Marks waved away his apology. "Forget it. I have. So what do you want to talk with her about?"

This was what Feir was hoping he'd say. According to the general, he and LaValle required intel on the nuts and bolts of how Typhon worked. "Budgets. She's got so many agents in the field, the DCI wants an accounting of their expenses-which, frankly, hasn't been done since Martin died."

"That's understandable, given what's been going on in here lately."

Feir shrugged deferentially. "I'd do it myself; Soraya's got more on her plate than she can handle, I imagine. Trouble is, I don't even know where the files are." He was going to add: Do you Do you? but decided that would be overselling it.

Marks thought a minute. "I might be able to help you there."

How badly does your shoulder hurt?" Devra said.

Arkadin, pressed against her body, his powerful arms around her, said, "I don't know how to answer that. I have an extremely high tolerance for pain."

The airplane's cramped bathroom allowed him to concentrate exclusively on her. It was like being in a coffin together, like being dead, but in a strange afterlife where only they existed.

She smiled up at him as one of his hands traced its way from the small of her back to her neck. His thumb pressed against her jaw, gently tilted her head up while his fingers tightened on the nape of her neck.

He leaned in, his weight arching her torso backward above the sink. He could see the back of her head in the mirror, his face about to eclipse hers. A flame of emotion flickered to life, illuminating the soulless void inside him.

He kissed her.

"Gently," she whispered. "Relax your lips."

Her moist lips opened beneath his, her tongue searched for his, tentatively at first, then with an unmistakable hunger. His lips trembled. He had never felt anything when kissing a woman. In fact, he'd always done his best to avoid it, not knowing what it was for, or why women sought it so relentlessly. An exchange of fluids, that's all it was to him, like a procedure performed in a doctor's office. The best he could say was that it was painless, that it was over quickly.

The electricity that shot through him when his lips met hers stunned him. The sheer pleasure of it astonished him. It hadn't been like this with Marlene; it hadn't been like this with anyone. He did not know what to make of the tremor in his knees. Her sweet, moaning exhalations entered him like silent cries of ecstasy. He swallowed them whole, and wanted more.

Wanting was something Arkadin was unused to. was something Arkadin was unused to. Need Need was the word that had driven his life up to this moment: He needed to revenge himself on his mother, he needed to escape home, he needed strike out on his own, no matter the course, he needed to bury rivals and enemies, he needed to destroy anyone who got close to his secrets. But was the word that had driven his life up to this moment: He needed to revenge himself on his mother, he needed to escape home, he needed strike out on his own, no matter the course, he needed to bury rivals and enemies, he needed to destroy anyone who got close to his secrets. But want want? That was another matter entirely. Devra defined want want for him. And it was only when he was certain he no longer needed her that his desire revealed itself. He wanted her. for him. And it was only when he was certain he no longer needed her that his desire revealed itself. He wanted her.

When he lifted her skirt, probing underneath, her leg drew up. Her fingers nimbly freed him from his clothing. Then he stopped thinking altogether.

Afterward, when they'd returned to their seats, making their way through the line of glaring pa.s.sengers queued up to use the lavatory, Devra burst into laughter. Arkadin sat watching her. This was another thing unique about her. Anyone else would have asked, Was that your first time Was that your first time? Not her. She wasn't interested in prying his lid open, peering inside to see what made him tick. She had no need to know. Because he was someone who had always needed something, he couldn't tolerate that trait in anyone else.

He was aware of her next to him in a way he was unable to understand. It was as if he could feel her heartbeat, the rush of blood through her body, a body that seemed frail to him, even though he knew how tough she could be, after all she'd suffered. How easily her bones could be broken, how easily a knife slipped through her ribs might pierce her heart, how easily a bullet could shatter her skull. These thoughts sent him into a rage, and he shifted closer to her, as if she were in need of protection-which, when it came to her former allies, she most certainly was. He knew then that he'd do everything in his power to kill anyone who sought to do her harm.

Feeling him edge closer, she turned and smiled. "You know something, Leonid, for the first time in my life I feel safe. All that p.r.i.c.kly s.h.i.t I give off is something I learned early on to keep people away."

"You learned to be tough like your mother."

She shook her head. "That's the really s.h.i.tty part. My mother had this tough sh.e.l.l, yeah, but it was skin-deep. Beneath it, she was a ma.s.s of fears."

