Robert Ludlum - Bourne 7 – The Bourne Deception

— Jaime Hernandez is a career office man. We need someone with a more-

robust-background.

— Quite right, the president agreed. -Who the hell is this Danziger?

— M. Errol Danziger. The NSA‘s current deputy director of signals intelligence for analysis and production.

The president returned to his contemplation of the passing streetscape.

— Have I met him?

— Yes, sir. Twice, the last time when you were at the Pentagon just last-

— Remind me, please.

— He brought in the printouts Hernandez distributed.

— I don‘t recall the man.

— Hardly surprising, sir. There‘s nothing remarkable about him. Halliday chuckled. -That‘s what made him so valuable during his stint in the field. He worked Southeast Asia before moving into the Operations Directorate.

— Wet work?

Halliday was startled by the question. Nevertheless, he saw no point in lying. -Indeed, sir.

— And returned home to tell the tale.

— Yes, sir.

The president made an unintelligible sound deep in his throat. -Bring him to the Oval Office at- He snapped his fingers for the press secretary‘s attention. -Solly? Opening, today.

Solly put his call on hold, scrolled through a second PDA. -Five twentyfive, sir. But you only have ten minutes before the formal press conference. We need to make the six o‘clock news.

— Of course we do. The president lifted a hand, smiling. -Five twentyfive, Bud. Ten minutes is more than enough time for a yea or nay.

Then, abruptly, he turned to other matters, a crisis agenda packed with daunting security issues, at the end of which was not a hot bath and a good meal, but a phone conference with his director of protocol, deciding on who to invite to the state funeral for DCI Hart.

Seconds after Bourne took the phone, Hererra‘s young man had stolen into the room. Now he pressed the muzzle of a Beretta Px4 9mm pistol to Tracy‘s left temple. She was wide-eyed, sitting painfully erect at the edge of the sofa.

— My dear fellow, Don Fernando Hererra said as he took the cell from Bourne, — I may not know who you are, but I know this much: My threatening you will avail me nothing. His smile was sweet, almost soft. -Whereas if I tell you that I will have Fausto blow her brains out-pardon the crudeness of my words, Seńorita Atherton-unless you tell me who you are, I feel certain that you will be more inclined to tell me the truth.

— I admit that I‘ve underestimated you, Don Hererra, Bourne said.

— Adam, please tell him the truth. Tracy was clearly terrified for her life.

— I know that you‘re a confidence man, just as I know you‘ve come to swindle me out of my Goya, which, by the way, Professor Alonzo Pecunia Zuiga-

the real Don Alonzo-has confirmed to me is authentic. He pointed. -He has also confirmed that Seńorita Atherton is genuine. How you seduced her into going along with your scheme is between the two of you. But his expression conveyed his dismay and disappointment at Tracy‘s fall from grace. -My concern is who you are and which of my enemies hired you to con me.

Tracy shivered. -Adam, for God‘s sake-

Hererra cocked his head. -Come, come, Seńor Con Man, you have forfeited your right to scare the young lady.

It was time for him to act, Bourne knew that. He also knew that the situation was on a razor‘s edge. Hererra was the wild card. On the surface it seemed unlikely that such a polished gentleman of Seville would actually direct the young man to pull the trigger. However, Hererra‘s black-hands work in the oil fields of Colombia belied his current gentlemanly identity. At heart, he might still be that rough-and-tumble man who fought, finessed, and bullied his way to a fortune in the oil industry. A man didn‘t successfully do business with the Tropical Oil Company without a heart as hard as mahogany, and without spilling some blood. In any event, it was not for Bourne to gamble with Tracy‘s life.

— You‘re right, Don Hererra. My apologies, Bourne said. -Now to the truth: I was hired by one of your enemies, but not to take the Goya from you.

Tracy‘s eyes opened even wider.

— I came up with this ruse to get in to see you.

Hererra‘s eyes glittered as he drew up a chair to sit in front of Bourne.

— Continue.

— My name is Adam Stone.

— Forgive me if I‘m skeptical. He snapped his fingers. -Passport. And use your left hand. You don‘t want to alarm Fausto, believe me.

Bourne did. With the tips of the fingers on his left hand, he produced his passport, which Hererra scrutinized as if he were a special agent from immigration.

As he handed back the document, he said, — All right, Seńor Stone, what are you?

— I‘m a freelance specialist in let us say hardware of a special nature.

Hererra shook his head. -Now you‘ve lost me.

— Don Hererra, you know a Balinese merchant by the name of Wayan.

— I do not.

Bourne made a show of ignoring the lie. -I work for the people who supply Wayan.

— Adam, what is this? Tracy said. -You told me you were interested in seed money for an e-commerce start-up.

At this, Hererra sat back, contemplating Bourne in, it seemed, an entirely new light. -It seems, Seńorita Atherton, that Adam Stone lied to you as easily as he did to me.

Bourne knew he‘d made a desperate gamble. He‘d calculated that the only way to take control of the situation was to astonish the Colombian. In this, it appeared, he‘d been successful.

— The question is why?

Bourne saw his chance to tip the scales in his favor. -The people who hired me-the people who supply Wayan-

— I told you I don‘t know anyone named Wayan.

Bourne shrugged. -The people I work for know better. They don‘t like the way you‘re doing business. In fact, they want you out of it completely.

Don Hererra laughed. -Fausto, do you hear this, do you hear this man? He hunched forward so his face was close to Bourne‘s. -Are you threatening me, Stone? Because the air in my house is vibrating in such a way.

Now there was a stiletto in his hand. The hilt was inlaid with jade, the long blade as tapered as Hererra‘s own fingers. He tipped the blade forward until the point touched the skin above Bourne‘s Adam‘s apple.

— You should know I don‘t take kindly to threats.

— What happens to me is irrelevant, Bourne said.

— The seńorita‘s blood will be on your hands.

— Surely you know how powerful my employers are. Whatever is going to happen is going to happen.

— Unless I change my business practices.

Bourne felt the shift in Hererra‘s thinking even before he said it. He was no longer denying his business in arms shipping. -That‘s correct.

Don Hererra sighed and made a sign to Fausto, who removed the muzzle and holstered the Beretta at the small of his back. Then he threw the stiletto onto the sofa cushion and, slapping his thighs, said, — I think, Seńor Stone, we both could do with a walk in the garden.

Fausto unlocked the French doors, and the two men stepped out onto the flagstone path. The garden was an octagon embraced by the sturdy arms of the house. There was a small grove of lemon trees and, in the center, a tiled fountain in the Moorish style shaded by a palm tree. Here and there stone benches were scattered, both in sunlight and in dappled shade. The air was perfumed by the lemon trees, whose new leaves were emerging like butterflies from their winter cocoons.

Because it was cool out, Don Hererra indicated a bench in full sun. When they were seated side by side, he said, — I must admit Yevsen surprises me; he sends a man who is not only not a thug, but possesses uncommon wisdom. His head inclined a fraction, as if he were tipping his hat to Bourne. -How much is that Russian sonovabitch paying you?