Bourne 7 – The Bourne Deception - Страница 45

— I admit that I‘ve underestimated you, Don Hererra, Bourne said.

— Adam, please tell him the truth. Tracy was clearly terrified for her life.

— I know that you‘re a confidence man, just as I know you‘ve come to swindle me out of my Goya, which, by the way, Professor Alonzo Pecunia Zuiga-

the real Don Alonzo-has confirmed to me is authentic. He pointed. -He has also confirmed that Seńorita Atherton is genuine. How you seduced her into going along with your scheme is between the two of you. But his expression conveyed his dismay and disappointment at Tracy‘s fall from grace. -My concern is who you are and which of my enemies hired you to con me.

Tracy shivered. -Adam, for God‘s sake-

Hererra cocked his head. -Come, come, Seńor Con Man, you have forfeited your right to scare the young lady.

It was time for him to act, Bourne knew that. He also knew that the situation was on a razor‘s edge. Hererra was the wild card. On the surface it seemed unlikely that such a polished gentleman of Seville would actually direct the young man to pull the trigger. However, Hererra‘s black-hands work in the oil fields of Colombia belied his current gentlemanly identity. At heart, he might still be that rough-and-tumble man who fought, finessed, and bullied his way to a fortune in the oil industry. A man didn‘t successfully do business with the Tropical Oil Company without a heart as hard as mahogany, and without spilling some blood. In any event, it was not for Bourne to gamble with Tracy‘s life.

— You‘re right, Don Hererra. My apologies, Bourne said. -Now to the truth: I was hired by one of your enemies, but not to take the Goya from you.

Tracy‘s eyes opened even wider.

— I came up with this ruse to get in to see you.

Hererra‘s eyes glittered as he drew up a chair to sit in front of Bourne.

— Continue.

— My name is Adam Stone.

— Forgive me if I‘m skeptical. He snapped his fingers. -Passport. And use your left hand. You don‘t want to alarm Fausto, believe me.

Bourne did. With the tips of the fingers on his left hand, he produced his passport, which Hererra scrutinized as if he were a special agent from immigration.

As he handed back the document, he said, — All right, Seńor Stone, what are you?

— I‘m a freelance specialist in let us say hardware of a special nature.

Hererra shook his head. -Now you‘ve lost me.

— Don Hererra, you know a Balinese merchant by the name of Wayan.

— I do not.

Bourne made a show of ignoring the lie. -I work for the people who supply Wayan.

— Adam, what is this? Tracy said. -You told me you were interested in seed money for an e-commerce start-up.

At this, Hererra sat back, contemplating Bourne in, it seemed, an entirely new light. -It seems, Seńorita Atherton, that Adam Stone lied to you as easily as he did to me.

Bourne knew he‘d made a desperate gamble. He‘d calculated that the only way to take control of the situation was to astonish the Colombian. In this, it appeared, he‘d been successful.

— The question is why?

Bourne saw his chance to tip the scales in his favor. -The people who hired me-the people who supply Wayan-

— I told you I don‘t know anyone named Wayan.

Bourne shrugged. -The people I work for know better. They don‘t like the way you‘re doing business. In fact, they want you out of it completely.

Don Hererra laughed. -Fausto, do you hear this, do you hear this man? He hunched forward so his face was close to Bourne‘s. -Are you threatening me, Stone? Because the air in my house is vibrating in such a way.

Now there was a stiletto in his hand. The hilt was inlaid with jade, the long blade as tapered as Hererra‘s own fingers. He tipped the blade forward until the point touched the skin above Bourne‘s Adam‘s apple.

— You should know I don‘t take kindly to threats.

— What happens to me is irrelevant, Bourne said.

— The seńorita‘s blood will be on your hands.

— Surely you know how powerful my employers are. Whatever is going to happen is going to happen.

— Unless I change my business practices.

Bourne felt the shift in Hererra‘s thinking even before he said it. He was no longer denying his business in arms shipping. -That‘s correct.

Don Hererra sighed and made a sign to Fausto, who removed the muzzle and holstered the Beretta at the small of his back. Then he threw the stiletto onto the sofa cushion and, slapping his thighs, said, — I think, Seńor Stone, we both could do with a walk in the garden.

