Текст книги "The Bourne Deception (Обман Борна)"

Автор книги: Eric Van Lustbader

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

Returning to the bedroom after his shower, he found a thick Turkish terry-cloth robe, which he wrapped around himself. She had covered his chest wound with a waterproof plastic layer, which he hadn‘t noticed until he stepped into the stream of hot water.

When he came into the living room, Tracy was pouring coffee into an enormous cup. The small kitchen was merely a niche at one end of the single open room, which was spacious but, like the bedroom, as sparsely and anonymously furnished as a hotel room. On the wooden trestle table was the typical Andalusian workingman‘s breakfast: a mug of hot chocolate and a plate of churros, slender twists of fried dough, dipped in sugar crystals.

Bourne pulled up a chair and he and Tracy ate their breakfast, and she let him have all the churros, he was still hungry when he finished. He went to the refrigerator.

―There‘s nothing much in there, I‘m afraid,‖ she said. ―I haven‘t been here in some time.‖

Still, he found some bacon in the freezer. As he fried up the strips, she said, ―Write down your size and I‘ll get you some fresh clothes.‖

He nodded. ―While you‘re at it, I need you to run an errand for me.‖

Finding a pencil and scratch pad on the kitchen counter, he tore off a sheet and wrote out a list of items, along with his clothes size.

When he handed the slip of paper to her, Tracy glanced over it and said,

–Professor Zuiga, I presume?‖

He nodded, tending the browning strips. ―I gave you the addresses of the theatrical stores I found yesterday. We were on our way there when Scarface picked up our scent.‖

She got up, grabbed her handbag, and went to the door. ―This should take me about an hour,‖ she said. ―In the meantime, enjoy the rest of your breakfast.‖

After she left, Bourne took the skillet off the burner, laid the bacon on a sheet of paper towel. Then he returned to the scratch pad. The sheet he‘d torn off was from the middle because he wanted to keep the top one intact.

With the pencil at an extreme angle, he ran the lead lightly over the sheet.

Letters began to form, the imprint of the writing left over from the last note someone—presumably Tracy—had made.

Don Hererra‘s name and address came up, along with the time, 3 PM, just as she‘d told him. He ripped off the sheet and put it in his pocket. That was when he noticed indentations on what was now the top sheet of the pad. He tore that off as well. Running the side of the pencil over this sheet brought up a line of numbers and letters all run together.

He ate the bacon standing beside the front window, staring out at the shimmering morning. It was still too early for people to be out at the feria, but the Moorish scrollwork balcony on the building across the street was garlanded in flowers and gaily colored fabric. His eyes scanned both sides of the street for anyone and anything even remotely suspicious, but nothing presented itself. He watched a young woman herd three children across the street. An old woman in black, small and bent, carried a mesh bag filled with fruit and vegetables.

Popping the last of the bacon into his mouth, he wiped his hands down on a kitchen cloth, then crossed to Tracy‘s laptop, which was set up on the far end of the trestle table. It was on and he saw that she had a Wi-Fi connection to the Internet.

Sitting down in front of it, he Googled the string of numbers and letters only to get this result:

Your search– 779elgamhuriaave—did not match any documents.

Suggestions:

• Make sure all words are spelled correctly.

• Try different keywords.

• Try more general keywords.

Then he saw his error, and placed spaces in the appropriate places: 779

El Gamhuria Avenue. An address, but where?

Returning to Google, he typed in ―El Gamhuria Avenue‖ and up popped Khartoum, Sudan. Now, that was interesting. What was Tracy doing with a North African address?

He typed in the full address, including the number, which, as it turned out, belonged to Air Afrika Corporation. He sat back. Why did that name sound so familiar? There were a number of entries for Air Afrika, some of them from very odd sites, others from blogs of dubious nature, but the information he wanted came from an entry on the second page from Interpol, where speculation was cited from numerous sources that Air Afrika was owned and operated by Nikolai Yevsen, the legendary arms dealer. Ever since Viktor Anatoliyevich Bout had been arrested, Yevsen had taken his place as the largest and most powerful illegal arms dealer in the world.

