“Where are you?” his boss said. “There’s a lot of background noise.”

“I’m at the beach,” Arkadin said.

“What? The beach?”

“Kilyos. It’s a suburb of Istanbul,” Arkadin said.

“I hope you’re having a good time while we’re in a semi-panic.”

Arkadin’s demeanor changed instantly. “What happened?”

“The bastard had Harun killed, that’s what happened.”

He knew how much Harun Iliev meant to Icoupov. Like Mischa meant to him. A rock,

someone to keep him from drifting into the abyss of his imagination. “On a happier

note,” he said, “I have the package.”

Icoupov gave a short intake of breath. “Finally! Open it,” he commanded. “Tell me if

the document is inside.”

Arkadin did as he was told, breaking the wax seal, prying open the plastic disk that

capped off the cylinder. Inside, tightly rolled sheets of pale blue architectural paper

unfurled like sails. There were four in all. Quickly, he scanned them.

Sweat broke out at his hairline. “I’m looking at a set of architectural plans.”

“It’s the target of the attack.”

“The plans,” Arkadin said, “are for the Empire State Building in New York City.”

Book Three

Twenty-Eight

IT TOOK ten minutes for Bourne to get a decent connection to Professor Specter, then

another five for his people to rouse him out of bed. It was 5 AM in Washington. Maslov

had gone downstairs to see to business, leaving Bourne alone in the greenhouse to make

his calls. Bourne used the time to consider what Maslov had told him. If it was true that

Pyotr was a member of the Black Legion, two possibilities arose: One was that Pyotr was

running his own operation under the professor’s nose. That was ominous enough. The

second possibility was far worse, namely that the professor was, himself, a member. But

then why had he been attacked by the Black Legion? Bourne himself had seen the tattoo

on the arm of the gunman who had accosted Specter, beat him, and hustled him off the

street.

At that moment Bourne heard Specter’s voice in his ear. “Jason,” he said, clearly out of

breath, “what’s happened?”

Bourne brought him up to date, ending with the information that Pyotr was a member

of the Black Legion.

For a long moment, there was silence on the line.

“Professor, are you all right?”

Specter cleared his throat. “I’m fine.”

But he didn’t sound fine, and as the silence stretched on Bourne strained to catch a hint

of his mentor’s emotional state.

“Look, I’m sorry about your man Baronov. The killer wasn’t Black Legion; he was an

NSA agent sent to murder me.”

“I appreciate your candor,” Specter said. “And while I grieve for Baronov, he knew the

risks. Like you, he went into this war with his eyes open.”

There was another silence, more awkward than the last one.

Finally, Specter said, “Jason, I’m afraid I’ve withheld some rather vital information

from you. Pyotr Zilber was my son.”

“Your son? By why didn’t you tell me that in the first place?”

“Fear,” the professor said. “I’ve kept his real identity a secret for so many years it’s

become habit. I needed to protect Pyotr from his enemies-my enemies-the enemies who

were responsible for murdering my wife. I felt the best way to do that was to change his

name. So in the summer of his sixth year, Aleksei Specter drowned tragically and Pyotr

Zilber came into being. I left him with friends, left everything and came to America, to

Washington, to begin my life anew without him. It was the most difficult thing I’ve ever

had to do. But how can a father renounce his son when he can’t forget him?”

Bourne knew precisely what he meant. He’d been about to tell the professor what he’d

learned about Pyotr and his cast of misfits and fuckups, but this didn’t seem the right time to bring up more bad news.

“So you helped him?” Bourne guessed. “Secretly.”

“Ever so secretly,” Specter said. “I couldn’t afford to have anyone link us together, I

couldn’t allow anyone to know my son was still alive. It was the least I could do for him.

Jason, I hadn’t seen him since he was six years old.”

Hearing the naked anguish in Specter’s voice, Bourne waited a moment. “What

happened?”

“He did a very stupid thing. He decided to take on the Black Legion himself. He spent

years infiltrating the organization. He discovered that the Black Legion was planning a

major attack inside America, then he spent months worming his way closer to the project.

And finally, he had the key to bringing them down: He stole the plans to their target.

Since we had to be careful about direct communication, I suggested he use his network

for the purpose of getting me information on the Black Legion’s movements. This is how

he meant to send me the plans.”

“Why didn’t he simply photograph them and send them to you digitally?”

“He tried that, but it didn’t work. The paper the plans are printed on is coated with a

substance that makes whatever’s printed on it impossible to copy by any means. He had

to get me the plans themselves.”

“Surely he told you the nature of the plans,” Bourne said.

“He was going to,” the professor said. “But before he could he was caught, taken to

Icoupov’s villa, where Arkadin tortured and killed him.”

Bourne considered the implications in light of the new information the professor had

given him. “Do you think he told them he was your son?”

“I’ve been concerned about that ever since the kidnapping attempt. I’m afraid Icoupov

might know our blood connection.”

“You’d better take precautions, Professor.”

“I plan to do just that, Jason. I’ll be leaving the DC area in just over an hour.

Meanwhile, my people have been hard at work. I’ve gotten word that Icoupov sent

Arkadin to fetch the plans from Pyotr’s network. He’s leaving a trail of bodies in his

wake.”

“Where is he now?” Bourne said.

“Istanbul, but that won’t do you any good,” Specter said, “because by the time you get

there he’ll surely have gone. It’s now more imperative than ever that you find him,

though, because we have confirmed that he’s taken the plans from the courier he

murdered in Istanbul, and time is running out before the attack.”

“This courier came from where?”

“Munich,” the professor said. “He was the last link in the chain before the plans were

to be delivered to me.”

“From what you tell me, it’s clear that Arkadin’s mission is twofold,” Bourne said.

“First, to get the plans; second, to permanently shut down Pyotr’s network by killing its

members one by one. Dieter Heinrich, the courier in Munich, is the only one remaining

alive.”

“Who was Heinrich supposed to deliver the plans to in Munich?”

“Egon Kirsch. Kirsch is my man,” Specter said. “I’ve already alerted him to the

danger.”

Bourne thought a moment. “Does Arkadin know what Kirsch looks like?”

“No, and neither does the young woman with him. Her name is Devra. She was one of

Pyotr’s people, but now she’s helping Arkadin kill her former colleagues.”

“Why would she do that?” Bourne asked.

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” the professor said. “She was something of a cipher in

Sevastopol, where she fell in with Arkadin-no friends, no family, an orphan of the state.

So far my people haven’t turned up anything useful. In any event, I’m going to pull

Kirsch out of Munich.”

Bourne’s mind was working overtime. “Don’t do that. Get him out of his apartment to

a safe place somewhere in the city. I’ll take the first flight out to Munich. Before I leave here I want all the information on Kirsch’s life you can get me-where he was born, raised,