Текст книги "The Bourne Deception (Обман Борна)"

Автор книги: Eric Van Lustbader

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With that, Danziger nodded to them and departed as silently as he‘d entered.

Five people ranged around the table in one of the Pentagon‘s vast electronic war rooms, three levels below the basement. Each had before him identical printouts, which comprised the latest findings from the joint forensics team sent to Cairo as well as up-to-the-minute intelligence assessments of the rapidly morphing situation. Paper shredders stood guard beside each of the leather-backed chairs.

As if Hernandez‘s pause was a cue, Secretary of Defense Halliday said,

–Of course they categorically deny their involvement, but the provocation is serious and they‘re behind it.‖

―They can‘t refute the evidence we delivered to them,‖ said Jon Mueller, the head of the Department of Homeland Security.

―And yet they have.‖ The president sighed deeply. ―That very issue occupied a good part of my contentious phone conversation. Their claim is that our forensics team rigged the ‗so-called evidence‘—their president‘s exact phrase.‖

―Why would he give the order to shoot down one of our planes?‖ Veronica Hart asked.

At which Halliday shot her a withering look. ―He‘s tired of taking heat for their nuclear program. We‘ve been pushing them, now they‘re pushing back.‖

―The way I see it, this provocation actually serves two purposes,‖

Hernandez offered. ―As Bud accurately points out, it redirects the international spotlight away from their nuclear program while at the same time serving as a warning to us—and the rest of the world, for that matter—to back off.‖

―Let me get this straight.‖ Hart leaned forward. ―You‘re saying they‘ve decided to go beyond their long-standing threats to close off the Straits of Hormuz to oil traffic.‖

Mueller nodded. ―That‘s right.‖

―But surely they must know that‘s suicidal.‖

Halliday watched this exchange much as a hawk follows two rabbits racing across a field. Now he pounced. ―We‘ve all suspected that the Iranian president is mentally unbalanced.‖

―A mad hatter,‖ Hernandez affirmed.

Halliday agreed. ―But far more dangerous.‖ He looked around the room, his face eerily lit by reflections from the large flat-panel computer monitors ranged along the walls. ―Now we have incontrovertible proof.‖

Hernandez gathered up the printouts, aligning their corners. ―I think we should take our findings public. Share them with the media, not just our allies.‖

Halliday looked to the president. ―I concur, sir. And then we convene a special session of the UN Security Council that you address personally. We need to formally give attribution to this cowardly act of terrorism.‖

―We need to charge and condemn Iran,‖ Mueller added. ―They‘ve committed nothing short of an act of war.‖

―Right.‖ Hernandez hunched his shoulders like a prizefighter in the ring.

–Bottom line, we‘ve got to move against them militarily.‖

―Now, that wouldbe suicidal,‖ Hart said emphatically.

―I agree with the DCI,‖ Halliday said.

This response was so unexpected that Hart goggled at him for a moment.

Then he continued and everything was made clear to her.

―Going to war with Iran would be a mistake. Just as we‘re on the verge of winning the war in Iraq, we‘re obliged to redeploy our troops back to Afghanistan. No, a frontal assault on Iran would, in my estimation, be a grave misstep. Not only would it stretch our already overtaxed military personnel, but the consequences for other countries in the region, especially Israel, could be catastrophic. However, if we could destroy the current Iranian regime from within—now, that would be a worthy goal.‖

―To do that we would need a proxy,‖ Hernandez said, as if on cue. ―A destabilizing influence.‖

Halliday nodded. ―Which, by dint of hard work, we now have in the form of this new indigenous revolutionary group inside Iran. I say we hit Iran on two fronts: diplomatically through the United Nations and militarily by backing this MIG in every way possible: money, arms, strategic advisers, the works.‖

―I agree,‖ Mueller said. ―However, to implement the MIG initiative we‘ll need a black budget.‖

―And we‘ll have to have it yesterday,‖ Hernandez added, ―which means keeping Congress in the dark.‖

Halliday laughed, but there was an altogether serious look on his face.