Bourne rose from the chair, walked back to the window, on reflex checking the street again. Tracy was an art expert buying a Goya unknown until just recently. The price must be astronomical; maybe a handful of people in the world could afford it. So who was her client?

With church bells pealing the hour, his gaze snapped back into focus as Tracy walked into his field of vision. She was carrying a mesh shopping sack.

He watched the confident rat-a-tat of her stride, the heels of her shoes rhythmically striking the pavement. A young man appeared behind her and Bourne felt his muscles tense. Halfway down the block, the young man lifted an arm, waving, and ran across the street where a young woman waited for him.

They embraced as Tracy entered the building. A moment later she came through the door, put the mesh sack down on the table.

―If you‘re still hungry, I bought some Serrano ham and Garrotxa cheese.‖

She placed the food, wrapped in white paper, on the table. ―The rest is everything you asked for.‖

After he‘d dressed in the light, comfortable clothes she‘d chosen for him, he pored over the contents of the mesh sack, lining the items up, opening the lids, smelling the contents, and nodding to himself.

She regarded him solemnly. ―Adam,‖ she ventured, ―I don‘t know what you‘re involved in…‖

―I already told you,‖ he said mildly.

―Yes, but now I see how badly you‘re injured, and that man who was following us was evil looking.‖

―He was evil,‖ Bourne acknowledged. Then he looked up at her and smiled.

–It‘s part of the industry I‘m in, Tracy. There isn‘t the capital floating around there was in 2000, so more start-ups are chasing less money. That makes for cutthroat competition.‖ He shrugged. ―It can‘t be avoided.‖

―But from the looks of you, this kind of work could send you to the hospital.‖

―I‘ve just got to be more careful from now on.‖

She frowned. ―Now you‘re making fun of me.‖ She came and sat next to him.

–But there‘s nothing amusing about that wound in your chest.‖

He produced the photo he‘d printed out at the Internet café, set it out between them. ―To become Professor Alonzo Pecunia ZuigaI‘m going to need your help.‖

She held quite still, her liquid eyes studying his face for a moment.

Then she nodded.

Day three of Oserov‘s reign of terror brought a downpour such as no one in Nizhny Tagil could remember, and this was a city where grudges were nursed, meaning memories were as long and vibrant as the winter chill. Day three also brought other deaths, ones so brutal, so horrific that there now came to the remnants of Stas Kuzin‘s people a black fear. One that crept into their bones, lodging there like a grain of polonium, eroding their confidence the way the radioactive material eats away flesh.

It began in the early hours of the morning, just past two o‘clock, as Oserov boasted to Arkadin afterward.

―With great stealth I broke into their head enforcer‘s house, tied him up, and forced him to watch what I did to his family,‖ Oserov told Arkadin later.

When he was finished, he dragged his victim into the kitchen, where he went to work on him using the fire-reddened tip of a carving knife he slid from a wooden rack. The pain of what Oserov did to him hammered the enforcer out of his state of shock and he began screaming until Oserov cut out his tongue.

An hour later, Oserov was finished. He left him in a pool of his own blood and vomit, alive, but just barely. When the enforcer‘s associates came for him as they did each morning to begin their daily patrol, they found the front door flung open, which led them to the abattoir inside. It was then, and only then, that Mikhail Tarkanian entered Nizhny Tagil. By then, the criminals were in such a frenzy that they‘d all but forgotten about Arkadin.

―Lev Antonin, I think I can provide the solution to your problem,‖

Tarkanian said to the new head of Stas‘s gang when he met with him in his office. There were seven heavily armed men standing guard. ―I‘ll find this killer for you and take care of him.‖

―Who are you, stranger? Why would you do this?‖ Lev Antonin squinted at him suspiciously. He had a gray face with long ears and stubble on his chin and cheeks. He looked like he hadn‘t slept in a week.

