“Said his name was Slim Pickens.” The pilot screwed up his face. “Weren’t there an actor by that name?”
“Coincidence,” Soraya said. “Where did you take Mr. Pickens?”
“Tucson International Airport, ma’am.”
“Tucson, huh?”
Soraya thought, Why in hell would Arkadin want to go to Tucson? And then, as if a switch had been thrown in her head, she knew.
Mexico.
Having checked into a small hotel in Chelsea, Bourne stood under a hot shower, sluicing away the sweat and grime of his ordeal. The muscles in his neck, shoulders, and back throbbed with a deep-seated ache in the aftermath of the collision and his long run off the motorway.
Just thinking the words Severus Domna sent echoes through his mind. It was maddening not being able to pluck the memories out of his fogbound past. He was certain that he had once known about it. Why? Had the group been the target of a Treadstone mission Conklin had sent him on? He had obtained the Dominion ring somewhere, from someone, for some specific reason, but beyond those three vague facts was only an impenetrable mist. Why had Holly’s father stolen the ring from his brother? Why had he given it to Holly? Who was her uncle, what was the ring to him? Bourne couldn’t ask Holly. That left her uncle, whoever he was.
He turned off the water, stepped out of the stall, and vigorously rubbed himself down with a towel. Perhaps he should return to Bali. Were either of Holly’s parents still alive, still living there? Suparwita might know, but he had no phone, there was no way to contact him save to return to Bali and ask him in person. Then it came to him. There was a better way to get the information he needed, and the plan he was formulating would serve two purposes because it would trap Leonid Arkadin.
His mind still working at a fever clip, he put on clothes he had bought at Marks & Spencer in Oxford Street on his way to the hotel. These included a dark-colored suit and black turtleneck. He polished his shoes with the kit provided in the room, then took a taxi to Diego Hererra’s house in Sloane Square.
This proved to be a redbrick Victorian affair with a steeply pitched slate roof and a pair of conical turrets, sticking up into the night sky like horns. A brass door-knocker in the shape of a stag’s head looked stoically out on all visitors. Diego himself opened the door to Bourne’s knock.
He smiled thinly. “No worse for the wear and tear of yesterday’s adventure, I see.” He waved a hand. “Come in, come in.”
Diego wore dark trousers and an elegant evening jacket probably more appropriate to the Vesper Club. Bourne, however, still held the clothing instincts of an academic professor and was as uncomfortable in formal dress wear as he would have been in a medieval suit of armor.
He led Bourne through an old-fashioned parlor, lit by antique lamps with frosted-glass shades, into a dining room dominated by a polished mahogany table over which hung a crystal chandelier, now dimly lit, casting the light of a thousand stars across jewel-toned wallpaper and oak wainscoting. Two place settings beckoned. While Bourne sat, Diego poured them glasses of an excellent sherry to go with the small plates of grilled fresh sardines, papas fritas, paper-thin slices of rosy Serrano ham, small disks of fat-speckled chorizo, and a platter of three Spanish cheeses.
“Please help yourself,” Diego said when he joined Bourne at the table. “This is the custom in Spain.”
As they ate Bourne was aware of Diego watching him. At length, Diego said, “My father was very pleased that you came to see me.”
Pleased or interested? Bourne wondered. “How is Don Fernando?”
“As always.” Diego was eating like a bird, picking at his food. He either had no appetite or had something important on his mind. “He’s quite fond of you, you know.”
“I lied to him about who I was.”
Diego laughed. “You do not know my father. I’m quite sure he was interested only in whether you were friend or enemy.”
“I am Leonid Arkadin’s enemy, as he well knows.”
“Precisely.” Diego spread his hands. “Well, we all have that in common. This is the tie that binds.”
Bourne pushed away his plate. “Actually, I was wondering about that.”
“In what way, may I ask?”
“We’re all bound by our acquaintance with Noah Perlis. Your father knew Perlis, didn’t he?”
Diego didn’t miss a beat. “As a matter of fact he didn’t. Noah was my friend. We’d go to the casino-the Vesper Club-and gamble the night away. This is what Noah liked to do best when he was in London. The moment I knew he was coming I’d set it all up-his credit line, the chips.”
“And, of course, the girls.”
Diego grinned. “Of course the girls.”
“Didn’t he want to see Tracy-and Holly?”
“When they were here, but most times they weren’t.”
“You were a foursome.”
Diego frowned. “Why would you think that?”
“Judging by the photos in Noah’s flat.”
“What are you implying?”
Something almost imperceptible had crept into Diego’s demeanor. A tension akin to a subtle ripple emanating from the core of him. Bourne was pleased that his probing had struck a nerve.
Bourne shrugged. “Nothing, really, other than in those photos you all looked very close.”
“As I said, we were friends.”
“Closer than friends, I would think.”
At that moment Diego glanced down at his watch. “If you fancy a bit of a flutter, now’s the time to take ourselves to Knightsbridge.”
The Vesper Club was a very posh casino in London’s very posh West End. It was one of those discreet affairs, hardly noticeable from the street, the polar opposite of the exclusive velvet-rope nightclubs in New York and Miami Beach that revel in their crassness.
Inside it was all butter-soft leather banquettes at the restaurant, a long, snaking brass-and-glass, neon-lit bar, and a number of gaming rooms clad in marble, mirrors, and stone columns with Doric capitals. They passed among the slots. Off to one side was the electronic gaming room whose high-decibel rock music and neon lights seemed to blink Go! Bourne peered in, saw that it was patrolled by a guard. He guessed the club figured the younger clients were more apt to get rowdy than the older, more established ones.
They went down several steps into the more sedate but no less opulent main gaming area, featuring all the usual suspects: baccarat, roulette, poker, blackjack. The oval room was filled with the low buzz of bets being made, roulette wheels spinning, the calls of the croupiers, and the ubiquitous clink of glassware. They wound their way through this expanse to a green baize door guarded by a large man in a tuxedo. The moment he caught sight of Diego, he smiled and gave a small deferential nod.
“How are you this evening, Mr. Hererra?”
“Quite all right, Donald.” He gestured. “This is my friend Adam Stone.”
“Good evening, sir.” Donald opened the door, which swung inward. “Welcome to the Vesper Club’s Empire Suite.”
“This was where Noah liked to play poker,” Diego said over his shoulder. “Only high stakes, only expert players.”
Bourne looked around at the dark walls, the solid-marble floor, three kidney-shaped tables; the hunched shoulders and concentrated expressions of the men and women who sat around the green baize analyzing the cards, sizing up their opponents and placing their bets accordingly. “I wasn’t aware that Noah had the kind of money to be a high-roller.”
“He didn’t. I staked him to it.”
“Wasn’t that risky?”
“Not with Noah.” Diego grinned. “When it came to poker he was an expert’s expert. Before an hour went by I’d get my money back and then some. I’d go and play with the profit. It was a good deal for both of us.”