knuckle.
When the driver slid the glass down, Arkadin shoved the Mosquito in his face and
pulled the trigger. The driver’s head snapped back so hard the cervical vertebrae cracked.
Pulling open the door, Arkadin shoved the corpse aside and knelt on the seat, facing the
two men in the backseat. He recognized Sever from an old photograph when Icoupov had
showed him the face of his enemy. He said, “Wrong time, wrong place,” and shot Sever
in the chest.
As he slumped over, Arkadin turned his attention to Icoupov. “You didn’t think you
could escape me, Father, did you?”
Icoupov-who, between the sudden attack and the unendurable pain in his shoulder, was
going into delayed shock-said, “Why do you call me father? Your father died a long time
ago, Leonid Danilovich.”
“No,” Arkadin said, “he sits here before me like a wounded bird.”
“A wounded bird, yes.” With great effort, Icoupov opened his greatcoat, the lining of
which was sopping wet with his blood. “Your paramour shot me before I shot her in self-
defense.”
“This is not a court of law. What matters is that she’s dead.” Arkadin shoved the
muzzle of the Mosquito under Icoupov’s chin, and tilted upward. “And you, Father, are
still alive.”
“I don’t understand you.” Icoupov swallowed hard. “I never did.”
“What was I ever to you, except a means to an end? I killed when you ordered me to.
Why? Why did I do that, can you tell me?”
Icoupov said nothing, not knowing what he could say to save himself from judgment
day.
“I did it because I was trained to do it,” Arkadin said. “That’s why you sent me to
America, to Washington, not to cure me of my homicidal rages, as you said, but to
harness them for your use.”
“What of it?” Icoupov finally found his voice. “Of what other use were you? When I
found you, you were close to taking your own life. I saved you, you ungrateful shit.”
“You saved me so you could condemn me to this life, which, if I am any judge, is no
life at all. I see I never really escaped Nizhny Tagil. I never will.”
Icoupov smiled, believing he’d gotten the measure of his protйgй. “You don’t want to
kill me, Leonid Danilovich. I’m your only friend. Without me you’re nothing.”
“Nothing is what I always was,” Arkadin said as he pulled the trigger. “Now you’re
nothing, too.”
Then he got out of the Mercedes, walked out on the tarmac to where the NextGen
personnel were almost finished off-loading the crates. Without being seen, he climbed
onto the hoist. There he hunkered down just beneath the operator’s cab, and after the last
crate had been stowed aboard, when the NextGen loaders were exiting the cargo hold via
the interior stairwell, he leapt aboard the plane, scrambled behind a stack of crates, and
sat down, patient as death, while the doors closed, locking him in.
Bourne saw the German official coming and suspected there was something wrong: An
Immigration officer had no business interrogating them now. Then he recognized the
man’s face. He told Moira to get back inside the plane, then stood barring the door as the
official mounted the stairs.
“I need to see everyone’s passport,” the officer said as he approached Bourne.
“Passport checks have already been made, mein Herr.”
“Nevertheless, another security scan must be made now.” The officer held out his
hand. “Your passport, please. And then I will check the identity of everyone else aboard.”
“You don’t recognize me, mein Herr?”
“Please.” The officer put his hand on the butt of his holstered Luger. “You are
obstructing official government business. Believe me, I will take you into custody unless
you show me your passport and then move aside.”
“Here’s my passport, mein Herr.” Bourne opened it to the last page, pointed to a spot
on the inside cover. “And here is where you placed an electronic tracking device.”
“What accusation is this? You have no proof-”
Bourne produced the broken bug. “I don’t believe you’re here on official business. I
think whoever instructed you to plant this on me is paying you to check these passports.”
Bourne gripped the officer’s elbow. “Let’s stroll over to the commandant of Immigration
and ask them if they sent you here.”
The officer drew himself up stiffly. “I’m not going anywhere with you. I have a job to
do.”
“So do I.”
As Bourne dragged him down the rolling stairs, the officer went for his gun.
Bourne dug his fingers into the nerve bundle just above the man’s elbow. “Draw it if
you must,” Bourne said, “but be prepared for the consequences.”
The official’s frosty aloofness finally cracked, revealing the fear beneath. His round
face was pallid and sweating.
“What do you want of me?” he said as they walked along the tarmac.
“Take me to your real employer.”
The officer had one last blast of bravado in him. “You don’t really think he’s here, do
you?”
“As a matter of fact I wasn’t sure until you said that. Now I know he is.” Bourne shook
the official. “Now take me to him.”
Defeated, the officer nodded bleakly. No doubt, he was contemplating his immediate
future. At a quickened pace, he led Bourne around behind the 747. At that moment, the
NextGen truck rumbled to life, heading away from the plane, back the way it had come.
That was when Bourne saw the black Mercedes and a police car directly behind it.
“Where did that police car come from?” The officer tore himself away from Bourne
and broke into a run toward the parked cars.
Bourne, who saw the driver’s-side doors on both vehicles standing open, was at the
officer’s heels. It was clear as they approached that no one was in the police car, but
looking through the Mercedes’s door, they saw the driver, slumped over. It looked as if
he’d been kicked to the passenger’s side of the seat.
Bourne pulled open the rear door, saw Icoupov with the top of his head blown off.
Another man had fallen forward against the front seat rests. When Bourne pulled him
gently backward, he saw that it was Dominic Specter-or Asher Sever-and everything
became clear to him. Beneath the public enmity, the two men were secret allies. This
answered many questions, not the least of which was why everyone Bourne had spoken
to about the Black Legion had a different opinion about who was a member and who
wasn’t.
Sever looked small and frail, old beyond his years. He’d been shot in the chest with
a.22. Bourne took his pulse, listened to his breathing. He was still alive.
“I’ll call for an ambulance,” the officer said.
“Do what you have to do,” Bourne said as he scooped Sever up. “I’m taking this one
with me.”
He left the Immigration officer to deal with the mess, crossing the tarmac and
mounting the rolling stairs.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said as he laid Sever down across three seats.
“What happened to him?” Moira said with a gasp. “Is he alive or dead?”
Bourne knelt beside his old mentor. “He’s still breathing.” As he began to rip off the
professor’s shirt, he said to Moira. “Get us moving, okay? We need to get out of here
now.”
Moira nodded. As she went up the aisle, she spoke to one of the flight attendants, who
ran for the first-aid kit. The door to the cockpit was still open, and she gave the order for takeoff to the captain and the co-pilot.
Within five minutes the rolling stairs had been removed and the 747 was taxiing to the