―Who I am is of no importance, except to say that I‘m intimately familiar with men such as your murderer,‖ Tarkanian replied without hesitation. ―And as to why I‘m here the answer is simple: I want Leonid Danilovich Arkadin.‖

At once Antonin‘s expression changed from suspicious to enraged. ―And why would you want that fucking whoremonger, that shit-faced miscreant?‖

―That‘s my business,‖ Tarkanian said mildly. ―Your business is keeping your people alive.‖

This was true. Antonin was a pragmatic man, with none of the mad fire that had burned within his predecessor. Tarkanian could read him like a comic book: Clearly, he was all too aware that the current of fear lapping at the knees of his men was undermining both their effectiveness and his authority.

He also knew that once fear made its presence felt, it spread like wildfire.

On the other hand, he wasn‘t about to give away the farm. Arkadin‘s head on a platter was what they‘d all dreamed of since Arkadin had killed Kuzin and set their world ablaze with bullets and death. Letting go of that dream wouldn‘t endear him to his rank and file.

He scrubbed his face with his hands and said, ―Fine, but you‘ll bring me the killer‘s head so all my men can see for themselves the end of this filth.

And then if you can find that bastard Arkadin you can have him.‖

Naturally enough, Tarkanian did not believe this Neanderthal. He recognized the greed in his yellow eyes and intuited that it was not enough for him to be given the head of the murderer; he wanted Arkadin as well. The two bloody heads would cement his power over his people for all time.

―What Lev Antonin wanted was irrelevant,‖ Tarkanian told Arkadin afterward. ―I had planned for such a treacherous eventuality.‖

It would have amused Oserov no end to ―find the murderer‖ for the baboon named Lev Antonin and bring him the freshly cut head, but no, he was to be denied this pleasure. He scowled when Tarkanian told him that Tarkanian himself would find and deliver the ―murderer‖ to Antonin.

―To take the fury out of your heart, I have another assignment for you,‖

Tarkanian told him. ―A much more important job that only you can do.‖

―I strongly suspect he doubted that very much,‖ Tarkanian told Arkadin later, ―but when he heard what I wanted him to do a smirk spread across his face. Poor bastard, he couldn‘t help it.‖

Tarkanian needed someone to bring to Lev Antonin. But not just anyone—he had to look like a murderer. Moving through the twilit streets of Nizhny Tagil, Tarkanian scoured the bars for a likely victim. Now and again he was forced to sidestep puddles as big as small ponds, caused by the deluge that had only recently been reduced to a light mist. As it had been since dawn the claustrophobically low sky was a dull gray, but now it was marred here and there by bruises of yellow and lavender, as if the storm had brutalized the day.

Tarkanian parked himself outside the most raucous of bars and lit a harsh Turkish cigarette, pulling the smoke deep into his lungs and exhaling it in a gray cloud as thick as those above his head. Night gathered around him like an acolyte as the drunken laughter spilled out to him, along with the shattering of glass and the chunky exhalations of a fistfight. A moment later a big man, bleeding from the nose and several cuts on his face, staggered out onto the sidewalk.

As he bent over, hands on knees, wheezing and retching, Tarkanian ground out his cigarette under his boot heel, walked over, and delivered a vicious chop to the exposed back of the man‘s neck. The drunk pitched forward, hitting his forehead on the pavement with a satisfying smack.

Tarkanian grabbed him under the arms and pulled him into the alley. If any passersby noticed what he was up to none of them gave the slightest indication. All of them hurried on about their business without even a glance in his direction. Life in Nizhny Tagil had trained them to ignore anything that wasn‘t their business. It was the only way to keep healthy in this city.

In the deepening shadows of the stinking alley, Tarkanian checked his watch. There was no way to contact Oserov; he‘d just have to hope he‘d accomplished his part of the plan.

Fifteen minutes later he walked into a bakery and bought the largest layer cake in the glass case. Back in the alley, he dumped the cake and, lifting the man‘s severed head by his beer– and blood-damp hair, placed it carefully in the cake box. The glassy eyes stared blankly back at him until he lowered the lid.

