The Bourne Deception

17





AHYMN of deep-throated cathedral bells woke Bourne. Sunlight filtered through the jalousied bedroom window, fingers of pale gold striping the polished floorboards.

Good morning, Adam. The police are after you.

Tracy had come into the doorway, stood leaning against one side of the frame. The robust scent of fresh-brewed coffee entered with her and swirled enticingly about him like a flamenco dancer.

I heard it on the TV earlier. She had her arms crossed over her breasts. Her hair was still wet from the shower, slicked off her face, tied with a black velvet ribbon into a ponytail. Her face was bright, freshly scrubbed. She wore umber slacks, a cream man-tailored shirt, and shoes without heels. She looked ready for Don Fernando Hererra or whatever else the day might hold. Not to worry, though, they dont have your name, and the single witness, a guard at the Maestranza, didntor couldntgive an accurate description of you.

He saw me in very low light. Bourne sat up and moved across the bed. Sometimes in no light at all.

All the better for you.

Was the smile she gave him sardonic In his present state he couldnt tell.

I got breakfast, and we have an appointment to see Don Fernando Hererra at three this afternoon.

His head still throbbed and his mouth was as dry as a desert, distinguished only by an acrid taste that was faintly nauseating.

What time is it he asked.

Just after nine.

The arm Scarface had tried to break felt better when he flexed it and the flesh wound down his back scarcely burned at all, but the pain in his chest made him wince as he wrapped the top sheet around his waist and rose out of bed.

Perfect, Tracy said. A Roman senator.

Lets hope by this afternoon I look more Castilian than Roman, he said as he padded toward the bathroom, because it will be Professor Alonzo Pecunia Zuńiga wholl be accompanying you to Don Hererras this afternoon.

She gave him a curious look, then turned and went back into the living room. He closed the bathroom door behind him and ran the shower. Over the sink was a mirror surrounded by small incandescent lightbulbs: a womans bathroom, he thought, made for putting on makeup.

Returning to the bedroom after his shower, he found a thick Turkish terry-cloth robe, which he wrapped around himself. She had covered his chest wound with a waterproof plastic layer, which he hadnt noticed until he stepped into the stream of hot water.

When he came into the living room, Tracy was pouring coffee into an enormous cup. The small kitchen was merely a niche at one end of the single open room, which was spacious but, like the bedroom, as sparsely and anonymously furnished as a hotel room. On the wooden trestle table was the typical Andalusian workingmans breakfast: a mug of hot chocolate and a plate of churros, slender twists of fried dough, dipped in sugar crystals.

Bourne pulled up a chair and he and Tracy ate their breakfast, and she let him have all the churros, he was still hungry when he finished. He went to the refrigerator.

Theres nothing much in there, Im afraid, she said. I havent been here in some time.

Still, he found some bacon in the freezer. As he fried up the strips, she said, Write down your size and Ill get you some fresh clothes.

He nodded. While youre at it, I need you to run an errand for me. Finding a pencil and scratch pad on the kitchen counter, he tore off a sheet and wrote out a list of items, along with his clothes size.

When he handed the slip of paper to her, Tracy glanced over it and said, Professor Zuńiga, I presume

He nodded, tending the browning strips. I gave you the addresses of the theatrical stores I found yesterday. We were on our way there when Scarface picked up our scent.

She got up, grabbed her handbag, and went to the door. This should take me about an hour, she said. In the meantime, enjoy the rest of your breakfast.

After she left, Bourne took the skillet off the burner, laid the bacon on a sheet of paper towel. Then he returned to the scratch pad. The sheet hed torn off was from the middle because he wanted to keep the top one intact. With the pencil at an extreme angle, he ran the lead lightly over the sheet. Letters began to form, the imprint of the writing left over from the last note someonepresumably Tracyhad made.

Don Hererras name and address came up, along with the time, 3 PM, just as shed told him. He ripped off the sheet and put it in his pocket. That was when he noticed indentations on what was now the top sheet of the pad. He tore that off as well. Running the side of the pencil over this sheet brought up a line of numbers and letters all run together.

He ate the bacon standing beside the front window, staring out at the shimmering morning. It was still too early for people to be out at the feria, but the Moorish scrollwork balcony on the building across the street was garlanded in flowers and gaily colored fabric. His eyes scanned both sides of the street for anyone and anything even remotely suspicious, but nothing presented itself. He watched a young woman herd three children across the street. An old woman in black, small and bent, carried a mesh bag filled with fruit and vegetables.

