Yes,Arkadin thought now, as the surgeon cut the suture cords, Maslov surely ordered the raid, but he didn’t plan it.Maslov had his hands full with political enemies closing in on all sides; besides, it was a long time since he’d been on the streets and he’d lost that keen edge only the streets can provide. Who, Arkadin asked himself, had he given this job to?
At that moment, as if by divine intervention, he received his answer because, there, standing in the shadows of the ER, unseen or ignored by the hurrying staff and groaning patients, was Vylacheslav Germanovich Oserov, Maslov’s new underboss. He and Oserov had a long, vengeful history reaching back to Arkadin’s home city of Nizhny Tagil; nothing but hatred and venom lay between them. Still vivid in his memory was their most recent encounter-a nasty incident in the highlands of northern Azerbaijan where he was training a raiding party for Maslov while scheming to double-cross him. He’d called Oserov out, almost beaten him to a pulp-the latest in a long line of violent responses to the atrocities Oserov had perpetrated many years ago in Arkadin’s hometown. Of course Oserov was the perfect man to plan the raid, which, he was certain, included his own death whether or not Maslov had ordered it.
Oserov, who stood in the shadows, arms crossed over his chest, appeared to be looking at nothing, but in fact he was observing Arkadin with the single-minded concentration of a hawk tracking its prey. The face was pocked and scarred, the knotty evidence of murders, street brawls, and near-death encounters, and the corners of his wide, thin-lipped mouth turned up in the familiar hateful smile that seemed both condescending and obscene.
Arkadin was shackled by his trousers. They were rucked around his ankles because it had been too awkward to get them off him completely. He felt no pain in his thigh, of course, but he didn’t know how the shot he’d received would affect his ability to sprint or run.
“That’s it,” he heard the surgeon say. “Keep the wound well dry for at least a week. I’m prescribing an antibiotic and a painkiller. You can pick them up from the pharmacy on your way out. You’re lucky, the wound was clean-edged and you got here before any infection could set in.” Then the surgeon laughed. “No marathons for a while, though.”
A nurse applied a surgical pad, which she set in place with surgical tape.
“You shouldn’t feel a thing for another hour or so,” she said. “Be sure to start both your prescriptions before then.”
Oserov unwound his arms and came off the wall. He was still not looking directly at Arkadin, but his right hand was in the pocket of his trousers. Arkadin had no idea what sort of weapon he carried, but he wasn’t about to wait around to find out.
He asked the nurse to help him on with his trousers. When he’d buckled his belt and sat up, she turned to leave. A certain tension came into Oserov’s body. As Arkadin slid off the bed onto his feet he whispered in the nurse’s ear, “I’m an undercover cop. That man over there has been sent by criminals to kill me.” When the nurse’s eyes opened wide, he added, “Just do what I tell you and everything will be fine.”
Keeping her between him and Oserov, Arkadin moved to his right. Oserov matched him step for step.
“You’re heading away from the exit,” the nurse whispered to him.
Arkadin kept going, nearing the column where the surgeon had disinfected his hands from the dispenser. He could tell the nurse was becoming more and more agitated.
“Please,” she whispered, “let me call security.”
They were standing beside the column. “All right,” he said and pushed her so hard she stumbled into a crash cart, sending another nurse and a doctor tumbling. In the confusion he saw a security guard appear from the hallway and Oserov coming toward him, a wicked-looking stiletto in his hand.
Arkadin grabbed the disinfectant dispenser and ripped it free of its brackets. He swung it hard, slamming it into the head of the security guard, who skidded on the linoleum floor as he went down. Tucking the dispenser under one arm, Arkadin vaulted over the guard’s prone body and took off for the hallway.
Oserov was right behind him, gaining with every step. Arkadin realized that he had unconsciously slowed his pace, worried that he would rip out the stitches. Disgusted with himself, he shouldered past a pair of startled interns and put on a burst of speed. The hallway in front of him was clear, he dug in his pocket for his lighter, flicked on the flame. Then he pumped disinfectant out of the dispenser’s nozzle. He could hear the pounding of Oserov’s shoes, almost imagine the quickening of his breath.
All at once he turned and, in one motion, lit the highly flammable sanitizer, thrust out the dispenser, and threw it at his oncoming pursuer. He turned and ran, but the explosion caught him anyway, hurling him halfway down the corridor.
A fire alarm sounded, blasting through the cacophony of shouts, screams, running feet, flailing bodies, and flickering flames. He took off, but slowed to a walk as he rounded a corner. Two security guards and a pack of older doctors pushed by him, nearly knocking him off his feet. Blood started to trickle down his leg, hot and vital. Everything he saw was crystal clear, hard-edged, iridescent, pulsing with life. He held the door open for a woman in a wheelchair who held her baby in her arms. She thanked him and he laughed with such intensity that she laughed, too. At that moment a squad of grim-faced police came off the street through the door he was holding open, rushing right by him.
Book One
1
YES,” SUPARWITA SAID, “that is the ring Holly Marie Moreau’s father gave her.”
“This ring.” Jason Bourne held up the object in question, a simple gold band with engraving around the inside. “I have no memory of it.”
“You have no memory of many things in your past,” Suparwita said, “including Holly Marie Moreau.”
Bourne and Suparwita were sitting cross-legged on the floor of the Balinese shaman’s house deep in the jungle of Karangasem, in southeast Bali. Bourne had returned to the island to trap Noah Perlis, the spy who had murdered Holly years ago. He had pried the ring out of Perlis’s grasp after he had killed him not five miles from this spot.
“Holly Marie’s mother and father arrived here from Morocco when she was five,” Suparwita said. “They had the look of refugees.”
“What were they fleeing from?”
“Difficult to say for certain. If the stories about them are true, they chose an excellent place to hide from religious persecution.” Suparwita was known formally as a Mangku,both a high priest and a shaman, but also something more, impossible to express in Western terms. “They wanted protection.”
“Protection?” Bourne frowned. “From what?”
Suparwita was a handsome man of indeterminate age. His skin was a deep nut brown, his smile wide and devastating, revealing two rows of white, even teeth. He was large for a Balinese, and exuded a kind of otherworldly power that fascinated Bourne. His house, an inner sanctum surrounded by a lush, sun-dappled garden and high stucco walls, lay in deepest shadow so that the interior was cool even at noontime. The floor was packed dirt covered by a sisal rug. Here and there odd items of indeterminate nature-pots of herbs, clusters of roots, bouquets of dried flowers pressed into the shape of a fan-sprouted from floor or walls as if alive. The shadows, which filled the corners to overflowing, seemed constantly in motion as if formed from liquid rather than air.
“From Holly’s uncle,” Suparwita said. “It was from him they took the ring in the first place.”
“He knew they stole it?”
“He thought it was lost.” Suparwita cocked his head. “There are men outside.”