Across town he was admitted to Lev Antonin‘s office, where the boss was still guarded by his seven heavily armed goons.

―Lev Antonin, as promised I brought you a present,‖ he said as he placed the box on Antonin‘s desk. On the way over, it had grown surprisingly heavy.

Antonin looked from him to the box, evincing little enthusiasm. Signaling to one of his bodyguards, he had him open the box. Then he stood up and peered inside.

―Who the fuck is this?‖ he asked.

―The murderer.‖

―What‘s his name?‖

―Mikhail Gorbachev,‖ Tarkanian said sardonically, ―how the hell should I know?‖

Antonin‘s face was particularly ugly when he smirked. ―If you don‘t know his name, how d‘you know he‘s the one?‖

―I caught him in the act,‖ Tarkanian said. ―He had broken into your house, he was about to kill your wife and children.‖

Antonin‘s face darkened and, snatching up the phone, he dialed a number.

His face relaxed somewhat when he heard his wife‘s voice.

―Are you all right? Is everyone safe?‖ He frowned. ―What do you mean?

What—? Who the fuck is this? Where‘s my wife?‖ His face had grown dark again and he looked at Tarkanian. ―What the fuck is going on?‖

Tarkanian kept his voice calm and even. ―Your family is safe, Lev Antonin, and they‘ll remain safe as long as I have free passage to take Arkadin. If you interfere in any way—‖

―I‘ll surround the house, my men will break in—‖

―And your wife and three children will die.‖

Antonin whipped out a Stechkin handgun and aimed it at Tarkanian. ―I‘ll shoot you right here where you stand, and I promise your death won‘t be quick.‖

―In that event, your wife and children will die.‖ Tarkanian‘s voice had an edge now. ―Whatever you do to me will be done to them.‖

Antonin glared at Tarkanian, then dropped the Stechkin on the desktop next to the cake box. He looked ready to tear his hair out.

―The idea with Neanderthals,‖ Tarkanian said to Arkadin later, ―is to lead them by the hand through all their possible responses, showing them the futility of each one.‖

He said, ―Listen to me, Lev Antonin, you have what we bargained for. If you still want everything, try to remember that pigs get slaughtered.‖

Then Tarkanian left the office to find Leonid Danilovich Arkadin.

Tracy Atherton and Alonzo Pecunia Zuigapresented themselves on the front steps of Don Fernando Hererra‘s house at precisely three o‘clock in the afternoon, bathed in brilliant sunshine amplified by a virtually cloudless sky.

Bourne, with his spade beard and new hairstyle, had shopped for clothes suitable for a distinguished professor from Madrid. Their last stop was an optician‘s, where he purchased a pair of contact lenses the color of the professor‘s eyes.

Hererra lived in the Santa Cruz barrioof Seville, in a beautiful three-story stucco house painted white and yellow, whose upper-story windows were guarded by magnificent wrought-iron balconies. Its facade formed one side of a small plaza in the center of which was an old well that had been turned into an octagonal fountain. Small haberdashery and crockery shops lined the other three sides, their quaint fronts shaded by palm and orange trees.

The door opened at their knock, and when Tracy gave him their names a well-dressed young man escorted them into the high-ceilinged wood-and-marble entryway. There were fresh white and yellow flowers in a tall porcelain vase on a polished fruitwood table in the center, while on a marquetry sideboard an engraved silver bowl was filled to overflowing with fragrant oranges.

A piano melody, soft and sinuous, came to them. They could see an Old World drawing room with a wall of ebony bookshelves illuminated by raking light from a line of French doors that led out onto an inner courtyard. There was an elegant escritoire, a matching pair of sofas of cinnamon-colored leather, a sideboard on which were arranged five delicate orchids, like girls at a beauty pageant. But the drawing room was dominated by an antique spinet piano behind which sat a large man with an enormous shock of luxuriant white hair brushed straight back off his wide, intelligent forehead. His body was bent in an attitude of exacting concentration, and there was a pencil gripped between his teeth so that he looked like he was in pain. In fact, he was composing a song with a rather florid melody that owed a debt to any number of Iberian virtuosos, as well as to certain flamenco folk tunes.