–So what else is new? The only thing those people are interested in is getting reelected. As for what‘s good for the country, they haven‘t got a clue.‖

The president placed his elbows on the polished table, his fists against his mouth in a pose of deep meditation that was emblematic of him. As he processed the decisions, their implications, and their possible consequences, his eyes flicked from one of his advisers to the next. At length, his gaze returned to the DCI. ―Veronica, we haven‘t heard from you. What‘s your opinion of this scenario?‖

Hart considered for a moment; her response was too important to rush it.

She was aware of Halliday‘s eyes on her, glittering and avid. ―There‘s no question that the missile that killed our citizens was an Iranian Kowsar 3 so I agree with the diplomatic response, and the sooner the better because gathering a worldwide consensus is crucial.‖

―You can forget about China and Russia,‖ Halliday said. ―They‘re too tightly allied with Iran economically to take our side no matter the evidence, which is why we need the third column to foment revolution from the inside out.‖

Now we come to the crux of it, Hart thought. ―My problem with the military part is that we‘ve tried the third-column option many times in many places, including Afghanistan, and what did it get us? The rise to power of the Taliban, an indigenous revolutionary group, and Osama bin Laden, among other very nasty extremist groups turned terrorists.‖

―This time it‘s different,‖ Halliday insisted. ―We have assurances from the leaders of this group. Its philosophy is moderate, democratic, in short, Western-oriented.‖

The president tapped his fingers on the table. ―It‘s settled then. We go forward with this two-pronged attack. I‘ll set the diplomatic wheels in motion. In the meantime, Bud, draw up a preliminary budget for your MIG. The sooner you have it, the sooner we can get rolling, but I don‘t want it anywhere near my desk or the White House, for that matter. In fact, I was never at this meeting.‖ He looked at his advisers as he rose. ―Let‘s make this work, people. We owe it to the hundred and eighty-one innocent Americans who lost their lives in this missile attack.‖

Veronica Hart watched Moira Trevor walk into her office, as cool, as elegant as always. And yet she recognized something dark and squirmy behind her former colleague‘s eyes that sent a shiver down her spine.

―Take a seat,‖ Veronica said from behind her desk, still not believing this was happening. When she had left Black River she‘d been certain she‘d never have to see, let alone deal with, Moira Trevor again. And yet here the woman was, skirt rustling drily as she sat facing her, one knee crossed over the other, back as straight as any military officer.

―I imagine you‘re as surprised as I am,‖ Moira said.

Hart said nothing; instead she continued to stare into Moira‘s brown eyes, trying to read the reason for her visit. But after a moment, she abandoned the effort. It was useless to try to peer behind that stony facade, she knew that all too well.

She processed what she could get, though: Moira‘s swollen and bandaged left arm, the minor cuts and scrapes on her face and the backs of her hands.

She could not help saying: ―What the hell happened to you?‖

―That‘s what I came here to tell you,‖ Moira said.

―No, you came here for help.‖ Hart leaned forward, elbows on the desk.

–It‘s damn difficult being on the outside, isn‘t it?‖

―Jesus, Ronnie.‖

―What? The past is lying in wait for both of us like a serpent in the grass.‖

Moira nodded. ―I suppose it is.‖

―You suppose?‖ Hart cocked her head. ―Pardon me if I don‘t wax sentimental. You were the one who made the threat. What were your actual words?‖ She pursed her lips. ―Oh, yes, ‗Ronnie, I will fuck you up for this, I‘ll rain down a shitstorm on you like no other.‘‖ Hart sat back. ―Did I leave out anything?‖ She felt her pulse accelerating. ―And now here you are.‖

Moira stared at her in stony silence.

Hart turned to a sideboard, poured out a tall glass of ice water, pushed it across the desk. For a moment, Moira did nothing. Perhaps, Hart thought, she didn‘t know whether taking it would be a sign of trust or of capitulation.

