The Bourne Deception

14





BOURNE AND TRACY ATHERTON entered Seville late on the third afternoon of the Feria de Abril, the weeklong festival that grips the entire city at Eastertime like a fever. Only weeks before, during the Semana Santa, masses of hooded penitents followed behind magnificently adorned floats, tiered and filigreed like baroque wedding cakes, filled with ranks of white candles and sprays of white flowers, at the center of which sat images of Christ or the Virgin Mary. Bands of colorfully dressed musicians accompanied the floats, playing music both melancholy and martial.

Now as then avenues were blocked off to vehicular traffic, and even on foot many streets were all but impassable because, it seemed, all of Seville was out taking part in or observing the eye-popping pageant.

In the packed Avenida de Miraflores, they pushed their way into an Internet café. It was dark and narrow, the manager behind a cramped desk in back. The entire left-hand wall was taken up with computer stations hooked up to the Internet. Bourne paid for an hour, then waited along the wall for one of the stations to free up. The place was dim with smoke; everyone had a cigarette except the two of them.

What are we doing here Tracy said in a hushed voice.

I need to find a photo of one of the Prados Goya experts, Bourne said. If I can convince Hererra Im this man, hell know hes got a very clever fake rather than a real lost Goya.

Tracys face lit up and she laughed. You really are a piece of work, Adam. All at once a frown overtook her. But if you present yourself as this Goya expert, how on earth are you going to get any money out of Don Fernando for your consortium

Simple enough, Bourne said. The expert leaves and I return as Adam Stone.

A seat opened up and Tracy began to move toward it when Bourne stopped her with a taut shake of his head. When she looked at him questioningly, he spoke to her very softly.

The man who just walked inno, dont look at him. I saw him on our flight.

So what

He was on my Thai Air flight as well, Bourne said. Hes traveled with me all the way from Bali.

She turned her back to him, using a mirror to glance at him briefly. Who is he Her eyes narrowed. What does he want

I dont know, Bourne said. But you noticed the scar on the side of his neck that runs up into his jaw

She risked another glance in the mirror, then nodded.

Whoever sent him wants me to know hes there.

Your rivals

Yes. Theyre thugs, he improvised. Its a typical intimidation tactic.

A look of alarm crossed Tracys face and she shrank away from him. What kind of dirty business are you in

Its precisely what I told you, Bourne said. But the venture capital business is riddled with industrial espionage because being first to market with a new product or idea can often mean the difference between Google or Microsoft buying you out for half a billion dollars or going bust.

This explanation appeared to calm her slightly, but she was clearly still on edge. What are you going to do

For the moment, nothing.

Bourne crossed the floor and sat down, and Tracy followed him. As he brought up the Museo del Prado on Google, she bent low over his shoulder and said, Dont bother. The man you want is Professor Alonzo Pecunia Zuńiga.

This was the Prados Goya expert whod authenticated Hererras Goya. Bourne recalled seeing his letter in her attaché case.

Without a word, he typed in the name. He had to scroll through several news items before he came upon a photo of the professor, who was accepting an award from one of the many Spanish foundations concerned with promoting Goyas history and work worldwide.

Alonzo Pecunia Zuńiga was a slim man who appeared to be in his midfifties. He had a dapper spade-shaped beard and thick eyebrows that shaded his eyes like a visor. Bourne checked the date of the photo to be certain it was current. Zooming in on the photo, he printed it out, which cost him an extra couple of euros. Using Google Local, he looked up the addresses of a number of shops.

Our first stop, he said to Tracy, is just off Paseo de Cristóbal Colón, around the corner from the Teatro Maestranza.

What about the man with the scar she whispered.

Bourne closed out the screen, then went into the browser cache and deleted both the site history and the cookies from the sites hed visited. Im counting on him following us, he said.

God. Tracy gave a brief shudder. Im not.


The broad paseo ran beside the eastern branch of the Guadalquivir River in the El Arenal barrio of the city. It was the historical district called home by many of the Semana Santa brotherhoods. From the beautiful Maestranza bullring, next door to the massive theater, they could see the thirteenth-century Torre del Oro, the great tower, once clad in gold, part of the fortifications to protect Seville from its ancient enemies, the Muslims of North Africa, the fundamentalist Almohads, Berbers from Morocco who were driven out of Seville and all of Andalusia in 1230 by the armies of the Christian kingdoms of Castile and Aragón.

Have you ever been to a corrida Bourne asked.

No. I hate the idea of bullfighting.

Heres your chance to see for yourself. Taking her by the hand, he went to the ticket office by the main gate and bought two sol barreras, the only front seats left, which were in the sun.

