Текст книги "The Bourne Deception (Обман Борна)"

Автор книги: Eric Van Lustbader

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―Go to hell.‖ Moira turned her head away from him.

―I was told you could be difficult.‖

That got her attention, and she turned back, catching his eyes with hers.

–Who told you I could be difficult?‖

Herren gave her his most enigmatic smile.

―Ah, yes,‖ she said, ―Noah Perlis.‖

―Who?‖

He shouldn‘t have said that, she thought. If he‘d kept his mouth shut he might have stopped the flicker of response in his eyes before it gave him away. So Noah was still just a step away from her. Why? He didn‘t want anything from her, which meant that he‘d become afraid of her. That was good to know; that would help her through the bleak days and weeks ahead when, alone and at risk, she would blame herself for Ronnie‘s death, because hadn‘t the bomb been meant for her? It had been slipped into the tailpipe of her rental car. No one—not even Noah—could have foreseen that Ronnie would be driving it. But even the small satisfaction that he had failed paled against the collateral damage.

She‘d been near death before, she‘d had colleagues or targets die in the field, that was part of wet work. She‘d been prepared for it, as much as any human being could be prepared for the death of someone known to you. But the field was far away, across one ocean or another; the field was at a certain remove from civilization, from her personal life, from home.

Ronnie‘s death was something altogether different. It was caused by a series of events and her reaction to those events. All at once a tide of ifs engulfed her. If she hadn‘t started her own firm, if Jason weren‘t ―dead,‖ if she hadn‘t gone to Ronnie, if Bamber weren‘t working for Noah, if, if, if…

But they‘d all happened, and like a daisy chain she could look back and see how all these events interlocked, how one led inexorably to another, and how the end result was always the same: the death of Ronnie Hart. She thought then of the Balinese healer Suparwita, who had looked into her eyes with an expression she hadn‘t been able to decipher until now. It had been the sure knowledge of loss, as if even then, back in Bali, he‘d known what was in store for her.

The insistent buzzing of Simon Herren‘s voice drew her away from the blackness of her own thoughts. Her eyes refocused.

―What? What did you say?‖

―Mr. Bamber is being released into my custody.‖

Herren stood between her bed and Bamber‘s, as if daring her to defy him.

Bamber was already dressed and ready to go, but he seemed frightened, indecisive, shell-shocked.

―The doctor tells me you need to stay here for more tests.‖

―The hell I will.‖ She sat up, swung her legs over the side, and stood up.

―I think you‘d best lie down,‖ he said in that vaguely mocking tone of his. ―Doctor‘s orders.‖

―Fuck you.‖ She started putting on her clothes, not caring if he saw flashes of her body or not. ―Fuck you and the broom you flew in on.‖

He could not keep the contempt off his face. ―Not a very professional response, is—‖

In the next instant he doubled over as she buried her fist in his solar plexus. Her knee came up to meet his descending chin, and as he crumpled, she dragged him up, splaying him out on the bed. Then she turned to Bamber and said, ―You have only one shot at this. Come with me now or Noah will own you forever.‖

Still Bamber didn‘t move. He was staring at Simon Herren as if in a daze, but when she extended her hand, he took it. He needed someone to guide him now, someone who might tell him the truth. Stevenson was gone, Veronica Hart had been blown apart in front of him, and now there was only Moira, the person who had dragged him out of the doomed Buick, the woman who had saved his life.

Moira led him out of the emergency room as swiftly and efficiently as possible. Fortunately, the ER was a madhouse, EMTs and cops trotting this way and that alongside their patients, giving reports on the fly to the residents, who in turn barked orders to the nurses. Everyone was overworked and overstressed; no one stopped them or even noticed their departure.

A contingent of Amun‘s men met them on the dock, where he held the young drug trafficker by the scruff of his neck. The poor kid was scared shitless. He wasn‘t one of the tough Egyptian youths who knew very well what they were getting into. He looked like what he was: an indigent tourist who‘d been hoping to score some quick money to continue his world odyssey. It was probably why he‘d been chosen by the drug runners in the first place. He looked innocent.

