Page 16 of The Bourne Objective (Jason Bourne 8)

  “Which meant?”

  “Tracy was very protective of Holly, she saw Noah moving in on Holly because he couldn’t have her. She felt Noah was just being cynical and self-destructive while Holly was taking the liaison far more seriously. She believed it would end in tears—Holly’s tears.”

  “Why didn’t she step in, tell Noah to back off?”

  “She did. He told her—far too bluntly, if you ask me—to stay out of it.”

  “Did you talk to him?”

  Diego looked even more miserable than before. “I should have, I know, but I didn’t believe Tracy, or maybe I chose not to believe her because if I did, then the situation had already gotten so messy and I didn’t…”

  “What, you didn’t want to get your hands dirty?”

  Diego nodded, but he wouldn’t meet Bourne’s eyes.

  “You must have had your own suspicions about Noah.”

  “I don’t know, perhaps I did. But the fact is I wanted to believe in us, I wanted to believe that everything would work out all right, that we would make it all right because we cared about one another.”

  “You cared about one another all right, but not in the right way.”

  “Looking back now everything seems twisted, no one was who they said they were, or liked what they said they liked. I don’t even understand what drew us together.”

  “That’s the point, isn’t it?” Bourne said, not unkindly. “Each one of you wanted something from someone else in the group; in one way or another all of you used your friendships as leverage.”

  “Everything we did together, everything we said or confided to one another was a lie.”

  “Not necessarily,” Bourne said. “You knew Tracy was working for Arkadin, didn’t you?”

  “I told you I didn’t.”

  “When I asked you what Arkadin had on her, do you remember what you said?”

  Diego bit his lip, but said nothing.

  “You said that Tracy was dead—that she and Holly were both dead, and shouldn’t they be left in peace?” He peered into Diego’s face. “That’s a response of a man who knows exactly what he’s been asked.”

  Diego slapped the flat of his hand onto the bartop. “I promised her I wouldn’t tell anyone.”

  “I understand,” Bourne said gently, “but keeping it a secret now doesn’t help her.”

  Diego passed a hand across his face, as if trying to wipe away a memory. At the second table from them a man said, “I’m out,” pushed his chair back, rose, and stretched.

  “All right.” Diego’s eyes met Bourne’s. “She said that Arkadin had helped get her brother out of terrible trouble and now he was using that against her.”

  Bourne almost said, But Tracy didn’t have a brother. He caught himself and said, “What else?”

  “Nothing. It was after… before we went to sleep. It was very late, she’d had too much to drink, she’d been depressed all evening and then as soon as we finished she couldn’t stop crying. I asked her if I’d done anything wrong, which only made her cry harder. I held her for a long time. When she calmed down she told me.”

  Something was very wrong. Chrissie said they had no brother, Tracy told Diego they did. One of the two sisters was lying, but which one? What possible reason could Tracy have for lying to Diego, and what reason would Chrissie have to lie to him?

  At that moment Bourne saw movement out of the corner of his eye. The man who had cashed in was making his way toward the bar, and within another two steps Bourne knew that he was heading straight for them.

  Though the man wasn’t large he gave a formidable appearance. His black eyes seemed to smolder out of a face the color of tanned leather. His thick hair and close-cropped beard matched the color of his eyes. He had a hawk-like nose, a wide thick-lipped mouth, and cheeks like slabs of concrete. A small diagonal scar bisected one furry eyebrow. He moved with a low center of gravity, his arms loose and relaxed, though not swinging or even moving at all.

  And it was this gait, this way of holding himself that marked him as a man of professional intent, a man with whom death walked from dusk until dawn. It was also these things that triggered a memory, causing it to pierce the maddening veils of Bourne’s amnesia.

  A shiver of recognition passed down Bourne’s spine: This was the man who had helped him obtain the Dominion ring.

  Bourne moved away from Diego. This man, whoever he was, didn’t know him as Adam Stone. As Bourne approached him, he extended his hand and a smile creased his face.

  “Jason, at last I’ve caught up with you.”

  “Who are you? How do you know me?”