Moira reached out then, very deliberately swung the back of her hand against the glass, pitching it hard against the wall, where it smashed, water and tiny glass shards sparkling in the air like a burst from a cannon. By this time Moira was on her feet, her arms rigid, her fists on the desktop.

Immediately two men entered the office, their guns drawn.

―Back off, Moira.‖ Hart‘s voice was at once low and steely.

Moira, refusing to sit back down, turned her back on Hart and stalked across the carpet to the other side of the office.

The DCI waved at the two men, who holstered their sidearms and backed out. When the door had shut behind them, she steepled her fingers and waited for Moira to cool off. After a time, she said, ―Now why don‘t you tell me what the hell is going on?‖

When Moira turned around, she had, indeed, gathered herself. ―You‘ve got it all wrong, Ronnie. I‘m the one who‘s going to help you.‖

While his men were burying Farid, Arkadin sat on a rock outcropping in the sapphire Azerbaijani twilight. Even without the rhythmic sound of pickaxes and the sight of the corpse sprawled in the dirt, the atmosphere would have been suffused with melancholy. The wind blew fitfully, like the panting of a dog; the tribesmen of the region had turned their faces to Mecca, on their knees in prayer, their submachine guns beside them. Beyond the dun-colored hills lay Iran, and all at once Arkadin was homesick for Moscow. He missed the cobblestone streets, the onion domes, the late-night clubs where he reigned supreme. Most of all, he missed the endless array of tall, blond, blue-eyed dyevsin whose perfumed flesh he could lose himself, blotting out the memory of Devra. Though he had loved her, he hated her now, because she wasn‘t really dead. Like a specter, she haunted him night and day, driving him to revenge himself on Jason Bourne, the last link to her life—and her murder. To make matters even worse, it was also Bourne who‘d killed Mischa, Arkadin‘s mentor and best friend. If it hadn‘t been for Mischa Tarkanian, Arkadin doubted he‘d ever have survived his ordeal in Nizhny Tagil.

Mischa and Devra, the two most important people in his life, both dead because of Jason Bourne. Bourne had a lot to pay for, Christ, did he ever.

The men were almost finished with the grave. A pair of vultures, black shadows against the dimly glimmering sky, turned in lazing circles. I’m like those vultures, he thought. Patiently waiting for my moment to strike.

Perched on his rock, knees drawn up, he turned his satellite phone over and over in the palm of his hand. Amazingly, several good things had happened because of Willard‘s call. Willard was a mole, not a field man, and he‘d made a fatal mistake: His ego had gotten the better of him. He should have quietly taken Ian Bowles apart, buried the pieces, and gone on with his business. Of course he‘d wanted to know who‘d sent Bowles, but his mistake was in announcing himself to Arkadin—worse, in warning him—because he‘d as much as told Arkadin that Bourne was still alive. Why else would he be at Dr. Firth‘s compound? Why else would he have killed Bowles? Now Arkadin had proof that Bourne was still alive, though how Bourne managed to survive a shot to the heart was something that nagged at him. Whatever else he might be, Bourne was no superman. Why hadn‘t he been killed?

With a sharp shake of his head, Arkadin set the imponderable aside for the moment. He dialed a number on his phone. Bowles had been nothing more than a temporary stopgap, someone to make a survey and report back. He‘d failed; now it was time to bring in the big guns.

The men unceremoniously threw Farid into the grave. Sweaty and ill tempered, they had long ago lost patience with their normally solemn task.

Farid had violated the laws of the group; he was no longer one of their own.

Good, Arkadin thought, lesson learned.

The line was ringing.

―Are you set up with the job?‖ Arkadin said as soon as the familiar voice answered. ―Good. Because I‘ve decided to play it your way, and now the clock is ticking. I‘ll be sending you the last-minute details within the hour.‖

Two men began to shovel dirt over the body; the others spat into the grave.

The DCI shook her head. ―Moira, I‘m afraid I‘m just not feeling it.‖

The cords of Moira‘s neck stood out. How long had she waited for this confrontation? ―Did you feel it when you gave me up in Safed Koh?‖ Safed Koh was the local name for the White Mountains in eastern Afghanistan, where the notorious Tora Bora caves tunneled their way across the border into terrorist-controlled western Pakistan.

