"No," he protests, not quite knowing what it is he denies - one of her charges, or all of them, or the realization that in every way that mattered, her charges were true. At the moment when he pushed her aside to save page 47 out of the fire, he had not meant to kill her, true. He had not even been aware that there was anything she could fall into. But at that moment, he had betrayed her, he had made a choice, the reverse choice he had made when he shot her, and that one push had been a far worse betrayal than the shot fired with lethal intent. Not to mention that she never would have ended in a coma if he had not added the Rambaldi formula to so many water supplies. In every way that counted, she has been his sacrifice.

"So what is your explanation for it all, Nadia?" he asks. "Why did you call me back, when I had been ready to die? I told you there was no place for monsters in this world, did I not? There has to be a reason why you were allowed to guide me back."

There is no life in her eyes, and he looks elsewhere, at his own scarred hand. He remembers her last breath, remembers the blood on his hands. Remembers making that last choice, taking the manuscript and leaving.

"There is an irony I cannot resolve," he says. "I turned my back on Rambaldi for you, and I had to kill you. I turned my back on you for Rambaldi, and I had to kill you. Tell me, Nadia, what was it that made either choice any less a betrayal?"