Fausto unlocked the French doors, and the two men stepped out onto the flagstone path. The garden was an octagon embraced by the sturdy arms of the house. There was a small grove of lemon trees and, in the center, a tiled fountain in the Moorish style shaded by a palm tree. Here and there stone benches were scattered, both in sunlight and in dappled shade. The air was perfumed by the lemon trees, whose new leaves were emerging like butterflies from their winter cocoons.

Because it was cool out, Don Hererra indicated a bench in full sun. When they were seated side by side, he said, — I must admit Yevsen surprises me; he sends a man who is not only not a thug, but possesses uncommon wisdom. His head inclined a fraction, as if he were tipping his hat to Bourne. -How much is that Russian sonovabitch paying you?

— Not enough.

— Yes, Yevsen is one cheap bastard.

Bourne laughed. His great gamble had paid off: He had his answer. Wayan was being supplied by Nikolai Yevsen. Scarface had been sent by Yevsen, following Bourne all the way from Bali where he‘d first tried to kill him. He still didn‘t know why Yevsen wanted him dead, but he knew he‘d just moved a giant step closer to finding out. He had a line on who Don Fernando Hererra really was: Nikolai Yevsen‘s competitor. And if he convinced Hererra Bourne could be turned, Hererra would give up everything he knew about Yevsen, which just might include what Bourne needed to know.

— Certainly not enough for having a stiletto held to my throat.

— No one regrets that necessity more than I do.

The fissures in Hererra‘s face were set in high relief as they were struck by the slanting rays of the sun. There was a fierce pride in that face he‘d held in abeyance while he was playing the part of the gentleman, a granite toughness Bourne could appreciate.

— I know about your history in Colombia, he said. -I know how you took on the Tropical Oil Company.

— Ah, yes, well, that was a long time ago.

— Initiative never fades away.

— Listen to you. The Colombian gave him a shrewd sideways look. -Tell me, should I sell my Goya to Seńorita Atherton?

— She has nothing to do with me, Bourne said.

— A chivalrous thing to say, but not quite true. Hererra held up an admonishing finger. -She was all too ready to take the Goya at an unfair price.

— That just makes her a good businessman.

Hererra laughed. -Indeed, it does. He delivered another sidelong glance.

— I suppose you won‘t tell me your real name.

— You saw my passport.

— Now is not the time to insult me.

— What I meant is that one name is as good as another, Bourne said,

— especially in our line of work.

Hererra shivered. -Christ, it‘s getting cold.

He stood up. The shadows had grown long during their talk. Only one sliver of sunlight remained on the top of the west-facing wall, while day turned into fugitive night.

— Let‘s rejoin the lady businessman, shall we, and find out how badly she wants my Goya.

M. Errol Danziger, the NSA‘s current deputy director of signals intelligence for analysis and production, was watching three monitors at once, reading real-time progress reports from Iran, Egypt, and Sudan, and taking notes. He was also periodically speaking into the microphone of an electronic headpiece, using terse signals-speak he himself had devised, even though he was speaking on an NSA-approved encrypted line.

His Signals Sit Room was where Secretary of Defense Bud Halliday found Danziger analyzing and coordinating intel, and directing the far-flung elements of this blackest of black-ops missions. To those who worked most closely with him, he was known, ironically, as the Arab, because of the unceasing missions he‘d successfully run against Muslim extremists of all sects.

No one else was in the room, just the two men. Danziger glanced up briefly, gave his boss a deferential nod before returning to his work. Halliday sat down. He didn‘t mind the curt treatment that in anyone else would warrant a severe dressing-down. Danziger was special, deserving of special treatment. In fact, this manifestation of intense concentration was a sign that all was well.

— Give me your nibble, Triton, Danziger said into the mike. Nibble was signals-speak for — timetable.

— High and tight. Bardem is on the money.

Triton was Noah Perlis‘s ops designation, the secretary knew. The software program Bardem, which analyzed the changing field situation in real time, was his responsibility.