Kirill put down the paper on the tiny table.

Nothing. Again.

He stared out the window that overlooked a row of unremarkable, shabby buildings. The sky was grey and threatened to pour.

The CIA had put him up in a god awful flat in the middle of New York City. It was supposed to look seedy, they said. He shouldn't be drawing attention.

He thought that was bullshit, and that the real reason was that their budgets had taken a severe cut. He noticed that Pamela Landy had worn the same suit all week.

Then again, things weren't looking so good for her either.

Noah Vosen, whom Landy referred to as 'the snake' rather than his real name, had cleverly turned the tables on her. She was in real shit now. He wasn't too sure how long she could keep protecting him, when she could barely protect her own behind.

"Can I get you a coffee?"

It was that girl again. Her voice was tentative, almost afraid.

"No thanks."

She went about her own business, hovering just in case he changed his mind.

He ignored her.

She was a quiet thing, like a piece of moving furniture. One that cleaned up his mess and looked up data when he occasionally asked for it.

He'd interrogated her eagerly for information when Landy first introduced them. She'd been the last person to see Bourne. She'd run with him. She may know his habits, his hiding places. Safe houses.

She'd been singularly unhelpful. He was the one making the decisions, she said. She didn't have much of a choice. She'd just followed. They stayed at budget motels. Places that didn't stand out. They never stayed in the same place twice. And then Bourne had told her she was better off without him. She'd been on the run, when Landy had taken her in. He'd lost interest in her after awhile. He couldn't even remember her name.

Progress was slow. So slow. He couldn't use any of his FSB resources. He only had his skills, and the girl. CIA was good, but they were inefficient compared to what he was used to. It took them ten people to do what one man could do in Moscow. By the time he got a piece of info, Bourne had been long gone.

They let him watch her sometimes.

It was mundane things, usually, and always when she was in public. Getting takeout from a store. Out in the city with friends. Once she'd run a red light. The look on her face had been priceless. He'd lived on it for days.

She'd been in the States once, to visit her brother. He'd watched the footage of her in a department store, shopping and laughing. Looking at her was both painful and elating. He was glad she was alive and healthy. He was even glad she looked happy. And he ached, knowing he was only watching.

He trudged back from a tiring day one evening. Another disappointing lead.

The light in the kitchen was on. That meant she was still up. Not that it mattered. They didn't bother each other, and they never interfered with each other's movements.

She was waiting for him.

"Had a good night?"

Her voice was casual.

He cocked up an eyebrow as he took off his jacket.

"Da," he said brusquely as he went to boil the kettle.

"Doesn't sound like you had a good night."

He filled the kettle and flicked the switch.

"What does it matter to you?"

She didn't back down.

"How long have you been on this- four, five months?"

She was wrong. It was closer to six.

"You're not going to find him."

"And why is that?" he snapped.

She tapped her nails against the head of the chair and waited before answering timidly.

"Because he's Bourne."

Kirill gave a small grunt of amusement. He'd hoped the conversation was over, but she was relentless.

"You should just leave him alone."

The kettle had boiled. He went over to fix his tea. "I can't do that, girl."

"Nicolette. My name is Nicky."

"Why are you so hung up on this, Nicky?"

"He's a good man."

"You hardly knew him."

He sat down and stirred. She just stood there.

"She must mean a lot to you."

He didn't respond.

"It's Michelle, right? The Australian. I read the file."

He glared at her.

"I'm going to bed."

The chair clattered as he rose to stand. He snatched the mug and headed for his room.

"Wait. Kirill. Please."

She was trying to say something but she couldn't.

"Spill it," he said bluntly.

Her mouth was wobbling a little. "Promise me you won't hurt him."

He frowned, then glared again. "You know where he is?"

"No."

She was biting her lip.

"Then what-"

"There was a place."

"What place?"

"A place he liked to go to sometimes. I don't know if he still uses it. I don't know how long you'd have to wait. But he'll go back to that place."

"Why?"

"Marie's grave is there. Not like they ever recovered her body. But it's there."

He frowned again. "Who?"

"His girlfriend."

He froze. Bourne had a woman? Since when? And how did she die?

"Where is it?" he asked curiously.

"India," she replied.

He'd been here before.

The air had been just as muggy. He'd been wearing the same pants. They had clung to his legs like they were clinging to him now. He had trailed Bourne down that road, before he'd shot him.

He crouched down and winced. There was a sore spot on his leg that hadn't gone away since the accident.

If it was a grave, it was the strangest grave he'd ever seen. It looked like a pile of ash. There wasn't a tombstone. Just a mark. On the dirt. And a single photo. Half buried.

He took the photo out of the dirt and fingering the edge of it. It hadn't been put there long. Someone must keep coming here, putting duplicates every so often when it got too wet or dirty.

Bourne looked young, much younger than Kirill had remembered when he had laid eyes on him in person. The woman had her arms around him. He was half turned, smiling. The sky was blue. They were both happy.