As they entered, he looked up. Don Hererra had startling blue, slightly exophthalmic eyes, making him look something like a praying mantis as he rose, unfolding from the piano bench in stages. He had dark, leathery skin, wind-burned and sun-wrinkled, marking him as an inveterate outdoorsman. His body was lean and flat, as if he had been constructed in two dimensions instead of three. He appeared to wear the years he‘d spent in the Colombian oil fields as a second skin.

Taking the pencil from between his teeth, he smiled warmly. ―Ah, my distinguished guests, what a pleasure.‖ He kissed the back of Tracy‘s hand and shook Bourne‘s. ―Dear lady. And Professor, it‘s an honor to welcome you both to my house.‖ He gestured toward one of the leather sofas. ―Please make yourselves comfortable.‖ He was dressed in an open-neck white shirt under an immaculate cream-colored suit of lightweight silk that looked soft as a baby‘s cheek. ―Would you care for sherry, or something stronger, perhaps?‖

―Sherry and some Garrotxa, perhaps, if you have it,‖ Bourne said, playing his part to the hilt.

―An excellent idea,‖ Hererra proclaimed, calling in the young man for the order. He wagged a long, tapered forefinger at Bourne. ―I like the way your palate works, Professor.‖

Bourne looked fatuously pleased, while Tracy carefully hid her amusement from the older man.

The young man arrived carrying a chased silver salver on which was set a cut-crystal decanter of sherry, three glasses of the same cut crystal, along with a platter of the sheep cheese, crackers, and a wedge of deep orange quince jelly. He set the salver down on a low table and departed as silently as he had come.

Their host poured the sherry and handed out the glasses. Hererra raised his glass, and they followed suit.

―To the unsullied pursuit of scholarly inquiry.‖ Don Hererra sipped his sherry, and Bourne and Tracy tasted theirs. As they ate the cheese and quince jelly, he said, ―So tell me your opinion. Is the world, in fact, going to war against Iran?‖

―I don‘t have enough information to make a judgment,‖ Tracy said, ―but in my opinion Iran has been flaunting their nuclear program in our faces for too long.‖

Don Hererra nodded sagely. ―I think finally the United States has gotten it right. This time, Iran has provoked us too far. But to contemplate another world war, well, to sum up, war is bad for business for most, but uncommonly good for a few.‖ He swung around. ―And Professor, what is your learned opinion?‖

―When it comes to politics,‖ Bourne said, ―I maintain a strictly neutral posture.‖

―But surely, sir, on such a grave issue that affects us all, you must come down on one side or the other.‖

―I assure you, Don Hererra, I‘m far more interested in the Goya than I am in Iran.‖

The Colombian gave him a disappointed look, but then wasted no more time in getting down to business. ―Seńorita Atherton, I have given you full access to my unearthed treasure, and now you have brought with you the Prado‘s—and by extension all of Spain‘s—leading expert on Goya. So.‖ He spread his hands.

–What is the verdict?‖

Tracy, smiling noncommittally, said, ―Professor Zuiga, why don‘t you provide the answer?‖

―Don Hererra,‖ Bourne said, taking his cue, ―the painting in your possession, attributed to Francisco José de Goya y Lucientes, is in fact not painted by him at all.‖

Hererra frowned and for a moment his lips pursed. ―Do you mean to tell me, Professor Zuiga, that I have been harboring a fake?‖

―That depends on your definition of a fake,‖ Bourne said.

