Bourne 7 – The Bourne Deception - Страница 20

He saw someone emerge from the interior of the jeep that he‘d been warned by tribal lookouts had brought Maslov and his thugs here. At first the heat rising from the freshly laid tarmac obscured the man‘s face. Not that it mattered; Arkadin recognized that easy, loping gait, so deliberately like Clint Eastwood‘s in A Fistful of Dollars.

— What‘s he doing here? Arkadin struggled to keep the sharp edge out of his voice.

— Who? Oserov? Maslov said in all innocence. -Vylacheslav Germanovich is now my second in command. He shook his head ingenuously. -Did I fail to mention that? I would have if I‘d been able to get hold of you to protect my Mexican interests. He shrugged. -But, alas…

Oserov was smiling now, in that half-ironic, half-condescending expression that had been tattooed into Arkadin‘s brain in Nizhny Tagil. Was graduating Oxford a license to act superior to every other grupperovka member in Russia? Arkadin didn‘t think so.

— Arkadin, really? Oserov said in British English. -Bloody shocking you‘re still alive.

Arkadin hit him hard on the point of the chin. Oserov, that vile smile still stitched to his face, was already on his knees, his eyes rolling, by the time Maslov‘s bodyguards stepped in.

Maslov held up one hand to stay them. Nevertheless, his face was dark and congested with anger. -You shouldn‘t have done that, Leonid Danilovich.

— You shouldn‘t have brought him.

Unmindful of the weapons drawn on him, Arkadin knelt beside Oserov. -So here you are in the blazing Azerbaijani sun, so far from home. How does it feel?

Oserov‘s eyes were bloodshot and a thin trail of pink drool descended like a strand of a spider‘s web from one corner of his mouth, but he never stopped smiling. All at once, he reached out and grabbed Arkadin by his shirtfront, jerking him closer.

— You‘ll live to regret this insult, Leonid Danilovich, now that Mischa is no longer alive to protect you.

Arkadin sprang away and rose to his feet. -I told you what I‘d do to him if I saw him again.

Maslov‘s eyes narrowed. His face still had that congested look. -That was a long time ago.

— Not for me, Arkadin said.

Now he had made his stand, made an unequivocal statement that Maslov couldn‘t ignore. Nothing would be the same between them, which came as a distinct relief to Arkadin, who had the captive‘s innate horror of inaction. To him, change was life. Dimitri Maslov had always thought of Arkadin as a workman, someone he hired and then forgot about. That perception needed to change. Maslov had to be made aware that the two men were now equals. Arkadin didn‘t have the luxury of time to finesse his new, elevated status.

As Oserov regained his feet, Maslov threw his head back and laughed, but he sobered quickly enough. -Get back to the car, Vylacheslav Germanovich, he said under his breath to Oserov.

Oserov was about to say something, but changed his mind. With a murderous look at Arkadin, he turned on his heel and stalked away.

— So, you‘re a big man now, Maslov said in an easy tone that didn‘t quite mask the undertone of menace in his voice.

Which meant, Arkadin understood, I knew you when you were nothing but a ragged fugitive from Nizhny Tagil, so if you mean to come after me, don’t.

— There are no big men, Arkadin replied with equanimity, — only big ideas.

The two men stared at each other in total silence. Then, as one, they began to laugh. They laughed so hard, the bodyguards looked at each other questioningly and holstered their handguns. Meanwhile, Arkadin and Maslov punched each other lightly, then embraced as brothers. But for Arkadin, he knew he had to be even more wary of a knife being slipped between his ribs or a bit of cyanide in his toothpaste.

Bourne made his way down the steep hillside from the warung at the summit of the rice paddies. Down below, two adolescents were just visible exiting their family compound to go to school in Tenganan village.

He continued to descend the steep, rocky path at an almost breathtaking pace, passing the compound where the two teens had come from. A man-doubtless their father-was chopping wood, and a woman was stirring a wok-like pan over an open flame. Two skinny dogs came out to observe Bourne‘s passing, but the adults couldn‘t have cared less.

