He took a deep breath and said, “Willard wants to get you and Arkadin together so he can determine once and for all which of Treadstone’s training protocols is superior. If Arkadin kills you, then he’ll go back to the original protocols, make some minor adjustments, and start training recruits.”
“And if I kill Arkadin?”
“Then, Jason, he says he’ll have to study you to find out how your amnesia has changed you, so he can alter the Treadstone training program accordingly.”
“A monkey in a cage.”
“I’m afraid so, yes.”
“And you’re meant to take me back to Washington?”
“No. It’s not that simple. But if you’ll meet me, I’ll explain everything.”
“Maybe, Peter. If I think I can trust you.”
“Jason, you can. You absolutely can.” Marks believed this fervently, with every fiber of his being. “When can we-?”
“Not now. Right now, what I need from you is everything you know about Coven-specifically his methodology, tendencies, and what, if it comes to it, he’s capable of.”
Bourne listened to Peter Marks, filing away everything he said. Then he told him he’d be in touch and disconnected. For a time, he concentrated on the traffic piling up, allowing his subconscious to work on the problem at hand-that is, how to neutralize Coven without jeopardizing Chrissie and Scarlett.
Then he saw a sign for George Street and immediately recalled his afternoon in Oxford. And yet his thoughts were not of Chrissie and Professor Giles. As if it were yesterday, he recalled his visit to the Centre for the Study of Ancient Documents at the Old Boys’ School in Oxford’s George Street. He’d gone in the guise of David Webb, visiting professor of linguistics, but inside, the Bourne identity had asserted itself. He knew, but he didn’t know how he knew, that in this moment in time he’d still had in his possession the laptop he had stolen from Jalal Essai. He had taken time out from his classes at Oxford to enter the Centre for the Study of Ancient Documents. What had he done there, what was he researching? He couldn’t remember. But he did know that whatever he’d discovered there had led him to keep the laptop. What had he done with it? It was on the cusp of his memory, like the burning edge of the sun in eclipse. He almost had it, almost.
And then the turnoff Coven had described was coming up on the right, and he had to step away from the cusp, let it go, because it was time to confront Coven.
WE’LL HAVE TO walk from here.” Barbara climbed out of the jeep. Despite the lingering heat, she had changed into jeans, cowboy boots, and a plaid shirt, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows.
Moira followed her. They had driven for perhaps a mile, due west of the hacienda but still well within the boundaries of the immense estancia. In the distance rose dusty blue hills, and the sweet, almost fermented scent of the blue agave thickened the air. The sun wallowed just above the horizon. The ground, storing the heat of the day, was baking. To the west, the sky was white and glaring.
“Ai, Narsico said this would all blow over, but I knew different.”
“Why is that?” Moira said.
“That’s the way things always happen.”
“What things?” Moira pressed.
“You get fucked by the smallest things.”
“Murder is a small thing?”
Barbara lifted her chin in a gesture of contempt. “You think I give a rat’s ass about someone I don’t even know?”
“What became of the police investigation?” she asked as they walked through the arid scrubland.
“The usual.” Barbara squinted into the sun. “An inspector from Tequila asked some questions, but there was no identification on the man, and no one claimed the body. He spent several weeks interviewing us and everyone on our staff. He made a complete nuisance of himself. He kept saying that there was a reason the victim was found on our estancia. We became prime suspects, but he and his kind are so inept that finally he was forced to give up spewing innuendos and speculation. Then, complete silence. So far as I knew, the case was closed.”
“That’s the Mexican perspective,” Moira said. “For us, the murder has taken on larger implications.”
The concern Moira had heard before crept back into Barbara’s voice. “Like what?”
“For one thing, we know that the victim worked for your late brother in his compound outside Mexico City, so a link has been established between you and the victim.”
“He worked for Gustavo? I had no idea. I had nothing to do with Gustavo’s business dealings.”
“Really? The fact that you’ve been sleeping with his supplier makes that difficult to believe.”
“And for another?”
Moira deliberately kept silent. It appeared that they were approaching the crime scene, or at least the spot where the body had been dumped, because Barbara slowed and began to look around.
“This is it.” Barbara pointed to a spot a few feet ahead of them. “That’s where the body was found.”
In this arid climate, footprints from several weeks ago were still visible, but they were inextricably overlaid with the boot prints of the police. Moira picked her way slowly around the periphery, scrutinizing the ground.
“The earth hasn’t been dug up, or even disturbed very much. It doesn’t look like the crime scene was scoured.”
“It wasn’t. They dragged us out here while they were here,” Barbara said.
Moira began her investigation in earnest. Snapping on a pair of latex gloves, she pawed through the dirt, dust, and scrub. By whatever mysterious means, Jalal Essai had obtained copies of the forensic photos of the victim, which showed him lying on his left side. His wrists were tied behind his back and his legs were bent at an angle, his head bent forward. From this, it could be deduced that he had been kneeling at the moment of his demise. Essai had tried to get the autopsy report, as well, but it had been lost by either the coroner’s office or the police, both of which seemed incompetent.
“Another thing,” she said, wanting to continue to heighten Barbara’s tension, “we know the victim left the compound less than thirty minutes before the raid during which your brother was killed.” She raised her gaze to peer into Barbara’s eyes. “Which means that he had advance warning of the raid.”
“Why are you looking at me?” Barbara said. “I told you I had nothing to do with Gustavo’s business.”
“Are you going to keep saying that until I believe you?”
Barbara folded her arms over her chest. “Damn you to hell, I had nothing to do with this man’s death.”
Moira was looking for a spent shell casing. The one curious thing about the photos was that it was clear the victim had been shot with a small-caliber handgun. One shot to the base of the skull. The lack of powder or flash burns on either the victim’s skin or his clothes indicated that the killer hadn’t shot at particularly close range, which you would certainly want to do if you meant to kill a man with one shot from a small-caliber weapon.
Forty minutes of sifting topsoil through her fingers produced nothing. By this time she had made one complete circuit of the crime scene at a calculated distance from where the body was found. Of course, it was possible that the victim had been killed elsewhere and dumped here, but she didn’t think so. If, as she suspected, the killer’s motivation was not only to silence the victim but also to implicate the Skydels, he would want the killing to occur on their property.
At a wider radius from the kill spot, more scrub grew, and Moira, once again down on her knees, began to excavate around the base of these gray-green plants. The sun was lowering, passing through a stray band of striated cloud. The landscape turned blue-gray in the false twilight. Moira sat back on her hams, waiting for more light. When the sun began to emerge, the crime scene was pierced with brilliant shards of red-gold, scattering across the ground at an acute angle. Their shadows stretched out behind them, attenuated giants.