Devra put her head against the headrest as she continued, "In fact, the most vivid thing I remember about my mother was her fear. It came off her like a stink. Even after she'd bathed, I smelled it. Of course, for a long time I didn't know what it was, and maybe I was the only one who smelled it, I don't know.

"Anyway, she used to tell me an old Ukrainian folktale. It was about the Nine Levels of h.e.l.l. What was she thinking? Was she trying to frighten me or lessen her own fear by sharing it with me? I don't know. In any case, this is what she told me. There is one heaven, but there are nine levels of h.e.l.l where, depending on the severity of your sins, you're sent when you die.

"The first, the least bad, is the one familiar to everyone, where you roast in flames. The second is where you're alone on the summit of a mountain. Every night you freeze solid, slowly and horribly, only to thaw out in the morning, when the process begins all over again. The third is a place of blinding light; the fourth of pitch blackness. The fifth is a place of icy winds that cut you, quite literally, like a knife. In the sixth, you're pierced by arrows. In the seventh, you're slowly buried by an army of ants. In the eighth, you're crucified.

"But it was the ninth level that terrified my mother the most. There, you lived among wild beasts that gorged themselves on human hearts."

The cruelty of telling this to a child wasn't lost on Arkadin. He was absolutely certain that if his mother had been Ukrainian she'd have told him the same folktale.

"I used to laugh at her story-or at least I tried to," Devra said. "I struggled against believing such nonsense. But that was before a number of those levels of h.e.l.l were visited on us."

Arkadin felt her presence inside him all the more deeply. The sense of wanting to protect her seemed to bounce around inside him, increasing exponentially as his brain tried to come to terms with what the feeling meant. Had he at last stumbled across something big enough, bright enough, strong enough to put his demons to rest?

After Marlene's death, Icoupov had seen the writing on the wall. He'd stopped trying to peer into Arkadin's past. Instead he'd shipped him off to America to be rehabilitated. "Reprogrammed," Icoupov had called it. Arkadin had spent eighteen months in the Washington, DC, area going through a unique experimental program devised and run by a friend of Icoupov's. Arkadin had emerged changed in many ways, though his past-his shadows, his demons-remained intact. How he wished the program had erased all memory of it! But that wasn't the nature of the program. Icoupov no longer cared about Arkadin's past, what concerned him was his future, and for that the program was ideal.

He fell asleep thinking about the program, but he dreamed he was back in Nizhny Tagil. He never dreamed about the program; in the program he felt safe. His dreams weren't about safety; they were about being pushed from great heights.

Late at night, a subterranean bar called Crespi was the only option when he wanted to get a drink in Nizhny Tagil. It was a reeking place, filled with tattooed men in tracksuits, gold chains around their necks, short-skirted women so heavily made up they looked like store mannequins. Behind their racc.o.o.n eyes were vacant pits where their souls had been.

It was in Crespi where Arkadin at age thirteen was first beaten to a pulp by four burly men with pig eyes and Neanderthal brows. And it was to Crespi that Arkadin, after nursing his wounds, returned three months later and blew the men's brains all over the walls. When another crim tried to s.n.a.t.c.h his gun away, Arkadin shot him point-blank in the face. That sight stopped anyone else in the bar from approaching him. It also gained him a reputation, which helped him to ama.s.s a mini real estate empire.

But in that city of smelted iron and hissing slag success had its own particular consequences. For Arkadin, it was coming to the attention of Stas Kuzin, one of the local crime bosses. Kuzin found Arkadin one night, four years later, having a bare-knuckle brawl with a giant lout whom Arkadin called out on a bet, for the prize of one beer.

Having demolished the giant, Arkadin grabbed his free beer, swigged half of it down, and, turning, confronted Stas Kuzin. Arkadin knew him immediately; everyone in Nizhny Tagil did. He had a thick black pelt of hair that came down in a horizontal slash to within an inch of his eyebrows. His head sat on his shoulders like a marble on a stone wall. His jaw had been broken and reconstructed so badly-probably in prison-that he spoke with a peculiar hissing sound, like a serpent. Sometimes what he said was all but unintelligible.

On either side of Kuzin were two ghoulish-looking men with sunken eyes and crude tattoos of dogs on the backs of their hands, which marked them as forever bound to their master.

"Let's talk," this monstrosity said to Arkadin, jerking his tiny head toward a table.

The men who'd been occupying the table rose as one when Kuzin approached, fleeing to the other side of the bar. Kuzin hooked his shoe around a chair leg, dragged it around, and sat down. Disconcertingly, he kept his hands in his lap, as if at any moment he'd draw down on Arkadin and shoot him dead.