Hart spread her hands. ―I never gave you up.‖

―Really?‖ Moira advanced on her. ―Then please tell me how I was taken prisoner in the dead of night and held hostage for six days on Mount Sikaram with nothing to eat and only polluted water to drink.‖

―I have no idea.‖

―Whatever bacteria was in that water put me out of commission for three weeks after that‖—Moira kept coming closer to the front edge of Hart‘s desk—

‖during which time you led my mission—‖

―It was a Black River mission.‖

―—that I‘d planned for, trained for. A mission I‘d wanted more than anything.‖

Hart tried for a smile, missed. ―That mission was a success, Moira.‖

―Meaning it wouldn‘t have been a success if I‘d been in charge?‖

―You said it, I didn‘t.‖

―You thought I was a hothead.‖

―That‘s right,‖ Hart acknowledged, ―I do.‖

The deliberate present tense brought Moira up short. ―So you still think—

‖

The DCI spread her hands. ―Look at yourself. What would youthink if you were me?‖

―I‘d be wanting to know how Moira Trevor could help me take down my one true nemesis.‖

―And who would that be?‖

She said it blandly, but Moira discerned the quickening of interest behind her eyes. ―The man who‘s had it in for you from the moment the president floated your name to take over the DCI position. Bud Halliday.‖

For a moment Moira was certain she felt the brief crackle of heat lightning in the room. Then Veronica Hart pushed her chair back and stood up.

―What precisely do you want from me?‖

―I want an admission of your guilt.‖

―A signed confession? You must be joking.‖

―No,‖ Moira said. ―Just between us chickens.‖

Hart shook her head. ―Why would I do that?‖

―So that we can have something other than the past, so that we can go on, so that there isn‘t this poison between us.‖

The telephone rang several times, but the DCI ignored it. Finally, it stopped, and only the small sounds remained: the humming of the air vents, the soft intakes of their breathing, the beating of their hearts.

Hart sighed then, a long exhalation of breath. ―You don‘t want to hear this.‖

At last!Moira thought. ―Try me.‖

―What I did,‖ Hart said slowly, ―I did for the good of the company.‖

―Bullshit, you did it for yourself!‖

―You were never in any real danger,‖ Hart persevered, ―I made sure of that.‖

Instead of feeling better Moira was feeling more and more wronged. ―How couldyou have made sure of it?‖

―Moira, can‘t we leave it at that?‖

Moira was back in her attack position, leaning over the desk, resting on her white knuckles. ―End it,‖ she said. ―End it now.‖

―All right.‖ The DCI raked her fingers through her hair. ―I was sure you‘d be okay because Noah said he‘d take care of you.‖

―Oh.‖ Moira felt the floor open up beneath her. Dizziness forced her back to the chair, where she sat heavily, staring at nothing. ―Noah.‖ Then it hit her and she felt sick. ―It was all Noah‘s idea, wasn‘t it?‖

Hart nodded. ―I was his runner. I did his dirty work for him. I was required to be the one you hated when you came back so he could keep using you when he saw fit.‖

―Jesus God.‖ Moira stared down at her hands. ―He didn‘t trust me.‖

―Not for that mission.‖ Hart said it so softly that Moira had to lean forward to hear her. ―But for others, as you know perfectly well, he preferred you.‖

―No matter.‖ Moira felt numb from the inside out. ―What a shitty thing to do.‖

―Yes, it was.‖ Hart sat back down. ―In fact, it was the reason I left Black River.‖

Moira looked up, her eyes focusing on the woman who had been her archenemy for so long. She felt as if her mind had been stuffed with steel wool. ―I don‘t understand.‖

―I‘d done a lot of awful things while at Black River; you‘re the last person I have to explain that to. But this—what Noah had me do—‖ She shook her head. ―Afterward I was so ashamed of myself I couldn‘t bear to face you, so after the mission was completed I went to see you. I wanted to apologize—‖

