wouldn’t count on it.” She tossed her head. “Anyway, you have more to lose than I do. I
was already half dead when Leonid found me.”
“Ah, I see it now,” Icoupov nodded, “he’s saved you from yourself, he’s saved you
from the streets, is that it?”
“Leonid is my protector.”
“God in heaven, talk about deluded!”
Devra’s icy smile widened. “One of us is fatally mistaken. It remains to be seen which
one.”
The room is filled with mannequins,” Egon Kirsch had said when he’d described his
studio to Bourne. “I keep the light out with blackout shades because these mannequins
are my creation. I built them from the ground up, so to speak. They’re my companions,
you might say, as well as my creations. In that sense, they can see or, if you like, I believe that they have the gift of sight, and what creature can look upon his creator without going mad or blind, or both?”
With the map of the room in his mind, Bourne crept through the studio, avoiding the
mannequins so as not to make noise or, as Kirsch might have said, so as not to disturb the
process of their birth.
“You think I’m insane,” he’d said to Bourne in the museum. “Not that it matters. To all
artists-successful or not!-their creations are alive. I’m no different. It’s simply that after struggling for years to bring abstractions to life, I’ve given my work human form.”
Hearing a sound, Bourne froze for a moment, then peered around a mannequin’s thigh.
His eyes had adjusted to the extreme gloom, and he could see movement: Arkadin had
found the panel and had come through into the studio after him.
Bourne liked his chances here far better than in Kirsch’s apartment. He knew the
layout, the darkness would help him, and if he struck quickly, he’d have the advantage of
being able to see where Arkadin couldn’t.
With that strategy in mind, he moved out from behind the mannequin, picked his way
toward the Russian. The studio was like a minefield. There were three mannequins
between him and Arkadin, all set at different angles and poses: One was sitting, holding a
small painting as if reading a book; another was standing spread-legged, in a classic
shooter’s pose; the third was running, leaning forward, as if stretching to cross the finish line.
Bourne moved around the runner. Arkadin was crouched down on his hams, wisely
staying in one place until his eyes adjusted. It was precisely what Bourne had done when
he’d entered the studio moments before.
Once again Bourne was struck by the eerie mirror image that Arkadin represented.
There was no pleasure and a great deal of anxiety at the most primitive level in watching
yourself do his best to find you and kill you.
Picking up his pace, Bourne negotiated the space to where the mannequin sat, reading
his painting. Keenly aware that he was running out of time, Bourne moved stealthily
abreast of the shooter. Just as he was about to lunge at Arkadin, his cell phone buzzed,
the screen lighting up with Moira’s number.
With a silent curse, Bourne sprang. Arkadin, alert for even the tiniest anomaly, turned
defensively toward the sound, and Bourne was met with a solid wall of muscle, behind
which was a murderous will of fiery intensity. Arkadin swung; Bourne slid backward,
between the legs of the shooter mannequin. As Arkadin came after him he ran right into
the mannequin’s hips. Recoiling with a curse, he swung at the mannequin. The blade
struck the acrylic skin and lodged in the sheet metal underneath. Bourne kicked out while
Arkadin was trying to pull the blade free, and made contact with the left side of his chest.
Arkadin tried to roll away. Bourne jammed his shoulder against the back of the shooter. It
was extremely heavy, he put all of his strength into it, and the mannequin tipped over,
trapping Arkadin underneath.
“Your friend gave me no choice,” Bourne said. “He would’ve killed me if I hadn’t
stopped him. He was too far away; I had to throw the knife.”
A sound like the crackle of a fire came from Arkadin. It took a moment for Bourne to
realize it was laughter. “I’ll make you a bet, Bourne. Before he died, I bet Mischa said
you were a dead man.”
Bourne was about to answer him when he saw the dim glint of a SIG Sauer Mosquito
in Arkadin’s hand. He ducked just before the.22 bullet whizzed over his head.
“He was right.”
Bourne twisted away, dodging around the other mannequins, using them as cover even
as Arkadin squeezed off three more rounds. Plaster, wood, and acrylic shattered near
Bourne’s left shoulder and ear before he dived behind Kirsch’s worktable. Behind him,
he could hear Arkadin’s grunts combined with the screech of metal as he worked to free
himself from the fallen shooter.
Bourne knew from Kirsch’s description that the front door was to the left. Scrambling
up, he dashed around the corner as Arkadin fired another shot. A chunk of plaster and
lath disintegrated where the.22 impacted the corner. Reaching the door, Bourne unlocked
it, pulled it open, and sprinted out into the hallway. The open door to Kirsch’s apartment
loomed to his left.
No good can come of us training guns on each other,” Icoupov said. “Let’s try to
reason through this situation rationally.”
“That’s your problem,” Devra said. “Life isn’t rational; it’s fucked-up chaos. It’s part
of the delusion; power makes you think you can control everything. But you can’t, no one
can.”
“You and Leonid think you know what you’re doing, but you’re wrong. No one
operates in a vacuum. If you kill Bourne it will have terrible repercussions.”
“Repercussions for you, not for us. This is what power does: You think in shortcuts.
Expediency, political opportunities, corruption without end.”
It was at that moment they both heard the gunshots, but only Devra knew they came
from Arkadin’s Mosquito. She could sense Icoupov’s finger tighten around the SIG’s
trigger, and she went into a semi-crouch because she knew if Bourne appeared rather than
Arkadin she would shoot him dead.
The situation had reached a boiling point, and Icoupov was clearly worried. “Devra, I
beg you to reconsider. Leonid doesn’t know the whole picture. I need Bourne alive. What
he did to Mischa was despicable, but personal feelings have no place in this equation. So
much planning, so much spilled blood will come to nothing if Leonid kills Bourne. You
must let me stop it; I’ll give you anything-anything you want.”
“Do you think you can buy me? Money means nothing to me. What I want is Leonid,”
Devra said just as Bourne appeared through the front doorway.
Devra and Icoupov both turned. Devra screamed because she knew, or she thought she
knew, that Arkadin was dead, and so she redirected the Luger from Icoupov to Bourne.
Bourne ducked back into the hallway and she fired shot after shot at him as she walked
toward the door. Because her focus was entirely concentrated on Bourne, she took her
eyes off Icoupov and so missed the crucial movement as he swung the SIG in her
direction.
“I warned you,” he said as he shot her in the chest.
She fell onto her back.
“Why didn’t you listen?” Icoupov said as he shot her again.
Devra made a little sound as her body arched up. Icoupov stood over her.
“How could you let yourself be seduced by such a monster?” he said.
Devra stared up at him with red-rimmed eyes. Blood pumped out of her with every
labored beat of her heart. “That’s exactly what I asked him about you.” Each ragged
breath filled her with indescribable pain. “He’s not a monster, but if he were you’d be so