There was, however, a strictly personal reason why she preferred Berlin. She came for much the same reason Bowie did, to get away from stale habits, to breathe the fresh air of a city unlike those she knew. At an early age Moira became bored with the familiar. Every time she felt compelled to join a group because that was what her friends were doing she sensed she was losing a piece of herself. Gradually, she realized that her friends had ceased to become individuals, devolving into a cliquey “they” she found repellent. The only way to escape was to flee beyond the borders of the United States.
She could have chosen London or Barcelona, as some other college sophomores did, but she was a freak for Bowie and the Velvet Underground, so Berlin it was.
The botanical garden was built in the mid-1800s as an exhibition hall, but eighty years later, after its garden was destroyed by a fire, it gained new life as a public park. Outside, the awful bulk of the prewar Fountain of Neptune cast a shadow across the space through which she strolled.
The array of gorgeous specimens on display inside this glassed-in space only underscored the fact that Munich itself was without verve or spark. It was a plodding city of untermenchen, businessmen as gray as the city, and factories belching smoke into the low, angry sky. It was also a focal point of European Muslim activity, which, in one of those classic action–reaction scenarios, made it a hotbed of skinhead neo-Nazis.
Moira glanced at her watch. It was precisely 9:30 AM, and here came Noah, striding toward her. He was cool and efficient, personally opaque, even withholding, but he wasn’t a bad sort. She’d have refused him as a handler if he was; she was senior enough to command that respect. And Noah did respect her, she was certain of that.
In many ways Noah reminded her of Johann, the man who’d recruited her while she was at the university. Actually, Johann hadn’t contacted her at college; he was far too canny for that. He asked his girlfriend to make the approach, rightly figuring Moira would be more responsive to a fellow female student. Ultimately, Moira had met with Johann, was intrigued by what he had to offer her, and the rest was history. Well, not exactly. She’d never told anyone, including Martin or Bourne, who she really worked for. To do so would have violated her contract with the firm.
She stopped in front of the pinkly intimate blooms of an orchid, speckled like the bridge of a virgin’s nose. Berlin had also been the site of her first passionate love affair, the kind that curled your toes, obliterated your focus on responsibility and the future. The affair almost ruined her, principally because it possessed her like a whirlwind and, in the process, she’d lost any sense of herself. She became a sexual instrument on which her lover played. What he wanted, she wanted, and so dissolution.
In the end, it was Johann who had saved her, but the process of separating pleasure from self was immensely painful. Especially because two months afterward her lover died. For a time, her rage at Johann was boundless; curdling their friendship, jeopardizing the trust they’d placed in each other. It was a lesson she never forgot. It was one reason she hadn’t allowed herself to fall for Martin, though part of her yearned for his touch. Jason Bourne was another story entirely, for she had once again been overtaken by the whirlwind. But this time, she wasn’t diminished. Partly, that was because she was mature now and knew better. Mainly, though, it was because Bourne asked nothing of her. He sought neither to lead nor to dominate her. Everything with him was clean and open. She moved on to another orchid, this one dark as night, with a tiny lantern of yellow hidden in its center. It was ironic, she thought, that despite his own issues, she had never before met a man so in control of himself. She found his self-assurance a compelling aphrodisiac, as well as a powerful antidote to her own innate melancholy.
That was another irony, she thought. If asked, Bourne would surely say that he was a pessimist, but being one herself, she knew an optimist when she met one. Bourne would take on the most impossible situations and somehow find a solution. Only the greatest of optimists could accomplish that.
Hearing soft footfalls, she turned to see Noah, shoulders hunched within a tweed overcoat. Though born in Israel, he could pass for a German now, perhaps because he’d lived in Berlin for so long. He’d been Johann’s protégé; the two had been very close. When Johann was killed, it was Noah who took his place.
“Hello, Moira.” He had a narrow face below dark hair flecked with premature gray. His long nose and serious mouth belied a keen sense of the absurd. “No Bourne, I see.”
“I did my best to get him on board at NextGen.”
Noah smiled. “I’m sure you did.”
He gestured and they began to walk together. Few people were around this gloomy morning so there was no chance of being overheard.
“But to be honest, from what you told me, it was a long shot.”
“I’m not disappointed,” Moira said. “I detested the entire experience.”
“That’s because you have feelings for him.”
“What if I do?” Moira said rather more defensively than she expected.
“You tell me.” Noah watched her carefully. “There is a consensus among the partners that your emotions are interfering with your work.”
“Where the hell is that coming from?” she said.
“I want you to know that I’m on your side.” His voice was that of a psychoanalyst calming an increasingly agitated patient. “The problem is you should have come here days ago.” They passed a worker tending a swath of African violets. When they were out of her earshot, he continued. “Then you go and bring Bourne with you.”
“I told you. I was still trying to recruit him.”
“Don’t lie to a liar, Moira.” He crossed his arms over his chest. When he spoke again, every word had weight. “There is a grave concern that your priorities aren’t straight. You have a job to do, and a vitally important one. The firm can’t afford to have your attention wandering.”
