Marta stares down at the body at her feet. Adrenaline seeps from her body, leaving in its wake nothing but nerves and fear. A pool of blood widens around the body. She can't stop looking at the pale face, the shock in those sightless blue eyes. Slowly, she wipes the bloodied push dagger across her dark jeans, hand shaking as she slides it back into its hidden sheath on her belt.
"Marta."
Bourne's voice is firm in her ear. Marta sways, fighting the urge to vomit.
"Marta," Bourne says again, impatiently. "Get his gun, and keep moving."
Has it been an hour since she pushed her way out of the U-bahn train, racing into the night as sirens screamed closer? An hour since she'd run through this half of the city, narrowly avoiding agents while Bourne shouted commands in ear, telling her where to go, where to hide, what to do?
"MARTA, MOVE NOW," yells Bourne.
Marta snaps to at the command and mechanically obeys, reaching down to grab the dead agent's gun. She reaches up to adjust the Bluetooth headset, pushing it back into her ear. Tucking the gun into her jacket, she steps over the prone body, heading for a flight of stairs across the way.
She's been snaking her way toward the Reuters office, which is located across from the Spree river. Bourne's voice in her ear is like a personalized GPS navigator. She's tried to blend in on the spare, quiet roads he's instructed her to take, but when she was trying to cross the Spree at Friedrichstraße, she'd drawn the attention of an agent scoping out Berlin Friedrichstraße station.
She'd run, the agent in pursuit, alerting his team that he had her in his sights. The chase ended at the waterfront promenade of Reichstagufer. She'd wedged herself in a crevice, then backtracked until she was behind the agent – the way Aaron had taught her. Her fingers locked around the T-bar of her push dagger, she'd jammed it hard into his back, puncturing his kidney… the way Aaron had taught her. She expected some sort of sound, some vocal protest to the end of his life; but the choking gasp had been all before he simply collapsed, a bleeding heap on the ground.
Marta doesn't look back, keeping her eyes forward, determined not to succumb to the panic and horror screaming through her body.
"He's dead," she whispers harshly.
"Yes," comes Bourne's ruthless answer. "Him or you. Keep going."
She jogs up the stairs leading up to Schiffbauderdamm.
"How far are you from him?" Bourne asks.
"Ten minutes, maybe."
"Move fast. They'll be coming." She shivers. No need to ask who 'they' are.
"Where are you?" she asks him.
"Across the street from where they took her to."
"Do you think she's alive?"
There is a heavy silence on the other end. Marta hears the unspoken answer: I don't know.
"What are you going to do?"
"She told me to do nothing."
Marta's face screws up in confusion. "What? Why would she do that?"
"That's what I want to ask your boyfriend."
She comes topside at Schiffbauderdamm, only to run straight into a black clad body. Hard arms lock around her before she can arm herself.
Agent!
Marta screams.
Nicky's first thought is that Marta and Cross have been caught. No, she decides. Vendel mentioned Berlin, not Marta or Cross. He's fishing. But something's definitely happened to expose Berlin.
"What's in Berlin?" Zev asks again. Like Dita, his non-descript demeanor doesn't hide the coldness in his eyes. This is the man who stands on Rick Byer's other side.
"Jelly doughnuts?" Nicky hazards.
Zev eyes harden. "We'll have them soon. We won't need you then, Nicky."
The implication is clear.
"Were you this difficult when you were working for Conklin?" Vendel wonders aloud.
"He seemed okay with my photoshopping his wanted posters and making PowerPoint presentations."
"Aren't you lucky we got you to do other things?"
Nicky doesn't like the insinuation they were aware of her. Under Conklin's tenure, she was anonymous, another cog in the Treadstone wheel, sometimes visible only as the dispensary admin rather than as a handler.
Vendel taps the folder that Mandy left. "You were promoted once while working in Treadstone. Once. Was Conklin stupid, or were you…deliberate?"
Nicky sits, stone-faced.
"This file used to be pretty thin, actually. Your background check, your transcripts, a letter of reference from the then-Director of the CIA. Impressive, actually, that letter. Your initial psych evals." Vendel sighs. "There was nothing in that file to indicate…" He gestures at her. "It took us a while to construct who you were…who you are…after Madrid."
As far as they know Madrid is where she betrayed Treadstone and Vosen, thrown in with Bourne.