Popping the last of the bacon into his mouth, he wiped his hands down on a kitchen cloth, then crossed to Tracys laptop, which was set up on the far end of the trestle table. It was on and he saw that she had a Wi-Fi connection to the Internet.

Sitting down in front of it, he Googled the string of numbers and letters only to get this result:


Your search779elgamhuriaavedid not match any documents.

Suggestions:




Make sure all words are spelled correctly.

Try different keywords.

Try more general keywords.


Then he saw his error, and placed spaces in the appropriate places: 779 El Gamhuria Avenue. An address, but where

Returning to Google, he typed in El Gamhuria Avenue and up popped Khartoum, Sudan. Now, that was interesting. What was Tracy doing with a North African address

He typed in the full address, including the number, which, as it turned out, belonged to Air Afrika Corporation. He sat back. Why did that name sound so familiar There were a number of entries for Air Afrika, some of them from very odd sites, others from blogs of dubious nature, but the information he wanted came from an entry on the second page from Interpol, where speculation was cited from numerous sources that Air Afrika was owned and operated by Nikolai Yevsen, the legendary arms dealer. Ever since Viktor Anatoliyevich Bout had been arrested, Yevsen had taken his place as the largest and most powerful illegal arms dealer in the world.

Bourne rose from the chair, walked back to the window, on reflex checking the street again. Tracy was an art expert buying a Goya unknown until just recently. The price must be astronomical; maybe a handful of people in the world could afford it. So who was her client

With church bells pealing the hour, his gaze snapped back into focus as Tracy walked into his field of vision. She was carrying a mesh shopping sack. He watched the confident rat-a-tat of her stride, the heels of her shoes rhythmically striking the pavement. A young man appeared behind her and Bourne felt his muscles tense. Halfway down the block, the young man lifted an arm, waving, and ran across the street where a young woman waited for him. They embraced as Tracy entered the building. A moment later she came through the door, put the mesh sack down on the table.

If youre still hungry, I bought some Serrano ham and Garrotxa cheese. She placed the food, wrapped in white paper, on the table. The rest is everything you asked for.

After hed dressed in the light, comfortable clothes shed chosen for him, he pored over the contents of the mesh sack, lining the items up, opening the lids, smelling the contents, and nodding to himself.

She regarded him solemnly. Adam, she ventured, I dont know what youre involved in

I already told you, he said mildly.

Yes, but now I see how badly youre injured, and that man who was following us was evil looking.

He was evil, Bourne acknowledged. Then he looked up at her and smiled. Its part of the industry Im in, Tracy. There isnt the capital floating around there was in 2000, so more start-ups are chasing less money. That makes for cutthroat competition. He shrugged. It cant be avoided.

But from the looks of you, this kind of work could send you to the hospital.

Ive just got to be more careful from now on.

She frowned. Now youre making fun of me. She came and sat next to him. But theres nothing amusing about that wound in your chest.

He produced the photo hed printed out at the Internet café, set it out between them. To become Professor Alonzo Pecunia Zuńiga Im going to need your help.



She held quite still, her liquid eyes studying his face for a moment. Then she nodded.


Day three of Oserovs reign of terror brought a downpour such as no one in Nizhny Tagil could remember, and this was a city where grudges were nursed, meaning memories were as long and vibrant as the winter chill. Day three also brought other deaths, ones so brutal, so horrific that there now came to the remnants of Stas Kuzins people a black fear. One that crept into their bones, lodging there like a grain of polonium, eroding their confidence the way the radioactive material eats away flesh.

It began in the early hours of the morning, just past two oclock, as Oserov boasted to Arkadin afterward.

With great stealth I broke into their head enforcers house, tied him up, and forced him to watch what I did to his family, Oserov told Arkadin later.

When he was finished, he dragged his victim into the kitchen, where he went to work on him using the fire-reddened tip of a carving knife he slid from a wooden rack. The pain of what Oserov did to him hammered the enforcer out of his state of shock and he began screaming until Oserov cut out his tongue.

An hour later, Oserov was finished. He left him in a pool of his own blood and vomit, alive, but just barely. When the enforcers associates came for him as they did each morning to begin their daily patrol, they found the front door flung open, which led them to the abattoir inside. It was then, and only then, that Mikhail Tarkanian entered Nizhny Tagil. By then, the criminals were in such a frenzy that theyd all but forgotten about Arkadin.

