handgun at him.
The other, smirking, said, “You will come with us now, gospadin Popov.”
Arkadin, hands in his pockets, strolled down the crescent beach, past a happily barking
dog whose owner had let it off the leash. A young woman pulled her auburn hair off her
face and smiled at him as they passed each other.
When he was fairly near Heinrich, Arkadin kicked off his shoes, peeled off his socks,
and, rolling up his trousers, picked his way down to the surf line, where the sand turned
dark and crusty. He moved at an angle, so that as he ventured into the surf he was within
earshot of the courier.
Sensing someone near him, Heinrich turned and, shading his eyes from the sun,
nodded at Arkadin before turning away.
Under the pretext of stumbling as the surf rolled in, Arkadin edged closer. “I’m
surprised that someone besides me likes the winter surf.”
Heinrich seemed not to hear him, continued his contemplation of the horizon.
“I keep wondering what it is that feels so good about the water rushing over my feet
and pulling back out.”
After a moment, Heinrich glanced at him. “If you don’t mind, I’m trying to meditate.”
“Meditate on this,” Arkadin said, sticking a knife very carefully in his side.
Heinrich’s eyes opened wide. He staggered, but Arkadin was there to catch him. They
sat down together in the surf, like old friends communing with nature.
Heinrich’s mouth made gasping sounds. They reminded Arkadin of a fish hauled out of
the water.
“What… what?”
Arkadin cradled him with one hand as he searched beneath his poplin jacket with the
other. Just as he thought, Heinrich had the package on him, not trusting it to be out of his sight for an instant. He held it in his palm for a moment. It was in a rolled cardboard
cylinder. So small for something with that much power.
“A lot of people have died for this,” Arkadin said.
“Many more will die before it’s over,” Heinrich managed to get out. “Who are you?”
“I’m your death,” Arkadin said. Plunging the knife in again, he turned it between
Heinrich’s ribs.
“Ah, ah, ah,” Heinrich whispered as his lungs filled with his own blood. His breathing
turned shallow, then erratic. Then it ceased altogether.
Arkadin continued to shelter him with a comradely arm. When Heinrich, nothing more
than deadweight now, slumped against him, Arkadin held him up as the surf crashed and
ebbed around them.
Arkadin stared out at the horizon, as Heinrich had done, certain that beyond the
demarcation was nothing save a black abyss, endless and unknowable.
Bourne went willingly with the two plainclothes policemen out of the vault. As they
stepped into the corridor, Bourne slammed the edge of his hand down on the cop’s wrist,
causing the Makarov to drop and slide along the floor. Whirling, Bourne kicked the other
cop, who was flung back against the edge of a square column. Bourne grabbed hold of
the arm of the first cop. Lifting it, he slammed his elbow into the cop’s rib cage, then
smashed his hand into the back of his neck. With both cops down, Bourne hurried along
the corridor, but another man came sprinting toward him, blocking the way to the front of
the bank, a man who fit Yakov’s description of Harris Low.
Reversing course, Bourne leapt up the marble staircase, taking the steps three at a time.
Racing around the turn, he gained the landing of the second floor. He’d memorized the
plans Baronov’s friend had procured for him and had planned for an emergency, not
trusting to chance that he’d get in and out of the bank without being identified. It was
clear Vasily Legev, having recognized gospadin Popov, would blow the whistle on him
while he was inside the safe-deposit viewing cubicle. As Bourne broke out into the
corridor he encountered one of the bank’s security men. Grabbing him by the front of his
uniform, Bourne jerked him off his feet, swung him around, and hurled him down the
stairs at the ascending NSA agent.
Racing down the corridor, reached the door to the fire stairs, opened it, and went
through. Like many buildings of its vintage this one had a staircase that rose around an
open central core.
Bourne took off up the stairs. He passed the third floor, then the fourth. Behind him, he
could hear the fire door bang open, the sound of hurried footsteps on the stairs behind
him. His maneuver with the guard had slowed down the agent, but hadn’t stopped him.
He was midway to the fifth and top floor when the agent fired on him. Bourne ducked,
hearing the spang! of the ricochet. He sprinted upward as another shot went past him.
Reaching the door to the roof at last, he opened it, and slammed it shut behind him.
Harris Low was furious. With all the personnel at his disposal Bourne was still at large.
That’s what you get, he thought as he raced up the stairwell, when you leave the details to the Russians. They were great at brute force, but when it came to the subtleties of
undercover work they were all but useless. Those two plainclothes officers, for instance.
Over Low’s objections they hadn’t waited for him, had gone into the vault after Bourne
themselves. Now he was left with mopping up the mess they’d made.
He came to the door to the roof, turned the handle, and banged it open with the flat of
his shoe. The tarred rooftop, the low winter sky glowered at him. Walther PPK/S at the
ready, he stepped out onto the roof in a semi-crouch. Without warning, the door slammed
shut on him, driving him back onto the small landing.
Up on the roof, Bourne pulled open the door and dived through. He struck Low three
blows, directed first at the agent’s stomach and then at his right wrist, forcing Low to let go of the gun. The Walther flew down the stairwell, landing on a step just above the
fourth floor.
Low, enraged, drove his fists into Bourne’s kidney twice in succession. Bourne
collapsed to his knees, and Low kicked him onto his back then straddled his chest,
pinning Bourne’s arms. Low gripped Bourne’s throat, squeezing as hard as he could.
Bourne struggled to get his arms free, but he had insufficient leverage. He tried to get a
breath, but Low’s grip on him was so complete that he was unable to get any oxygen into
his system. He stopped trying to free his arms and pressed down with the small of his
back, providing a fulcrum for his legs, which he drew up, then extended toward his head.
He brought his calves together, sandwiching Low’s head between them. Low tried to
shake them off, violently twisting his shoulders back and forth, but Bourne held on,
increasing his grip. Then, with an enormous effort, Bourne spun them both to the left.
Low’s head hit against the wall, and Bourne’s arms were free. Unwinding his legs, he
slammed the palms of his hands against Low’s ears.
Low shouted in pain, kicked away, and scrambled back down the stairs. Bourne, on his
knees, could see that Low was heading for the Walther. Bourne rose. Just as Low reached
it, Bourne launched himself down and across the air shaft. He landed on Low, who
whipped the Walther’s short but thick barrel into Bourne’s face. Bourne reared back, and
Low bent him over the railing. Four floors of air shaft loomed below, ending in an
unforgiving concrete base. As they locked in their struggle, Low slowly, inexorably,
brought the muzzle of the Walther to bear on Bourne’s face. At the same time, the heel of
Bourne’s hand was pushing Low’s head up.
Low shook loose from Bourne’s grip, lunged at him in an effort to pistol-whip him into
unconsciousness. Bourne bent his knees. Using Low’s own momentum, he slid one arm