―I wouldn‘t let you; I cursed you instead.‖

―I couldn‘t blame you. I wasn‘t angry at the hurtful things you said, who was more entitled? And yet it was a lie. I wanted to disobey orders, to tell you the truth. Instead, I quit. It was a cowardly act, really, because then I was certain I‘d never have to face you.‖

―And now here we are.‖ Moira felt drained, sick at heart. She‘d known Noah was amoral, she knew he was devious; he wouldn‘t have risen to his position at Black River otherwise. But she‘d never have thought him capable of fucking her over so thoroughly, of using her like a piece of meat.

―Here we are,‖ Hart agreed.

Moira felt a shudder run through her. ―Noah is the reason I‘m in this situation, the reason I‘m here without a place to go.‖

The DCI frowned. ―What do you mean? You have your own organization.‖

―It‘s been compromised, either by Noah or by the NSA.‖

―There‘s a big difference between Black River and the NSA.‖

Moira looked at Hart and realized she no longer knew how she felt about anyone or anything. How did one recover from a betrayal like this? All at once she was suffused with a terrible fury. If Noah had been in the room she would have grabbed the lamp off Veronica Hart‘s desk and swung it into the side of his face. But no, better he wasn‘t. She recalled a line from Les Liaisons Dangereuses,her favorite novel because it involved drawing room spies: Revenge is a dish best served cold.And in this case, she thought, in a perfectly clean kitchen. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly and completely.

―Not in this case,‖ she said. ―Jay Weston, my operative, was killed and I barely escaped being gunned down because Black River and the NSA are feathering the same nest, and whatever they‘ve hatched is so big they‘re willing to kill anyone who comes sniffing around.‖

Into the ensuing shocked silence, Hart said, ―I do hope you have proof of that allegation.‖

In response, Moira handed over the thumb drive she‘d gotten from Jay Weston‘s corpse. Ten minutes later the DCI looked up from her computer and said, ―Moira, so far as I can make out all you have is a motorcycle cop no one can find, and a thumb drive full of nonsense.‖

―Jay Weston didn‘t die in an automobile accident,‖ Moira said hotly, ―he was shot to death. And Steve Stevenson, the undersecretary for acquisition, technology and logistics at the DoD, confirmed that Jay was killed because he was on to something. He told me that ever since the news of the jetliner explosion hit the wires the atmosphere at DoD and the Pentagon has been shrouded in a toxic fog. Those were his words exactly.‖

Still staring at Moira, Hart picked up the phone and asked her assistant to connect her to Undersecretary Stevenson at the Department of Defense.

―Don‘t,‖ Moira said. ―He was scared shitless. I had to beg him to even meet with me, and he‘s a client.‖

―I‘m sorry,‖ the DCI said, ―but it‘s the only way.‖ She waited a moment, drumming her fingers on the desktop. Then her expression shifted. ―Yes, Undersecretary Stevenson, this is—Oh, I see. When is he expected back?‖ Her gaze returned to Moira. ―Surely you have to know when—Yes, I see. Never mind, I‘ll try again later. Thank you.‖

She replaced the receiver and her finger drumming began again.

―What happened?‖ Moira asked. ―Where‘s Stevenson?‖

―Apparently, no one knows. He left the office at eleven thirty-five this morning.‖

―That was to meet me.‖

―And as yet hasn‘t returned.‖

Moira dug out her phone, called Stevenson‘s cell, which went right to voice mail. ―He‘s not answering.‖ She put her phone away.

Hart stared hard at the screen of her computer terminal and mouthed the word Pinprickbardem,then returned her gaze to Moira. ―I think we‘d better find out what the hell has happened to the undersecretary.‖

Wayan, well pleased with his sales for the day, was in the enclosed rear of his stall, preparing the one or two pigs left unsold to take back to his farm, when the man appeared. He didn‘t hear him for all the shouted cacophony as the huge market began to close for the night.