Tracy hung back. I dont think I want to do this.

You either come with me, Bourne said, or I leave you here to be questioned by Scarface.

She stiffened. Hes followed us here

Bourne nodded. Come on. As he handed his tickets over and pushed her through the entrance, he added, Dont worry, Ill take care of everything. Trust me.

A ferocious roaring signaled that the corrida had already begun. The place was filled with tiers of seats, above which rose a continuous line of decorative arches. As they made their way down the aisle, the first bull was in the process of being tenderized via the suerte de picar. The picadores, mounted on horses, padded and blindfolded for the animals protection, drove their short lances into the bulls neck while he expended energy attempting to toss their mounts. The horses had oil-soaked cloths in their ears to keep them from shying at the roaring of the crowd. Their vocal cords had been cut to render them mute so as not to distract the bull.

Okay, Bourne said, handing her a ticket. I want you to go get a beer from the stand over there. Drink it in back with plenty of people around you, then make your way to our seats.

And where will you be

Never mind, he said, just do as Ive told you and wait for me in the seat.

Hed caught sight of the man with the pink scar, whod entered the corrida high up to give himself a better vantage point. Bourne watched Tracy picking her way back to the refreshment stalls, then he took out his cell phone and pretended to talk to a contact he wanted Scarface to believe he was meeting here. With an emphatic nod, he put the cell away and made his way around the ring. He had to find a place in shadow, private enough for a meet, where he could handle Scarface without interference.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Scarface glance briefly at Tracy before moving down one of the aisles that intersected with the lowest tier where Bourne was heading.

Bourne had been here before and knew the basic layout. He was looking for the toril, the enclosure where the bulls were kept, because he knew a corridor near it led to the toilets on this side of Maestranza. A couple of young toreros were leaning on the bull gate. Beside them the matador, having exchanged his pink-and-gold cape for the red one, stood still as death, waiting for the moment of suerte de matar, when he would enter the ring with nothing but his sword, his cape, and his athletic skill to bring down the snorting, panting beast. At least, thats how these corrida fans saw it. Others, like the Asociación para la defensa del anima, saw quite another picture.

As he neared the toril, there came a jolt against the door that sent the young toreros scattering in fright. The matador briefly turned his attention to the animal in the pen.

Good, you are eager to come out, he said in Spanish, into the smell of blood.

Then he returned his attention to the corrida proper where, as the bull tired, his moment was upon him.

Fuera! came the fevered cries from the aficionados. Fuera! Get out! they called to the picadores, for fear their lances were weakening the bull too much, that the final confrontation would not be the blood match they craved.

Now, as the picadores backed their mounts away from the beast, the matador was on the move, entering the corrida as his underlings exited it. The tumult from the crowd was almost ear shattering. No one paid the slightest attention to Bourne as he reached the area near the toril, save for Scarface who, Bourne could see now, had the tattoo of three skulls on the opposite side of his neck. They were crude, ugly, without doubt prison tattoos, most likely received inside a Russian penitentiary. And this man was more than an intimidator. A skull meant that he was a professional killer: three skulls, three kills.

Bourne was at the very end of this section of the standsbeyond was a decorative archway that led back to the area under the stands. Just below him was the wall that divided the pit where the toreros crouched to evade the charges of the bull. At the end of that, to Bournes right, was the toril.

Scarface was rapidly approaching, moving down the aisle and across the tiers like a ghost or a wraith. Bourne turned and passed through the archway and down an incline into the shadowed interior. Immediately he was hit by a miasma of human urine and strong animal musk. To his left was the concrete corridor that led to the toilets. There was a door along the wall to his right, outside of which was a uniformed guard.

As he walked toward this tall, slim man a figure blotted out the daylight: Scarface. Bourne approached the guard, who told him, rather brusquely, he had no business being in an area so close to the bulls. Smiling, Bourne placed himself between the guard and Scarface, then reached out and, talking amiably to the guard, pressed the artery at the side of his neck. Even as the guard reached for his weapon, Bourne blocked him with his other hand. The man tried to fight, but Bourne, moving swiftly, used an elbow to temporarily paralyze the guards right shoulder. He was rapidly losing consciousness from loss of blood to his brain and, as he fell forward, Bourne held him up, continued talking to him because he wanted Scarface to think that this was the man hed spoken to on his cell, a colleague of the man Bourne had come here to see. It was essential that he keep the fiction going now that Scarface was closing in.

