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“This is the same laptop that was stolen from Jalal Essai?”
“It is.”
“How in God’s name did it end up with Gustavo Moreno?”
El-Arian shrugged. “A mystery we have yet to solve.”
Willard mulled this over for a moment. “In any event, you can’t be interested in a list of drug distributors,” he said. “What’s so special about this particular laptop?”
“The hard drive contains a hidden file that provides a key to the location of King Solomon’s gold.”
Willard appeared startled. “Are you telling me that Arkadin knows where the gold is?”
El-Arian shook his head. “I doubt Arkadin knows of the hidden file’s existence. As I said, he stole it to get Moreno’s client list. But even if he did know of the file, he wouldn’t be able to access it. It’s protected.”
“Nothing is protected,” Willard said, “as you yourself told me.”
“Except for this file. No decryption program, no computer on earth can unlock it. There is only one way to read the file. The laptop has been fitted with a special slot. Fit the Solomon ring into the slot, an internal reader scans the engraving on the inside, and the file opens.”
“So Essai had the laptop,” Willard said. “What about the ring?”
“Jalal Essai had them both.”
“I don’t see how that makes sense. Why wouldn’t he have gone after Solomon’s gold himself?”
“Because even if he had opened the file, he wouldn’t have been able to act on it.” El-Arian, moving from sunlight to shadow, seemed to change in size as well as presence, as if there were two of him moving slightly out of sync with each other. “There is a section of the instructions missing from the file.”
“And Essai doesn’t have it.”
“No, he doesn’t.”
“Who does?” Willard asked.
“It resides in a special room inside a house in Tineghir, a town in the High Atlas Mountains of Morocco.”
Willard shook his head. “I know it’s easy to ask after the fact, but why was Essai entrusted with the ring and the laptop?”
“His family is the oldest, the most religiously strict. It was felt that he was the best choice.”
There was a small silence as both men presumably contemplated the misjudgment that had been made.
“What I still don’t understand is why all this is happening now. At one point, you must have had both the ring and the laptop. Why didn’t you get the gold then?”
“We would have, of course,” El-Arian said, “but we were unable to do so. We lacked that section of the instructions. After decades of searching, the full set was discovered by chance after an earthquake in Iran uncovered an archaeological treasure trove of information, much of it spirited out of the great Library at Alexandria before the first fire. One scroll contained information on King Solomon’s court.”
“And this came to light after the ring disappeared and the laptop was stolen.”
“That’s right.” El-Arian spread his hands. “So now you see how your agenda and ours coincide. You want to bring Bourne and Arkadin together to learn once and for all who is the ultimate warrior. We want the Solomon ring and the laptop.”
“Forgive me, but I don’t see the relationship.”
“We have tried, unsuccessfully, to get the laptop from Arkadin. I’ve lost every man I’ve sent to kill him, and I’m tired of sending people I know to a certain death. Similarly, I know that CI has been trying for years to kill Bourne, also without success. No, the only way for us to obtain what we want is to bring the two men together.”
“Bourne likely has the Solomon ring with him, but will Arkadin have the laptop?”
“He doesn’t let it out of his sight lately.”
They began walking again, around and around the central fountain, where a robin was drinking while nervously watching them. Willard could relate to the bird’s nervousness.
“If I didn’t believe Oliver Liss,” Willard said, “why should I believe you?”
“I don’t expect you to believe me,” El-Arian said. “But to prove my sincerity, this is what I propose: You help me get Bourne and Arkadin together—something you want, anyway—and I’ll take Oliver Liss off your back.”
“How are you going to do that? Liss is a man with a great deal of power.”
“Believe me, Mr. Willard, Oliver Liss doesn’t know the meaning of power.” Benjamin El-Arian turned. His eyes caught the sunlight and seemed to spark like an engine starting up. “He will be removed from your life.”
Willard shook his head. “I’m afraid promises aren’t good enough. I’ll be wanting half down, the remainder when I’ve brought Bourne and Arkadin together.”