The path flattened out quickly now, becoming packed dirt, somewhat wider, with the occasional rock and pile of cow manure to circumnavigate. This was the path that he and Moira had been forced to take by the — beater who had cleverly herded them toward the killing ground in Tenganan.

Passing through the arched gateway, he picked his way past the school and the empty badminton court. Then all at once he was in the sacred open space occupied by the three temples. Unlike the first time he had been here, the temples were empty. High above, curlicue clouds tumbled across the cerulean sky. A small breeze stirred the treetops. His steps, light and virtually silent, caused little or no stir among the herd of cows and their calves lounging against the cool stone walls of the temple at the far end, the one dappled in shade. Save for the animals, the glade was deserted.

As he cut between the central temple and the one on the right he experienced an eerie sense of dislocation. He passed the patch of dirt where he had lain in his own blood while Moira, her face pinched with horror, had knelt over him. Time seemed to stretch into infinity, then, as he moved on, to snap back like a rubber band.

Leaving the rear walls of the temples behind him, he soon found himself back on steeply pitched land. The forest rose like a thick green wall above him, like a many-pagodaed temple complex, reaching toward the sky. This was where the shooter must have been lying in wait for him.

Just inside the lowest fringe of the dense forest sat a small stone shrine, its flanks wrapped in the traditional black-and-white-checked cloth, the whole protected by a small yellow parasol. The local spirit was in residence, and so was someone else. Seeing a small movement out of the corner of his eye, Bourne lunged into the foliage, wrapped his hand around a thin, brown arm, and drew out of the shadows the eldest daughter of the family that owned the warung.

For a long moment, they stood staring silently at each other. Then Bourne knelt down so he was at her eye level.

— What‘s your name? he asked her.

— Kasih, she said at once.

He smiled. -What are you doing here, Kasih?

The girl‘s eyes were deep as pools, dark as obsidian. She had long hair that came down past her narrow shoulders. She wore a coffee-colored sarong with a pattern of frangipani blossoms just like his double ikat. Her skin was silky and unblemished.

— Kasih-?

— You were hurt three full moons ago in Tenganan.

The smile Bourne kept on his face turned tissue-thin. -You‘re mistaken, Kasih. That man died. I went to his funeral in Manggis before his body was flown back to the United States.

The outer corners of her eyes turned up and she gave him a curious smile, as enigmatic as the expression of the Mona Lisa. Then she reached out and her fingers opened his sweat-drenched shirt, revealing the bandaged wound.

— You were shot, Bapak, she said as gravely as an adult. -You didn‘t die, but it‘s hard for you to climb our steep hills. She cocked her head. -Why do you do it?

— So that one day it won‘t be hard. He rebuttoned his shirt. -This is our secret, Kasih. No one else must find out, otherwise-

— The man who shot you will come back.

Rocked back on his heels, Bourne felt his heartbeat accelerate. -Kasih, how do you know that?

— Because demons always return.

— What do you mean?

Reverently approaching the shrine, she placed a handful of red and violet blossoms in the shrine‘s small niche, pressing her palms together at forehead height, bowing her head in a brief prayer to protect them against the evil demons that lurked in the forest‘s restless green shadows.

When she was finished, she stepped back and, kneeling, began to dig at the rear corner of the shrine. A moment later she plucked out of the black, volcanic earth a small package of tied banana leaves. She turned and, with a fearful look in her eyes, presented it to Bourne.

Brushing off the soft clots of dirt, he untied and peeled back the leaves, one by one. Inside, he discovered a human eyeball, made of acrylic or glass.

— It‘s the demon‘s eye, Bapak, she said, — the demon who shot you.

Bourne looked at her. -Where did you find this?

— Over there. She pointed to the base of an immense pule or milk wood tree not more than a hundred yards away.

— Show me, he said, following her through the tall fan-like ferns to the tree.

The girl would approach no closer than three paces, but Bourne hunkered down on his hams at the spot she indicated, where the ferns were broken, trampled down as if someone had left in great haste. Cocking his head up, he eyed the network of branches.

As he made to climb up, Kasih gave a little cry. -Oh, please don‘t! The spirit of Durga, the goddess of death, lives in the pule.