―You‘re the pig man named Wayan.‖

―Closed,‖ Wayan said without looking up. ―Please come back tomorrow.‖

When he discerned no movement he began to turn, saying, ―And in any event, you cannot come back—‖

The powerful blow caught him square on the jaw, sending him reeling into the piglets, which squealed in alarm. So did Wayan. He barely had time to see the man‘s rough-edged face when he was hauled upright. The second punch buried itself in his stomach, sending him breathless, to his knees.

He peered up through watering eyes, gasping and retching pitifully, at the impossibly tall man. He wore a black suit so shiny and ill fitting it was hideous. There was stubble on his face, blue as the shadows of evening, and coal-black eyes that regarded Wayan without either pity or conscience. One side of his neck was imprinted with a rather delicate scar, like a pink ribbon on a child‘s birthday present, that ran up into his jaw where the muscle had been severed and was now puckered. The other side of his neck was tattooed with a clutch of three skulls: one looking straight out, the other two in profile, looking forward and behind him.

―What did you tell Bourne?‖

The man spoke English with a guttural accent that Wayan, in his addled state, couldn‘t place. A European, but not British or French. Perhaps a Romanian or a Serb.

―What did you tell Bourne?‖ he repeated.

―W-who?‖

The man shook Wayan until his teeth rattled. ―The man who came to see you. The American. What did you tell him?‖

―I don‘t know what y—‖

Wayan‘s attempt at a denial turned into a grunt of pain as the man took his right forefinger and bent it back until it snapped. The rush of blood from Wayan‘s head almost made him lose consciousness, but the man slapped him twice so that his eyes focused on his tormentor.

The man leaned in so that Wayan could smell his sour odor, knew that he must have just flown in without having showered or changed his clothes.

―Do not fuck with me, you little prick.‖ He already had a grip on the middle finger of Wayan‘s right hand. ―You have five seconds.‖

―Please, you‘re wrong about this!‖

He gave a little yelp as the man snapped his middle finger. All the blood seemed to have left his head. As before, the man slapped his jowls several times.

―Two down, eight to go,‖ the man said, trapping Wayan‘s right thumb.

Wayan‘s mouth opened wide, like a fish gasping for air. ―All right, all right. I told him where to find Don Fernando Hererra.‖

The man sat back on his haunches and let out a short breath. ―You are so fucking unreliable.‖ Then he turned, picked up a length of bamboo pole, and without the slightest expression drove it through Wayan‘s right eye.

13

FOR THE NEXT eighteen hours Arkadin did nothing but train his recruits. He did not allow them to eat, to sleep, or to do more than take breaks to urinate. Thirty seconds, that‘s all they had to empty their bladders into the red Azerbaijani dust. The first man who took longer received a solid whack from Arkadin‘s baton behind his knee; the first man became the only man to disobey that or any other order, for that matter.

As Triton had warned him, he had five days to turn these killers into a platoon of shock troops. Easier said than done, true, but Arkadin had plenty of experience to draw from, because something similar had been done to him when he was a young man in Nizhny Tagil and on the run from having killed Stas Kuzin and a third of his gang.

Nizhny Tagil was more or less founded on iron ore so rich that an enormous quarry was immediately dug. This was in 1698. By 1722 the first copper-smelting plant was established and a town began to stretch its bones, groaning around the plant and the quarry, a vice– and crime-ridden machine to service and house exhausted workers. A hundred thirteen years later the first Russian steam locomotive was constructed there. Like most frontier towns ruled by industry and its money-hungry barons, there was a raw and lawless nature about the place that the semi-civilizing influence of the modern-day city never was able to tame, let alone eradicate. Possibly that was why the federal government had ringed the toxic site with high-security penitentiaries, blinding spotlights bleaching the night.

There were only lonely sounds in Nizhny Tagil, or else frightening, like the faraway hoot of the train whistle echoing off the Ural Mountains or the sudden shriek of one of the prison sirens; like the wail of a child lost in the filthy streets or the wet snap of bones breaking during a drunken brawl.