He realised what was wrong a few seconds too late. Like last time. By the time he'd laid hands on his gun, the other man had his against his head.

"Don't."

The nudge of the gun was cold, hard.

"Drop it."

Kirill reluctantly lowered his gun. It clattered when it reached the ground. Bourne kicked the Walter away.

"Move."

He reluctantly trudged forward.

There was a shack nearby. Bourne led him inside and slammed the door shut.

"If I wanted you dead you would be."

"Then why are you here."

There was a pause.

He was unsure.

"Why are you still following me?" Bourne said.

He paused. "CIA wants to bring you in."

"Why do they want me?"

"I don't know."

Bourne sighed. It was a tired, pitiful sigh. He stepped around to face him, his gun still pointed at him.

"Aren't you tired of taking orders?"

"You know how it is."

"I did."

A haunted expression came over Bourne's face. "Until Marie, I did."

His hand pressed firmly over the gun and his mouth drew back into a thin, hard line. "Until you shot her."

Kirill frowned. "I shot no one you know. And no woman."

"You killed her."

He must be delusional, Kirill thought. A side effect from the pills, perhaps…

"She was driving."

Bourne was sweating, blinking hard. His hands gripped the gun tightly now, so tight Kirill could see the white of his knuckles.

"She was driving instead of me. You were supposed to kill me, but you killed her instead. She drowned at the bottom of that river."

Kirill's mind flashed black.

Goa.

He was talking about Goa.

A woman.

Bourne's woman.

He thought he had seen a piece of corn coloured hair waving out from the rickety old jeep, but he had been so focused on putting together the Sauer and catching his target before he went over the bridge that he had brushed this from his mind.

She'd been in the driver's seat.

A rotten feeling started to overtake him. It spread, paralysing his muscles.

"I'm…I'm sorry."

To his amazement, Bourne lowered his gun.

Kirill gave out an inaudible breath. I may actually get out of this alive.

Before he could register, Kirill felt a fist connect with his face. He bent over, dazed.

"You're sorry?"

Another punch, this time to the stomach. He fell onto the ground.

"I'm sorry but sorry is just not cutting it right now!"

Another punch, this time to the ribs.

"You killed the only person who ever meant something to me, who I can remember after all this shit was done to me!"

Punch.

"Sorry doesn't cut it!" Bourne yelled wildly, a feral look in his eyes. Tears were rolling down his face.

Another punch. A weak one.

"You killed the only person I ever loved…"

Bourne fell onto his knees, his voice trailing off into sobs. He put his head into his hands, his body shaking. And then he was weeping in earnest, huge, loud, terrible sobs that echoed around the corrugated iron walls.

Kirill was too stunned to move.

He'd never seen a grown man cry. It was a sight both raw and terrifying.

He was too tired to think. About the job, catching, killing…He sat up slowly, his body aching.

The animal had left him.

Kirill sat in its place.

He'd already killed this man's woman, and he was supposed to- what? Drag him in to Langley? Take away his life as well? The whole thing seemed ridiculous.

He was bleeding. The blood was dripping down his shirt. He dabbed it with his sleeve, as he watched the man who was supposed to be his enemy bare out his soul before him.

Finally Bourne was silent. Kirill scuffed his shoe against the ground. It kicked away a piece of rubble.

"You don't know how many times I visited the hospital, my gun in hand."

Kirill looked up. Bourne was looking at him, his eyes haunted.

"Why didn't you do it?"

Bourne looked at the dirt floor.

"You were the arm, not the brain."

"Did it matter? I still killed her."

Bourne's mouth grew tight.

"If I were you, I would have done it too."

Kirill felt a stab in his gut. It wrenched at him, and tore him apart. All of a sudden he felt a little sick.

He didn't know how long they sat there, in that dingy place, both with their knees curled up. He got up at some point, but Bourne did not even seem to notice.

"I am sorry."

Bourne looked up at him, his face wet with tears. This time his eyes held only sadness. He did not stop Kirill as he walked towards the door.

"Who sent you?"

Bourne's voice bounced off the tin roofing.

"A Pamela Landy."

A short pause.

"She's a good woman. I suppose she offered you protection?"

Kirill nodded.

"What about Michelle?"

He stopped abruptly. "How did you-"

"You kept mumbling her name in your sleep. At the hospital."

There was another pause.

"You should go to her."

Kirill stood, silent.

"She is better without me in her life," he finally said.

"That's what I thought too, with Marie."

Bourne was getting to his feet. He dusted off his pants. "But I couldn't let her go. I just couldn't."

"Why?" Kirill asked.

"Because she's the reason," Bourne said. "Don't lose your reason."

Kirill stood silently again. Then he looked up at Bourne, nodded, and kept walking.

When he reached the door, he stopped again.

"Will you- forgive me?"

The silence creaked through the air.

"Da."

Kirill looked at him and nodded once. Then he continued, limping out of the shack, past the grave, and down the dirt road.