Taking the key from the chain at the guards hip, he unlocked the door and pushed the guard into the darkened interior. As he followed him in, he shut the door behind him, but not before hed caught a glimpse of Scarface hurrying down the ramp. Now that hed ascertained the place of Bournes meet, he was prepared to close in on his quarry.

Bourne found himself in a small anteroom filled with wooden bins containing food for the bulls and an enormous soapstone sink with outsize zinc spout and taps, beneath which sat buckets, cloths, mops, and plastic bottles of cleaning fluids. The floor was covered with straw, which absorbed only a minuscule part of the stench. The bull, hidden behind a concrete barrier that rose to Bournes chest, snorted and bellowed, scenting his presence. The frenzied shouts of the crowd broke like waves over the toril, above which sunlight, multicolored from the reflections spinning off the costume of the matador and the outfits of the patrons, splashed across the upper walls of the pen like an artists broad and reckless brushstrokes.

Bourne drew a cloth from one of the buckets and was halfway across the anteroom when the door behind him opened so slowly one needed to be looking straight at it to be aware of the movement. Putting his back to the barrier, he moved to his left, toward the part of the room where the opening door would block Scarfaces view of him.

The bull, frightened, angered, or both by the sudden new human scents, struck the concrete barrier with its hooves, the force so powerful it sent bits of stucco flying on Bournes side. Scarface seemed to hesitate, no doubt trying to identify the noise. Bourne was almost certain that he had no idea that the next bull was waiting here for its turn to die a bellowing death in the corrida. It was a creature of pure muscle and instinct, easily provoked, easily bewildered, fast and deadly unless brought low by exhaustion and a hundred wounds out of which its life dribbled into the dust of the corrida.

Bourne crept behind the door as it slowly opened, as Scarfaces left hand appeared holding a knife with a long, slender blade shaped like that of the matadors sword. The wicked tip was tilted slightly up, a position from which he could thrust it, slash it, or throw it with equal ease.

Bourne wrapped the cloth around the knuckles of his left hand, providing sufficient padding. He let Scarface take one tentative step into the anteroom and then rushed him from the side. The killers instinct caused the blade to come up and out in a semicircular sweep as he turned toward the blur of motion he detected at the extreme corner of his field of vision.

Deflecting the blade with wrapped knuckles caused Scarfaces defense to open up, and Bourne stepped in, planting his feet, turning from his hips, and drove his right fist into Scarfaces solar plexus. The killer gasped almost inaudibly and his eyes opened in a moment of shock, but an instant later hed wrapped his right arm around Bournes, locking the back of his hand against the inside of Bournes elbow. Instantly he applied both pressure and leverage in an attempt to break the bones in Bournes forearm.

Pain shot up Jasons arm, and he faltered. Scarface took the opening and brought the knife blade down, inside Bournes wrapped left hand so that the point was directed at Bournes rib cage. He couldnt concentrate on both motions at once, so he let up fractionally on Bournes forearm long enough to drive the blade inward toward Bournes heart.

Bourne stepped into the lunge, surprising him. Bourne was suddenly too close and the blade passed along his side, allowing him to trap Scarfaces hand between his side and his left arm. At the same time, he kept his forward momentum going, driving Scarface across the room at an angle, backing him up against the stucco barrier.

Scarface, enraged, redoubled his efforts to break Bournes arm. A moment more and the bones would snap. On the other side of the barrier, the bull scented the blood in the air, which further maddened it. Once again, its great hooves struck the barrier. The shock reverberated down Scarfaces spine and jolted him from his position of superior leverage.

For a moment Bourne broke free, but Scarface had maneuvered the knife in his trapped hand so that the blade raked down Bournes back, drawing blood. Bourne swiveled, but the knife blade followed him, jabbing ever closer until he vaulted over the barrier.

Scarface followed without hesitation, and now both of them were in unknown territory, facing not only each other but the enraged bull as well.

Bourne had the immediate advantage of knowing it was there, but even he was surprised by its size. Like the corrida, the pen was divided by sunlight and shadow. Dust motes hung in the light in the upper half of the pen, but below was the darkness of the Minotaurs cave. He saw the bull in the shadows, red eyes glittering, black lips flecked with foam. It was staring at him, pawing the ground with massive hooves. Its tail switched back and forth, its massive shoulders were bunched with muscle and sinew. Its head lowered ominously.

And then Scarface was on him. The man, solely intent on Bourne, was as yet unaware of the creature with which they shared the pen. The three skulls, each peering in a different direction, filled Bournes vision. He brought an elbow up, aiming for the throat, slammed it into Scarfaces chin instead as the killer partially deflected the blow. At almost the same time Scarface smashed his fist into the side of Bournes head, bringing him down to the packed-dirt floor. Rolling over, he grabbed Bournes ears, pulled Bournes head off the ground, then slammed it back down.