As Arkadin sought to evade the armada of gang members fanning out through the streets and slums of the city, he learned to follow the yellow curs slinking through shadowed alleyways, their tails curled between their legs.

Then quite suddenly he ran across two men canvassing the very same network of exhausted backwaters that a moment before had seemed safe enough. Turning, he let them believe they were running him down. As he turned a corner, he snatched up a piece of splintered wood, part of a discarded bed set, and, crouching down, slammed it across the lead man‘s legs. The man shouted, toppling forward. Arkadin was prepared, grabbing hold of him, pitching him down so that his face slammed into the filthy concrete. The second man was on him, but Arkadin drove a cocked elbow into his Adam‘s apple. As the man began to choke, Arkadin wrested the pistol from his hand and shot him point-blank.

Then he turned the gun on the first man and put a bullet through the back of his head.

From that moment on he knew the streets were too dangerous for him; he needed to find a sanctuary. He thought of getting himself arrested and thrown into one of the nearby prisons as a way of protecting himself, but quickly discarded the notion. What might have worked in another part of the country was out of the question in Nizhny Tagil, where the cops were so corrupt it was often impossible to distinguish them from the city‘s criminals. Not that he was out of ideas; far from it. His experiences thus far had made clever thinking a way of life.

Continuing onward, he considered and rejected any number of possibilities, all of which were too public, too riddled with potential snitches who‘d be on the lookout for him in exchange for the promise of a bottle of real liquor or a night of free rutting with underage girls.

Finally, he hit upon what he was certain was the perfect solution: He‘d hole up in the basement of his own building, where the gang and its maniacal new boss, Lev Antonin, were still headquartered. Lev Antonin‘s avowed goal was to find and destroy the murderer of the man he‘d succeeded. He wouldn‘t rest, wouldn‘t let his men rest until Arkadin‘s severed head was brought to him.

Because Arkadin was the one who had bought it during the acquisition phase of his real estate business, he was intimately familiar with every square inch of the building. He knew, for instance, that an updated sewage system had been planned for the building, started, but never completed.

Through a long-vacant municipal lot overgrown with weeds and refuse, he entered this dank and disused symbol of his birth city, a repellent underground conduit that stank of decomposition and death, emerging at length into the cavernous bowels of the building. He would have laughed at how easily this was accomplished had he not been acutely aware of his plight. He was a prisoner of the one place he wanted most desperately to leave.

The plane lurched sickeningly and Bourne woke with a start. Rain drummed hard against the Perspex window. He‘d dozed off, dreaming of the conversation he‘d had with Tracy Atherton, the young woman seated beside him. In his dream, they were talking about Holly Marie Moreau instead of Francisco Goya.

He had slept deeply and without dreaming during the twenty-three-plus–

hour trip from Bali, first to Bangkok, then Madrid on Thai Air. This flight, from Madrid to Seville on Iberia, was the shortest one, but now it had turned miserable. Sudden air pockets within a lashing storm caused the plane to lurch and dip. Tracy Atherton went quiet and still, staring straight ahead while her complexion turned ashen. Bourne held her head while she vomited twice into the airsick bag he pulled from the seat back.

She was a whisper-thin blonde with large blue eyes and a smile that seemed to wrap around her face. Her teeth were white and even, her nails cut straight across, her only bits of jewelry a gold wedding band and diamond stud earrings, large enough to be expensive but small enough to be discreet.

She wore a flame-colored blouse under a lightweight silver silk suit with a pencil skirt and tapered jacket.

―I work at the Prado in Madrid,‖ she‘d said. ―A private collector hired me to authenticate a recently unearthed Goya that I think is a fake.‖

―Why do you say that?‖ he‘d asked.

―Because it‘s purported to be one of Goya‘s Black Paintings, done later in life when he was already deaf and going mad with encephalitis. There are fourteen in the series. This collector believes he owns the fifteenth.‖ She shook her head. ―Frankly, history isn‘t on his side.‖