Bourne 7 – The Bourne Deception - Страница 36

Bamber looked stricken. -What?

Hart continued: — Did Mr. Peter-Perlis tell you that?

Bamber shook his head. He put the smaller towel around his shoulders as if he‘d suddenly grown cold. Moira couldn‘t blame him.

— My God. He shook his head in disbelief, then he looked at them in a kind of pleading way. -It must be a mistake of some kind, one of those idiotic bureaucratic snafus Steve was always complaining about.

— I‘m afraid not, Hart said.

— Noah-one of Mr. Perlis‘s people-killed your friend, making it look like an accident, Moira said in a rush of emotion. Ignoring Hart‘s warning glare, she continued: — Mr. Perlis is a dangerous man working for a dangerous organization.

— I- Bamber ran a hand distractedly through his hair. -Shit, I don‘t know what to believe. He looked from one of them to the other. -Can I see Steve‘s body?

Hart nodded. -That can be arranged, as soon as we‘re through here.

— Ah. Bamber gave her a rueful smile. -Like a reward, is that it? Hart said nothing.

He nodded in capitulation. -Okay, how can I help you?

— I don‘t know if you can, Hart said with a significant glance at Moira.

— Because if you could, Mr. Perlis wouldn‘t have left you alive.

For the first time Bamber looked truly alarmed. -What the hell is this?

he said with understandable indignation. -Steve and I have been close friends since college, that‘s it.

Ever since Bamber had appeared Moira had been wondering about this aging jock‘s decades-long friendship with Steve Stevenson, a man who didn‘t know a softball from a football and, furthermore, didn‘t care. Now something Bamber just said caused a number of small anomalies to click into place.

— I think there‘s another reason Noah felt confident in leaving you with a warning, Mr. Bamber, she said, — am I right?

Bamber frowned. -I don‘t know what you‘re talking about.

— What would frighten you so much that Noah could be assured that you wouldn‘t talk?

He stood up abruptly. -I‘ve had just about enough of this badgering.

— Sit back down, Mr. Bamber, Hart said.

— You and Undersecretary Stevenson were more than roommates at college,

Moira pressed on. -Just as you were more than good friends. Isn‘t that right?

Bamber sat down as if all the strength had gone out of his legs. -I want protection from Noah and his people.

— You have it, Hart said.

He looked at her steadily. -I‘m not kidding.

Pulling out her cell, she punched in a number. -Tommy, she said into the phone, — I need a security detail in double-quick time. She gave her assistant the address of the health club. -And Tommy, not a word of this to anyone outside the detail, is that clear? Good.

She tucked away her phone, said to Bamber, — Neither am I.

— Good. He sighed in relief. Then, turning to Moira, he smiled bleakly.

— You‘re not wrong about Steve and me, and Noah knew neither of us could survive if the true nature of our relationship was made public.

Moira felt the breath rush out of her. -You called him Noah. Do you mean to tell us you know him?

— In a way, I work for him. That‘s the other, more important, reason he couldn‘t touch me. You see, I created a custom software program for him. It‘s still got some minor bugs and I‘m the only one who can work them out.

— Funny, Hart said, — you don‘t look like a tech geek.

— Yeah, well, Steve used to say that was one of my charms. I never looked anything like what I really am.

— What does this software program do? Moira said.

— It‘s a highly sophisticated statistical analysis program that can take into account millions of factors. What he‘s doing with it I don‘t know. He made sure I was locked out of that side of it, that was part of our agreement, the reason I asked for and got a higher fee.

— But you said you‘re working on fixes.

— That‘s right, Bamber said, nodding, — but it‘s necessary that I work on a clean copy of the program. When I‘m finished I electronically transfer it to Noah‘s laptop. What happens after that is anyone‘s guess.

— Let‘s hear your guess, Moira said.

He sighed again. -Okay, here‘s my best shot. The level of complexity of the program makes it almost a sure bet that he‘s using it on a real-world basis.

— Translation, please.

— There are lab scenarios and real-world scenarios, Bamber said. -As you can imagine, anything that tries to figure out what would happen during certain real-life situations has to be incredibly complex because of all the factors involved.

— Millions of factors.

He nodded. -Which my program provides.