Bourne was rapidly losing consciousness. Scarface was astride him, his bulk painfully pressed down on Bournes rib cage. There was a moment when Scarface grinned. He slammed Bournes head down again and again, taking increasing pleasure.

Bourne thought, Wheres his knife

He felt around on the floor with both hands, but there were flashes behind his eyes, the light and dark of the room were spinning, merging into a pinwheel of silver sparks. He felt his breath laboring, his heart hammering in his chest, but as his head was once again slammed into the dirt even these vital sensations began to slip away, replaced by a numbing warmth that flooded inward from his extremities. This warmth was soothing, taking away all pain, all effort, all will. He saw himself floating on a river of white light, moving away from his world of shadows and darkness.

And then something cold intruded and for a moment he was certain it was the breath of Shiva, the destroyer, whose face he sensed hovering over him. Then he knew the blade of cold for what it was. Taking hold of the knifes hilt brought him back from the brink, and he plunged the blade into Scarfaces side, piercing the flesh between his ribs, skewering his heart.

Scarface reared up, his shoulders trembling, but perhaps, Bourne thought, they werent trembling at all, because his head was still spinning from the pounding it had taken. He had trouble focusing. How else to explain Scarfaces head being replaced by that of a bull This wasnt Crete, he wasnt in the Minotaurs cave. He was in Seville, at the Maestranza corrida.

Then full consciousness returned and, with it, the knowledge of precisely where in the corrida he was.

The pen!

And as he looked up from his prone position he saw the bull, huge and menacing, its head lowered, its razor-tipped horns angled to disembowel him.


Undersecretary Stevenson did not look at all well when Moira and Veronica Hart found him, but then no one looks particularly good stretched out on a slab in the cold room of the DC morgue. The two women had been searching the area surrounding the Fountain of the Court of Neptune sculpture near the entrance to the Library of Congress. As fieldwork protocol dictated, they began at the point of originin this case, the fountainand began moving outward in a spiral, hoping to spot some clue that Stevenson might have left as to what had happened to him.

Moira had already called Stevensons wife and married daughter, neither of whom had seen or heard from him. She had just looked up the number of Humphry Bamber, Stevensons friend and old college roommate, when Hart got the call that a corpse fitting the undersecretarys description had just been brought into the morgue. The Metro police wanted a positive ID. The DCI had turned to Moira, who said shed give the prelim. If it was Stevenson, the cops could call his wife to make the formal ID.

He looks like shit, Hart said now as they stood over the cadaver of the late Steve Stevenson. What happened to him she asked the associate ME.

Hit-and-run. C1 to C4 of his spine crushed, as well as most of his pelvis, so the vehicle mustve been something big: an SUV or a truck. The AME was a small, compact woman with an enormous coppery halo of wild curls. He never felt a thing, if thats any consolation.

I doubt it will be to his family, Moira said.

The AME went on unperturbed; shed seen and heard it all before. It wasnt that she was callous, just that her job demanded dispassion. The cops are investigating now but I doubt theyll find anything. She shrugged. In these cases they rarely do.

Moira stirred. Did you find anything out of the ordinary

Not in the prelim, anyway. His alcohol level was almost two, more than double the legal limit, so its all too likely he became disoriented and walked off the curb when he should have stayed put, the AME said. Were waiting on the formal ID to begin the full autopsy.

As the two women turned away, Hart said, What I find curious is they found no wallet on him, no keys, nothing to indicate who he was.

If he was deliberately hit, Moira said, his killers wouldnt necessarily want him identified right away.

Your conspiracy theory again. Hart shook her head. Okay, lets play this game for a minute. If he was murdered, why have him found at all They could have snatched him, killed him, and buried him where he wouldnt be dug up for ages, if at all.

Two reasons, Moira said. First, hes an undersecretary at DoD. Can you imagine the scope of the manhunt the moment he was reported missing, the amount of time his name would be in the forefront of the news No, these people wanted him dead, wanted it over and done with, which defines an accident.

Hart cocked her head. Whats the second reason

They want to scare me away from whatever Weston found, whatever Stevenson was afraid of.

Pinprickbardem.

Precisely.

Youve become as bad as Bourne was with these conspiracy theories.

All of Jasons conspiracy theories proved correct, Moira said hotly.

The DCI appeared unconvinced. Lets not get ahead of ourselves, shall we

They reached the door and Moira turned back to take one last look at Stevenson. Then she opened the door. When theyd entered the corridor she said, Would we be getting ahead of ourselves if I told you that Stevenson was a reformed alcoholic

Could be his fear made him slip off the wagon.