El-Arian spread his hands. “We’re talking about a man, not money.”
“That’s your problem to solve,” Willard said. “I’ll start the ball rolling when—but only when—your actions back up your words.”
“Well, then.” El-Arian smiled. “I’ll just have to arrange a change of scenery for Mr. Liss.”
The Skydel hacienda sprawled at the center of the immense estancia. It was built in the Spanish colonial style with its white stucco walls, carved wooden shutters, wrought-iron grillwork, and curved terra-cotta roof tiles. A woman in a maid’s uniform opened the door to Moira’s knock and, when she introduced herself, led her across a terrazzo-floored foyer, through a large, cool living room, out onto a flagstone patio that overlooked a clay tennis court, gardens, and a swimming pool where a woman—presumably Berengária Moreno—was doing laps. Beyond this vista stretched the ubiquitous blue agave fields.
The heady scent of Old World roses came to Moira as she was led toward a man sitting at a glass-and-wrought-iron table, laden with food on Mexican fired-clay plates, and pitchers of red and white sangria stuffed with slices of fresh fruit.
The man rose at her approach, smiling broadly. He wore a terry-cloth short-sleeved top and surfer’s swimming trunks, revealing a lean, hairy body.
“Barbara!” he called over his shoulder. “Our guest is here!”
Then he held out his hand and gripped Moira’s. “Good afternoon, Señorita Trevor. Narsico Skydel. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“The pleasure’s all mine,” Moira said.
“Please.” He gestured. “Make yourself at home.”
“Thank you.” Moira chose a chair near him.
“White or red?”
“White, please.”
He poured two glasses of white sangria, handed her one, then sat. “You must be hungry after your long trip.” He indicated the food. “Please help yourself.”
By the time she had loaded a plate Berengária Moreno—known here as Barbara Skydel—had finished her laps and, toweling off, was coming up the stone pathway to the patio. She was a tall, slim woman, her water-slicked hair pulled back from her handsome face in a ponytail. Moira imagined her with Roberto Corellos, cuckolding her husband. Barbara reached the patio and, barefoot, walked over. Her handshake was cool, firm, and business-like.
“Narsico’s publicist said you’re writing a piece about tequila, is that right?” Her voice was deep for a woman, and vibrant, as if at an early age she’d been taught to sing.
“It is.” Moira took a sip of her sangria.
Launching into his opening pitch, Narsico informed her that tequila was made from the piña, the heart of the agave plant.
Barbara interrupted him. “What sort of a piece are you writing?” She sat on the opposite side of the table from the two of them, which Moira thought a telling choice. The natural thing would be to sit next to your husband.
“It’s sociological, really. The origins of tequila, what it has meant to the Mexicans, that sort of thing.”
“That sort of thing,” Barbara echoed. “Well, to begin with tequila isn’t a Mexican drink at all.”
“But the Mexicans had to know about the agave plant.”
“Of course.” Barbara Skydel took a plate and filled it with food fr
om different serving platters. “For centuries the piña had been cooked and sold as candy. Then the Spaniards invaded. It was the Spanish Franciscans who settled in this fertile valley and founded the town of Santiago de Tequila in 1530. It was the Franciscans who conceived of fermenting the piña’s sugars into a potent liquor.”
“So,” Moira said, “the agave was yet another aspect of Mexican culture appropriated and changed by the conquistadores.”
“Well, it’s worse than that, really.” Barbara licked her fingertips, reminding Moira of Roberto Corellos. “The conquistadores merely killed the Mexicans. It was the Franciscans who traveled with them, systematically dismantling the Mexican way of life and replacing it with the particularly cruel Spanish version of Catholicism. Ethnically speaking, it was the Spanish church that destroyed Mexican culture.” She smiled with her teeth. “The conquistadores were merely soldiers, they were after Mexican gold. The Franciscans were the soldiers of God, they wanted the Mexican soul.”
