"We always had the power of life and death over each other." Icoupov still struggled to gain equality in the conversation. "There were casualties on both sides-regrettable but necessary. The more things change the more they stay the same. Except for Long Beach."

"There's the problem precisely," Sever said. "I've just come from interrogating Arthur Hauser, our man on the inside. As such, he was monitored by my people. Earlier today, he got cold feet; he met with a member of Black River. It took me some time to convince him to talk, but eventually he did. He told this woman-Moira Trevor-about the software flaw."

"So Black River knows."

"If they do," Sever said, "they aren't doing anything about it. Hauser also told me that they withdrew from NextGen; Black River isn't handling their security anymore."

"Who is?"

"It doesn't matter," Sever said. "The point is the tanker is less than a day away from the California coastline. My software engineer is aboard and in place. The question now is whether this Black River operative is going to act on her own."

Icoupov frowned. "Why should she? You know Black River as well as I do, they act as a team."

"True enough, but the Trevor woman should have been on to her next a.s.signment by now; my people tell me that she's still in Munich."

"Maybe she's taking some downtime."

"And maybe," Sever said, "she's going to act on the information Hauser gave her."

They were nearing the airport, and with some difficulty Icoupov pointed. "The only way to find out is to check to see whether she's on the NextGen plane that's transshipping the coupling link to the terminal." He smiled thinly. "You seem surprised that I know so much. I have my spies as well, many of whom you know nothing about." He gasped in pain as he searched beneath his greatcoat. "It was texted to me, but I can't seem to find my cell." He looked around. "It must have fallen out of my pocket when your driver manhandled me into the car."

Sever waved a hand, ignoring the implied rebuke. "Never mind. Hauser gave me all the details, if we can get through security."

"I have people in Immigration you don't know about."

Sever's smile held a measure of the cruelty that was common to both of them. "My dear Semion, you have a use after all."

Arkadin found Icoupov's cell phone in the gutter where it had fallen as Icoupov had been bundled into the Mercedes. Controlling the urge to stomp it into splinters, he opened it to see whom Icoupov had called last, and noticed that the last incoming message was a text. Accessing it, he read the information on a NextGen jet due to take off in twenty minutes. He wondered why that would be important to Icoupov. Part of him wanted to go back to Devra, the same part that had balked at leaving her to go after Icoupov. But Kirsch's building was swarming with cops; the entire block was in the process of being cordoned off, so he didn't look back, tried not to think of her lying twisted on the floor, her blank eyes staring up at him even after she stopped breathing.

Do you love me, Leonid?

How had he answered her? Even now he couldn't remember. Her death was like a dream, something vivid that made no sense. Maybe it was a symbol, but of what he couldn't say.

Do you love me, Leonid?

It didn't matter, but he knew to her it did. He had lied then, surely he'd lied to ease the moments before her death, but the thought that he'd lied to her sent a knife through whatever pa.s.sed for his heart.

He looked down at the text message and knew this was where he'd find Icoupov. Turning around, he walked back toward the cordoned-off area. Posing as a crime reporter from the Abendzeitung Abendzeitung newspaper, he boldly accosted one of the junior uniformed police, asking him pointed questions about the shooting, stories of gunfire he'd gleaned from residents of the neighboring buildings. As he suspected, the cop was on guard duty and knew next to nothing. But that wasn't the point; he'd now gotten inside the cordon, leaning against one of the police cars as he conducted his phony and fruitless interview. newspaper, he boldly accosted one of the junior uniformed police, asking him pointed questions about the shooting, stories of gunfire he'd gleaned from residents of the neighboring buildings. As he suspected, the cop was on guard duty and knew next to nothing. But that wasn't the point; he'd now gotten inside the cordon, leaning against one of the police cars as he conducted his phony and fruitless interview.

At length, the cop was called away, and he dismissed Arkadin, saying the commissioner would be holding a press conference at 16:00, at which time he would be free to ask all the questions he wanted. This left Arkadin alone, leaning against the fender. It didn't take him long to walk around the front of the vehicle, and when the medical examiner's van arrived-creating a perfect diversion-he opened the driver's-side door, ducked in behind the wheel. The keys were already in the ignition. He started the car and drove off. When he reached the autobahn, he put on the siren and drove at top speed toward the airport.