“Are you saying you want to replace me?”
“It’s an option that was discussed,” he acknowledged.
“Bullshit. At this late stage there’s no one who knows the project as well as I do.”
“But then another option was requested: withdrawal from the project.”
Moira was truly shocked. “You wouldn’t.”
Noah kept his gaze on her. “The partners have determined that in this instance it would be preferable to withdraw than to fail.”
Moira felt her blood rising. “You can’t withdraw, Noah. I’m not going to fail.”
“I’m afraid that’s no longer an option,” he said, “because the decision’s been made. As of oh seven hundred this morning we’ve officially notified NextGen that we’ve withdrawn from the project.”
He handed her a packet. “Here is your new assignment. You’re required to leave for Damascus this afternoon.”
Arkadin and Devra reached the Bosporus Bridge and crossed over into Istanbul just as the sun was rising. Since coming down from the cruel, snow-swept mountains along Turkey’s spine they had shed layers of clothes, and now the morning was exceptionally clear and mild. Pleasure yachts and huge tankers alike plowed the Bosporus on their way to various destinations. It felt good to roll down the windows. The air, fresh, moist, tangy with salt and minerals, was a distinct relief after the dry hard winter of the hinterlands.
During the night they’d stopped at every gas station, beaten-down motel, or store that was open—though most were not—in an attempt to find Heinrich, the next courier in Pyotr’s network.
When it came time for him to spell her, she moved to the passenger’s side, put her head against the door, and fell into a deep sleep, from which emerged a dream. She was a whale, swimming in icy black water. No sun pierced the depths where she swam. Below her was an unfathomable abyss. Ahead of her was a shadowy shape. She didn’t know why, but it seemed imperative that she follow that shape, catch up with it, identify it. Was it friend or foe? Every so often she filled her head and throat with sound, which she sent out through the darkness.
But she received no reply. There were no other whales around, so what was she chasing, what was she so desperate to find? There was no one to help her. She became frightened. The fright grew and grew…
It clung to her as she awoke with a start in the car beside Arkadin. The grayish predawn light creeping through the landscape rendered every shape unfamiliar and vaguely threatening.
Twenty-five minutes later they were in the seething, clamorous heart of Istanbul.
“Heinrich likes to spend the time before his flight in Kilyos, the beach community in the northern suburbs,” Devra said. “Do you know how to get there?”
Arkadin nodded. “I’m familiar with the area.”
They wove their way through Sultanahmet, the core of Old Istanbul, then took the Galata Bridge, which spanned the Golden Horn, to Karaköy in the north. In the old days, when Istanbul was known as Constantinople, seat of the Byzantine Empire, Karaköy was the powerful Genoese trading colony known as Galata. As they reached the center of the bridge Devra looked west toward Europe, then east across the Bosporus to Üsküdar and Asia.
They passed into Karaköy, with its fortified Genoese walls and, rising from it, the stone Galata tower with its conical top, one of the monuments that, along with the Topkapi Palace and Blue Mosque, dominated the modern-day city’s skyline.
Kilyos lay along the Black Sea coast twenty-two miles north of Istanbul proper. In the summer it was a popular beach resort, packed with people swimming, snacking in the restaurants that lined the beach, shopping for sunglasses and straw hats, sunbathing, or just dreaming. In winter it possessed a sad, vaguely disreputable air, like a dowager sinking into senility. Still, on this sun-splashed morning, under a cloudless cerulean sky, there were figures walking up and down the beach: young couples hand in hand; mothers with young children who ran laughing to the waterline, only to run back, screaming with terror and delight when the surf piled roughly in. An old man sat on a fold-up stool, smoking a crooked hand-rolled cigar that gave off a stench like the smokestack of a tannery.
Arkadin parked the car and got out, stretching his body after the long drive.
“He’ll recognize me the moment he sees me,” Devra said, staying put. She described Heinrich in detail. Just before Arkadin headed down to the beach, she added, “He likes putting his feet in the water, he says it grounds him.”
Down on the beach it was warm enough that some people had taken off their jackets. One middle-aged man had stripped to the waist and sat with knees drawn up, arms locked around them, facing up to the sun like a heliotrope. Kids dug in the sand with yellow plastic Tweety Bird shovels, poured sand into pink plastic Petunia Pig buckets. One pair of lovers had stopped at the shoreline, embracing. They kissed passionately.
Arkadin walked on. Just behind them a man stood in the surf. His trousers were rolled up; his shoes, with socks stuffed into them, had been placed on a high point in the sand not far away. He was staring out at the water, dotted here and there with tankers, tiny as LEGOs, inching along the blue horizon.
Devra’s description was not only detailed, it was accurate. The man in the surf was Heinrich.
The Moskva Bank was housed in an enormous, ornate building that would pass for a palace in any other city but was run-of-the-mill by Moscow standards. It occupied a corner of a busy thoroughfare a stone’s throw from Red Square. The streets and sidewalks were packed with both Muscovites and tourists.