  The smile lost its luster. “It’s Ottavio. Jason, don’t you remember me?”

  “Not at all.”

  Ottavio shook his head. “I don’t understand. We worked together in Morocco, an assignment from Alex Conklin—”

  “Not now,” Bourne said. “The man I’m with—”

  “Diego Hererra, I recognize him.”

  “Hererra knows me as Adam Stone.”

  Ottavio nodded, at once focused. “I understand.” He glanced over Bourne’s shoulder. “Why don’t you introduce us?”

  “I don’t think that would be wise.”

  “Judging by Hererra’s expression, it will look odd if you don’t.”

  Bourne saw that he had no choice. Turning on his heel, he led Ottavio back to the bar.

  Bourne introduced them, “Diego Hererra, this is Ottavio—”

  “Moreno,” Ottavio said, extending his hand for Diego to take.

  As Diego did so his eyes opened wide in shock and his body slumped down onto the stool. That was when Bourne saw the scarred man pull out the slender, ceramic blade of the knife, which through sleight of hand he had palmed and slipped through Diego’s chest. Its tip was curved slightly upward, mimicking his smile, which now seemed ghastly.

  Bourne grabbed him by the shirtfront and hauled him off his feet, but the scarred man would not let go of Diego’s hand. He was immensely powerful, his grip was like a vise. Bourne turned to Diego but saw that the life was already fleeing his body, the knife tip had probably pierced his heart.

  “I’ll kill you for this,” Bourne whispered.

  “No you won’t, Jason. I’m one of the good guys, remember?”

  “I don’t remember a thing, not even your name.”

  “Then you’ll just have to trust me. We’ve got to get out—”

  “I’m not letting you go anywhere,” Bourne said.

  “You have no choice but to trust me.” The scarred man glanced toward the door, which had just opened. “Regard the alternative.”

  Bourne saw Donald the bouncer come into the Empire Suite. He was accompanied by two other brawny men in tuxedos. All of them, Bourne noted with an electric shock that passed clear through him, were wearing gold rings on the forefingers of their right hands.

  “They’re Severus Domna,” the scarred man said.

  Book Two

  12

  IN THE ABSOLUTE stillness of inaction, the only sound was the whisper of gamblers losing money. Ottavio handed Bourne a pair of specially baffled earplugs, along with the whispered word: “Now.”

  Bourne fitted the plugs into his ear canals. He saw what looked like a ball bearing palmed out of Ottavio’s pocket, held between the forefinger and middle finger of his left hand. Only its rough surface and the earplugs gave clues to what it might be: a USW, an ultrasonic weapon.

  At that moment Ottavio let the USW drop to the floor, where it rolled across the slick marble squares toward the three Severus Domna agents standing between them and the green baize door. The USW activated as soon as it hit the floor, sending out an AFS, an area field of sound, that affected the inner ears of everyone in the room, causing them to collapse in waves of dizziness.

  Bourne followed Ottavio past the tables, leaping over prone bodies. Donald and the other two bouncers were on the floor with the gamblers and the dealers, but as the scarred man stepped over a bouncer the man reached

up and, pulling hard on the back of his jacket, toppled him backward, then struck him hard just above the right ear. Bourne sidestepped Ottavio’s falling body. As the bouncer rose, Bourne recognized him as the man patrolling the electronic gaming room; he wore earplugs to mute the rock music. They weren’t the kind Bourne and the scarred man were using, but they had dampened the field enough for him to overcome his disorientation.

  Bourne slammed his fist into the bouncer’s side. The bouncer grunted, and when he turned, he held a Walther P99 in his hand. Bourne drove the edge of his hand down onto the bouncer’s wrist. He wrested the Walther away from him and swung its butt into the bouncer’s face, but he ducked away out of reach. Bourne drove him against the wall; the bouncer hit him hard on the right biceps and Bourne’s arm went numb. The bouncer, seeking to build on his advantage, drove his fist toward Bourne’s solar plexus, but Bourne deflected the blow, buying himself time to regain feeling in his right arm.

