The Bourne Objective (31 page)

“Consider: The person who has Gustavo’s laptop holds your brother’s business in his hands. His plan was to muscle his way in and get rid of anyone who stood in his way.”

Barbara’s eyes were wide and staring. “I don’t believe you.”

“That’s where this shell casing comes in.” Moira held up the item in question. “The forensic photos showed that the victim was shot to death with one bullet to the base of the skull. The oddity was that the killer used a small-caliber handgun, even though he wasn’t standing right behind the victim. I figured that he had to be using special ammunition, and I was right.”

She placed the spent casing in Barbara’s hand. Barbara held it up and looked at the markings in the last of the fading light.

“I can’t read the writing.”

“That’s because it’s Russian Cyrillic. The manufacturer is Tula. This casing is from a very special bullet, a hollow-core that’s filled with cyanide. Not surprisingly, it’s illegal, and only available in Russia. It’s not even sold over the Internet.”

Barbara looked at her. “The killer is Russian.”

“The man who muscled his way into Gustavo’s business.” She nodded. “That’s right, I know you’re only fronting your brother’s business. I know you and Roberto have a new partner.”

That did it. Barbara’s face fell. “Goddammit, I told Roberto that Leonid was out to get him, but he just laughed at me.”

“Leonid?” Moira’s heart gave a thump in her chest. “Is Leonid Arkadin your partner?”

“Roberto said,
‘What do you know, you’re a woman, women know what they’re told to know, nothing more.’ “

Moira grabbed her arm in order to focus her. “Barbara, is Leonid Arkadin your partner?”

Barbara looked away. She bit her lip.

“Is it loyalty or fear that’s keeping your mouth shut?”

Moira could just make out one curve of Barbara’s thin smile. “I’m loyal to no one. In this business it doesn’t pay. That’s another thing my husband doesn’t understand.”

“Then you’re scared of Arkadin.”

Barbara’s head swung around, and there was a violent look in her eyes. “The fucker muscled his way in. He strong-armed Roberto, for Christ’s sake, said he had Gustavo’s client list. Roberto said those were his people. Arkadin said that was in the past. He said that Gustavo was dead, he had the list, and the clients were his, as well. He said the best solution was to share the profits equally, that if Roberto didn’t agree he’d contact them without Roberto’s permission or help and supply them from other sources.

“Roberto tried three times to kill Arkadin. All the attempts failed. Then Arkadin told him,
‘Fuck you, Gustavo’s clients are mine now, go find yourself some other pigeons to feed.’
I thought Roberto was going to have a coronary. I calmed him down.”

“Your husband must’ve liked that,” Moira said drily.

“My husband’s a pussy, as you can see for yourself,” Barbara said. “But he’s devoted to me and he serves his purpose.” She lifted her arms to encompass the whole of the estancia. “Besides, his business would be in the toilet without me.”

The sun had slid behind the mountains in the west. It was growing dark very quickly now, as if an immense blanket had been thrown across the sky.

“Let’s get back to the jeep,” Moira said as she took the shell casing from Barbara.

On the way back to the hacienda, Barbara said, “You know Arkadin, I gather.”

Moira knew as much as Bourne had told her. “Well enough to know that his next step will be to take over Corellos’s business completely. That’s how Arkadin operates.” It was how he’d appropriated Nikolai Yevsen’s arms distribution in Khartoum. He’d find some way to suborn a La Modelo guard or a
FARC
inmate or maybe one of Corellos’s many women inside prison, pay them enough to assuage their fear of the drug lord. One day soon, Moira thought, Corellos would wind up dead in his luxurious cell.

“Arkadin is already pissed at Roberto and me,” Barbara said as she guided the jeep over the unpaved road. “The latest shipment has been delayed. The boat had to pull in for repairs because its engine overheated. If you know anything about Mexico, you know that those repairs weren’t going to happen in a matter of hours, or even overnight. The boat will be ready by tomorrow evening, but I know that’s not going to satisfy him.” Her hands were gripping the wheel so tightly, her knuckles had turned white as bone.

“I understand, Berengária, honestly I do.”

“Why do you disrespect me? I’ve been Barbara for years.”

“I respect your real name. You should embrace it, not reject it.”

