Robert Ludlum's the Bourne Imperative
“Rebeka said as she peered out the window of the fisherman’s cottage. Darkness was falling at a rapid rate. Blue shadows rose like specters. The world seemed unstable.
“Not until he’s regained consciousness.” Bourne crouched beside Weaving, whose face was pale and waxen. He took his pulse. “If we move him now, we risk losing him.”
“If we don’t move him now,” she said, turning away from the window, “we risk the Babylonian finding us.”
Bourne looked up. “Are you afraid of him?”
“I’...ve seen his handiwork.” She came over to him. “He’s different from you and me, Bourne. He lives with death every day; it’s his sole companion.”
“He sounds like Gilgamesh.”
“Close enough. Except that the Babylonian loves death—he revels in it.”
“My concern is Weaving, not the Babylonian.”
“I agree, Bourne.MoreLess
“Not until he’s regained consciousness.” Bourne crouched beside Weaving, whose face was pale and waxen. He took his pulse. “If we move him now, we risk losing him.”
“If we don’t move him now,” she said, turning away from the window, “we risk the Babylonian finding us.”
Bourne looked up. “Are you afraid of him?”
“I’...ve seen his handiwork.” She came over to him. “He’s different from you and me, Bourne. He lives with death every day; it’s his sole companion.”
“He sounds like Gilgamesh.”
“Close enough. Except that the Babylonian loves death—he revels in it.”
“My concern is Weaving, not the Babylonian.”
“I agree, Bourne.MoreLess
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