Robert Ludlum - Bourne 7 – The Bourne Deception

— I understand, Bourne said. -You‘re not afraid of Yevsen or Maslov.

— Nor am I interested in them, Hererra said. -But I am interested in you. Why have you come to see me? It‘s not my Goya, and it‘s not the seńorita inside, beautiful and desirable though she may be. What, then, do you want?

— I was followed here by a Russian hitman with a scar on one side of his neck and a tattoo of three skulls on the other.

— Ah, yes, Bogdan Machin, better known as the Torturer. Hererra tapped the tip of his forefinger against his lower lip. -So it was you who killed that bastard at the Maestranza yesterday. He gave Bourne an appraising look.

— I‘m impressed. Machin had left a litter of the dead and maimed behind him like a train wreck.

Bourne was similarly impressed. Hererra‘s intel was swift and excellent. Bourne unbuttoned his shirt, revealing his chest wound. -He tried to shoot me dead in Bali. He bought a Parker Hale Model Eighty-five and a Schmidt and Bender Marksman Two scope from Wayan. It was Wayan who gave me your name. He said you recommended Machin to him.

Hererra‘s eyebrows lifted in surprise. -You must believe me, I never knew.

Bourne grabbed the Colombian by the shirtfront and slammed him against the French doors. -Why should I believe you, he said into Hererra‘s face,

— when the man who bought the Parker Hale couldn‘t be Machin because he had gray eyes?

At that moment Fausto appeared from a doorway on the other side of the garden, his gun aimed at Bourne, who pressed his thumb into Hererra‘s Adam‘s apple and said, — I have no desire to hurt you, but I will know who tried to kill me on Bali.

— Fausto, we‘re all civilized individuals here, Hererra said as he stared into Bourne‘s eyes, — put away your weapon.

When the young man had obeyed, Bourne released the Colombian. At that moment the French door opened and Tracy appeared. She looked at each of the three men in turn, and said, — What the hell is going on?

— Don Hererra is about to tell me what I need to know, Bourne said.

Her gaze returned to the Colombian. -And the Goya?

— It‘s yours at the full asking price, Hererra said.

— I‘m prepared to-

— Seńorita, don‘t try my patience. I will have my full asking price, and with what you tried to pull you‘re lucky at that.

She pulled out her cell. -I‘ll have to make a call.

— By all means. Hererra raised a hand. -Fausto, show the seńorita to a place where she can have privacy.

— I‘d rather be outdoors, Tracy said.

— As you wish. The Colombian led the way back inside. When Fausto had shut the door and disappeared down the hallway, he turned to Bourne and very softly and very seriously said, — Do you trust her?

Harvey Korman had just bitten down into an indifferent roast beef and Havarti on rye when, to his astonishment, Moira Trevor and Humphry Bamber exited GWU

Hospital‘s ER entrance without his partner, Simon Herren, anywhere in sight. Korman threw down a twenty, got up, tossed on his padded jacket, and swung out the coffee shop door, which was almost directly across the street from the hospital entrance.

It was a quirk of luck that Korman was small and slightly pudgy, with round cheeks and almost no hair, more Tim Conway than his namesake. Still, with his physique and unprepossessing manner no one would take him for a private intelligence operative, let alone a member of Black River.

What the fuck? he thought as he carefully tailed the pair down the street. Where the hell is Simon? Noah Perlis had told him that the Trevor woman was dangerous but, of course, he‘d taken the warning with a couple of grains of salt. Not that he or Simon had ever met Trevor, which was why Perlis had chosen them for this assignment, but everyone in Black River knew Perlis had a thing for Moira Trevor, tinting his judgment of her. He never should have been her handler while she was working for Black River. In Korman‘s judgment, Perlis had made some key mistakes, including using Veronica Hart as a stalking horse, so Trevor wouldn‘t think ill of him when he‘d abruptly taken her off mission.

That was all in the past, however. Korman needed to concentrate on the present. He turned the corner and looked around, bewildered. Bamber and Trevor had been half a block ahead of him. Where the hell had they gone?

This way! Hurry! Moira guided Bamber into the corner lingerie shop. It had two doors, one on New Hampshire Avenue, NW, the other on I Street, NW. She spoke on her cell as she led him through the shop and out the opposite door, back onto New Hampshire Avenue, where they lost themselves in the crowd. Five minutes later and four blocks away the Blue Top taxi Moira had called pulled up to the curb and they quickly climbed in. As it accelerated away, she pushed Bamber down in the seat. Just before she herself slid down she caught a glimpse of the man who had been following them, a man who looked comically like Tim Conway. There was nothing comical, however, about his grim expression as he spoke into his cell, no doubt apprising Noah of the situation.

— Where to? the taxi driver said over his shoulder.

Moira realized she had no idea where to go to ground.

— I know a place, Bamber said hesitantly, — somewhere they won‘t find us.

— You don‘t know Noah like I do, Moira said. -By now he knows you better than your own mother does.

— He doesn‘t know about this place, Bamber insisted. -Not even Steve knew.

Why should I trust anyone? Bourne said.

— Because, my friend, in this life you must learn to trust someone. Otherwise you will be consumed by paranoia and a longing for death. Hererra poured three fingers of Asombroso Anejo tequila into two glasses, handed one to Bourne. He sipped his, then said, — Me, I don‘t trust women, period. For one thing they talk too much, especially among themselves. He walked over to the wall of books and ran his fingertips over the bound spines. -Down through history there were uncountable times when men from bishops to princes were undone by a bit of discreet pillow talk. He turned. -While we fight and kill for power, that‘s how women amass theirs.

Bourne shrugged. -Surely you don‘t blame them.

— Of course I blame them. Hererra finished off his tequila. -The bitches are the root of all evil.

— Which leaves you for me to trust. Bourne put aside his drink untouched.

— The problem, Don Hererra, is that you‘ve already proved yourself untrustworthy. You‘ve lied to me once.

— And how many times have you lied to me since you walked through my door? The Colombian crossed the room, took up Bourne‘s tequila, and drank it down in one long shot. Smacking his lips, he wiped his mouth with the back of a hand and said, — The man Wayan described, the man who tried to kill you, was hired by one of your own people.

— The killer‘s name.

— Boris Illyich Karpov.

Bourne froze, unable for a moment to believe what he‘d just heard. -There must be some mistake.

Hererra cocked his head. -You know this man?

— Why would a colonel in FSB-2 hire himself out to an American?

— Not just an American, the Colombian said. -Secretary of Defense Ervin Reynolds Halliday, who as we both know is among the most powerful men on the planet. And he wasn‘t hiring himself out.

But it couldn‘t be Boris, Bourne told himself. Boris was a friend, he‘d helped Bourne in Reykjavik and then in Moscow, where he‘d surprised Bourne by showing up at a meeting with Dimitri Maslov, with whom he was clearly friendly. Were they more than friends? Was Boris a partner of Yevsen, along with Maslov? Bourne felt cold sweat break out on his back. The spider‘s web he‘d stepped into was growing exponentially with each interconnecting strand he discovered.