Chalthoum could have let him go with a warning, but he was in no mood to be magnanimous. He‘d cuffed his hands behind his back, then leapt back when the young boy had heaved up his last meal.

―Amun, have some pity,‖ Soraya said now.

―Drug trafficking cannot be dismissed.‖

This was the Amun she knew, rock-hard and gimlet-eyed. An involuntary shiver ran through her. ―He‘s nothing, you said so yourself. If you put him away, they‘ll just find another fool to take his place.‖

―Then we‘ll find him, too,‖ Chalthoum said. ―Lock him up, and throw away the key.‖

At this, the young man began to wail. ―Please help me. I never signed on for this.‖

Chalthoum looked at him so darkly that the young man recoiled. ―You should have thought of that before you took the criminals‘ money.‖ He slung him roughly into the arms of his men. ―You know what to do with him,‖ he said.

―Wait, wait!‖ The young man tried to dig in his heels as Chalthoum‘s men turned to take him away. ―What if I have information? Would you help me then?‖

―What information could you have?‖ Chalthoum said dismissively. ―I know how these drug networks are structured. Your only contact was with the people on the rung right above you, and since you‘re on the lowest rung…‖ He shrugged and signed to his men to take the prisoner away.

―I don‘t mean those people.‖ The young man‘s voice had risen in fear.

–There‘s something I overheard. Other divers talking.‖

―What divers? Talking about what?‖

―They‘re gone now,‖ the young man said. ―They were here ten days ago, maybe a little more.‖

Chalthoum shook his head. ―Too long ago. Whoever they were, whatever they said is of no interest to me.‖

Soraya stepped toward the young man. ―What‘s your name?‖

―Stephen.‖

She nodded. ―My name is Soraya, Stephen. Tell me, were these divers Iranian?‖

―Look at him,‖ Chalthoum interrupted. ―He wouldn‘t know an Iranian from an Indian.‖

―The divers weren‘t Arab,‖ Stephen said.

Chalthoum snorted. ―You see what I mean? Sonny, Iranians are Persians, descended from the Scythian-Sarmatian nomads of Central Asia. They‘re Shi‘a Muslims, not Arabs.‖

―What I mean…‖ Stephen swallowed hard. ―What I meant to say was that they were white like me. Caucasians.‖

―Could you tell what nationality they were?‖ Soraya asked.

―They were Americans,‖ Stephen said.

―So what?‖ Chalthoum was losing patience.

Soraya ventured closer still. ―Stephen, what did you overhear? What were these divers talking about?‖

With a fearful glance at Chalthoum, Stephen said, ―There were four of them. They were coming off a vacation, that was clear. Only they called it leave.‖

Soraya made eye contact with Chalthoum. ―Military men.‖

―So he says,‖ he rumbled. ―Continue.‖

―They‘d just come up from the second dive of the day and they were kind of giddy. I was helping them off with their tanks, but they acted as if I wasn‘t there. Anyway, they were grumbling about having their leave cut short.

There was some kind of emergency—an assignment for them that came out of the air—that was what they said. It appeared out of thin air.‖

―This is nonsense,‖ Chalthoum said. ―It‘s clear he‘s making this up to spare himself life imprisonment.‖

―Oh, God.‖ At the pronouncement of his mortal sentence, Stephen‘s knees gave way and Chalthoum‘s men were obliged to hold him tightly in order to keep him on his feet.

―Stephen.‖ Soraya reached out, turned the young man‘s face toward her. He was as pale as death, and she could see the whites all around his eyes. ―Tell us the rest of what you overheard. Did the divers say what their assignment was?‖

He shook his head. ―I got the impression they didn‘t yet know.‖

―Enough!‖ Chalthoum cried. ―Dispose of this rancid piece of meat!‖

Stephen was openly weeping now. ―But they knew their destination.‖

Soraya held up her hand for Chalthoum‘s men to stop dragging him away.

