Tyrone shifted on the bare concrete floor. It was so slippery with his own fluids that

one knee went out from under him, splaying him so painfully that he cried out. Of course,

no one came to help him; he was alone in the interrogation cell in the basement of the

NSA safe house deep in the Virginia countryside. He had to quite literally locate himself

in his mind, had to trace the route he and Soraya had taken when they’d driven to the safe

house. When? Three days ago? Ten hours? What? The rendition he’d been subjected to

had erased any sense of time. The hood over his head threatened to erase his sense of

place, so that periodically he had to say to himself: “I’m in an interrogation cell in the

basement of the NSA safe house in”-and here he would recite the name of the last town

he and Soraya had passed… when?

That was the problem, really. His sense of disorientation was so complete, there were

periods when he couldn’t distinguish up from down. Worse, those periods were becoming

both longer and more frequent.

The pain was hardly an issue because he was used to pain, though never this intense or

prolonged. It was the disorientation that was worming its way into his brain like a

surgeon’s drill. It seemed that with each bout he was losing more of himself, as if he were made up of grains of salt or sand trickling away from him. And what would happen when

they were all gone? What would he become?

He thought of DJ Tank and the rest of his former crew. He thought of Deron, of Kiki,

but none of those tricks worked. They’d slip away like mist and he’d be left to the void

into which, he was increasingly sure, he’d disappear. Then he thought of Soraya,

conjured her piece by piece, as if he were a sculptor, molding her out of a lump of clay.

And he found that as his mind lovingly re-created each minute bit of her, he miraculously

stayed intact.

As he struggled back to a position that was tolerably painful, he heard a metallic

scrape, and his head came up. Before anything else could transpire, the scents of freshly

cooked eggs and bacon came to him, making his mouth water. He’d been fed nothing but

plain oatmeal since he was brought here. And at inconsistent times-sometimes one meal

right after the other-in order to keep his disorientation absolute.

He heard the scuff of leather soles-two men, his ears told him.

Then General Kendall’s voice, saying imperiously, “Set the food on the table, Willard.

Right there, thank you. That will be all.”

One set of shoe soles clacked across the floor, the sound of the door closing. Silence.

Then the screech of a chair being hitched across the concrete. Kendall was sitting down,

Tyrone surmised.

“What have we here?” Kendall said, clearly to himself. “Ah, my favorite: eggs over

easy, bacon, buttered grits, hot biscuits and gravy.” The sound of cutlery being taken up.

“You like grits, Tyrone? You like biscuits and gravy?”

Tyrone wasn’t too far gone to be incensed. “On’y ting I like betta is watermelon, sah.”

“That’s a damn fine imitation of one of your brethren, Tyrone.” He was obviously

talking while eating. “This is damn fine chow. Would you like some?”

Tyrone’s stomach growled so loudly he was sure Kendall heard it.

“All you gotta do is tell me everything you and the Moore woman were up to.”

“I don’t rat anyone out,” Tyrone said bitterly.

“Um.” The sounds of Kendall swallowing. “That’s what they all say in the beginning.”

He chewed some more. “You do know this is just the beginning, don’t you, Tyrone? Sure

you do. Just like you know the Moore woman isn’t going to save you. She’s going to

hang you out to dry, sure as I’m sitting here eating the most mouthwatering biscuits I

ever had. You know why? Because LaValle gave her a choice: you or Jason Bourne. You

know her history with Bourne. She might claim she didn’t fuck him but you and I know

better.”

“She never slept with him,” Tyrone said before he could stop himself.

“Sure. She told you that.” Munch, munch, munch went Kendall’s jaws, shredding the

crisp bacon. “What’d you expect her to say?”

The sonovabitch was playing mind games with him, Tyrone knew that for a fact.

Trouble was, he wasn’t lying. Tyrone knew how Soraya felt about Bourne-it was written

all over her face every time she saw him or his name came up. Though she’d said

otherwise, the question Kendall had just raised had gnawed at him like an addict at a

candy bar.

It was difficult not to envy Bourne with his freedom, his encyclopedic knowledge, his

friendship as equals with Deron. But all these things Tyrone dealt with in his own way. It

was Soraya’s love for Bourne that was so hard to live with.

He heard the scrape of chair legs and then felt the presence of Kendall as he squatted

down beside him. It was astonishing, Tyrone thought, how much heat another human

being gave off.

“I have to say, Tyrone, you really have taken a beating,” Kendall said. “I think you

deserve a reward for how well you’ve held up. Shit, we’ve had suspects in here who were

crying for their mamas after twenty-four hours. Not you, though.” The quick click-clack

of a metal utensil against a china plate. “How about some eggs and bacon? Man, this was

some big plate of food, I surely can’t finish it myself. So come on. Join me.”

As the hood was raised high enough to expose his mouth Tyrone was conflicted. His

mind told him to refuse the offer, but his severely shrunken stomach yearned for real

food. He could smell the rich flavors of bacon and eggs, felt the food warm as a kiss

against his lips.

“Hey, man, what’re you waiting for?”

Fuck it, Tyrone said to himself. The tastes of the food exploded inside his mouth. He

wanted to moan in pleasure. He wolfed down the first few forkfuls fed to him, then

forced himself to chew slowly and methodically, extracting every bit of flavor from the

hickory-smoked meat and the rich yolk.

“Tastes good,” Kendall said. He must have regained his feet because his voice was

above Tyrone when he said, “Tastes real good, doesn’t it?”

Tyrone was about to nod his assent when pain exploded in the pit of his stomach. He

grunted when it came again. He’d been kicked before, so he knew what Kendall was

doing. The third kick landed. He tried to hold on to his food, but the involuntary reaction had begun. A moment later he vomited up all the delicious food Kendall had fed him.

The Munich courier is the last one in the network,” Devra said. “His name is Egon

Kirsch, but that’s all I know. I never met him; no one I know did. Pyotr made sure that

link was completely compartmentalized. So far as I know Kirsch dealt directly with Pyotr

and no one else.”

“Who does Kirsch deliver his intel to?” Arkadin said. “Who’s at the other end of the

network?”

“I have no idea.”

He believed her. “Did Heinrich and Kirsch have a particular meeting place?”

She shook her head.

On the Lufthansa flight from Istanbul to Munich he sat shoulder-to-shoulder with her

and wondered what the hell he was doing. She’d given him all the information he was

going to get from her. He had the plans; he was on the last lap of his mission. All that

remained was to deliver the plans to Icoupov, find Kirsch, and persuade him to lead

Arkadin back to the end of the network. Child’s play.

Which begged the question of what to do with Devra. He’d already made up his mind

to kill her, as he’d killed Marlene and so many others. It was a fait accompli, a fixed

point detailed in his mind, a diamond that only needed polishing to sparkle into life.