Lev Antonin, I think I can provide the solution to your problem, Tarkanian said to the new head of Stass gang when he met with him in his office. There were seven heavily armed men standing guard. Ill find this killer for you and take care of him.

Who are you, stranger Why would you do this Lev Antonin squinted at him suspiciously. He had a gray face with long ears and stubble on his chin and cheeks. He looked like he hadnt slept in a week.

Who I am is of no importance, except to say that Im intimately familiar with men such as your murderer, Tarkanian replied without hesitation. And as to why Im here the answer is simple: I want Leonid Danilovich Arkadin.

At once Antonins expression changed from suspicious to enraged. And why would you want that f*cking whoremonger, that shit-faced miscreant

Thats my business, Tarkanian said mildly. Your business is keeping your people alive.

This was true. Antonin was a pragmatic man, with none of the mad fire that had burned within his predecessor. Tarkanian could read him like a comic book: Clearly, he was all too aware that the current of fear lapping at the knees of his men was undermining both their effectiveness and his authority. He also knew that once fear made its presence felt, it spread like wildfire. On the other hand, he wasnt about to give away the farm. Arkadins head on a platter was what theyd all dreamed of since Arkadin had killed Kuzin and set their world ablaze with bullets and death. Letting go of that dream wouldnt endear him to his rank and file.

He scrubbed his face with his hands and said, Fine, but youll bring me the killers head so all my men can see for themselves the end of this filth. And then if you can find that bastard Arkadin you can have him.

Naturally enough, Tarkanian did not believe this Neanderthal. He recognized the greed in his yellow eyes and intuited that it was not enough for him to be given the head of the murderer; he wanted Arkadin as well. The two bloody heads would cement his power over his people for all time.

What Lev Antonin wanted was irrelevant, Tarkanian told Arkadin afterward. I had planned for such a treacherous eventuality.

It would have amused Oserov no end to find the murderer for the baboon named Lev Antonin and bring him the freshly cut head, but no, he was to be denied this pleasure. He scowled when Tarkanian told him that Tarkanian himself would find and deliver the murderer to Antonin.

To take the fury out of your heart, I have another assignment for you, Tarkanian told him. A much more important job that only you can do.

I strongly suspect he doubted that very much, Tarkanian told Arkadin later, but when he heard what I wanted him to do a smirk spread across his face. Poor bastard, he couldnt help it.

Tarkanian needed someone to bring to Lev Antonin. But not just anyonehe had to look like a murderer. Moving through the twilit streets of Nizhny Tagil, Tarkanian scoured the bars for a likely victim. Now and again he was forced to sidestep puddles as big as small ponds, caused by the deluge that had only recently been reduced to a light mist. As it had been since dawn the claustrophobically low sky was a dull gray, but now it was marred here and there by bruises of yellow and lavender, as if the storm had brutalized the day.

Tarkanian parked himself outside the most raucous of bars and lit a harsh Turkish cigarette, pulling the smoke deep into his lungs and exhaling it in a gray cloud as thick as those above his head. Night gathered around him like an acolyte as the drunken laughter spilled out to him, along with the shattering of glass and the chunky exhalations of a fistfight. A moment later a big man, bleeding from the nose and several cuts on his face, staggered out onto the sidewalk.

As he bent over, hands on knees, wheezing and retching, Tarkanian ground out his cigarette under his boot heel, walked over, and delivered a vicious chop to the exposed back of the mans neck. The drunk pitched forward, hitting his forehead on the pavement with a satisfying smack.

Tarkanian grabbed him under the arms and pulled him into the alley. If any passersby noticed what he was up to none of them gave the slightest indication. All of them hurried on about their business without even a glance in his direction. Life in Nizhny Tagil had trained them to ignore anything that wasnt their business. It was the only way to keep healthy in this city.

In the deepening shadows of the stinking alley, Tarkanian checked his watch. There was no way to contact Oserov; hed just have to hope hed accomplished his part of the plan.

Fifteen minutes later he walked into a bakery and bought the largest layer cake in the glass case. Back in the alley, he dumped the cake and, lifting the mans severed head by his beer- and blood-damp hair, placed it carefully in the cake box. The glassy eyes stared blankly back at him until he lowered the lid.