As Barbara poured herself a goblet of blood-red sangria, Narsico cleared his throat. “As you can see, my wife has become a fierce advocate of the Mexican way of life.”
He seemed embarrassed by this discussion, as if his wife was guilty of bad manners. Moira wondered how long Barbara’s convictions had been a bone of contention between them. Did he disagree with her, or did he think her outspokenness on this issue was bad PR for his company, which was, after all, wholly dependent on consumers?
“You didn’t always hold that conviction, Señora Skydel?”
“Growing up in Colombia, I knew only the struggle of my people against our dictator-generals and fascist armies.”
Narsico sighed theatrically. “Mexico has changed her.”
Moira did not miss the hint of bitterness in his voice. She studied Barbara as she ate, an elemental act that often revealed more about people than they realized. Barbara ate quickly and aggressively, as if there were a need to defend her food, and Moira wondered what her upbringing had been like. As the only female child she would have been served last, with her mother. Also, she was wholly concentrated on her food, and Moira imagined it was a sensual experience for her. Moira liked the way she ate, she found it endearing, and she thought again of Corellos’s description of her as a piranha.
At that moment Narsico’s cell phone buzzed, and taking it up, he rose and excused himself. Moira noticed that Barbara ignored him as he walked back inside the hacienda.
“As you can already see,” Barbara said, “there are a number of ways to tell this story.” She had a very direct way of speaking, and of looking at you when she spoke. “I’d like to influence the way you tell it.”
“You already have.”
Barbara nodded. She was one of those fortunate women with excellent bone structure, lucid skin, and a tight, athletic body, all of which naturally defied the passing of time. It was impossible to guess her precise age. Judging by her manner, Moira supposed she might have reached forty, though she looked a good five or six years younger.
“Where are you from?”
“Actually, I just came from Bogotá,” Moira said. She knew she was taking a chance, but she didn’t have the time to draw this out, and she felt the need to take advantage of Narsico’s absence. “I saw Roberto Corellos, Narsico’s cousin.” She watched the other woman’s face carefully. “And, coincidentally or not, an old friend of yours.”
Something dark and cold passed across Berengária Moreno’s face. “I don’t know what you mean, Corellos and I never saw eye-to-eye,” she said coldly.
“How about mouth-to-mouth?”
For a long, uncomfortable moment Barbara sat perfectly still. When she opened her mouth again she no longer looked handsome, or even appealing, and Moira knew precisely what Corellos had meant. Here comes the piranha, she thought.
In a low voice filled with menace Barbara said, “I could have you thrown out on your ass, beaten senseless, or even—” She bit back her words.
“Or what?” Moira said, egging her on. “Have me killed? Well, we know your husband wouldn’t have the balls to do it.”
Unexpectedly, Barbara Skydel exploded into laughter. “Oh, Jesus mio, can you imagine?” But almost immediately she sobered up. “Roberto had no business telling you about what happened.”
“You’ll have to take that up with him.”
Moira noticed Barbara glance back at the house where Narsico, still on his cell, paced up and down behind one of the French doors.
Barbara stood. “Why don’t we go for a walk?”
After hesitating for a moment, Moira drank off the last of her sangria and, rising, followed Barbara down past the tennis court, toward the gardens. When they were far away from the hacienda, in among a dusty stand of dwarf pine trees, Barbara turned to her and said, “You interest me. Who are you, because you sure as hell aren’t a reporter.”
Moira mentally braced herself for the worst. “What makes you say that?”
Barbara leaned in toward her in the menacing manner of certain men. “Roberto never would have told a reporter about us. He wouldn’t have told you a goddamn thing.”
“What can I say?” Moira shrugged. “He liked me.”
Barbara snorted. “Roberto doesn’t like anyone, and he only loves himself.” She cocked her head, and abruptly her manner changed from menacing to seductive. Backing Moira against the trunk of a tree, she put her hand up, twining a wisp of Moira’s hair around her forefinger. “So then you fucked him, or at least gave him a blow job.”