He began talking, but it took the seventeen-year-old Arkadin some minutes before he could make heads or tails of what Kuzin was saying. It was like listening to a drowning man going under for the third time. At length, he realized that Kuzin was proposing a merger of sorts: half Arkadin's stake in real estate for 10 percent of Kuzin's operation.

And just what was Stas Kuzin's operation? No one would speak about it openly, but there was no lack of rumors on the subject. Everything from running spent nuclear fuel rods for the big boys over in Moscow to white slave trading, drug trafficking, and prost.i.tution was laid at Kuzin's doorstep. For his own part, Arkadin tended to dismiss the more outlandish speculation in favor of what he very well knew would make Kuzin money in Nizhny Tagil, namely, prost.i.tution and drugs. Every man in the city had to get laid, and if they had any money at all, drugs were far preferable to beer and bathtub vodka.

Once again, want never appeared on Arkadin's horizon, only need. He needed to do more than survive in this city of permasoot, violence, and black lung disease. He had come as far as he could on his own. He made enough to sustain himself here, but not enough to break away to Moscow where he needed to go to grab life's richest opportunities. Outside, the rings of h.e.l.l rose up: brick smokestacks, vigorously belching particle-laden smoke, iron guard towers of the brutal prison zonas zonas, bristling with a.s.sault rifles, powerful spotlights, and bellowing sirens.

In here he was locked inside his own brutal zona zona with Stas Kuzin. Arkadin gave the only sensible answer. He said yes, and so entered the ninth level of h.e.l.l. with Stas Kuzin. Arkadin gave the only sensible answer. He said yes, and so entered the ninth level of h.e.l.l.

Thirty-One.

WHILE ON LINE for pa.s.sport control in Munich, Bourne phoned Specter, who a.s.sured him everything was in readiness. Moments later he came in range of the first set of the airport's CCTV cameras. Instantly his image was picked up by the software employed at Semion Icoupov's headquarters, and before he'd finished his call to the professor he'd been identified.

At once Icoupov was called, who ordered his people stationed in Munich to move from standby to action, thus alerting both the airport personnel and the Immigration people under Icoupov's control. The man directing the incoming pa.s.sengers to the different cordoned-off lanes leading to the Immigration booths received a photo of Bourne on his computer screen just in time to indicate Bourne should go to booth 3.

The Immigration officer manning booth 3 listened to the voice coming through the electronic device in his ear. When the man identified to him as Jason Bourne handed over his pa.s.sport the officer asked him the usual questions-"How long do you intend to remain in Germany? Is your visit business or pleasure?"-while paging through the pa.s.sport. He moved it away from the window, pa.s.sed the photo under a humming purple light. As he did so, he pressed a small metallic disk the thickness of a human nail into the inside back cover of the pa.s.sport. Then he closed the booklet, smoothed its front and back covers, and handed it back to Bourne.

"Have a pleasant stay in Munich," he said without a trace of emotion or interest. He was already looking beyond Bourne to the next pa.s.senger in line.

As in Sheremetyevo, Bourne had the sense that he was under physical surveillance. He changed taxis twice when he arrived at the seething center of the city. In Marienplatz, a large open square from which the historic Marian column ascended, he walked past medieval cathedrals, through flocks of pigeons, lost himself within the crowds of guided tours, gawping at the sugar-icing architecture and the looming twin domes of the Frauenkirche, cathedral of the archbishop of Munich-Freising, the symbol of the city.

He inserted himself in a tour group gathered around a government building in which was inset the city's official shield, depicting a monk with hands spread wide. The tour leader was telling her charges that the German name, Munchen, Munchen, stemmed from an Old High German word meaning "monks." In 1158 or thereabouts, the current duke of Saxony and Bavaria built a bridge over the Isar River, connecting the saltworks, for which the growing city would soon become famous, with a settlement of Benedictine monks. He installed a tollbooth on the bridge, which became a vital link in the Salt Route in and out of the high Bavarian plains on which Munich was built, and a mint in which to house his profits. The modern-day mercantile city was not so far removed from its medieval beginnings. stemmed from an Old High German word meaning "monks." In 1158 or thereabouts, the current duke of Saxony and Bavaria built a bridge over the Isar River, connecting the saltworks, for which the growing city would soon become famous, with a settlement of Benedictine monks. He installed a tollbooth on the bridge, which became a vital link in the Salt Route in and out of the high Bavarian plains on which Munich was built, and a mint in which to house his profits. The modern-day mercantile city was not so far removed from its medieval beginnings.

