Robert Ludlum's (TM) The Bourne Initiative (Jason Bourne series)(7)

“Are you in such a rush? Do you have somewhere to go? Or someone to see.”

The last was not a question, and a tiny curl of warning reared its head in the pit of his stomach. How much did she know about his recent life? Perhaps everything. He knew he would have to begin with that assumption and work his way back to the truth. One thing he would never do is underestimate her; everyone who had made that mistake was dead.

“No,” he said. “I’m all yours.”

That sideways glance and a sly smile. Did she believe him, or was she as wary of him as he was of her?

“You belong to no one, Jason. Not even the Israeli.”

So she did know about Sara. He was angry; it felt like a violation of his private life. But he was not surprised. There had never been anything about Mala that honored privacy. All of that had been systematically stripped from her by Keyre. Lacking her own boundaries, she observed none in others.

“Is that why you brought me here, out of jealousy?” His tone was bantering; nevertheless, his question contained a sub rosa strata of intention.

“Would that be so bad?” She leaned against him, her skin warm, the pulse of blood beneath like a song. “But then I’m a bad girl. No one knows that better than you.”

“The ones who knew that better than me are all dead.”

She laughed. “Yes. I suppose that’s true.” She slid her leg against his. More warmth as the sun began to melt into the western horizon. “There is no time but time.”

He knew what she meant by that. Time was what you made of it, how you apportioned it, what you trained yourself to remember. And to forget. Is that why he couldn’t remember any further back beyond the point when he’d been shot and pitched into the black Mediterranean? He had almost died then. Or was there an incident far worse—so dreadful that his mind had blocked it out of self-preservation? Something even worse than what Mala had been through? What if he never knew? What if it was better for him not to know? But not knowing was a purgatory in and of itself.

“Poor Jason, a man without a history,” she said, as if reading his mind. “At least I know who my parents were.”

“And how much has that helped you?”

“Ouch. Right. Needling each other is not such a good idea, after all.”

“Then why start?”

“Because I’m the scorpion.”

She meant the old story: a scorpion found itself on the wrong bank of a river. It asks a frog to carry it on its back across the river. The frog wisely says, But you’ll sting me. The scorpion replies with perfect logic: Why would I do that? If I sting you we’ll both die. Frogs being logical creatures, it agrees. But halfway across the river, the scorpion stings the frog. As they’re both about to drown, the frog cries piteously, Why? And the scorpion replies with perfect logic, I’m a scorpion. It’s my nature.

Mala shrugged. “But what d’you care? You’re no frog.”

The failing light seemed to have congealed, and, strangely, the island they were on seemed to shrink into the oncoming darkness, the night being dominated by the black sea, the high brittle dome of stars, the rising of the moon, lanternlike low in the eastern sky.

They rose, Mala leading him up the steepening shingle and over a hummock of rock where she had stashed her hiking boots, her striped beach bag, and a midnight-blue cover-up, which she shrugged on as they began picking their way up and over the rock face.

“Are you hungry?” she asked.

“We could eat on the boat,” he said. “There’s a fine chef.”

“I already made a reservation.” Which hardly seemed necessary on this isolated spot in the Aegean; Skyros was not a particularly popular tourist destination.

A packed earth path appeared before them, wending its way over a rise and down. Soon enough paving stones heralded the advent of what passed for civilization here.

The tavern, when they came upon it, was lit up with strings of electric lights crisscrossing its cement patio, where tables and chairs were strewn as if at random. A smiling Greek greeted them with glasses of retsina and showed them to a table at the lip of the patio. From the edge, the fall-off was steep, and they had a picture-perfect view down past the promontory on their right to the cove off which the Nym, lights ablaze, lay at anchor.

“That’s some legacy your friend left you,” Mala commented as she settled into her chair. “He must have had many millions of petro-dollars stashed away.”

Bourne stared at her. Was she deliberately baiting him again, or was she just making idle chatter? Either way, he didn’t care for the topic. Food came, lots of it. Presumably she had pre-ordered. Everything was sea-fresh and delicious. She did not look at him while they ate, staring out at the mysterious night as if waiting for a communication only she could hear.

As it turned out, she was momentarily at a loss as to how to broach a subject she knew would be delicate, would raise any number of red flags for him. She waited until the plates had been cleared, coffee and more retsina served, and they were once again alone in the night.

“Your friendship with the late General Karpov has caused consternation—not to mention anger—in a number of quarters.”

He stared at her, silent, wondering where this was going. Fireflies danced in the shrubbery, moonlight turned the rocks a metallic silver. The crash of surf against the shore was a dim rumble, running up the hill toward them.