“Which room are you in?” Kiki murmured in a voice like honey.
Kendall, inhaling her spicy, musky scent, could not find his voice. He pointed, and
again she led him as if he were on a leash until they were standing in front of the door.
“Are you sure you want two girls tonight?” She brushed her hip against his. “I’m more
than enough for any man I’ve been with.”
The general felt a delicious shiver travel down the length of his spine, lodge itself like
a heated arrow between his thighs. Reaching out, he opened the door. Lena writhed on
the bed, naked. He heard the door close behind him. Without thinking, he undressed
himself, then he stepped out of the puddle of his clothes, took Kiki’s hand, padded over
to the bed. He knelt on it, she let go of his hand, and he fell on Lena.
He felt Kiki’s hands on his shoulders, and, groaning, he lost himself within Lena’s lush
body. The pleasure built along with the anticipation of Kiki’s long, lithe body pressed
against his glistening back.
It took him some time to become aware that the quick flashes of light weren’t a result
of the quickened firing of nerve endings behind his eyes. Drugged with sex and desire, he
was slow to turn his head directly into another battery of flashes. Even then, negative
images dancing behind his retinas, his fogged brain couldn’t quite piece together what
was happening, and his body continued to move rhythmically against Lena’s pliant flesh.
Then the camera flashed again, he belatedly raised his hand to shield his eyes, and
there was stark reality staring him in the face. Kiki, still dressed, continued to take shots of him and Lena.
“Smile, General,” she said in that sensual, honeyed voice. “There’s nothing else you
can do.”
I’ve got too much anger inside me,” Petra said. “It’s like one of those flesh-eating
diseases you read about.”
“Dachau is toxic for you, so is Munich now,” Bourne said. “You’ve got to go away.”
She moved to the left-hand lane of the autobahn, put on some real speed. They were on
their way back to Munich in the car Pelz’s nephew had bought for him under the
nephew’s name. The police might still be looking for both of them, but their only lead
was Petra’s Munich apartment, and neither of them had any intention of going anywhere
near it. As long as she didn’t get out of the car, Bourne felt it was relatively safe for her to drive him back into the city.
“Where would I go?” she said.
“Leave Germany altogether.”
She laughed, but it wasn’t a pleasant sound. “Turn tail and run, you mean.”
“Why would you see it that way?”
“Because I’m German; because I belong here.”
“The Munich police are looking for you,” he said.
“And if they find me, then I’ll do my time for killing your friend.” She flashed her
headlights so a slower car could get out of her way. “Meanwhile I have money. I can
live.”
“But what will you do?”
She gave him a lopsided smile. “I’m going to take care of Virgil. He needs drying out;
he needs a friend.” Nearing the city, she changed lanes so she could exit when she needed
to. “The cops won’t find me,” she said with an odd kind of certainty, “because I’m taking
him far away from here. Virgil and me, we’ll be two outlaws learning a whole new way
of life.”
Egon Kirsch lived in the northern district of Schwabing, known as the young
intellectual quarter because of the mass of university students that flooded its streets,
cafйs, and bars.
As they came abreast of Schwabing’s main plaza, Petra pulled over. “When I was
younger I used to hang out here with my friends. We were all militants, then, agitating for change, and we felt connected to this place because it was from here that the
Freiheitsaktion Bayer, one of the most famed resistance groups, commandeered Radio
Munich near the end of the war. They broadcast messages to the populace to seize and
arrest all local Nazi leaders, and to signal their rejection of the regime by waving white
sheets out of their windows-an action that was punishable by death, by the way. And they
managed to save a large number of civilian lives as the American army swept in.”
“At last we find something in Munich that even you can be proud of,” Bourne said.
“I suppose so.” Petra laughed, almost sadly. “But I among all of my friends was the
only one who stayed a revolutionary. The others are corporate functionaries or Hausfraus
now. They lead sad, gray lives. I see them sometimes, trudging to and from work. I walk
by them; they don’t even look up. In the end, they all disappointed me.”
Kirsch’s apartment was on the top floor of a beautiful house of stone-colored stucco,
arched windows, and a terra-cotta tile roof. Between two of his windows was a niche
holding a stone statue of the Virgin Mary cradling the baby Jesus.
Petra pulled into the curb in front of the building. “I wish you well, American,” she
said, deliberately using Virgil Pelz’s phrasing. “Thank you… for everything.”
“You may not believe it, but we helped each other,” Bourne said as he got out of the
car. “Good luck, Petra.”
When she’d driven off, he turned, went up the steps to the building, and used the code
Kirsch had given him to open the front door. The interior was neat and spotlessly clean.
The wood-paneled hallway gleamed with a recent waxing. Bourne climbed the carved
wooden staircase to the top floor. Using Kirsch’s key, he let himself in. Though the
apartment itself was light and airy, with many windows overlooking the street, it was
steeped in a deep silence, as if it existed on the bottom of the sea. There was no TV, no
computer. Bookcases lined one entire wall of the living room, holding volumes by
Nietzsche, Kant, Descartes, Heidegger, Leibniz, and Machiavelli. There were also books
by many of the great mathematicians, biographers, fiction writers, and economists. The
other walls were covered with Kirsch’s framed and matted line drawings, so detailed and
intricate that at first glance they seemed to be architectural plans, but then suddenly they came into focus and Bourne realized the drawings were abstracts. Like all good art, they
seemed to move back and forth from reality to an imagined dream world where anything
was possible.
After taking a brief tour of all the rooms, he settled down in a chair behind Kirsch’s
desk. He thought long and hard about the professor. Was he Dominic Specter, the
nemesis of the Black Legion, as he claimed to be, or was he, in fact, Asher Sever, the
leader of the Black Legion? If he was Sever, he’d staged the attack on himself-an
elaborate scheme that had cost a number of lives. Could the professor be guilty of such an
irrational act? If he was the leader of the Black Legion, certainly. The second question
Bourne had been asking himself was why the professor would entrust the stolen plans to
Pyotr’s thoroughly undependable network. But there was another enigma: If the professor
was Sever, why was he so anxious to get those plans? Wouldn’t he already have them?
These two questions went around and around in Bourne’s head without producing a
satisfactory solution. Nothing about the situation he found himself in appeared to make
sense, which meant that a vital part of the picture was missing. And yet he had the
nagging suspicion that, like Egon Kirsch’s drawings, he was being shown two separate
realities-if only he could decipher which was real and which one was false.
At length, he turned his mind to something that had been bothering him ever since the
incident at the Egyptian Museum. He knew that Franz Jens had been the only one to