–Where was it, Stephen? Where were the men headed?‖

―They were flying to Khartoum,‖ the young man said through his tears,

–‗wherever that godforsaken place is.‘‖

19

THE PRESIDENT was met by Secretary of Defense Halliday as he was exiting the United Nations. Having sent the General Assembly into a frenzy by presenting the evidence against Iran in the bombing of the American airliner and the loss of 181 lives, the president had stopped for an impromptu press conference with the media, clustered around him like hens at feeding time. He obligingly gave them half a dozen choice sound bites to air or to carry back to their editors before his press secretary whispered in his ear that Secretary Halliday was waiting with urgent news.

The president was on a high. It had been a long time since an American president could address that august body of the United Nations armed with evidence so damning it had shocked the representatives from Russia and China into silence. The world was changing, tilting against Iran in a way never before seen. The president, whose presence here was in no small part due to Bud Halliday, thought it fitting that the first person he speak with regarding his unqualified success was the defense secretary.

―Break out the champagne!‖ the president called as he signaled to Halliday, and the two men entered the long bullet– and bombproof limousine.

The vehicle took off the moment the pair were seated. Across from them was the press secretary, his cheeks as flushed with victory as the president‘s, a bottle of chilled American sparkling wine in his hand.

―Sir, if you don‘t mind, let‘s hold the celebration,‖ Bud Halliday said.

―Mind?‖ the president said. ―Of course I mind! Solly, open the damn champagne!‖

―Sir,‖ Halliday said, ―there‘s been an incident.‖

The president froze in mid-gesture, then slowly turned to his defense secretary. ―What kind of an incident, Bud?‖

―Veronica Hart, the director of Central Intelligence, is dead.‖

At once the color drained from the president‘s flushed cheeks. ―Good Christ, what happened, Bud?‖

―A car bomb—we think. There‘s an ongoing investigation, but that‘s the most recent theory.‖

―But who—?‖

―Homeland Security, ATF, and the FBI are all coordinating their efforts under the NSA umbrella.‖

―Good.‖ The president, all business now, nodded curtly. ―The sooner we clear up this car bomb mess, the better.‖

―As usual, we‘re on the same page, sir.‖ Halliday glanced Solly‘s way.

–Speaking of which, we‘re going to need a comprehensive press release, and spin control. After the plane incident, the last thing we need is speculation about terrorists and another bombing.‖

―Solly, get our talking heads on it right away,‖ the president said,

–then get into overdrive on an official release. Coordinate it with Secretary Halliday‘s office, would you?‖

―Right away, sir.‖ Solly slipped the sweating bottle back into its bucket of ice and started calling contacts on his cell phone.

Halliday waited until the press secretary was engaged in his first conversation. ―Sir, we‘ve got to think about a replacement for DCI Hart.‖ And before the president could jump in, he continued: ―It seems fair to say that the experiment with hiring from the private sector has run its course. In any event, we need to move quickly to fill the gap.‖

―Get me a list of the qualified senior people at CI.‖

―I will certainly do that.‖ Halliday texted a message to his office as they spoke. He looked up. ―The list will be on your desk inside an hour.‖ But his face was still deeply troubled.

―What is it, Bud?‖

―It‘s nothing, sir.‖

―Oh, come on, Bud. We‘ve known each other a long time, haven‘t we?

There‘s something on your mind, now‘s not the time to hold back.‖

―Okay.‖ Halliday exhaled deeply. ―This is the perfect time to merge all the intelligence organizations into one organic whole that shares raw intel, makes coordinated decisions, and cuts through the bloated red tape that frustrates all of us.‖

―I‘ve heard all this before, Bud.‖

With some effort Halliday stitched a grin on his face. ―No one knows that better than I do, sir, and I understand. In the past you agreed with the DCI, whoever it was.‖

The president worried his lower lip. ―There‘s history to be observed, Bud. CI is the oldest, most venerable institution in the constellation of the intelligence communities. In many ways it‘s the crown jewel. I can understand why you‘d want to get your hands on it.‖

Rather than waste time in denial of the truth, Halliday decided to take another tack altogether. ―The current crisis is another case in point. We‘re having difficulty coordinating with CI—especially Typhon, which might very well have the intel we need to ensure that our retaliation against Iran doesn‘t hit a snag.‖

The president stared out the smoked window at the monumental public buildings at the district‘s heart. ―You‘ve received the money for—you know—

for the—what have you named the operation?‖

The secretary of defense gave up trying to follow the train of the president‘s thoughts. ―Pinprick, sir.‖

―Who thinks of these names?‖

Halliday sensed his boss didn‘t want an answer.