  They fought savagely and silently in a room bizarrely filled with people slumped over the gaming tables or puddled on the floor like spilled Jell-O. Their soundless fury was a blur of intense motion in a room otherwise devoid of it, lending the vicious give-and-take of hand-to-hand combat an eerie quality, as if they were battling underwater.

  Oxygenated blood was rushing back into Bourne’s right arm when the bouncer got himself inside Bourne’s defense and landed a powerful blow in the same spot. Bourne’s arm dropped as if it were made of stone, and he could see the grin of triumph informing the bouncer’s face. He feinted right, which didn’t fool the man, whose grin widened. Bourne’s left elbow connected with his throat, breaking the hyoid bone. The bouncer made an odd, clicking sound as he went down and stayed down.

  By this time Ottavio had regained his feet and was shaking off the effects of the blow to his head. Bourne pulled open the door and, together, they went out into the casino’s main room, walking quickly but not fast enough to draw attention to themselves. The sonic field hadn’t penetrated here. Everything was moving at a normal pace, no one yet suspected what had happened in the Empire Suite, but Bourne knew it was just a matter of time before the head of security or one of the managers went looking for Donald or one of the other two bouncers.

  Bourne tried to hurry them along, but the scarred man hung back.

  “Wait,” he said, “wait.”

  They had removed their earplugs and the scrapes and rustlings of the rarefied world around them plunged in on them like the roar of angry surf.

  “We can’t afford to wait,” Bourne said. “We need to get out of here before—”

  But it was already too late. A man with a ramrod-straight back and the clear no-nonsense air of authority was striding across the main room toward them. There were too many people around for a confrontation, nevertheless Bourne saw Ottavio heading toward the manager.

  Bourne cut him off and, smiling broadly, said, “Are you the floor manager?”

  “Yes. Andrew Steptoe.” He made an attempt to look over Bourne’s shoulder at the green baize door outside of which Donald should have been stationed. “I’m afraid I’m rather busy at the moment. I—”

  “Donald said someone would call you over.” He took Steptoe’s elbow and, inclining his head toward him, said in a confidential whisper, “I’m in the middle of one of those high-stakes battles that come along once in a great while, if you understand me.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t—”

  Bourne turned him away from the door to the Empire Suite. “But of course you do, a mano-a-mano duel over the poker table, I know you do. It’s a matter of money, you see.”

  Money was the magic word. He had Steptoe’s full attention now. Behind the manager’s back he could see the scarred man break out into a sly smile. He walked Steptoe closer and closer to the cashier, which was on the right side of the slots room, conveniently located near the entryway so that the clientele could buy chips on their way in and the occasional winners could cash out as they left—if they made it past all the other glittering lures the gambling profession threw at them.

  “How much money?” Steptoe could not keep a note of greed out of his voice.

  “Half a million,” Bourne said without hesitation.

  Steptoe didn’t know whether to frown or lick his chops. “I’m afraid I don’t know you…”

  “James. Robert James.” They were nearing the cashier’s cage and, by proximity, the front door. “I’m an associate of Diego Hererra’s.”

  “Ah. I see.” Steptoe pursed his lips. “Even so, Mr. James, this establishment does not know you personally. You understand, we cannot put up such a large amount—”

  “Oh, no, that’s not what I meant to imply.” Bourne feigned shock. “Rather I need your permission to leave the premises during the game in order to obtain the amount in question, so that I can remain in the game.”

  Now the manager did frown. “At this time of night?”

  Bourne radiated confidence. “A wire transfer can be effected. It will only take twenty minutes—thirty, at most.”

  “Well, it’s highly irregular, don’t you know.”

  “Half a million pounds, Mr. Steptoe, is a large amount of money, as you yourself pointed out.”

  Steptoe nodded. “Quite so.” He sighed. “I suppose that under the circumstances it can be allowed.” He waggled a forefinger in Bourne’s face. “But be quick about it, sir. I can give you no more than half an hour.”

  “Understood.” Bourne shook the manager’s hand. “Thank you.”