When Berengária did not reply, Moira continued. “Arkadin has his rules, and they’re inflexible. Both you and Roberto will forfeit something for the delay.”

Berengária stared straight ahead. “I know.”

“And listen,
mami,
if this shipment should fail to reach its destination, someone else will be paying you a visit, someone not nearly as kind and understanding as I am. You can be sure that’s how Arkadin wants it and how it’s going to be.”

Berengária thought for a long time. The sun had already slipped behind the purple mountains. The sky seemed scrubbed of clouds. In the east darkness was gathering. They seemed to drive for a long time, as if Berengária was driving in circles, as if she was reluctant to return to the hacienda. At length, she braked and put the jeep in neutral. Then she turned to Moira.

“What if,” she said with a particular ferocity, “that’s not how I want it to be?”

Moira experienced the joy of the wheel turning, of Berengária finally being in her sights. She returned her fierceness with a grin. “There I think I can help you.”

Berengária stared at her with an intensity that to another woman might have been disturbing. But Moira understood what it was she wanted, what their quid pro quo would be. She admired this woman, and pitied her as well. Difficult enough to be a strong woman in a man’s world, but to maintain your strength in the Latino world was a task worthy of an Amazon. And yet, above and beyond her personal feelings was the knowledge that Berengária was her target. What she needed from Berengária she would get. Now she knew how to get it.

Leaning over very slowly, she took Berengária’s head in her hands and pressed her lips to hers.

Berengária’s eyes opened wide for just a split instant before they fluttered closed. Her lips softening, then opening, she gave herself over to the kiss.

Moira felt the moment of her capitulation with both a sense of triumph and compassion. Then she felt Berengária’s hand on the nape of her neck, the pressure of passion unleashed, and she sighed into Berengária’s sweet mouth.

M
y name is Lloyd-Philips, Chief Inspector Lloyd-Philips.”

Peter Marks introduced himself and shook the proffered hand, which was pale, limp, and nicotine-stained. Lloyd-Philips, in a cheap suit, frayed at the cuffs, sported a gingery mustache and thinning hair that might once have been the same color, but now seemed dusted with ash.

The chief inspector tried to smile, but couldn’t quite make it. Maybe those muscles had atrophied, Marks thought wryly. He showed Lloyd-Philips his bogus credentials, which claimed he worked for a private firm under the auspices of the DoD and, therefore, had the power of the Pentagon behind him.

They were standing in the deserted lobby of the Vesper Club, which had been cordoned off by the police as a crime scene.

Marks said: “One of the alleged perpetrators might be a person of interest to my superiors. That being the case, I’d appreciate a look-see at the relevant
CCTV
tape from last night.”

Lloyd-Philips shrugged his thin shoulders. “Why not? We’re already printing up flyers with the photos of the two men’s faces to distribute to the metropolitan police and personnel at all train stations, airports, and shipping terminals.”

The chief inspector led him through the casino proper, down a corridor, and into the back rooms, one of which was hot and smelled of electronics. A technician sat in front of a complex board filled with dials, sliders, and a computer keyboard. Just above were two lines of monitors, each showing a different part of the casino. From what Marks could see, no nook or cranny had been ignored, even the lavatories.

Lloyd-Philips bent over the technician, murmured something, to which the man nodded and started punching keys. The chief inspector reminded Marks of a character out of any one of a hundred British spy novels. His vaguely dyspeptic expression of long-suffering boredom marked him as a career bureaucrat with one eye closed and the other on his approaching pension.

“Here we go,” the technician intoned.

One of the monitors went black, then an image appeared. Marks saw the bar in the high-rollers’ room. Then Bourne and another man he recognized as the now deceased Diego Hererra moved into the frame and stayed there. They were speaking, but they were partly turned away from the camera, and it was impossible to make out what they were saying.

“Diego Hererra entered the Vesper Club at approximately nine thirty-five last night,” Lloyd-Philips said in his slightly bored donnish voice. “With him was this man.” He pointed to Bourne. “Adam Stone.”

The video continued. Another man—presumably the killer—came into the picture. It was when he began to approach Bourne and Diego Hererra that things got interesting.