The president turned back to him. ―Who d‘you have in mind?‖

With his choice in the forefront of his mind, Halliday was ready for that one. ―Danziger, sir.‖

―Really? I thought you were going to propose your intelligence czar.‖

―Jaime Hernandez is a career office man. We need someone with a more—

robust—background.‖

―Quite right,‖ the president agreed. ―Who the hell is this Danziger?‖

―M. Errol Danziger. The NSA‘s current deputy director of signals intelligence for analysis and production.‖

The president returned to his contemplation of the passing streetscape.

–Have I met him?‖

―Yes, sir. Twice, the last time when you were at the Pentagon just last—‖

―Remind me, please.‖

―He brought in the printouts Hernandez distributed.‖

―I don‘t recall the man.‖

―Hardly surprising, sir. There‘s nothing remarkable about him.‖ Halliday chuckled. ―That‘s what made him so valuable during his stint in the field. He worked Southeast Asia before moving into the Operations Directorate.‖

―Wet work?‖

Halliday was startled by the question. Nevertheless, he saw no point in lying. ―Indeed, sir.‖

―And returned home to tell the tale.‖

―Yes, sir.‖

The president made an unintelligible sound deep in his throat. ―Bring him to the Oval Office at—‖ He snapped his fingers for the press secretary‘s attention. ―Solly? Opening, today.‖

Solly put his call on hold, scrolled through a second PDA. ―Five twenty-five, sir. But you only have ten minutes before the formal press conference.

We need to make the six o‘clock news.‖

―Of course we do.‖ The president lifted a hand, smiling. ―Five twenty-five, Bud. Ten minutes is more than enough time for a yea or nay.‖

Then, abruptly, he turned to other matters, a crisis agenda packed with daunting security issues, at the end of which was not a hot bath and a good meal, but a phone conference with his director of protocol, deciding on who to invite to the state funeral for DCI Hart.

Seconds after Bourne took the phone, Hererra‘s young man had stolen into the room. Now he pressed the muzzle of a Beretta Px4 9mm pistol to Tracy‘s left temple. She was wide-eyed, sitting painfully erect at the edge of the sofa.

―My dear fellow,‖ Don Fernando Hererra said as he took the cell from Bourne, ―I may not know who you are, but I know this much: My threatening you will avail me nothing.‖ His smile was sweet, almost soft. ―Whereas if I tell you that I will have Fausto blow her brains out—pardon the crudeness of my words, Seńorita Atherton—unless you tell me who you are, I feel certain that you will be more inclined to tell me the truth.‖

―I admit that I‘ve underestimated you, Don Hererra,‖ Bourne said.

―Adam, please tell him the truth.‖ Tracy was clearly terrified for her life.

―I know that you‘re a confidence man, just as I know you‘ve come to swindle me out of my Goya, which, by the way, Professor Alonzo Pecunia Zuiga—

the realDon Alonzo—has confirmed to me is authentic.‖ He pointed. ―He has also confirmed that Seńorita Atherton is genuine. How you seduced her into going along with your scheme is between the two of you.‖ But his expression conveyed his dismay and disappointment at Tracy‘s fall from grace. ―My concern is who you are and which of my enemies hired you to con me.‖

Tracy shivered. ―Adam, for God‘s sake—‖

Hererra cocked his head. ―Come, come, Seńor Con Man, you have forfeited your right to scare the young lady.‖

It was time for him to act, Bourne knew that. He also knew that the situation was on a razor‘s edge. Hererra was the wild card. On the surface it seemed unlikely that such a polished gentleman of Seville would actually direct the young man to pull the trigger. However, Hererra‘s black-hands work in the oil fields of Colombia belied his current gentlemanly identity. At heart, he might still be that rough-and-tumble man who fought, finessed, and bullied his way to a fortune in the oil industry. A man didn‘t successfully do business with the Tropical Oil Company without a heart as hard as mahogany, and without spilling some blood. In any event, it was not for Bourne to gamble with Tracy‘s life.

