under the agent’s crotch, and lifted him up. Low tried to get a fix on Bourne with the
Walther, failed, swung his arm back to deliver another blow with the barrel.
Using all his remaining strength, Bourne hefted him up and over the banister, dumping
him down the air shaft. Low plummeted, a tangle of arms and legs, until he hit the
bottom.
Bourne turned, went back out onto the roof. As he loped across it, he could hear the
familiar rise and fall of police sirens. He wiped blood off his cheek with the back of his
hand. Reaching the other side of the roof, he climbed atop the parapet, leapt across the
intervening space onto the roof of the adjoining building. He did this twice more until he
felt that it was safe for him to return to the street.
Twenty-Five
SORAYA HAD NEVER understood the nature of panic, despite the fact that she grew
up with an aunt who was prone to panic attacks. When the attacks came on her aunt said
she felt as if someone had put a plastic dry-cleaning bag over her head; she felt as if she were being smothered to death. Soraya would watch her huddled in a chair or curled up
on her bed and wonder how on earth she could feel such a thing. There weren’t even any
plastic dry-cleaning bags allowed in the house. How could a person feel as if she were
suffocating when there wasn’t anything on her face?
Now she knew.
As she drove out of the NSA safe house without Tyrone, as the high reinforced metal
gates swung closed behind her, her hands trembled on the wheel, her heart felt as if it was jumping painfully inside her breast. There was a film of sweat on her upper lip, under her
arms, and at the nape of her neck. Worst of all, she couldn’t catch her breath. Her mind
raced like a rat in a cage. She gasped, sucking ragged gulps of air in to her lungs. She felt, in short, as if she were being smothered to death. Then her stomach rebelled.
As quickly as she was able she pulled to the side of the road, got out, and stumbled into
the trees. Falling to her hands and knees, she vomited up the sweet, milky Ceylon tea.
Jason, Tyrone, and Veronica Hart were now all in terrible jeopardy because of rash
decisions she’d made. She quailed at the thought. It was one thing to be chief of station in Odessa, quite another to be director. Maybe she’d taken on more than she could handle,
maybe she didn’t have the steel nerve that was required to make tough choices. Where
was her vaunted confidence? It was back there in the NSA interrogation cell with Tyrone.
Somehow she made it to Alexandria, where she parked. She sat in the car bent over,
her clammy forehead pressed to the steering wheel. She tried to think coherently, but her
brain seemed encased in a block of concrete. At last, she wept bitterly.
She had to call Deron, but she was petrified of his reaction when she told him that she
had allowed his protйgй to be captured and tortured by the NSA. She had fucked up big
time. And she had no idea how to rectify the situation. The choice LaValle had given her-
Veronica Hart for Tyrone-was unacceptable.
After a time, she calmed down enough to get out of the car. She moved like a
sleepwalker through crowds of people oblivious to her agony. It seemed somehow wrong
that the world should spin on as it always had, utterly indifferent and uncaring.
She ducked into a little tea shop, and as she rummaged in her handbag for her cell
phone she saw the pack of cigarettes. A cigarette would calm her nerves, but standing out
in the chilly street while she smoked would make her feel more of a lost soul. She
decided to have a smoke on the way back to her car. Placing her cell phone on the table,
she stared down at it as if it were alive. She ordered chamomile tea, which calmed her
enough for her to pick up her phone. She punched in Deron’s number, but when she
heard his voice her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth.
Eventually, she was able to get out her name. Before he could ask her how the mission
went she asked to speak with Kiki, Deron’s girlfriend. Where that came from, she had no
idea. She’d met Kiki only twice. But Kiki was a woman and, instinctively, with an
atavistic clannishness, Soraya knew it would be easier to confess to her than to Deron.
When Kiki came on the line, Soraya asked if she could come to the little tea shop in
Alexandria. When Kiki asked when, Soraya said, “Now. Please.”
The first thing you have to do is stop blaming yourself,” Kiki said after Soraya had
finished recounting in painful detail what had happened at the NSA safe house. “It’s your
guilt that’s paralyzing you, and believe me you’re going to need every last brain cell if
we’re going to get Tyrone out of that hole.”
Soraya looked up from her pallid tea.
Kiki smiled, nodding. In her dark red dress, her hair up in a swirl, hammered-gold
earrings depending from her earlobes, she looked more regal, more exotic than ever. She
towered over everyone in the tea shop by at least six inches.
“I know I have to tell Deron,” Soraya said. “I just don’t know what his reaction is
going to be.”
“His reaction won’t be as bad as what you fear,” Kiki said. “And after all, Tyrone is a
grown man. He knew the risks as well as anyone. It was his choice, Soraya. He could’ve
said no.”
Soraya shook her head. “That’s just it, I don’t think he could, at least not from the way
he sees things.” She stirred her tea, more to forestall what she knew she had to say. Then
she looked up, licked her lips. “See, Tyrone’s got a thing for me.”
“Doesn’t he ever!”
Soraya was taken aback. “You know?”
“Everyone who knows him knows, honey. You just have to look at him when the two
of you are together.”
Soraya felt her cheeks flush. “I think he would’ve done anything I asked of him no
matter how dangerous, even if he didn’t want to.”
“But you know he wanted to.”
It was true, Soraya thought. He’d been excited. Nervous, but definitely excited. She
knew that ever since Deron had taken him under his wing he’d chafed at being cooped up
in the hood. He was smarter than that, and Deron knew it. But he had neither the interest
nor the aptitude for what Deron did. Then she came along. He’d told her he saw her as his
ticket out of the ghetto.
Yet she still had a knot in her chest, a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. She could
not get out of her head the image of Tyrone on his knees, hooded, arms held behind him
on the tabletop.
“You just turned pale,” Kiki said. “Are you all right?”
Soraya nodded. She wanted to tell Kiki what she had seen, but she couldn’t. She
sensed that to talk about it would give it a reality so frightening, so powerful it would
throw her back into panic.
“Then we ought to go.”
Soraya’s heart tripped over itself. “No time like the present,” she said.
As they went out the door, she pulled out the pack of cigarettes and threw it in a nearby
trash can. She didn’t need it anymore.
As planned, Gala picked up Bourne in Yakov’s bombila and together they returned to
Lorraine’s apartment. It was just past 10 AM; his meet with Maslov wasn’t until noon.
He needed a shower, a shave, and some rest.
Lorraine was kind enough to provide the necessities for all three. She gave Bourne a
set of towels, a disposable razor, and said if he gave her his clothes she’d wash and dry
them for him. In the bathroom Bourne stripped, then opened the door enough to hand the
dirty clothes to Lorraine.
“After I put these in the wash, Gala and I are going out to get food. Can we bring you