“Anyway, she took me to Mexico City, to the after-hours clubs, the brothels, where she chose from a list she kept updated weekly, like a calendar or a day planner. We took the girls to whichever narcorrancho was owned by the current client. There were only a handful of Mexicans there when we arrived, some peons, and heavily armed soldiers who sneered at us even while they drooled over the girls. My job was to spruce up the interior and settle the girls in their various bedrooms. The peons did the heavy lifting.
“Gradually, the cars would come-Lincoln Town Cars, Chevy Suburbans, Mercedeses, all with blacked-out windows, wallowing under their armor plating. The security forces would set up a strict perimeter as if we were in an army bivouac during wartime. Then the provisioners would arrive with fresh meat, fruit, cases of beer, crates of tequila, and, of course, mountains of cocaine. The barbecuing of beef and the spit-roasting of whole pigs and lambs would begin. Salsa and disco music blared louder and louder. The roasters stank of sweat and beer so you couldn’t let them near you. Then the bosses arrived with their bodyguards and it was like the Day of the Dead, a festival beyond all festivals.”
Bourne’s mind was racing at a pace that dizzied even him. “One of Holly’s clients was Gustavo Moreno, wasn’t it?”
“Gustavo Moreno was her best client,” Chrissie said.
Yes, Bourne thought, it had to be. Another missing piece of the puzzle.
“He spent more than any of the others. He loved to party all night long. The later it got, the louder and wilder the partying.”
“You were a long way from Oxford, Professor.”
She nodded. “A long way from civilization, too. But then so was Holly. She lived a double life. She said she’d had plenty of practice growing up in Morocco because her family was very strict, very religious, devout, even. A woman had few rights, a girl even fewer. Apparently her father broke away from the rest of the family-which was led by his brother, Holly’s uncle. According to Holly, they had a terrible falling-out. He took her and her mother away to Bali, a place that was the opposite of their village in the High Atlas Mountains. She told no one else about her secret life in Mexico.”
Untrue, he thought. She told me, or I found out, somehow. Which must be how the laptop ended up in Gustavo Moreno’s hands. I must have given it to him. But why? In this puzzle, he thought, there’s always another blank to fill in, another question to answer.
Chrissie turned to him. “I take it you knew Holly.”
When he didn’t reply, she said, “You must be shocked by what I’ve just told you.”
“I’m sorry you lied to me.”
“We lied to each other.” Chrissie couldn’t keep an edge of bitterness out of her voice.
“I have too much experience in lying.” He had a feeling that he’d asked Holly to take him to Mexico on one of her trips. Or had he coerced her into it?
“Why did you quit?” he said.
“You could say that I had an epiphany in the Sonoran Desert. It’s not surprising we hooked up. She and I were both running away from our former lives, from who we were. Or, rather, we had lost our way in our lives, we no longer knew who we were or who we wanted to be. We were intent on rejecting who we were expected to be.” She stared down at her reddened hands as if she didn’t recognize them. “I had thought that the life I’d left-the cloistered sanctuary of Oxford-wasn’t real. But after a time I realized that it was Holly’s life that wasn’t real.”
The sky had lightened further. Birds called from the treetops, and a slight wind brought the smell of damp earth, of living things.
“One night, very late, I wandered into a spare room, or that’s what I thought. And there was Holly on top of Gustavo Moreno, grinding away. I watched for a moment, as if they were two strangers acting in a porno. Then I thought, Fuck, that’s Holly. You could say that I woke up.” She shook her head. “But I don’t think Holly ever did.”
Bourne didn’t think so, either. Sad, but true. Holly had been many things to many people, none of them the same. Those multiple identities had allowed her to burrow deeper into herself, to hide from everyone, when it was her uncle he was certain she feared most.
At that moment Scarlett poked her head out and said, “Hey, you two, we have visitors.”
Inside, both Ottavio Moreno and Peter Marks stood in the living room, eyeing each other warily.
“What the hell is this?” Bourne said.
“Here is Ottavio Moreno, the man who knifed Diego Hererra,” Marks said to Bourne. “And you’re protecting him?”
“It’s a long story, Peter,” Bourne said. “I’ll explain it in the car on the way to-”
Marks turned to Moreno. “You’re the brother of Gustavo Moreno, the Colombian drug lord.”
“I am,” Ottavio Moreno said.
“And the godson of Don Fernando Hererra, the father of the man you knifed to death.”
When Moreno said nothing, Marks continued. “I’ve just come from Don Fernando. He’s heartsick, as you can imagine. Or maybe you can’t. In any event, he doesn’t think you murdered his son. The police, on the other hand, are certain you did.” Without waiting for a reply, he whirled on Bourne. “How the hell could you let this happen?”
Then Ottavio Moreno made a tactical mistake. “I think you’d better calm down,” he said. He should have kept his mouth shut, but possibly he’d been stung by Marks’s words as well as his tone.
“Don’t tell me what to do,” Marks said heatedly.
Bourne had half a mind to let the two men come to blows, if only to relieve the built-up tension of the last couple of hours, but there was Chrissie and her family to think of, so he stepped in between the two. Gripping Marks at the elbow, he steered him out the front door, where they could talk without being overheard. Before he could say a word, though, Moreno came storming out.
He headed straight for Marks, but before he was halfway there a shot from the trees stopped him in his tracks. Even as he staggered backward, even as the second shot took part of his skull off, Bourne had flung himself behind Moreno’s Opel. As Marks followed him, another shot cracked through the stillness of early morning.
Marks stumbled and fell.
Boris Karpov accompanied Viktor Cherkesov into the construction site on ulitsa Varvarka. They passed through a gap in the chain-link fence and descended via a ramp into the dead zone. Cherkesov kept them going until they were deep in the heart of the morass of rusting steel girders and cracked concrete blocks; evil-looking weeds sprouted everywhere like tufts of hair on a giant’s back.
Cherkesov stopped them as they approached the bashed-in side of a derelict truck, which had been stripped of tires, electronics, and engine. It was canted over to one side like a ship on its way to the bottom of the sea. The truck was green, but someone had artistically covered it with obscene graffiti in silver spray paint.
Cherkesov’s mouth twitched in an imitation of a smile as he turned away from contemplating the graffiti.
“Now, Boris Illyich, please be kind enough to tell me the gist of your impromptu meeting with President Imov.”
Karpov, seeing no other recourse, obliged him. Cherkesov did not interrupt him once, but listened thoughtfully as Karpov outlined what he had learned about Bukin and those moles under his command. When he was finished, Cherkesov nodded. He produced a Tokarev TT pistol but didn’t aim it at Karpov, at least not exactly.