I won't have a problem getting you on board," Moira said as she turned off onto the four-lane approach to the freight terminal. She showed her NextGen ID at the guard booth, then drove on toward the parking lot outside the terminal. During the drive to the airport she'd thought long and hard about whether to tell Jason about whom she really worked for. Revealing that she was with Black River was a direct violation of her contract, and right now she prayed there'd be no reason to tell him. won't have a problem getting you on board," Moira said as she turned off onto the four-lane approach to the freight terminal. She showed her NextGen ID at the guard booth, then drove on toward the parking lot outside the terminal. During the drive to the airport she'd thought long and hard about whether to tell Jason about whom she really worked for. Revealing that she was with Black River was a direct violation of her contract, and right now she prayed there'd be no reason to tell him.

After pa.s.sing through security, Customs, and Immigration, they arrived on the tarmac and approached the 747. A set of mobile stairs rose up to the high pa.s.senger door, which stood open. On the far side of the plane, the truck from Kaller Steelworks Gesellschaft was parked, along with an airport hoist, which was lifting crated parts of the LNG coupling link into the jet's cargo area. The truck was obviously late, and the loading process was necessarily slow and tedious. Neither Kaller nor NextGen could afford an accident at this late stage.

Moira showed her NextGen ID to one of the crew members standing at the bottom of the stairs. He smiled and nodded, welcoming them aboard. Moira breathed a sigh of relief. Now all that stood between them and the Black Legion attack was the ten-hour flight to Long Beach.

But as they neared the top of the stairs, a figure appeared from the plane's interior. He stood in the doorway, staring down at her.

"Moira," Noah said, "what are you doing here? Why aren't you on your way to Damascus?"

Manfred Holger, Icoupov's man in Immigration, met them at the checkpoint to the freight terminals, got in the car with them, and they lurched forward. Icoupov had called him using Sever's cell phone. He'd been about to go off duty, but luckily for them had not yet changed out of his uniform.

"There's no problem." Holger spoke in the officious manner that had been drummed into him by his superiors. "All I have to do is check the recent immigration records to see if she's come through the system."

"Not good enough," Icoupov said. "She may be traveling under a pseudonym."

"All right then, I'll go on board and check everyone's pa.s.sports." Holger was sitting in the front seat. Now he swiveled around to look at Icoupov. "If I find that this woman, Moira Trevor, is on board, what would you have me do?"

"Take her off the plane," Sever said at once.

Holger looked inquiringly at Icoupov, who nodded. Icoupov's face was gray again, and he was having more difficulty keeping the pain at bay.

"Bring her here to us," Sever said.

Holger had taken their diplomatic pa.s.sports, pa.s.sed them quickly through security. Now the Mercedes was sitting just off the tarmac. The 747 with the NextGen logo emblazoned on its sides and tail was at rest, still being loaded from the Kaller Steelworks truck. The driver had pulled up so that the truck shielded them from being seen by anyone boarding the plane or already inside it.

Holger nodded, got out of the Mercedes, and walked across the tarmac to the rolling stairs.

Kriminalpolizei," Arkadin said as he stopped the police car at the freight terminal checkpoint. "We have reason to believe a man who killed two people this afternoon has fled here." Arkadin said as he stopped the police car at the freight terminal checkpoint. "We have reason to believe a man who killed two people this afternoon has fled here."

The guards waved him past Customs and Immigration without asking for ID; the car itself was proof enough for them. As Arkadin rolled past the parking lot and onto the tarmac, he saw the jet, crates from the NextGen truck being hoisted into the cargo bay, and the black Mercedes idling some distance away from both. Recognizing the car at once, he nosed the police cruiser to a spot directly behind the Mercedes. For a moment, he sat behind the wheel, staring at the Mercedes as if the car itself were his enemy.

