For a moment Bourne broke free, but Scarface had maneuvered the knife in his trapped hand so that the blade raked down Bourne‘s back, drawing blood. Bourne swiveled, but the knife blade followed him, jabbing ever closer until he vaulted over the barrier.
Scarface followed without hesitation, and now both of them were in unknown territory, facing not only each other but the enraged bull as well.
Bourne had the immediate advantage of knowing it was there, but even he was surprised by its size. Like the corrida, the pen was divided by sunlight and shadow. Dust motes hung in the light in the upper half of the pen, but below was the darkness of the Minotaur‘s cave. He saw the bull in the shadows, red eyes glittering, black lips flecked with foam. It was staring at him, pawing the ground with massive hooves. Its tail switched back and forth, its massive shoulders were bunched with muscle and sinew. Its head lowered ominously.
And then Scarface was on him. The man, solely intent on Bourne, was as yet unaware of the creature with which they shared the pen. The three skulls, each peering in a different direction, filled Bourne‘s vision. He brought an elbow up, aiming for the throat, slammed it into Scarface‘s chin instead as the killer partially deflected the blow. At almost the same time Scarface smashed his fist into the side of Bourne‘s head, bringing him down to the packed-dirt floor. Rolling over, he grabbed Bourne‘s ears, pulled Bourne‘s head off the ground, then slammed it back down.
Bourne was rapidly losing consciousness. Scarface was astride him, his bulk painfully pressed down on Bourne‘s rib cage. There was a moment when Scarface grinned. He slammed Bourne‘s head down again and again, taking increasing pleasure.
Bourne thought, Where’s his knife?
He felt around on the floor with both hands, but there were flashes behind his eyes, the light and dark of the room were spinning, merging into a pinwheel of silver sparks. He felt his breath laboring, his heart hammering in his chest, but as his head was once again slammed into the dirt even these vital sensations began to slip away, replaced by a numbing warmth that flooded inward from his extremities. This warmth was soothing, taking away all pain, all effort, all will. He saw himself floating on a river of white light, moving away from his world of shadows and darkness.
And then something cold intruded and for a moment he was certain it was the breath of Shiva, the destroyer, whose face he sensed hovering over him. Then he knew the blade of cold for what it was. Taking hold of the knife‘s hilt brought him back from the brink, and he plunged the blade into Scarface‘s side, piercing the flesh between his ribs, skewering his heart.
Scarface reared up, his shoulders trembling, but perhaps, Bourne thought, they weren‘t trembling at all, because his head was still spinning from the pounding it had taken. He had trouble focusing. How else to explain Scarface‘s head being replaced by that of a bull? This wasn‘t Crete, he wasn‘t in the Minotaur‘s cave. He was in Seville, at the Maestranza corrida.
Then full consciousness returned and, with it, the knowledge of precisely where in the corrida he was.
The pen!
And as he looked up from his prone position he saw the bull, huge and menacing, its head lowered, its razor-tipped horns angled to disembowel him.
Undersecretary Stevenson did not look at all well when Moira and Veronica Hart found him, but then no one looks particularly good stretched out on a slab in the cold room of the DC morgue. The two women had been searching the area surrounding the Fountain of the Court of Neptune sculpture near the entrance to the Library of Congress. As fieldwork protocol dictated, they began at the point of origin-in this case, the fountain-and began moving outward in a spiral, hoping to spot some clue that Stevenson might have left as to what had happened to him.
Moira had already called Stevenson‘s wife and married daughter, neither of whom had seen or heard from him. She had just looked up the number of Humphry Bamber, Stevenson‘s friend and old college roommate, when Hart got the call that a corpse fitting the undersecretary‘s description had just been brought into the morgue. The Metro police wanted a positive ID. The DCI had turned to Moira, who said she‘d give the prelim. If it was Stevenson, the cops could call his wife to make the formal ID.
— He looks like shit, Hart said now as they stood over the cadaver of the late Steve Stevenson. -What happened to him? she asked the associate ME.
— Hit-and-run. C1 to C4 of his spine crushed, as well as most of his pelvis, so the vehicle must‘ve been something big: an SUV or a truck. The AME was a small, compact woman with an enormous coppery halo of wild curls.
— He never felt a thing, if that‘s any consolation.
— I doubt it will be to his family, Moira said.
The AME went on unperturbed; she‘d seen and heard it all before. It wasn‘t that she was callous, just that her job demanded dispassion. -The cops are investigating now but I doubt they‘ll find anything. She shrugged. -In these cases they rarely do.
Moira stirred. -Did you find anything out of the ordinary?
— Not in the prelim, anyway. His alcohol level was almost two, more than double the legal limit, so it‘s all too likely he became disoriented and walked off the curb when he should have stayed put, the AME said. -We‘re waiting on the formal ID to begin the full autopsy.
As the two women turned away, Hart said, — What I find curious is they found no wallet on him, no keys, nothing to indicate who he was.
— If he was deliberately hit, Moira said, — his killers wouldn‘t necessarily want him identified right away.
— Your conspiracy theory again. Hart shook her head. -Okay, let‘s play this game for a minute. If he was murdered, why have him found at all? They could have snatched him, killed him, and buried him where he wouldn‘t be dug up for ages, if at all.
— Two reasons, Moira said. -First, he‘s an undersecretary at DoD. Can you imagine the scope of the manhunt the moment he was reported missing, the amount of time his name would be in the forefront of the news? No, these people wanted him dead, wanted it over and done with, which defines an accident.
Hart cocked her head. -What‘s the second reason?
— They want to scare me away from whatever Weston found, whatever Stevenson was afraid of.
— Pinprickbardem.
— Precisely.
— You‘ve become as bad as Bourne was with these conspiracy theories.
— All of Jason‘s conspiracy theories proved correct, Moira said hotly.
The DCI appeared unconvinced. -Let‘s not get ahead of ourselves, shall we?
They reached the door and Moira turned back to take one last look at Stevenson. Then she opened the door. When they‘d entered the corridor she said, — Would we be getting ahead of ourselves if I told you that Stevenson was a reformed alcoholic?
— Could be his fear made him slip off the wagon.
— You didn‘t know him, Moira said. -He‘d converted his disease into a religion. Staying sober was his watchword, the reason he stayed alive. He hadn‘t had a drink in the last twenty years. Nothing could have induced him to do it.