Eric van Lustbader - The Bourne Objective

“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.

My 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.”