Robert Ludlum - Bourne 7 – The Bourne Deception

However, it was the garden that seemed most vulnerable to Bourne, who, immersed in the hectic street traffic, had quickly made two circuits of the building. There were, of course, entrances other than the gleaming wenge-wood front doors-two for deliveries, in fact-but they were both exposed and guarded.

A large truck was parked at one of these freight entrances, made humpbacked by the oversize refrigeration unit on its top. Bourne judged distances and vectors as he crossed the street, approaching the truck from the side facing away from the building. Two men were busy unloading large crates from the open back of the truck, overseen by a grim-looking security guard. Bourne made a mental note of everyone‘s position relative to the truck as he passed by.

Several hundred yards down the street, one of the city‘s numerous doorway lurkers leaned in the shadows, smoking languidly. He watched with bored suspicion as Bourne approached him.

— Tour? he said in very bad English. -Best guide in all of Khartoum. Anything you want to see I take, even forbidden. His grin seemed like more of a yawn. -You like forbidden, yes?

— How about a cigarette?

The sound of his own language surprised the lurker so much he righted himself and his half-glazed eyes seemed to clear. He handed Bourne a cigarette, which he lit with a cheap plastic lighter.

— You like money better than you like standing in this doorway?

The lurker nodded with a quick, disjointed bob of his head. -Show me a man who doesn‘t revere money and I‘ll mourn his death.

Bourne fanned out some bills and the lurker‘s eyes widened; the poor man couldn‘t help it, it was a reflex action. Bourne was willing to bet he‘d never imagined possessing so much money.

— Certainly. The man licked his lips. — All the forbidden places in Khartoum will be open to you.

— I‘m only interested in one, Bourne said. -Seven Seventy-nine El Gamhuria Avenue.

For a moment the man blanched, then he licked his lips again and said,

— Sir, there is forbidden and then there is forbidden .

Bourne increased the number of bills he fanned out. -This amount will cover it, won‘t it. It wasn‘t a question; neither was it a statement. It was, rather, a command, which caused the lurker to twitch uncomfortably. -Or should I find someone else? Bourne added. -You did say that you were the best guide in the city.

— That I am, sir! The lurker snatched the bills and stuffed them away.

— No one else in the entire city could get you in to Seven Seventy-nine. They are most careful about visitors, but — he winked- my cousin‘s cousin is a guard there. He pulled out a cell phone, made a local call, and talked rapid-fire Arabic. There ensued a short argument that seemed to concern money. Then the lurker put away his cell and grinned. -This is no problem. My cousin‘s cousin is downstairs now, while the truck you see there is unloading. He says it‘s an excellent time, so we go now.

Without another word Bourne followed him back down the street.

Checking her watch one last time, Tracy strode across El Gamhuria Avenue and opened the wooden front door. Directly inside was a metal detector overseen by two grim-faced guards, which she and the wrapped Goya went through without incident. This place didn‘t seem like the headquarters of any airline she‘d ever encountered.

She walked up to the circular desk, as high and harsh looking as the exterior of the building itself. A young man with an unfriendly, angular face glanced up at her approach.

— Tracy Atherton. I have an appointment with Noah Per-Petersen.

— Passport and driver‘s license. He held out a hand.

She expected him to check her ID then hand the documents back to her, but instead he said, — These will be returned to you at the end of your visit.

She hesitated for just a moment, feeling as if she‘d turned over the keys to her apartment in Belgravia. She was about to protest, but the man with the unfriendly face was already on the intrabuilding phone. The moment he cradled the receiver his demeanor changed. -Mr. Petersen will be down to fetch you momentarily, Ms. Atherton, he said with a smile. -In the meanwhile, please make yourself comfortable. There‘s tea and coffee, as well as a variety of biscuits on the sideboard against the wall. And if there‘s anything else you require, just ask.

She kept up a monologue of meaningless chatter, all the while taking in her surroundings, which seemed as oppressive in their way as the interior of a church. Instead of being dedicated to the glory of God, the architecture seemed to deify money. In just the same way churches-particularly those of the Roman Catholic religion-were meant to draw a reverence from the parishioner, to put him squarely in his lowly place vis-a-vis the divine, so the Air Afrika headquarters sought to intimidate and demean those penitents entering its portals who could not conceive of the half-a-billion-dollar cost of construction.

— Ms. Atherton.

She turned to see a slim man, handsome despite his hatchet face, with salt-and-pepper hair and an amiable demeanor.

— Noah Petersen. He smiled winningly and stuck out his hand for her to shake. It was firm and dry. -I put great store in punctuality as a human trait. He lifted a hand, indicating they should walk back the way he had come. -It says so much about an orderly mind.

He slipped a metal key-card in a slot, and after a moment of clicks a red light turned green. He leaned on part of the wall, which turned out to be a door set flush with the massive concrete panels on either side. Inside, Tracy was obliged to put her package through an X-ray scanner, then they rode up to the third floor in a small elevator. Exiting, he took her down a corridor with twelve-foot mahogany doors. These doors had neither a name nor a number on them and, after negotiating several turns, she had the sensation of being in a labyrinth. Music was playing out of hidden speakers. Occasionally they passed a photo close-up of part of an Air Afrika plane with a half-clad model posing beside it.

The conference room into which he led her was decorated for a party, with colored balloons, the long table covered with a gaily striped cloth and groaning with a seemingly endless array of savory food, sweet-meats, and fruit.

— Having the Goya here at last is cause for celebration, Noah said, which was apparently all the explanation she was going to get. He pulled a slim briefcase out from under the striped cloth and, setting it on the one clear space on the tabletop, twiddled the combination lock and disengaged the snaps.

Inside, Tracy saw, was the cashier‘s check for the balance of her fee, made out to her. Seeing this, she stripped off the packing to reveal the Goya.

Noah barely glanced at it. -Where‘s the rest?

She handed over the document of authenticity, signed by Professor Alonzo Pecunia Zuigaof the Museo del Prado in Madrid. Noah studied it for a moment, nodded, and put it alongside the painting.

— Excellent. He reached into the attaché case and handed her the check.

— I believe this concludes our business, Ms. Atherton. At that moment, his cell rang and he excused himself. His brows knit together. -When? he said into the phone. -Who? What do you mean alone? Dammit, didn‘t I-All right, don‘t fucking move until I get there! He cut the connection, his face dark.

— Is something wrong? Tracy asked.

— Nothing that need concern you. Noah managed a smile through his annoyance. -Please make yourself comfortable here. I‘ll come and fetch you when it‘s safe.

— Safe? What do you mean?

— There‘s an intruder in the building. Noah was already hurrying across the room to the door. -Not to worry, Ms. Atherton, it seems we already have him cornered.