Eric van Lustbader - The Bourne Objective

“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 from 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.