Across town he was admitted to Lev Antonins office, where the boss was still guarded by his seven heavily armed goons.

Lev Antonin, as promised I brought you a present, he said as he placed the box on Antonins desk. On the way over, it had grown surprisingly heavy.

Antonin looked from him to the box, evincing little enthusiasm. Signaling to one of his bodyguards, he had him open the box. Then he stood up and peered inside.

Who the f*ck is this he asked.

The murderer.

Whats his name

Mikhail Gorbachev, Tarkanian said sardonically, how the hell should I know

Antonins face was particularly ugly when he smirked. If you dont know his name, how dyou know hes the one

I caught him in the act, Tarkanian said. He had broken into your house, he was about to kill your wife and children.

Antonins face darkened and, snatching up the phone, he dialed a number. His face relaxed somewhat when he heard his wifes voice.

Are you all right Is everyone safe He frowned. What do you mean What Who the f*ck is this Wheres my wife His face had grown dark again and he looked at Tarkanian. What the f*ck is going on

Tarkanian kept his voice calm and even. Your family is safe, Lev Antonin, and theyll remain safe as long as I have free passage to take Arkadin. If you interfere in any way

Ill surround the house, my men will break in

And your wife and three children will die.

Antonin whipped out a Stechkin handgun and aimed it at Tarkanian. Ill shoot you right here where you stand, and I promise your death wont be quick.

In that event, your wife and children will die. Tarkanians voice had an edge now. Whatever you do to me will be done to them.

Antonin glared at Tarkanian, then dropped the Stechkin on the desktop next to the cake box. He looked ready to tear his hair out.

The idea with Neanderthals, Tarkanian said to Arkadin later, is to lead them by the hand through all their possible responses, showing them the futility of each one.

He said, Listen to me, Lev Antonin, you have what we bargained for. If you still want everything, try to remember that pigs get slaughtered.

Then Tarkanian left the office to find Leonid Danilovich Arkadin.


Tracy Atherton and Alonzo Pecunia Zuńiga presented themselves on the front steps of Don Fernando Hererras house at precisely three oclock in the afternoon, bathed in brilliant sunshine amplified by a virtually cloudless sky.

Bourne, with his spade beard and new hairstyle, had shopped for clothes suitable for a distinguished professor from Madrid. Their last stop was an opticians, where he purchased a pair of contact lenses the color of the professors eyes.

Hererra lived in the Santa Cruz barrio of Seville, in a beautiful three-story stucco house painted white and yellow, whose upper-story windows were guarded by magnificent wrought-iron balconies. Its facade formed one side of a small plaza in the center of which was an old well that had been turned into an octagonal fountain. Small haberdashery and crockery shops lined the other three sides, their quaint fronts shaded by palm and orange trees.

The door opened at their knock, and when Tracy gave him their names a well-dressed young man escorted them into the high-ceilinged wood-and-marble entryway. There were fresh white and yellow flowers in a tall porcelain vase on a polished fruitwood table in the center, while on a marquetry sideboard an engraved silver bowl was filled to overflowing with fragrant oranges.

A piano melody, soft and sinuous, came to them. They could see an Old World drawing room with a wall of ebony bookshelves illuminated by raking light from a line of French doors that led out onto an inner courtyard. There was an elegant escritoire, a matching pair of sofas of cinnamon-colored leather, a sideboard on which were arranged five delicate orchids, like girls at a beauty pageant. But the drawing room was dominated by an antique spinet piano behind which sat a large man with an enormous shock of luxuriant white hair brushed straight back off his wide, intelligent forehead. His body was bent in an attitude of exacting concentration, and there was a pencil gripped between his teeth so that he looked like he was in pain. In fact, he was composing a song with a rather florid melody that owed a debt to any number of Iberian virtuosos, as well as to certain flamenco folk tunes.

As they entered, he looked up. Don Hererra had startling blue, slightly exophthalmic eyes, making him look something like a praying mantis as he rose, unfolding from the piano bench in stages. He had dark, leathery skin, wind-burned and sun-wrinkled, marking him as an inveterate outdoorsman. His body was lean and flat, as if he had been constructed in two dimensions instead of three. He appeared to wear the years hed spent in the Colombian oil fields as a second skin.

