“Where are you from?”
“Actually, I just came from Bogotá,” Moira said. She knew she was taking a chance, but she didn’t have the time to draw this out, and she felt the need to take advantage of Narsico’s absence. “I saw Roberto Corellos, Narsico’s cousin.” She watched the other woman’s face carefully. “And, coincidentally or not, an old friend of yours.”
Something dark and cold passed across Berengária Moreno’s face. “I don’t know what you mean, Corellos and I never saw eye-to-eye,” she said coldly.
“How about mouth-to-mouth?”
For a long, uncomfortable moment Barbara sat perfectly still. When she opened her mouth again she no longer looked handsome, or even appealing, and Moira knew precisely what Corellos had meant. Here comes the piranha, she thought.
In a low voice filled with menace Barbara said, “I could have you thrown out on your ass, beaten senseless, or even-” She bit back her words.
“Or what?” Moira said, egging her on. “Have me killed? Well, we know your husband wouldn’t have the balls to do it.”
Unexpectedly, Barbara Skydel exploded into laughter. “Oh, Jesus mio, can you imagine?” But almost immediately she sobered up. “Roberto had no business telling you about what happened.”
“You’ll have to take that up with him.”
Moira noticed Barbara glance back at the house where Narsico, still on his cell, paced up and down behind one of the French doors.
Barbara stood. “Why don’t we go for a walk?”
After hesitating for a moment, Moira drank off the last of her sangria and, rising, followed Barbara down past the tennis court, toward the gardens. When they were far away from the hacienda, in among a dusty stand of dwarf pine trees, Barbara turned to her and said, “You interest me. Who are you, because you sure as hell aren’t a reporter.”
Moira mentally braced herself for the worst. “What makes you say that?”
Barbara leaned in toward her in the menacing manner of certain men. “Roberto never would have told a reporter about us. He wouldn’t have told you a goddamn thing.”
“What can I say?” Moira shrugged. “He liked me.”
Barbara snorted. “Roberto doesn’t like anyone, and he only loves himself.” She cocked her head, and abruptly her manner changed from menacing to seductive. Backing Moira against the trunk of a tree, she put her hand up, twining a wisp of Moira’s hair around her forefinger. “So then you fucked him, or at least gave him a blow job.”
“He didn’t touch me.”
The back of Barbara’s hand stroked Moira’s cheek. Was Barbara jealous, trying to seduce her, or just screwing with her mind?
“Somehow you got to him. How did you do it?”
Moira smiled. “I graduated top of my class in charm school.”
Barbara’s long fingers were like feathers against her cheek and ear. “What did Roberto see in you? He may be a brute and a swine, but one of his great strengths is sizing up people virtually from the moment he meets them. So I’m left wondering why you’ve come here.” She pressed her lips against Moira’s cheek. “It isn’t to interview my husband, I think we’ve established that much.”
Moira felt she needed to shock Barbara in order to gain the upper hand. “I’ve come to investigate the murder of the man found on your property several weeks ago.”
Barbara stepped back. “You’re police? The American police are interested in the murder?”
“I’m not police,” Moira said. “I’m federal.”
All the breath seemed to go out of Barbara. “Christ,” she said. “That’s how you got to Roberto.”
Moira said, “Berengária, I want you to take me to the place where the body was found. I want you to take me there now.”
Bourne drove Ottavio Moreno’s gray Opel, following precisely the directions Coven had given him. Beside him, Ottavio was readying all the purchases Bourne had made. There was silence between them, just the thrumming of the tires on the road, the hiss of oncoming traffic working its way through the closed windows.
“Twenty minutes,” Bourne said finally.
“We’ll be ready,” Ottavio replied without lifting his head from his work. “Don’t worry.”
Bourne wasn’t worried, it wasn’t in his nature, or if it had once been, his Treadstone training had long since burned it out of him. He was thinking of Coven, the man with what was without doubt a CI field ops code name. He well knew that CI trained and directed a cadre of field operatives who specialized in wet work. He needed to know everything he could about Coven before their encounter, and there was only one person who could help him.
Taking out his cell, he punched in a number he hadn’t used in some time. When the familiar voice answered, he said, “Peter, it’s Jason Bourne.”
Peter Marks was on his way to see Chief Inspector Lloyd-Philips, who was waiting for him at the Vesper Club, when the call came in. He fairly vibrated when he heard Bourne’s voice.
“Where the hell are you?” Marks, in the back of one of those huge London cabs, found himself shouting.
“I need your help,” Bourne said. “What do you know about Coven?”
“The CI field op?”
“You didn’t say our field op. Have you left CI, Peter?”
“Actually, I quit not so long ago.” Marks had to will his heart rate back down to acceptable levels. He needed to find out where Bourne was and get to him. “Danziger has created a toxic atmosphere that I wouldn’t tolerate. He’s slowly getting rid of anyone loyal to the Old Man.” He coughed as a sudden chill went through him, and he shivered briefly. “You know he canned Soraya.”
“I didn’t.”
“Jason, I want you to know… I’m damn glad you’re alive.”
“Peter, about Coven.”
“Right, Coven. He’s as dangerous-and as successful-as they get.” Marks thought for a moment. “Hard, remorseless, a real shit.”
“Would he harm a child?”
“What?”
“You heard me,” Bourne said.
“Jesus, I don’t think so. He’s a devoted family man, if you can believe it.” Marks took a breath. “Jason, what the hell is going on?”
“I don’t have time now-”
“Listen, I was sent to London to find out what the hell happened at the Vesper Club.”
“Peter, the incident at the Vesper Club happened last night. If you really are in London-”
“I am. I’m on my way to the Vesper Club now.”
“You were already on the plane when I was at the club, so cut the bullshit, Peter. Who are you working for now?”
“Willard.”
“You’re Treadstone.”
“That’s right. We’re working for the same-”
“I don’t work for Treadstone, or Willard. In fact,” Bourne went on, “when I see Willard again, I’m going to wring his neck. He sold me out. Why did he do that, Peter?”
“I don’t know.”
“Good-bye, Peter.”
“Wait! Don’t hang up, I need to see you.”
There was a brief pause. Marks found that his hand was sweating so badly, the phone almost slipped from his grip. “Jason, please. This is important.”
“Aren’t you going to ask me why I was with the man who knifed Diego Hererra?”
“You can tell me, if you want. But frankly, I don’t care. I know you must’ve had a good reason.”
“Good man. Willard is training you well.”
“You’re right, of course, Willard’s a perfect shit. He’ll do anything to resurrect Treadstone.”
“Why?”
Marks hesitated. He’d never liked hitching his star to Willard’s dream, but at the time he felt he’d had no choice. And of course, Willard had played him perfectly, working on his desire to get revenge against Danziger and his puppet master, Bud Halliday. When Willard had promised him that he’d find a way to take Halliday down, and Danziger with him, he was in. But Willard had made a mistake when he’d asked Marks to betray Bourne. Willard, having no loyalty except to the idea of Treadstone, couldn’t conceive of the idea of personal loyalty, let alone have an inkling of its power.