"Why, Nicky? What was in it for you?"
She looks up at the mirrored wall behind him, tries to figure out where her mark might be standing.
"Where's Bourne?"
Nicky searches her reflection, wonders if he's up front and center, where he should be, calling all the shots, or if he's standing to the side, cold-eyed, cold-hearted and with steely purpose.
"You've got five minutes, Nicky. Then this – "
"You're asking all the wrong questions," Nicky interrupts.
Vendel's brows rise. "What questions should we be asking?"
"'What do you want?'"
Vendel plays along. "What do you want?"
Nicky leans forward earnestly, crooking her finger at him. Vendel draws closer. Staring at him, Nicky's eyes narrow. "I want to talk to Byer."
"No way." Vendel shakes his head.
Nicky leans back in her seat, her posture relaxed. "Then I've got nothing to say to you."
"Don't worry about it." Vendel taps his right ear, a satisfied smile on his face. "We've got her."
Nicky betrays nothing: not a gesture, not a flicker, not a breath.
Zev smirks as he gets up. He gives her a finger gun gesture, crooking his thumb as he departs the room.
"Marta!" Two male voices shout her name; one is Bourne. At first she doesn't recognize the other voice, her senses frazzled. But the hard kiss pressed against her mouth is familiar, as is the brusque scent of him, and she goes slack in Aaron's embrace.
"Jesus," Cross utters. He holds her tight, his hand cradling her head.
"I killed an agent," Marta tells him weakly.
Bourne's voice comes through her ear. "He's got you?"
"Yes, yes," she murmurs weakly. "Bourne…"
Aaron frowns, confused. "What about Bourne?"
In answer, she dislodges the Bluetooth piece from her ear and hands it to him.
"Later," Cross tells the mic tersely, disconnecting the call. "I couldn't get to you earlier. Nicky's in play. We need to go."
Marta blinks. "That's what he needed – "
"Later," Cross repeats, grabbing her hand.
He breaks into a run, pulling her behind him. Marta wonders if there will come a day when she isn't running.
In the empty room, Nicky eyes the portfolio.
Reaching across the table, she pulls the thick folder toward her. She flips through some of the papers, reads the notes on Bourne and Cross and Shearing. A particularly thick report is of interest. Nicky flips through the analysis, dispassionately reading someone else's assessment of her psyche.
She removes the staple and pulls apart the report. The front and back pages are set to one side blank side up; pages with printing on both sides are set in a separate stack. She grabs more reports and loose documents from the folder, shuffling papers into two stacks until she's got sixteen blank sheets, and sixteen sheets with printing on both sides.
Nicky grabs a sheet from the stack of blank papers.
She takes top right corner of the paper and folds it to form a triangle, the sides of the paper flush. Below the triangle, she folds the horizontal strip, pressing against the crease. Unfolding it, she tears the strip until she's holding an 8.5 by 8.5-inch square.
Nicky folds the paper in half vertically, horizontally and across both diagonals. Then she brings the left and right corners together, both top corners and the bottom corners up and over. She presses the paper flat and folds along the creases, with two flaps meeting in the middle creating an origami "bird base." Left corners are folded into the center crease, then repeated on all sides. A valley fold comes next, followed by rabbit-ear folds.
Her movements are practiced and precise; within minutes, she has created a white paper figure. Nicky reaches for a second sheet of paper, and goes through the motions again. It takes her another few minutes to complete the second figure; she repeats this pattern six more times, then does the same thing with the stack of printed paper. Nicky's intensely focused on her task, her hands moving nimbly, squash pleats and creases joining her folding repertoire. Different alignments create new shapes; soon there is a collection of sixteen white and sixteen printed silhouettes on the table.
Grabbing the paper strips she'd set aside earlier, she weaves them into a large square comprising white and printed blocks.
Nicky looks up briefly at the mirrored wall before she returns her attention to the paper characters, making a few rapid adjustments to set them upright on the checkerboard square.
When she is done, Nicky leans back, splaying her fingers, squeezing her hands together, as if to relieve the fatigue from folding, bending, and creasing.
Before her is a cleverly wrought origami chess board, thirty-two white and printed paper combatants ready to do battle.
She pushes her king's pawn forward two squares.
Nicky looks directly at the mirror. "I know what happened to Bourne."