“He didn’t touch me.”
The back of Barbara’s hand stroked Moira’s cheek. Was Barbara jealous, trying to seduce her, or just screwing with her mind?
“Somehow you got to him. How did you do it?”
Moira smiled. “I graduated top of my class in charm school.”
Barbara’s long fingers were like feathers against her cheek and ear. “What did Roberto see in you? He may be a brute and a swine, but one of his great strengths is sizing up people virtually from the moment he meets them. So I’m left wondering why you’ve come here.” She pressed her lips against Moira’s cheek. “It isn’t to interview my husband, I think we’ve established that much.”
Moira felt she needed to shock Barbara in order to gain the upper hand. “I’ve come to investigate the murder of the man found on your property several weeks ago.”
Barbara stepped back. “You’re police? The American police are interested in the murder?”
“I’m not police,” Moira said. “I’m federal.”
All the breath seemed to go out of Barbara. “Christ,” she said. “That’s how you got to Roberto.”
Moira said, “Berengária, I want you to take me to the place where the body was found. I want you to take me there now.”
Bourne drove Ottavio Moreno’s gray Opel, following precisely the directions Coven had given him. Beside him, Ottavio was readying all the purchases Bourne had made. There was silence between them, just the thrumming of the tires on the road, the hiss of oncoming traffic working its way through the closed windows.
“Twenty minutes,” Bourne said finally.
“We’ll be ready,” Ottavio replied without lifting his head from his work. “Don’t worry.”
Bourne wasn’t worried, it wasn’t in his nature, or if it had once been, his Treadstone training had long since burned it out of him. He was thinking of Coven, the man with what was without doubt a CI field ops code name. He well knew that CI trained and directed a cadre of field operatives who specialized in wet work. He needed to know everything he could about Coven before their encounter, and there was only one person who could help him.
Taking out his cell, he punched in a number he hadn’t used in some time. When the familiar voice answered, he said, “Peter, it’s Jason Bourne.”
Peter Marks was on his way to see Chief Inspector Lloyd-Philips, who was waiting for him at the Vesper Club, when the call came in. He fairly vibrated when he heard Bourne’s voice.
“Where the
hell are you?” Marks, in the back of one of those huge London cabs, found himself shouting.
“I need your help,” Bourne said. “What do you know about Coven?”
“The CI field op?”
“You didn’t say our field op. Have you left CI, Peter?”
“Actually, I quit not so long ago.” Marks had to will his heart rate back down to acceptable levels. He needed to find out where Bourne was and get to him. “Danziger has created a toxic atmosphere that I wouldn’t tolerate. He’s slowly getting rid of anyone loyal to the Old Man.” He coughed as a sudden chill went through him, and he shivered briefly. “You know he canned Soraya.”
“I didn’t.”
“Jason, I want you to know… I’m damn glad you’re alive.”
“Peter, about Coven.”
“Right, Coven. He’s as dangerous—and as successful—as they get.” Marks thought for a moment. “Hard, remorseless, a real shit.”
“Would he harm a child?”
“What?”
“You heard me,” Bourne said.
“Jesus, I don’t think so. He’s a devoted family man, if you can believe it.” Marks took a breath. “Jason, what the hell is going on?”
“I don’t have time now—”
“Listen, I was sent to London to find out what the hell happened at the Vesper Club.”
“Peter, the incident at the Vesper Club happened last night. If you really are in London—”
“I am. I’m on my way to the Vesper Club now.”
“You were already on the plane when I was at the club, so cut the bullshit, Peter. Who are you working for now?”
“Willard.”
“You’re Treadstone.”
“That’s right. We’re working for the same—”
“I don’t work for Treadstone, or Willard. In fact,” Bourne went on, “when I see Willard again, I’m going to wring his neck. He sold me out. Why did he do that, Peter?”
“I don’t know.”
“Good-bye, Peter.”
“Wait! Don’t hang up, I need to see you.”