It was just before 9 AM. Bourne had been walking around the area for the last twenty minutes, checking for surveillance. That he hadn’t spotted any didn’t mean the bank wasn’t being watched. He’d glimpsed a number of police cars cruising the snow-covered streets, more than usual, perhaps.
As he walked along a street close to the bank, he saw another police cruiser, this one with its light flashing. Stepping back into a shop doorway, he watched as it sped by. Halfway down the block it stopped behind a double-parked car. It sat there for a moment, then the two policemen got out of their cruiser, swaggered over to the vehicle.
Bourne took the opportunity to walk down the crowded sidewalk. People were wrapped and bundled, swaddled like children. Breath came out of their mouths and noses in cloud-like bursts as they hurried along with hunched shoulders and bent backs. As Bourne came abreast of the cruiser, he dipped down and glanced in the window. There he saw his face staring up at him from a tear sheet that had obviously been distributed to every cop in Moscow. According to the accompanying text he was wanted for the murder of an American government official.
Bourne walked quickly in the opposite direction, disappearing around a corner before the cops had a chance to return to their car.
He phoned Gala, who was parked in Yakov’s battered Zhig three blocks away awaiting his signal. After his call, she pulled out into traffic, made a right, then another. As they had surmised, it was slow going, the morning traffic sluggish.
She checked her watch, saw she needed to give Bourne another ninety seconds. As she approached the intersection near the bank, she used the time to pick a likely target. A shiny Zil limousine, not a speck of snow on its hood or roof, was heading slowly toward the intersection at right angles to her.
At the appointed time she accelerated forward. The bombila’s tires, which she and Bourne had checked when they’d returned to Lorraine’s, were nearly bald, their treads worn down to a nub. Gala braked much too hard and the Zhig shrieked as the brakes locked, the old tires skidding along the icy street until its grille struck the front fender of the Zil limo.
All traffic came to a screeching halt, horns blared, pedestrians detoured from their appointed rounds, drawn by the spectacle. Within thirty seconds three police cruisers had converged on the site of the accident.
As the chaos mounted, Bourne slipped through the revolving door into the ornate lobby of the Moskva Bank. He immediately crossed the marble floor, passing under one of the three huge gilt chandeliers that hung from the vaulted ceiling high above. The effect of the room was to diminish human size, and the experience was not unlike visiting a dead relative in his marble niche.
There was a low banquette two-thirds of the way across the vast room, behind which sat a row of drones, their heads bent over their work. Before approaching, Bourne checked everyone inside the bank for suspicious behavior. He produced Popov’s passport, then wrote down the number of the safe-deposit box on a small pad kept for that specific purpose.
The woman glanced at him, took his passport and the slip of paper, which she ripped off the pad. Locking her drawer, she told Bourne to wait. He watched her walk over to the rank of supervisors and managers, who sat in rows behind identical wooden desks, and present Bourne’s documentation. The manager checked the number against his master list of safe-deposit boxes, then he checked the passport. He hesitated, then reached for the phone, but when he noticed Bourne staring at him, he returned the receiver to its cradle. He said something to the woman clerk, then rose and came over to where Bourne stood.
“Mr. Popov.” He handed back the passport. “Vasily Legev, at your service.” He was an oily Muscovite who continually scrubbed his palms together as if his hands had been somewhere he’d rather not reveal. His smile seemed as genuine as a three-dollar bill.
Opening a door in the banquette, he ushered Bourne through. “It will be my pleasure to escort you to our vault.”
He led Bourne to the rear of the room. A discreet door opened onto a hushed carpeted corridor with a row of square columns on either side. Bad reproductions of famous landscape paintings hung on the walls. Bourne could hear the muted sounds of phones ringing, computer operators inputting information or writing letters. The vault was directly ahead, its massive door open; to the left a set of marble stairs swept upward.
Vasily Legev showed Bourne through the circular opening and into the vault. The hinges of the door looked to be two feet long and as thick around as Bourne’s biceps. Inside was a rectangular room filled floor-to-ceiling with metal boxes, only the fronts of which could be seen.
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sp; They went over to Bourne’s box number. There were two locks, two keyholes. Vasily Legev inserted his key in the left-hand lock, Bourne inserted his into the right-hand lock. The two men turned their keys at the same time, and the box was free to be pulled out of its niche. Vasily Legev brought the box to one of a number of small viewing rooms. He set it down on a ledge, nodded to Bourne, then left, pulling the privacy curtain behind him.
Bourne didn’t bother sitting. Opening the box, he discovered a great deal of money in American dollars, euros, Swiss francs, and a number of other currencies. He pocketed ten thousand Swiss francs, along with some dollars and euros, before he closed the box, pulled aside the curtain, and emerged into the vault proper.
Vasily Legev was nowhere to be seen, but two plainclothes cops had placed themselves between Bourne and the doorway to the vault. One of them aimed a Makarov 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.