Bourne 7 – The Bourne Deception - Страница 42

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 JosÃ© 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.

— 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.