―You‘re right, Don Hererra. My apologies,‖ Bourne said. ―Now to the truth: I was hired by one of your enemies, but not to take the Goya from you.‖

Tracy‘s eyes opened even wider.

―I came up with this ruse to get in to see you.‖

Hererra‘s eyes glittered as he drew up a chair to sit in front of Bourne.

–Continue.‖

―My name is Adam Stone.‖

―Forgive me if I‘m skeptical.‖ He snapped his fingers. ―Passport. And use your left hand. You don‘t want to alarm Fausto, believe me.‖

Bourne did. With the tips of the fingers on his left hand, he produced his passport, which Hererra scrutinized as if he were a special agent from immigration.

As he handed back the document, he said, ―All right, Seńor Stone, what are you?‖

―I‘m a freelance specialist in let us say hardware of a special nature.‖

Hererra shook his head. ―Now you‘ve lost me.‖

―Don Hererra, you know a Balinese merchant by the name of Wayan.‖

―I do not.‖

Bourne made a show of ignoring the lie. ―I work for the people who supply Wayan.‖

―Adam, what is this?‖ Tracy said. ―You told me you were interested in seed money for an e-commerce start-up.‖

At this, Hererra sat back, contemplating Bourne in, it seemed, an entirely new light. ―It seems, Seńorita Atherton, that Adam Stone lied to you as easily as he did to me.‖

Bourne knew he‘d made a desperate gamble. He‘d calculated that the only way to take control of the situation was to astonish the Colombian. In this, it appeared, he‘d been successful.

―The question is why?‖

Bourne saw his chance to tip the scales in his favor. ―The people who hired me—the people who supply Wayan—‖

―I told you I don‘t know anyone named Wayan.‖

Bourne shrugged. ―The people I work for know better. They don‘t like the way you‘re doing business. In fact, they want you out of it completely.‖

Don Hererra laughed. ―Fausto, do you hear this, do you hear this man?‖ He hunched forward so his face was close to Bourne‘s. ―Are you threatening me, Stone? Because the air in my house is vibrating in such a way.‖

Now there was a stiletto in his hand. The hilt was inlaid with jade, the long blade as tapered as Hererra‘s own fingers. He tipped the blade forward until the point touched the skin above Bourne‘s Adam‘s apple.

―You should know I don‘t take kindly to threats.‖

―What happens to me is irrelevant,‖ Bourne said.

―The seńorita‘s blood will be on your hands.‖

―Surely you know how powerful my employers are. Whatever is going to happen is going to happen.‖

―Unless I change my business practices.‖

Bourne felt the shift in Hererra‘s thinking even before he said it. He was no longer denying his business in arms shipping. ―That‘s correct.‖

Don Hererra sighed and made a sign to Fausto, who removed the muzzle and holstered the Beretta at the small of his back. Then he threw the stiletto onto the sofa cushion and, slapping his thighs, said, ―I think, Seńor Stone, we both could do with a walk in the garden.‖

Fausto unlocked the French doors, and the two men stepped out onto the flagstone path. The garden was an octagon embraced by the sturdy arms of the house. There was a small grove of lemon trees and, in the center, a tiled fountain in the Moorish style shaded by a palm tree. Here and there stone benches were scattered, both in sunlight and in dappled shade. The air was perfumed by the lemon trees, whose new leaves were emerging like butterflies from their winter cocoons.

Because it was cool out, Don Hererra indicated a bench in full sun. When they were seated side by side, he said, ―I must admit Yevsen surprises me; he sends a man who is not only not a thug, but possesses uncommon wisdom.‖ His head inclined a fraction, as if he were tipping his hat to Bourne. ―How much is that Russian sonovabitch paying you?‖

―Not enough.‖

―Yes, Yevsen is one cheap bastard.‖

Bourne laughed. His great gamble had paid off: He had his answer. Wayan was being supplied by Nikolai Yevsen. Scarface had been sent by Yevsen, following Bourne all the way from Bali where he‘d first tried to kill him. He still didn‘t know why Yevsen wanted him dead, but he knew he‘d just moved a giant step closer to finding out. He had a line on who Don Fernando Hererra really was: Nikolai Yevsen‘s competitor. And if he convinced Hererra Bourne could be turned, Hererra would give up everything he knew about Yevsen, which just might include what Bourne needed to know.