Taking the pencil from between his teeth, he smiled warmly. Ah, my distinguished guests, what a pleasure. He kissed the back of Tracys hand and shook Bournes. Dear lady. And Professor, its an honor to welcome you both to my house. He gestured toward one of the leather sofas. Please make yourselves comfortable. He was dressed in an open-neck white shirt under an immaculate cream-colored suit of lightweight silk that looked soft as a babys cheek. Would you care for sherry, or something stronger, perhaps

Sherry and some Garrotxa, perhaps, if you have it, Bourne said, playing his part to the hilt.

An excellent idea, Hererra proclaimed, calling in the young man for the order. He wagged a long, tapered forefinger at Bourne. I like the way your palate works, Professor.

Bourne looked fatuously pleased, while Tracy carefully hid her amusement from the older man.

The young man arrived carrying a chased silver salver on which was set a cut-crystal decanter of sherry, three glasses of the same cut crystal, along with a platter of the sheep cheese, crackers, and a wedge of deep orange quince jelly. He set the salver down on a low table and departed as silently as he had come.

Their host poured the sherry and handed out the glasses. Hererra raised his glass, and they followed suit.

To the unsullied pursuit of scholarly inquiry. Don Hererra sipped his sherry, and Bourne and Tracy tasted theirs. As they ate the cheese and quince jelly, he said, So tell me your opinion. Is the world, in fact, going to war against Iran

I dont have enough information to make a judgment, Tracy said, but in my opinion Iran has been flaunting their nuclear program in our faces for too long.

Don Hererra nodded sagely. I think finally the United States has gotten it right. This time, Iran has provoked us too far. But to contemplate another world war, well, to sum up, war is bad for business for most, but uncommonly good for a few. He swung around. And Professor, what is your learned opinion

When it comes to politics, Bourne said, I maintain a strictly neutral posture.

But surely, sir, on such a grave issue that affects us all, you must come down on one side or the other.

I assure you, Don Hererra, Im far more interested in the Goya than I am in Iran.

The Colombian gave him a disappointed look, but then wasted no more time in getting down to business. Seńorita Atherton, I have given you full access to my unearthed treasure, and now you have brought with you the Pradosand by extension all of Spainsleading expert on Goya. So. He spread his hands. What is the verdict

Tracy, smiling noncommittally, said, Professor Zuńiga, why dont you provide the answer

Don Hererra, Bourne said, taking his cue, the painting in your possession, attributed to Francisco José de Goya y Lucientes, is in fact not painted by him at all.

Hererra frowned and for a moment his lips pursed. Do you mean to tell me, Professor Zuńiga, that I have been harboring a fake

That depends on your definition of a fake, Bourne said.

With all due respect, Professor, either it is a fake or it isnt.

You may look at it that way, Professor, but there are others. Let me explain by saying that the painting, though by no means commanding the price you have set on it, is far from worthless. You see, tests Ive made confirm that it was produced in Goyas studio. It may even have been sketched out by the master himself before he died. In any event, there can be little doubt that the design is his. The actual painting, however, lacks the particular slightly mad attack of his brushstrokes, though it mimics these quite convincingly even to the trained eye.

Don Hererra drained the last of his sherry then sat back, his large hands folded over his lower belly. So, he said at length, my painting is worth something, just not the price Ive quoted to Seńorita Atherton.

Thats right, Bourne affirmed.

Hererra made a sound deep in his throat. This turn of events will take some getting used to. He turned to Tracy. Seńorita, given the circumstances I fully understand your desire to withdraw from our arrangement.

On the contrary, Tracy said. Im still interested in the painting, though an adjustment markedly downward in price would be necessary.

I see, Hererra said. Well, naturally. His gaze turned inward for some time. Then he roused himself. Before proceeding further, Id like to make a call.

By all means, Tracy said.

Don Hererra nodded, rose, and went to a desk with delicate cabriole legs. He punched in a number on his cell phone, waited a moment, then said, This is Don Fernando Hererra. Hes expecting my call.

He smiled at them while he waited. Then he said into the phone, Por favor, momentito.

Quite unexpectedly he handed the cell to Bourne. Bourne looked up at him expectantly, but Don Hererras face bore no hint of what was happening.

Hello, Bourne said, continuing in perfect Spanish.

Yes, the voice on the other end of the line said, Professor Alonzo Pecunia Zuńiga here, to whom am I speaking