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 barrio of Seville, in a beautiful threestory 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.
<
br /> — 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.
— 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.
Bourne 7 – The Bourne Deception jb-7 Page 23