―With all due respect, Professor, either it is a fake or it isn‘t.‖

―You may look at it that way, Professor, but there are others. Let me explain by saying that the painting, though by no means commanding the price you have set on it, is far from worthless. You see, tests I‘ve made confirm that it was produced in Goya‘s studio. It may even have been sketched out by the master himself before he died. In any event, there can be little doubt that the design is his. The actual painting, however, lacks the particular slightly mad attack of his brushstrokes, though it mimics these quite convincingly even to the trained eye.‖

Don Hererra drained the last of his sherry then sat back, his large hands folded over his lower belly. ―So,‖ he said at length, ―my painting is worth something, just not the price I‘ve quoted to Seńorita Atherton.‖

―That‘s right,‖ Bourne affirmed.

Hererra made a sound deep in his throat. ―This turn of events will take some getting used to.‖ He turned to Tracy. ―Seńorita, given the circumstances I fully understand your desire to withdraw from our arrangement.‖

―On the contrary,‖ Tracy said. ―I‘m still interested in the painting, though an adjustment markedly downward in price would be necessary.‖

―I see,‖ Hererra said. ―Well, naturally.‖ His gaze turned inward for some time. Then he roused himself. ―Before proceeding further, I‘d like to make a call.‖

―By all means,‖ Tracy said.

Don Hererra nodded, rose, and went to a desk with delicate cabriole legs.

He punched in a number on his cell phone, waited a moment, then said, ―This is Don Fernando Hererra. He‘s expecting my call.‖

He smiled at them while he waited. Then he said into the phone, ― Por favor, momentito.‖

Quite unexpectedly he handed the cell to Bourne. Bourne looked up at him expectantly, but Don Hererra‘s face bore no hint of what was happening.

―Hello,‖ Bourne said, continuing in perfect Spanish.

―Yes,‖ the voice on the other end of the line said, ―Professor Alonzo Pecunia Zuigahere, to whom am I speaking?‖

18

NOTHING,‖ Amun Chalthoum said with evident disgust.

He was staring down at the young man Soraya had fished out of the Red Sea after he‘d jumped overboard to escape her questioning. They were in one of the shipboard cabins provided for them by the owner of the dive shop, a narrow, foul-smelling place whose exaggerated rocking made the sunlight an inconstant companion.

Chalthoum‘s expression was a combination of frustration and fear. ―He‘s nothing but a runner—an advance man for drug smugglers.‖

That didn‘t seem like nothing to Soraya, but she could see that Amun wasn‘t in the mood for thinking about anything other than the terrorist cadre. It was at this moment, when his distress was most evident, that she abandoned the notion that he might be misleading her. She was sure he wouldn‘t be so emotional about this situation if he was covering up al Mokhabarat‘s involvement. The wave of relief that ran through her was so powerful, she rocked on her feet. When she recovered, she turned her full concentration on the origin of the terrorist cell.

―All right, so they didn‘t come through here,‖ she said, ―but there must be other places along the coast—‖

―My men have checked,‖ Amun said darkly. ―Which means the route I proposed is wrong. They didn‘t come overland through Iraq, after all.‖

―Then how did they get into Egypt?‖ Soraya asked.

―I don‘t know.‖ Chalthoum seemed to chew over this notion for some time.

–They wouldn‘t be stupid enough to try transshipping the Kowsar missile from Iran by plane. It would have been picked up by our radar—or one of your satellites.‖

That was true enough, she thought. Then how did the Iranian terrorists get the missile into Egypt? This enigma brought her full circle, back to her first suspicion that Egyptians—but not al Mokhabarat—had been involved, but it wasn‘t until they were back on deck, the runner was in custody, and the boat was heading back to land that she proposed it aloud to Chalthoum.

They were standing by the starboard rail, the wind whipping at their hair, sunlight turning the skin of the water to a white dazzle. He had his forearms on the rail, his hands clasped loosely, staring down into the water.

―Amun,‖ she said softly, ―is it possible that someone in your government—

one of your enemies, one of our enemies—created the opportunity for the Iranian terrorists?‖

Even though she‘d been careful to phrase the question in the most benign way, she felt him stiffen. A muscle in his cheek began to spasm, but he surprised her when he answered.