―Certainly not enough for having a stiletto held to my throat.‖

―No one regrets that necessity more than I do.‖

The fissures in Hererra‘s face were set in high relief as they were struck by the slanting rays of the sun. There was a fierce pride in that face he‘d held in abeyance while he was playing the part of the gentleman, a granite toughness Bourne could appreciate.

―I know about your history in Colombia,‖ he said. ―I know how you took on the Tropical Oil Company.‖

―Ah, yes, well, that was a long time ago.‖

―Initiative never fades away.‖

―Listen to you.‖ The Colombian gave him a shrewd sideways look. ―Tell me, should I sell my Goya to Seńorita Atherton?‖

―She has nothing to do with me,‖ Bourne said.

―A chivalrous thing to say, but not quite true.‖ Hererra held up an admonishing finger. ―She was all too ready to take the Goya at an unfair price.‖

―That just makes her a good businessman.‖

Hererra laughed. ―Indeed, it does.‖ He delivered another sidelong glance.

–I suppose you won‘t tell me your real name.‖

―You saw my passport.‖

―Now is not the time to insult me.‖

―What I meant is that one name is as good as another,‖ Bourne said,

–especially in our line of work.‖

Hererra shivered. ―Christ, it‘s getting cold.‖

He stood up. The shadows had grown long during their talk. Only one sliver of sunlight remained on the top of the west-facing wall, while day turned into fugitive night.

―Let‘s rejoin the lady businessman, shall we, and find out how badly she wants my Goya.‖

M. Errol Danziger, the NSA‘s current deputy director of signals intelligence for analysis and production, was watching three monitors at once, reading real-time progress reports from Iran, Egypt, and Sudan, and taking notes. He was also periodically speaking into the microphone of an electronic headpiece, using terse signals-speak he himself had devised, even though he was speaking on an NSA-approved encrypted line.

His Signals Sit Room was where Secretary of Defense Bud Halliday found Danziger analyzing and coordinating intel, and directing the far-flung elements of this blackest of black-ops missions. To those who worked most closely with him, he was known, ironically, as the Arab, because of the unceasing missions he‘d successfully run against Muslim extremists of all sects.

No one else was in the room, just the two men. Danziger glanced up briefly, gave his boss a deferential nod before returning to his work.

Halliday sat down. He didn‘t mind the curt treatment that in anyone else would warrant a severe dressing-down. Danziger was special, deserving of special treatment. In fact, this manifestation of intense concentration was a sign that all was well.

―Give me your nibble, Triton,‖ Danziger said into the mike. Nibblewas signals-speak for ―timetable.‖

―High and tight. Bardem is on the money.‖

Triton was Noah Perlis‘s ops designation, the secretary knew. The software program Bardem, which analyzed the changing field situation in real time, was his responsibility.

―Let‘s get started on the Final Four,‖ the Arab said. Final Four:the mission‘s last phase.

Halliday‘s heart skipped a beat. They were close to the finish line now, nearing the biggest power coup any American official had ever managed.

Damping down his excitement, he said, ―I trust you‘ll be finished with this session soon.‖

―That all depends,‖ Danziger replied.

Halliday moved closer. ―Make it happen. We‘re going to see the president in just under three hours.‖

Danziger‘s attention shifted from his screens and he said, ―Triton, five,‖ into the mike before he flipped a switch, temporarily muting the connection. ―You met with the president?‖

Halliday nodded. ―I brought your name up and he‘s interested.‖

―Interested enough to meet with me, but it‘s not yet a done deal.‖

The defense secretary smiled. ―Not to worry. He‘s not going to choose either of the candidates from inside CI.‖

The Arab nodded; he knew better than to question his boss‘s legendary influence. ―We have a bit of a situation developing in Egypt.‖

Halliday hunched forward. ―How so?‖

―Soraya Moore, whom we both know, and Amun Chalthoum, the head of the Egyptian intelligence service, have been snooping around the farm.‖

The farmwas signals-speak for a current mission‘s theater of operations.