You didnt know him, Moira said. Hed converted his disease into a religion. Staying sober was his watchword, the reason he stayed alive. He hadnt had a drink in the last twenty years. Nothing could have induced him to do it.


The bull was coming, nothing could stop it. Bourne grabbed the knife, pulled it out of Scarfaces side, and rolled to one side. The bull, scenting fresh blood, flicked its horns, goring Scarface in the groin. The animal twisted its massive head, lifting Scarfaces bulk off the ground as if it were made of papier-maché and tossing it against the barrier.

Snorting and stomping its front hooves, the bull then charged the corpse, impaling it on both horns, shaking it back and forth. The beast would surely tear it to shreds within moments. Bourne rose slowly, moving toward the bull with measured steps. When he was close enough, he slapped it smartly on its glistening, black snout with the flat of the blade.

The bull pulled up short, confused, and backed up, allowing the blood-soaked body to crumple to the ground. There it stood its ground, with forelegs spread wide, and shook its head from side to side as if it couldnt decide where the blow came from or what it meant. Blood spiraled down the horns, dripping onto the dirt. Staring at Bourne, uncertain how to deal with this second interloper in its territory, it made a sound deep in its throat. The moment it took a step toward him, Bourne smacked it once again with the blade and it halted, blinking, snorting, shaking its head as if to rid itself of the stinging pain.

Bourne turned, knelt beside the ragged corpse. Quickly he went through Scarfaces pockets. He needed to find out who had sent this man. According to Wayans description of a man with gray eyes, Scarface wasnt the one whod tried to kill him in Bali. Had he been sent by the same man whod hired the marksman He needed to find some answers because Scarface was unfamiliar to him. Had Bourne known him in the past he couldnt remember As always when there was the possibility of someone resurfacing, these questions were maddening, required immediate solving, otherwise hed never rest.

Save for a roll of blood-soaked euros, Scarfaces pockets were predictably empty. He must have stashed his false passport and other equally fake papers at a safe house or perhaps a locker at the airport or rail stationbut if that was the case, where was the key

Then Bourne turned the body slightly, looking for it when the bull came out of its temporary stupor and made a run at him. His arm was directly in the path of the horns. At the last instant he snatched it away, but the bull twisted its head violently and the length of the horn rode up his arm, flaying off the skin in a thin ribbon.

Grabbing on to the horn, Bourne used it as a fulcrum to swing himself onto the bulls back. For an instant the beast did not know what happened. Then, as the weight on its back shifted, it stomped forward, charging the barrier again. But this time the bull slammed into it sideways, and if Bourne hadnt lifted his right leg it would have been smashed between the muscle of the beast and the stucco. As it was, he was jarred halfway off the bull. Had he fallen, it would have been the end of him, the creature mindlessly stomping him to death within seconds.

Now he had to hang on as the bull made another run at the barrier in an attempt to shake him off. Bourne still had Scarfaces knife; there was a chance the blade was long enough to deliver the coup de grace and bring the bull to its knees if he chose precisely the right spot and the correct angle. But he knew he wouldnt do it. To kill this beast from behind when it was terrified of him seemed cowardly, craven. He thought of the wooden pig overlooking the pool in Bali, its painted face carved with the eternal smile of the mystical sage. This bull had its own life to live; Bourne had no right to take it.

At that moment he was almost thrown off as the beast slammed into the barrier at an angle, twisting its head down and to the left in a more desperate attempt to dislodge the shifting weight on its back. Bourne, bounced painfully around, was clinging to the bulls horns. His arm ached where Scarface had tried to break it, his back was still bleeding from the knife wound, and worst of all his head felt as if it were splitting into a thousand pieces. He knew he couldnt last much longer, but rolling off the bull meant almost certain death.

And then, as the massed shouts from the corrida came to an ear-shattering crescendo, the bull folded its front legs, its back canted steeply down, and Bourne was shaken loose at last, tumbling head over heels, fetching up against the barrier, which now was spiderwebbed with cracks from the force of the bulls charges.

He lay in a heap, half dazed. He could feel the beasts hot breath on him; the horns were no more than a handbreadth from his face. He tried to move, but couldnt. His breath labored in and out of his lungs and he was gripped by a terrible dizziness.

The red eyes fixed him in their glare, the muscles beneath the glistening hide were bunching for the final lunge at him, and he knew that in the next moment he would be nothing more than a rag doll skewered like Scarface on the points of those bloody horns.