Marks leaned forward tensely. Bourne had moved in front of Hererra, as if to block the killer’s advance. But something curious happened as they spoke to each other. Bourne’s attitude changed. It was almost as if he knew the killer, but judging by his initial expression that couldn’t be true. Yet Bourne allowed him to come over to the bar, to stand next to Hererra. And then Diego slumped over. Bourne grabbed the killer by the lapels, as he should have done in the first place. But then the second strange thing happened. Bourne didn’t beat the crap out of the killer. Marks was frankly astonished to see the two of them take on the three bouncers who appeared from the casino’s main rooms.

“And there you have it,” Chief Inspector Lloyd-Philips said. “The perpetrator used some kind of high-frequency sound weapon to render everyone unconscious.”

“Have you identified the killer?” Marks asked.

“Not yet. He doesn’t appear on any of our electronic nets.”

“This club is members-only. The manager must know who he is.”

Lloyd-Philips looked distinctly annoyed. “According to the club’s records, the suspect’s name is Vincenzo Mancuso, but though there are actually three men with that name in England, none of them matches the man on the tape. Nevertheless, we dispatched inspectors to interview the three Vincenzo Mancusos, only one of whom resides in the London environs. All have alibis that check out.”

“Forensics?” Marks asked.

The chief inspector looked ready to bite Marks’s head off. “No suspicious fingerprints were found, and there was no sign of the murder weapon. On my orders the men fanned out within a mile radius of the club, pawing through dustbins, peering down storm drains, and the like. They even dredged the river, though no one had a hope of finding the knife. All searches have so far proved fruitless.”

“And what of the other man—Adam Stone?”

“Vanished off the face of the earth.”

Which means the investigation is at a standstill,
Marks thought.
This is a high-profile murder investigation. No wonder he’s edgy.

“Adam Stone is the person of interest to my superiors.” Marks drew the chief inspector away from the technician. “They—and I—would consider it a personal favor if you suppressed Stone’s photo from the flyers.”

Lloyd-Philips smiled, not a pretty sight. His teeth were as nicotine-stained as his fingertips.

“I’ve made a career of not giving personal favors. That’s how I keep my nose clean and my pension intact.”

“Nevertheless, in this instance my superiors at DoD would be grateful if you made an exception.”

“Listen, laddo, I brought you in here as a courtesy.” The chief inspector’s eyes were suddenly as flinty as his voice. “I don’t care if your superiors are five-bloody-star generals, London’s my bailiwick.
My
superiors—Her Majesty’s Government—don’t appreciate you lot coming over here and leaning on us like we’re a bunch of colonial yobs. An’ I don’t like it one ickle bit, either.” He lifted a warning finger. “A word in your shell-like: Naff off before I get really hacked and decide to detain you as a material witness.”

“Thanks for your hospitality, Chief Inspector,” Marks said drily. “Before I go, I’d like a copy of the photos of Stone and the un-ID’d man.”

“Anything to get you out of my bloody hair.” Lloyd-Philips tapped the tech on the shoulder, the tech asked for the number of Marks’s cell, then pressed a button; a moment later a digital still from the security tape of the two men side by side appeared on Marks’s phone.

“All right, then.” The chief inspector turned to Marks. “Don’t make me regret what I’ve done. Stay well away from me and my case and you’ll get on well.”

Back out on the street, the sun was struggling to be seen through masses of streaming cloud. The city roared all around Marks. He checked the photo on his
PDA
. Then he punched in Willard’s private line and got right to his voice mail. Willard’s phone was off, which, calculating the hour back in Washington, Marks thought odd. He left a detailed message, asking Willard to run the photo of the man who had knifed Diego Hererra through the Treadstone data banks, which had been amassed from those of the usual alphabet soup of CI,
NSA
,
FBI
, DoD, plus some others to which Willard had gained access.

From a detective-inspector outside the club to whom he showed his ID, Marks obtained Diego Hererra’s home address. Forty minutes later he arrived just as a silver Bentley limousine turned the corner and pulled up outside Hererra’s house. The liveried driver emerged, walked smartly around the gleaming grille to open the rear door. A tall, distinguished man who looked like an older version of Diego emerged. With a somber expression and a heavy tread the man climbed the steps to Diego’s front door and inserted a key in the door.

Before he could disappear inside, Marks strode up and said, “Mr. Hererra, I’m Peter Marks.” When the older man turned around to peer at him, Marks added, “I’m terribly sorry for your loss.”