–What have they found?‖

―The original team was on vacation when their orders were transmitted.

Apparently they were pissed off enough about their leave being cut short that their destination was overheard.‖

Halliday scowled. ―Are you saying that Moore and Chalthoum are aware that the team was headed for Khartoum?‖

Danziger nodded. ―This problem has to be nipped in the bud; there‘s only one solution.‖

Halliday was taken aback. ―What? Our own men?‖

―They violated security protocol.‖

The secretary shook his head. ―But still—‖

―Containment, Bud. Containment while it‘s still possible.‖ The Arab leaned forward and patted his boss on the knee. ―Just think of it as another regrettable case of friendly fire.‖

Halliday sat back, scrubbed his face with the heels of his hands. ―It‘s a good thing humans have an infinite capacity for rationalization.‖

About to swivel back to his screens, Danziger said, ―Bud, this is my mission. I devised Pinprick, I designed it down to the last detail. But you approved it. Now, I know for a fact you‘re not about to let four disgruntled sons-of-bitches put our heads in the crosshairs, are you?‖

20

DON FERNANDO HERERRA paused at the French doors, lifted a finger, and his eyes engaged Bourne‘s. ―Before we go inside, I must make one thing clear. In Colombia, I have taken part in the wars between the military and the indigenous guerrillas, the struggle between fascism and socialism. Both are weak and flawed because they seek only control over others.‖

The blue shadows of Seville lent him a keen and hungry look. He was like a wolf that has sighted the face of his prey.

―I and others like me were trained to kill a victim who has been stripped of his defenses, who lacks any capacity for response. This act is known as the perfect crime. Do you understand me?‖

He continued to peer into Bourne‘s face as if he were connected to an X-ray machine. ―I know you weren‘t hired by Nikolai Yevsen or by Dimitri Maslov, his silent partner. How do I know this? Though I know almost nothing about you—including your real name, which is the least important thing about you—I know that you are not a man to hire himself out to anyone. Instinct tells me this, instinct steeped in the blood of my enemies, whose eyes I have looked into many times as I spilled their guts, men who measure their intelligence solely by their zeal for torture.‖

Bourne felt galvanized. So Yevsen and Maslov were partners. Bourne had met Maslov several months ago in Moscow, when the grupperovkaboss was in the midst of a war with a rival mob family. If he was now in partnership with Yevsen it could only mean that he‘d won the war and was consolidating his power. Was it Maslov, not Yevsen, who was behind the attack on him?

―I understand,‖ Bourne said. ―You‘re not afraid of Yevsen or Maslov.‖

―Nor am I interested in them,‖ Hererra said. ―But I am interested in you.

Why have you come to see me? It‘s not my Goya, and it‘s not the seńorita inside, beautiful and desirable though she may be. What, then, do you want?‖

―I was followed here by a Russian hitman with a scar on one side of his neck and a tattoo of three skulls on the other.‖

―Ah, yes, Bogdan Machin, better known as the Torturer.‖ Hererra tapped the tip of his forefinger against his lower lip. ―So it was you who killed that bastard at the Maestranza yesterday.‖ He gave Bourne an appraising look.

–I‘m impressed. Machin had left a litter of the dead and maimed behind him like a train wreck.‖

Bourne was similarly impressed. Hererra‘s intel was swift and excellent.

Bourne unbuttoned his shirt, revealing his chest wound. ―He tried to shoot me dead in Bali. He bought a Parker Hale Model Eighty-five and a Schmidt and Bender Marksman Two scope from Wayan. It was Wayan who gave me your name. He said you recommended Machin to him.‖

Hererra‘s eyebrows lifted in surprise. ―You must believe me, I never knew.‖

Bourne grabbed the Colombian by the shirtfront and slammed him against the French doors. ―Why should I believe you,‖ he said into Hererra‘s face,