―I‘ve already thought of that, azizti, and much to my chagrin I made several discreet inquiries this afternoon while I was alone in my search of the dive clubs. It cost me in political capital, but I did it, and it came to nothing.‖ He turned to her, his dark eyes more sorrowful than she‘d ever seen them. ―Truly, azizti, it would have been the end of me if what you asked had been the truth.‖

And it was at this precise moment that she knew. He‘d been fully cognizant of her suspicions, had accepted them uncomfortably until the possibility became too much for him to bear. He‘d been humiliated making his calls, because just asking the question was traitorous in nature, and now she realized what he meant by ―political capital,‖ because it was likely—

probable, even—that some of the people he‘d called would not forgive him his doubts. This, too, was part of the modern-day Egypt, something he‘d have to live with for the rest of his life. Unless…

―Amun,‖ she said so softly he had to lean into the wind to hear her,

–after this is over, why don‘t you come back with me?‖

―To America?‖ He said it as if she were speaking about Mars, or someplace even more distant and alien, but when he continued there was a kindness in his voice she‘d never heard before. ―Yes, azizti, that would solve many problems. On the other hand, it would raise an army of different ones. What would I do, for instance?‖

―You‘re an intelligence officer, you could—‖

―I am an Egyptian. Worse, I am the head of al Mokhabarat.‖

―Think of the intel you could provide.‖

He smiled sadly. ―Think of how I would be reviled, both here and in your America. To them, I am the enemy. No matter what intel I provided I would always be the enemy, always distrusted, always watched, never accepted.‖

―Not if we were married.‖ It came out practically before she thought it.

There was a shocked silence between them. The boat, nearing the dock, had slowed, and the wind had died. The sweat, popping out, dried against their skin.

Amun took her hand, his thumb rubbing the splay of small bones in its back. ― Azizti,‖ he said, ―marrying me would be the end of you as well—the end of your career in intelligence.‖

―So what?‖ Her eyes were fierce. Now that she had said what was in her heart she felt a kind of wild freedom she‘d never experienced before.

He smiled. ―You don‘t mean that, please don‘t pretend you do.‖

She turned fully to him. ―I don‘t want to pretend with you, Amun. All the secrets I carry have made me sick at heart, and I keep saying to myself that there must be an end to it somewhere, with someone.‖

He slipped one arm around her narrow waist and, as the crew around them snapped to, tying off the ropes on the gleaming metal cleats on the side of the slip, he nodded. ―At least on this one thing we can agree.‖

And she tilted her face up into the sunlight. ―This is the one thing that matters, azizti.‖

Ms. Trevor, have you any idea who could have…?‖

Though the man heading the investigation into DCI Veronica Hart‘s death—

what was his name? Simon Something—Simon Herren, yes, that was it—kept asking her questions, Moira had ceased to listen. His voice was barely a drone in ears that were filled with the white noise of the explosion‘s aftermath. She and Humphry Bamber were lying side by side in the ER, having been examined and treated for fistfuls of cuts and abrasions. They were lucky, the ER

doctor had said, and Moira believed him. They had been transported via ambulance, made to stay lying down while they were given oxygen, and given superficial exams for concussions, broken bones, and the like.

―Who do you work for?‖ Moira said to Simon Herren.

He smiled indulgently. He had short brown hair, small rodent eyes, and bad teeth. The collar of his shirt was stiff with starch, and his rep tie was strictly government issue. He wasn‘t going to answer her and they both knew it. Anyway, what did it matter what part of the intelligence alphabet soup he belonged to? In the end, weren‘t they all the same? Well, Veronica Hart wasn‘t.

All at once, the hammer blow hit her and tears leaked out of the corners of her eyes.

―What is it?‖ Simon Herren looked around for a nurse. ―Are you in pain?‖

Moira managed to laugh through her tears. What an idiot,she thought. To stop herself from telling him so, she asked how her companion was.

―Mr. Bamber is understandably shaken up,‖ Herren said without a hint of sympathy. ―Not surprising, since he‘s a civilian.‖