  Then he and the scarred man turned, went up the steps, across the entryway, through the glass doors, and into the windswept London night.

  Several blocks away, as they turned a corner, Bourne rammed the scarred man hard against the side of a parked car and said, “Now tell me who you are and why you killed Diego.”

  As the scarred man reached for his knife Bourne gripped his wrist. “Let’s have none of that,” he said. “Give me answers.”

  “I would never harm you, Jason, you know that.”

  “Why did you kill Diego?”

  “He’d been told to bring you to the club at a certain time tonight.”

  Bourne remembered Diego looking down at his watch and saying, “Now’s the time to take ourselves to Knightsbridge.” An odd way to put it, except if this man was telling the truth.

  “Who told Diego to bring me there?” But Bourne already knew.

  “The Severus Domna got to him—I don’t know how—but they gave him precise instructions on how to betray you.”

  Bourne remembered Diego picking at his food as if he had something important on his mind. Had he been anticipating the betrayal? Was Ottavio right?

  The scarred man stared into Bourne’s face. “You really don’t know me, do you?”

  “I told you I didn’t.”

  “My name is Ottavio Moreno.” He waited a beat. “Gustavo Moreno’s brother.”

  A tiny tremor of recognition raced through Bourne as the veils of his amnesia stirred and tried to part.

  “We met in Morocco.” Bourne’s voice was barely a whisper.

  “Yes.” A smile creased Ottavio Moreno’s face. “In Marrakech, we traveled into the High Atlas Mountains together, didn’t we?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Good God!” Ottavio Moreno’s face registered surprise, perhaps even shock. “And the laptop? What about the laptop?”

  “What laptop?”

  “You don’t remember the laptop?” He grabbed Bourne by the arms. “Jason, come on. We met in Marrakech in order to get the laptop.”

  “Why?”

  Ottavio Moreno frowned. “You told me it was a key.”

  “Key to what?”

  “To the Severus Domna.”

  At that moment they heard the familiar high–low wail of police sirens.

  “The mess we left behind in the Empire Suite,” Moreno said. “Come on, let’s go.”

  “I’m not going anywhere with you,” Bourne said.

&n

bsp; “But you must, you owe me,” Ottavio Moreno said. “You killed Noah Perlis.”

  In other words,” Secretary of Defense Bud Halliday said as he scanned the report in front of him, “between retirements, normal attrition, and requests for transfer—all of which, I see, have been not only granted but expedited—a quarter of the Old Man’s CI has moved on.”

  “And our own personnel have moved in.” DCI Danziger did not bother to keep the satisfaction out of his voice. The secretary appreciated confidence as much as he disliked indecision. Danziger took back the report and carefully folded it away. “It will be only a matter of months, I believe, before that number will increase to fully a third of the old guard.”

  “Good, good.”

  Halliday rubbed his large, square hands over the remnants of his Spartan lunch. The Occidental was abuzz with the jawing of politicos, reporters, flacks, power brokers, and industry influence peddlers. All of them had paid their respects to him in one circumspect manner or another, whether it was with a slightly terrified smile, an obeisant nod of the head, or, as in the case of the elderly and influential Senator Daughtry, a quick handshake and a down-home how-dee-do. Swing-state senators accumulated power even during non-election years, both parties seeking to curry favor. It was simply standard operating procedure inside the Beltway.

  For some time, then, the two men sat in silence. The restaurant began to thin out as the denizens of the DC political pits straggled back to work. But soon enough their place was taken by tourists in striped shirts and baseball caps they’d bought from the vendors down by the Mall imprinted with CIA or FBI. Danziger returned to his lunch, which, as usual, was more substantial than Halliday’s unadorned strip steak. All that was left on the secretary’s plate were several pools of blood, clotted with congealed fat.

  Across the table Halliday’s mind had drifted to the dream he couldn’t remember. He had read articles that dreams were a necessary part of sleep—REM sleep, the eggheads called it—without which a man would, eventually, go insane. On the other hand, it was certainly true that he couldn’t recall a single dream. His entire sleeping existence was a perfect blank wall on which nothing was ever scrawled.