When Bourne was certain he wasn't being shadowed, he slipped away from the group and boarded a taxi, which dropped him off six blocks from the Wittelsbach Palace.

According to the professor, Kirsch said he'd rather meet Bourne in a public setting. He chose the State Museum for Egyptian Art on Hofgartenstra.s.se, which was housed within the ma.s.sive rococo facade of the Wittelsbach Palace. Bourne took a full circuit of the streets around the palace, checking once more for tags, but he couldn't recall being in Munich before. He didn't have that eerie sense of deja vu that meant he had returned to a place he couldn't remember. Therefore, he knew local tags would have the advantage of terrain. There might be a dozen places to hide around the palace that he didn't know about.

Shrugging, he entered the museum. The metal detector was staffed by a pair of armed security guards, who were also setting aside backpacks and picking through handbags. On either side of the vestibule was a pair of basalt statues of the Egyptian G.o.d Horus-a falcon with a disk of the sun on his forehead-and his mother, Isis. Instead of walking directly to the exhibits, Bourne turned, stood behind the statue of Horus, watching for ten minutes as people came and went. He noted everyone between twenty-five and fifty, memorizing their faces. There were seventeen in all.

He then made his way past a female armed guard, into the exhibition halls, where he found Kirsch precisely where he told Specter he'd be, scrutinizing an ancient carving of a lion's head. He recognized Kirsch from the photo Specter had sent him, a snapshot of the two men standing together on the university campus. The professor's courier was a wiry little man with a shiny bald skull and black eyebrows as thick as caterpillars. He had pale blue eyes that darted this way and that as if on gimbals.

Bourne went past him, ostensibly looking at several sarcophagi while using his peripheral vision to check for any of the seventeen people who'd entered the museum after him. When no one presented themselves, he retraced his steps.

Kirsch did not turn as Bourne came up beside him, but said, "I know it sounds ridiculous, but doesn't this sculpture remind you of something?"

"The Pink Panther," Bourne said, both because it was the proper code response, and because the sculpture did look astonishingly like the modern-day cartoon icon.

Kirsch nodded. "Glad you made it without incident." He handed over the keys to his apartment, the code for the front door, and detailed directions to it from the museum. He looked relieved, as if he were handing over his burdensome life rather than his home.

"There are some features of my apartment I want to talk to you about."

As Kirsch spoke they moved on to a granite sculpture of the kneeling Senenmut, from the time of the Eighteenth Dynasty.

"The ancient Egyptians knew how to live," Kirsch observed. "They weren't afraid of death. To them, it was just another journey, not to be undertaken lightly, but still they knew there was something waiting for them after life." He put his hand out, as if to touch the statue or perhaps to absorb some of its potency. "Look at this statue. Life still glows within it, thousands of years later. For centuries the Egyptians had no equal."

"Until they were conquered by the Romans."

"And yet," Kirsch said, "it was the Romans who were changed by the Egyptians. A century after the Ptolemys and Julius Caesar ruled from Alexandria, it was Isis, the Egyptian G.o.ddess of revenge and rebellion, who was worshipped throughout the Roman Empire. In fact, it's all too likely that the early Christian Church founders, unable to do away with her or her followers, transmogrified her, stripped her of her war-like nature, and made from her the perfectly peaceful Virgin Mary."

"Leonid Arkadin could use a little less Isis and a lot more Virgin Mary," Bourne mused.

Kirsch raised his eyebrows. "What do you know of this man?"

"I know a lot of dangerous people are terrified of him."

"With good reason," Kirsch said. "The man's a homicidal maniac. He was born and raised in Nizhny Tagil, a hotbed of homicidal maniacs."

"So I've heard," Bourne nodded.

"And there he would have stayed had it not been for Tarkanian."

Bourne's ears p.r.i.c.ked up. He'd a.s.sumed that Maslov had put his man in Tarkanian's apartment because that's where Gala was living. "Wait a minute, what does Tarkanian have to do with Arkadin?"

"Everything. Without Mischa Tarkanian, Arkadin would never have escaped Nizhny Tagil. It was Tarkanian who brought him to Moscow."

"Are they both members of the Black Legion?"