A possibility hit Moira between the eyes and for a moment she sat back, dazzled. Then she said, — Have you given this program a name?

— In fact, I did. Bamber seemed a bit embarrassed. -It‘s a private joke between Steve and me. His use of the present tense brought the news of his friend and lover‘s death back to him, and he stopped, put his head down, moaning low in his throat, — Jesus, Jesus, Steve.

Moira waited a moment, then cleared her throat. -Mr. Bamber, we‘re truly sorry for your loss. I knew Undersecretary Stevenson, I did business with him. He always helped me, even if it meant going out on a limb.

Bamber‘s head came up, his eyes red-rimmed. -Yeah, that was Steve, all right.

— The name you gave the program you created for Noah Perlis?

— Oh, that. It‘s nothing, as I said, a joke because Steve and I both like-

liked-Javier-

— Bardem, Moira said.

Bamber looked surprised. -Yes, how did you know?

And Moira thought, Pinprickbardem.

16

THE MUSEO TAURINO was located inside the Maestranza corrida, and this was where Bourne told Tracy to take him. They had just enough time to change direction within the crowd before the officers entered the throng in the vestibule. Two of them headed directly for the bullring itself. From their positions on either side of the glass doors, the remaining pair began to scan the crowd for their suspect.

The museum was closed today, the interior door shuttered. Bourne, leaning against the door, used a paper clip Tracy found at the bottom of her handbag to pick the lock, and they slipped inside, closing the door behind them. The stuffed heads of all the great bulls killed in this corrida stared down at them with glass eyes. They passed glass cases containing the splendid costumes worn by the famous matadors going back to the seventeenth century, when Maestranza was built. The entire history of the corrida was on display in these musty rooms.

Bourne was uninterested in any of the flamboyant displays; he was looking for the utility closet. It was in the rear of the museum, beside a littleused room. Inside, he had Tracy dig out cleaning fluid, which he had her apply to the wound down his back. The searing pain took his breath away and, with it, a full sense of consciousness.

He awoke to Tracy‘s grip on his shoulder. She was shaking him, which made his head hurt even more.

— Wake up! she said urgently. -You‘re in worse shape than you let on. I‘ve got to get you out of here.

He nodded; the words were hazy, but the gist hit home. Together they staggered back through the museum to the separate entrance that led out onto the street around the circle from the bullring‘s main entrance. Tracy unlocked the door and poked her head outside. When she nodded, he emerged into the semi-darkness.

She must have used her cell to call for a taxi because the next thing he knew she was maneuvering him into a backseat, leaning forward as she slid in beside him to give an address to the driver.

As they took off, she turned and peered out the rear window. -The police are crawling all over the Maestranza, she said. -Whatever you did has sent them into a frenzy.

But Bourne didn‘t hear her; he was already passed out.

Soraya and Amun Chalthoum arrived in Al Ghardaqah just before noon. Not that many years before, it had been nothing more than a modest fishing village, but a combination of Egyptian initiative and foreign investment had turned it into the leading Red Sea resort. The hub of the town was El Dahar, the oldest of the three sections, home to the traditional villas and bazaar. As was the case with most Egyptian coastal towns, Al Ghardaqah did not venture far inland, but rather clung to the shore of the Red Sea as if for dear life. The Sekalla district was more modern, made ugly by the proliferation of cheap hotels. El Korra Road was prettier, filled with upscale hotels, lush plantings, lavish fountains, and walled private compounds owned by Russian moguls with nothing better to do with their easy money.

They hit the fishermen first, what was left of them, anyway-time and the tourist business had decimated their ranks. They were old men now, skin wrinkled and brown as well-worn leather, their eyes paled by the sun, their work-hardened hands like boards, gnarly with outsize knuckles from decades in seawater. Their sons had abandoned them to work in air-conditioned offices or in jets that flew high above, leaving their homeland far behind. They were the last of their line and so an insular lot, their suspicions heightened by sweet-talking Egyptians taking their launching sites away from them to accommodate more and more Jet Skis and Sea-Doos. Their innate fear of Chalthoum and his al Mokhabarat manifested itself in cold hostility. After all, they must have reasoned, having lost everything, what more did they have to lose?