He could see the silhouettes of two male figures in the backseat; it wasn't a stretch for him to figure that one of them was Semion Icoupov. He wondered which of the handguns he had with him he should use to kill his former mentor: the SIG Sauer 9mm, the Luger, or the .22 SIG Mosquito. It all depended on what kind of damage he wanted to inflict and to what part of the body. He'd shot Stas Kuzin in the knees, the better to watch him suffer, but this was another time and, especially, another place. The airport was public s.p.a.ce; the adjacent pa.s.senger terminal was crawling with security personnel. Just because he had been able to get this far as a member of the kriminalpolizei, kriminalpolizei, he knew better than to overstep his luck. No, this kill needed to be quick and clean. All he desired was to look into Icoupov's eyes when he died, for him to know who'd ended his life and why. he knew better than to overstep his luck. No, this kill needed to be quick and clean. All he desired was to look into Icoupov's eyes when he died, for him to know who'd ended his life and why.

Unlike the moment of Kuzin's demise, Arkadin was fully aware of this moment, keyed in to the importance of the son overtaking the father, of revenging himself for the psychological and physical advantages an adult takes with a child. That he hadn't, in fact, been a child when Mischa had sent Semion Icoupov to resurrect him never occurred to him. From the moment the two had met, he had always seen Icoupov as a father figure. He'd obeyed him as he would a father, had accepted his judgments, had swallowed whole his worldview, had been faithful to him. And now, for the sins Icoupov had visited on him, he was going to kill him.

When you didn't show for your scheduled flight, I had a hunch you'd show up here." Noah stared at her, completely ignoring Bourne. "I won't allow you on the plane, Moira. You're no longer a part of this."

"She still works for NextGen, doesn't she?" Bourne said.

"Who is this?" Noah said, keeping his eyes on her.

"My name is Jason Bourne."

A slow smile crept over Noah's face. "Moira, you didn't introduce us." He turned to Bourne, stuck out his hand. "Noah Petersen."

Bourne shook his hand. "Jason Bourne."

Keeping the same sly smile on his face, Noah said, "Do you know she lied to you, that she tried to recruit you to NextGen under false pretenses?"

His eyes flicked toward Moira, but he was disappointed to see neither shock nor outrage on her face.

"Why would she do that?" Bourne said.

"Because," Moira said, "like Noah here, I work for Black River, the private security firm. We were hired by NextGen to oversee security on the LNG terminal."

It was Noah who registered shock. "Moira, that's enough. You're in violation of your contract."

"It doesn't matter, Noah. I quit Black River half an hour ago. I've been made chief of security at NextGen, so in point of fact it's you who isn't welcome aboard this flight."

Noah stood rigid as stone, until Bourne took a step toward him. Then he backed away, descending the flight of rolling stairs. Halfway down, he turned to her. "Pity, Moira. I once had faith in you."

She shook her head. "The pity is that Black River has no conscience."

Noah looked at her for a moment then turned, clattered down the rest of the stairs, and stalked off across the tarmac without seeing the Mercedes or the police car behind it.

Because it would make the least noise, Arkadin decided on the Mosquito. Hand curled around the grips, he got out of the police car, stalked to the driver's side of the Mercedes. It was the driver-who doubtless doubled as a bodyguard-he had to dispense with first. Keeping his Mosquito out of sight, he rapped on the driver's window with a bare knuckle.

When the driver slid the gla.s.s 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 s.h.i.t."

"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 protege. "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 pa.s.sport," the officer said as he approached Bourne.

"Pa.s.sport checks have already been made, mein Herr. mein Herr."

"Nevertheless, another security scan must be made now." The officer held out his hand. "Your pa.s.sport, please. And then I will check the ident.i.ty of everyone else aboard."

"You don't recognize me, mein Herr mein Herr?"

"Please." The officer put his hand on the b.u.t.t of his holstered Luger. "You are obstructing official government business. Believe me, I will take you into custody unless you show me your pa.s.sport and then move aside."

"Here's my pa.s.sport, mein Herr. 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 pa.s.sports." 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 pa.s.senger'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 c.o.c.kpit was still open, and she gave the order for takeoff to the captain and the co-pilot.