Robert Ludlum - Bourne 7 – The Bourne Deception

AHYMN of deep-throated cathedral bells woke Bourne. Sunlight filtered through the jalousied bedroom window, fingers of pale gold striping the polished floorboards.

— Good morning, Adam. The police are after you.

Tracy had come into the doorway, stood leaning against one side of the frame. The robust scent of fresh-brewed coffee entered with her and swirled enticingly about him like a flamenco dancer.

— I heard it on the TV earlier. She had her arms crossed over her breasts. Her hair was still wet from the shower, slicked off her face, tied with a black velvet ribbon into a ponytail. Her face was bright, freshly scrubbed. She wore umber slacks, a cream man-tailored shirt, and shoes without heels. She looked ready for Don Fernando Hererra or whatever else the day might hold. -Not to worry, though, they don‘t have your name, and the single witness, a guard at the Maestranza, didn‘t-or couldn‘t-give an accurate description of you.

— He saw me in very low light. Bourne sat up and moved across the bed.

— Sometimes in no light at all.

— All the better for you.

Was the smile she gave him sardonic? In his present state he couldn‘t tell.

— I got breakfast, and we have an appointment to see Don Fernando Hererra at three this afternoon.

His head still throbbed and his mouth was as dry as a desert, distinguished only by an acrid taste that was faintly nauseating.

— What time is it? he asked.

— Just after nine.

The arm Scarface had tried to break felt better when he flexed it and the flesh wound down his back scarcely burned at all, but the pain in his chest made him wince as he wrapped the top sheet around his waist and rose out of bed.

— Perfect, Tracy said. -A Roman senator.

— Let‘s hope by this afternoon I look more Castilian than Roman, he said as he padded toward the bathroom, — because it will be Professor Alonzo Pecunia Zuigawho‘ll be accompanying you to Don Hererra‘s this afternoon.

She gave him a curious look, then turned and went back into the living room. He closed the bathroom door behind him and ran the shower. Over the sink was a mirror surrounded by small incandescent lightbulbs: a woman‘s bathroom, he thought, made for putting on makeup.

Returning to the bedroom after his shower, he found a thick Turkish terry-cloth robe, which he wrapped around himself. She had covered his chest wound with a waterproof plastic layer, which he hadn‘t noticed until he stepped into the stream of hot water.

When he came into the living room, Tracy was pouring coffee into an enormous cup. The small kitchen was merely a niche at one end of the single open room, which was spacious but, like the bedroom, as sparsely and anonymously furnished as a hotel room. On the wooden trestle table was the typical Andalusian workingman‘s breakfast: a mug of hot chocolate and a plate of churros , slender twists of fried dough, dipped in sugar crystals.

Bourne pulled up a chair and he and Tracy ate their breakfast, and she let him have all the churros , he was still hungry when he finished. He went to the refrigerator.

— There‘s nothing much in there, I‘m afraid, she said. -I haven‘t been here in some time.

Still, he found some bacon in the freezer. As he fried up the strips, she said, — Write down your size and I‘ll get you some fresh clothes.

He nodded. -While you‘re at it, I need you to run an errand for me.

Finding a pencil and scratch pad on the kitchen counter, he tore off a sheet and wrote out a list of items, along with his clothes size.

When he handed the slip of paper to her, Tracy glanced over it and said,

— Professor Zuiga, I presume?

He nodded, tending the browning strips. -I gave you the addresses of the theatrical stores I found yesterday. We were on our way there when Scarface picked up our scent.

She got up, grabbed her handbag, and went to the door. -This should take me about an hour, she said. -In the meantime, enjoy the rest of your breakfast.

After she left, Bourne took the skillet off the burner, laid the bacon on a sheet of paper towel. Then he returned to the scratch pad. The sheet he‘d torn off was from the middle because he wanted to keep the top one intact. With the pencil at an extreme angle, he ran the lead lightly over the sheet. Letters began to form, the imprint of the writing left over from the last note someone-presumably Tracy-had made.

Don Hererra‘s name and address came up, along with the time, 3 PM, just as she‘d told him. He ripped off the sheet and put it in his pocket. That was when he noticed indentations on what was now the top sheet of the pad. He tore that off as well. Running the side of the pencil over this sheet brought up a line of numbers and letters all run together.

He ate the bacon standing beside the front window, staring out at the shimmering morning. It was still too early for people to be out at the feria , but the Moorish scrollwork balcony on the building across the street was garlanded in flowers and gaily colored fabric. His eyes scanned both sides of the street for anyone and anything even remotely suspicious, but nothing presented itself. He watched a young woman herd three children across the street. An old woman in black, small and bent, carried a mesh bag filled with fruit and vegetables.

Popping the last of the bacon into his mouth, he wiped his hands down on a kitchen cloth, then crossed to Tracy‘s laptop, which was set up on the far end of the trestle table. It was on and he saw that she had a Wi-Fi connection to the Internet.

Sitting down in front of it, he Googled the string of numbers and letters only to get this result:

Your search- 779elgamhuriaave-did not match any documents.

Suggestions:

• Make sure all words are spelled correctly.

• Try different keywords.

• Try more general keywords.

Then he saw his error, and placed spaces in the appropriate places: 779

El Gamhuria Avenue. An address, but where?

Returning to Google, he typed in — El Gamhuria Avenue and up popped Khartoum, Sudan. Now, that was interesting. What was Tracy doing with a North African address?

He typed in the full address, including the number, which, as it turned out, belonged to Air Afrika Corporation. He sat back. Why did that name sound so familiar? There were a number of entries for Air Afrika, some of them from very odd sites, others from blogs of dubious nature, but the information he wanted came from an entry on the second page from Interpol, where speculation was cited from numerous sources that Air Afrika was owned and operated by Nikolai Yevsen, the legendary arms dealer. Ever since Viktor Anatoliyevich Bout had been arrested, Yevsen had taken his place as the largest and most powerful illegal arms dealer in the world.

Bourne rose from the chair, walked back to the window, on reflex checking the street again. Tracy was an art expert buying a Goya unknown until just recently. The price must be astronomical; maybe a handful of people in the world could afford it. So who was her client?

With church bells pealing the hour, his gaze snapped back into focus as Tracy walked into his field of vision. She was carrying a mesh shopping sack. He watched the confident rat-a-tat of her stride, the heels of her shoes rhythmically striking the pavement. A young man appeared behind her and Bourne felt his muscles tense. Halfway down the block, the young man lifted an arm, waving, and ran across the street where a young woman waited for him. They embraced as Tracy entered the building. A moment later she came through the door, put the mesh sack down on the table.

— If you‘re still hungry, I bought some Serrano ham and Garrotxa cheese.

She placed the food, wrapped in white paper, on the table. -The rest is everything you asked for.