Eric van Lustbader - The Bourne Objective

“Who the hell are you?” he said. “And what are you doing on board my boat?”

“It’s not your boat, it belongs to Berengária,” Moira said in Spanish.

Arkadin’s eyes narrowed. “And do you belong to Berengária also?”

“I belong to no one,” Moira said, “but I am looking out for Berengária’s interests.” She had thought about the possible answers to his questions during the entire trip up the coast of Mexico. What it boiled down to was this: Arkadin was a man first, a homicidal criminal second.

“Just like a woman to send a woman,” Arkadin said, as disdainful as Roberto Corellos.

“Berengária is convinced you no longer trust her.”

“This is true.”

“Perhaps she no longer trusts you.”

Arkadin gave her a dark look but said nothing.

“This is a poor state of affairs,” Moira acknowledged. “And no way to run a business.”

“And how does the woman who does not own you suggest we proceed?”

“For a start, you might lower the Glock,” Moira observed.

By this time Soraya had made her way up the ladder and now appeared, swinging her legs over the yacht’s brass railing. She seemed to size up the situation immediately, looking from Moira to Arkadin and back again.

“Fuck you,” Arkadin said. “And fuck Berengária for sending you.”

“If she had sent a man, the chances are good the two of you would have killed each other.”

“I would have killed him, certainly,” Arkadin said.

“So sending a man would not have been the smart thing to do.”

Arkadin snorted. “Fuck, we’re not in the kitchen.” He shook his head in disbelief. “You’re not even armed.”

“Therefore, you won’t shoot me,” Moira said. “Therefore, you will be willing to listen when I talk, when I negotiate, when I propose a way to go forward without suspicion on either side.”

Arkadin watched her as a hawk watches a sparrow. Perhaps he no longer considered her a threat, or possibly what she said had gotten through to him. In any event, he lowered the Glock and tucked it away at the small of his back.

Moira looked pointedly at Soraya. “But I won’t talk or negotiate or propose anything with someone unfamiliar. Berengária told me about you and your boatman, El Heraldo, but now I see this woman here. I don’t like surprises.”

“That makes two of us.” Arkadin jerked his head in Soraya’s direction. “A new partner, on probation. She doesn’t work out, I put a hole in the back of her head.”

“Just like that.”

Arkadin walked to where Soraya stood and, cocking his thumb and forefinger as if they were a gun, he pressed its muzzle to the base of her skull. “Boom!” Then he turned and, smiling in the most charming manner, said, “So speak your mind.”

“There are too many partners,” Moira said bluntly.

This gave Arkadin pause. “For myself,” he said at length, “I don’t care for partners in the least.” He shrugged. “Unfortunately, they’re a part of doing business. But if Berengária wants out…”

“We were thinking more of Corellos.”

“She’s his lover.”

“This is business,” Moira said. “What she did with Corellos was to keep the peace between them.” Now she shrugged. “What better weapon does she have?”

Arkadin seemed to look at her in a new light. “Corellos is very powerful.”

“Corellos is in prison.”

“I doubt for much longer.”

“Which is why,” Moira said, “we hit him now.”

“Hit him?”

“Kill, terminate, murder, call it what you like.”

Arkadin paused a moment, then burst out laughing. “Where in the world did Berengária find you?”

Moira, glancing at Soraya, took a not-so-wild guess, thinking: Pretty much the same place you found your new partner .

Why would she do that?” Professor Atherton had his head in his hands. “Why would Tracy tell anyone that she had a brother?”

“Especially when that put her in Arkadin’s debt,” Chrissie added.

“She did more than mention her brother,” Bourne said. “She concocted an elaborate lie about him being alive and in debt over his head. It’s as if she wanted Arkadin to have something on her.”

Chrissie shook her head. “But that doesn’t make sense.”

It did, Bourne thought, if she had been sent to get close to Arkadin. To report on his deals and his whereabouts, for example. He was not, however, about to speculate with these people.

“That question can wait,” he said. “After the shots in the woods, we need to get out of here.” He turned to Professor Atherton. “I can carry Marks, can you maneuver on your own?”

The old man nodded curtly.

Chrissie gestured. “I’ll help you, Dad.”

“See to your daughter,” he said gruffly. “I can take care of myself.”

Chrissie packed up the first-aid kit. She carried it out the front door, holding Scarlett’s hand. Bourne picked Marks up, sliding him up onto his shoulder.

“Let’s go,” he said, herding the professor outside.

Chrissie took him around to his car, which was parked out back. Bourne packed Marks into the rental, which was miraculously unscathed. Chrissie pulled her father’s car around, and Scarlett clambered in.

Bourne approached her.

“What happens now?” she asked.

“You go back to your life.”

“My life.” Her laugh was uneasy. “My life-and my family’s life-will never be the same.”

“Maybe that’s a good thing.”

She nodded.

“In any case, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” She smiled wanly. “For a moment, I was Tracy, and now I know that I never wanted to be like her, I just thought I did.” She put a hand on his arm, briefly. “It was good she met you. You made her happy.”

“For a night or two.”

“More than many get in a lifetime.” Her hand dropped away. “Trace chose her life, it didn’t choose her.”

Bourne nodded. Turning away, he peered into her car. When he tapped on the glass, Scarlett opened the window. He placed something in her hand and closed her fingers around it.

“This is just between us,” Bourne said. “Don’t look at it until you’re home and alone.”

She nodded solemnly.

“Let’s go,” Chrissie said, not looking at Bourne.

Scarlett raised her window. She said something Bourne couldn’t hear. He put his hand flat against the window. On the other side, Scarlett pressed her hand over his.

Marks had left the key in the ignition and now Bourne started it up.

A combination of the noise and vibration as Bourne came out of the driveway and turned onto the road woke Marks from his stupor.

“Where the hell am I?” he mumbled thickly.

“On your way to London.”

Marks nodded in the manner of a drunk who is struggling to reacquaint himself with how the world works. “Fuck, my leg hurts.”

“You were shot, you lost some blood, but you’ll be fine.”

“Right.” Then something in his face changed and a shudder passed through him as if the memories of recent events had resurfaced. He turned to Bourne. “Listen, I’m sorry. I’ve acted like a shit.”

Bourne said nothing as he continued to drive.

“I was sent out to find you.”

“I figured that out.”

Marks rubbed his eyes with his knuckles in an effort to clear his head of the last cobwebs. “I work for Treadstone now.”

Bourne pulled the car over to the side of the road. “Since when has Treadstone re-formed?”

“Since Willard found a backer.”

“And who might that be?”

“Oliver Liss.”

Bourne had to laugh. “Poor Willard. Out of the frying pan.”

“That’s it exactly.” Marks’s tone was mournful. “The whole thing’s a total fuckup.”