pura Lempuyang, peering through the gates that framed Mount Agung. In his dream he saw Holly Marie moving slowly from right to left. As she passed in front of the sacred mountain, Bourne began to run toward her and, as she was pushed, he caught her before she could fall down the steep, stone steps to her death. Holding her in his arms, he looked down on her face. It was Tracy's face.
Tracy shuddered and he saw the jagged shard of glass impaling her. Blood inundated her and ran over his hands and arms.
"What's happening, Jason? It's not my time to die."
It wasn't Tracy's voice that echoed in his dream; it was Scarlett's.
London greeted him with an uncharacteristically brilliant, crisp, blue morning. Chrissie had insisted on picking him up at Heathrow. She was waiting for him just outside of security. She smiled as he kissed her on the cheek.
"Baggage?"
"Only what I'm carrying," Bourne said.
Linking arms with him, she said, "How very nice to see you again so soon. Scarlett was so excited when I told her. We'll have lunch up at Oxford and then pick her up from school."
They walked to the car park and got into her battered Range Rover.
"Old times," she said, laughing.
"How did Scarlett take the news about her aunt?"
Chrissie sighed as she pulled out. "About as well as could be expected. She was a complete wreck for twenty-four hours. I couldn't go near her."
"Children are resilient."
"That, at least, is a godsend." After winding her way out of the airport, she got on the motorway.
"Where is Tracy?"
"We buried her in a very old cemetery just outside Oxford."
"I'd like to go straight there, if you don't mind."
She gave him a quick look. "No, not at all."
The drive to Oxford was quick and silent, both Bourne and Chrissie lost in