"So I've been given to understand," Kirsch said. "But I'm only an artist; the clandestine life has given me an ulcer. If I didn't need the money-I'm a singularly unsuccessful artist, I'm afraid-I never would have stayed in this long. This was to be my last favor for Specter." His eyes continued to dart to the left and right. "Now that Arkadin has murdered Dieter Heinrich, last favor last favor has taken on a new and terrifying meaning." has taken on a new and terrifying meaning."

Bourne was now on full alert. Specter had a.s.sumed that Tarkanian was Black Legion, and Kirsch just confirmed it. But Maslov had denied Tarkanian's affiliation with the terrorist group. Someone was lying.

Bourne was about to ask Kirsch about the discrepancy when out of the corner of his eye he spotted one of the men who'd come into the museum just after he had. The man had paused for a moment in the vestibule, as if orienting himself, then strode purposefully off into the exhibition hall.

Because the man was close enough to overhear them in the museum's hushed atmosphere, Bourne took Kirsch's arm. "Come this way," he said, leading the German contact into another room, which was dominated by a calcite statue of twins from the Eighth Dynasty. It was chipped, time-worn, dating from 2390 BC. BC.

Pushing Kirsch behind the statue, Bourne stood like a sentinel, watching the other man's movements. The man glanced up, saw that Bourne and Kirsch were no longer at the statue of Senenmut, and looked casually around.

"Stay here," Bourne whispered to Kirsch.

"What is it?" There was a slight quaver in Kirsch's voice, but he looked stalwart enough. "Is Arkadin here?"

"Whatever happens," Bourne warned him, "stay put. You'll be safe until I come get you."

As Bourne moved around the far side of the Egyptian twins, the man entered the gallery. Bourne walked to the side opening and into the room beyond. The man, sauntering nonchalantly, took a quick look around and, as if seeing nothing of interest, followed Bourne.

This gallery held a number of high display cases but was dominated by a five-thousand-year-old stone statue of a woman with half her head sheared off. The antiquity was staggering, but Bourne had no time to appreciate it. Perhaps because it was toward the rear of the museum, the room was deserted, save for Bourne and the man, who was standing between Bourne and the one way in or out of the gallery.

Bourne placed himself behind a two-sided display case with a board in the center on which were hung small artifacts-sacred blue scarabs and gold jewelry. Because of a center gap in the board, Bourne could see the man, but the man remained unaware of his position.

Standing completely still, Bourne waited until the man began to come around the right side of the display case. Bourne moved quickly to his right, around the opposite side of the case, and rushed the man.

He shoved him against the wall, but the man maintained his balance. As he took up a defensive posture he pulled a ceramic knife from a sheath under his armpit, swung it back and forth to keep Bourne at bay.

Bourne feinted right, moved left in a semi-crouch. As he did so, he swung his right arm against the hand wielding the knife. His left hand grabbed the man by his throat. As the man tried to drive his knee into Bourne's belly, Bourne twisted to partially deflect the blow. In so doing, he lost his block on the knife hand and now the blade swept in toward the side of his neck. Bourne stopped it just before it struck, and there they stood, locked together in a kind of stalemate.

"Bourne," the man finally got out. "My name is Jens. I work for Dominic Specter."

"Prove it," Bourne said.

"You're here meeting with Egon Kirsch, so you can take his place when Leonid Arkadin comes looking for him."

Bourne let up on his grip of Jens's neck. "Put away your knife."

Jens did as Bourne asked, and Bourne let go of him completely.

"Now where's Kirsch? I need to get him out of here and safely on a plane back to Washington."

Bourne led him back into the adjoining gallery, to the statue of the twins.

"Kirsch, the gallery's clear. You can come out now."

When the contact didn't appear, Bourne stepped behind the statue. Kirsch was there all right, crumpled on the floor, a bullet hole in the back of his head.

Semion Icoupov watched the receiver attuned to the electronic bug in Bourne's pa.s.sport. As they approached the area of the Egyptian museum, he told the driver of his car to slow down. A keen sense of antic.i.p.ation coursed through him: He'd decided to take Bourne by gunpoint into his car. It seemed the best way now to get him to listen to what Icoupov had to tell him.

At that moment his cell phone sounded with the ringtone he'd a.s.signed to Arkadin's number, and while on the lookout for Bourne he put the phone to his ear.

"I'm in Munich," Arkadin said in his ear. "I rented a car, and I'm driving in from the airport."

"Good. I've got an electronic tag on Jason Bourne, the man Our Friend has sent to retrieve the plans."