“Hello, Oliver.”

“Good afternoon, Jonathan.”

The enciphering slowed the speech down, stripping it of emotion and tone, rendering it unrecognizable, closer to the voice of an automaton.

“Have you sent them on their way?”

“They took off an hour ago, they’ll be in London early tomorrow morning.” It was the voice that had sent him the dossier on the ring in the first place. “They have their orders, but…”

“Yes?”

“All Willard talks about is Arkadin and Bourne and the Treadstone program that created them. According to him, he’s discovered a method to make them even more… useful, I think was the term he used.”

Jonathan chuckled. At least Liss assumed it was a chuckle, though it came across to him as a dry rustle, as of a swarm of insects infesting high grass.

“I want you to stay out of his way, Oliver, is that clear?”

“Sure it’s clear.” Liss rubbed his forehead with his knuckles. What the hell was Jonathan’s purpose here? “But I’ve told him to put his plans on hold until the ring is found.”

“Just as you should have done.”

“Willard wasn’t happy.”

“You don’t say.”

“I have a feeling that he’s already plotting to bolt the farm.”

“And when he does,” Jonathan said, “you will do nothing to stop him.”

“What?” Liss was stunned. “But I don’t understand.”

“Everything is as it should be,” Jonathan said just before he disconnected.

Soraya, in the Dallas/Fort Worth airport, approached every rental-car agency with a photo of Arkadin. No one recognized him. She had something to eat, bought a paperback novel and a Snickers bar. While she ate the bar slowly, she strolled over to the desk of the airline Arkadin had flown in on and asked for the supervisor on duty.

This turned out to be a large man named Ted, who appeared to be an ex-football-lineman going to fat, as they all did sooner or later. He appraised her through the dusty lenses of his glasses and, after asking her name, suggested they go back into his office.

“I’m with Continental Insurance,” she said, snapping off a chunk of her Snickers. “I’m trying to locate a man named Stanley Kowalski.”

Ted sat back for a moment, laced his thick hands over his stomach, and said, “You’re kidding me, right?”

“No,” Soraya said, “I’m not.” She gave him the flight info on Kowalski.

Ted sighed and shrugged. Swiveling around, he checked his computer terminal. “Well, how about that,” he said, “there he is, just like you said.” He turned back to her. “Now, how can I help you?”

“I’d like to find out where he went from here.”

Ted laughed. “Now I know this is some kind of joke. This airport is one of the largest and busiest in the world. Your Mr. Kowalski could have gone anywhere, or nowhere at all.”

“He didn’t rent a car,” Soraya said. “And he didn’t make a connection to a national carrier because he went through Immigration right here in Dallas. Just to make sure, though, I checked the CCTV logs for that day.”

Ted frowned. “You sure are thorough, give you that.” He thought a moment. “But now I’m going to tell you something I bet you didn’t know. We have a number of regional carriers flying out of here.”

“I checked their CCTV logs as well.”

Ted smiled. “Well, I know you didn’t check the CCTV for our charter flights, ’cause they don’t have ’em.” He began to write on a slip of paper he tore off a pad. Then he handed it over. “These are their names.” He winked at her. “Good huntin’.”

She hit the jackpot at the fifth name Ted had given her. A pilot there remembered Arkadin’s face, though he didn’t give his name as Stanley Kowalski.

“Said his name was Slim Pickens.” The pilot screwed up his face. “Weren’t there an actor by that name?”

“Coincidence,” Soraya said. “Where did you take Mr. Pickens?”

“Tucson International Airport, ma’am.”

“Tucson, huh?”

Soraya thought, Why in hell would Arkadin want to go to Tucson? And then, as if a switch had been thrown in her head, she knew.

Mexico.

Having checked into a small hotel in Chelsea, Bourne stood under a hot shower, sluicing away the sweat and grime of his ordeal. The muscles in his neck, shoulders, and back throbbed with a deep-seated ache in the aftermath of the collision and his long run off the motorway.

Just thinking the words Severus Domna sent echoes through his mind. It was maddening not being able to pluck the memories out of his fogbound past. He was certain that he had once known about it. Why? Had the group been the target of a Treadstone mission Conklin had sent him on? He had obtained the Dominion ring somewhere, from someone, for some specific reason, but beyond those three vague facts was only an impenetrable mist. Why had Holly’s father stolen the ring from his brother? Why had he given it to Holly? Who was her uncle, what was the ring to him? Bourne couldn’t ask Holly. That left her uncle, whoever he was.

He turned off the water, stepped out of the stall, and vigorously rubbed himself down with a towel. Perhaps he should return to Bali. Were either of Holly’s parents still alive, still living there? Suparwita might know, but he had no phone, there was no way to contact him save to return to Bali and ask him in person. Then it came to him. There was a better way to get the information he needed, and the plan he was formulating would serve two purposes because it would trap Leonid Arkadin.

His mind still working at a fever clip, he put on clothes he had bought at Marks & Spencer in Oxford Street on his way to the hotel. These included a dark-colored suit and black turtleneck. He polished his shoes with the kit provided in the room, then took a taxi to Diego Hererra’s house in Sloane Square.

This proved to be a redbrick Victorian affair with a steeply pitched slate roof and a pair of conical turrets, sticking up into the night sky like horns. A brass door-knocker in the shape of a stag’s head looked stoically out on all visitors. Diego himself opened the door to Bourne’s knock.

He smiled thinly. “No worse for the wear and tear of yesterday’s adventure, I see.” He waved a hand. “Come in, come in.”

Diego wore dark trousers and an elegant evening jacket probably more appropriate to the Vesper Club. Bourne, however, still held the clothing instincts of an academic professor and was as uncomfortable in formal dress wear as he would have been in a medieval suit of armor.

He led Bourne through an old-fashioned parlor, lit by antique lamps with frosted-glass shades, into a dining room dominated by a polished mahogany table over which hung a crystal chandelier, now dimly lit, casting the light of a thousand stars across jewel-toned wallpaper and oak wainscoting. Two place settings beckoned. While Bourne sat, Diego poured them glasses of an excellent sherry to go with the small plates of grilled fresh sardines, papas fritas, paper-thin slices of rosy Serrano ham, small disks of fat-speckled chorizo, and a platter of three Spanish cheeses.

“Please help yourself,” Diego said when he joined Bourne at the table. “This is the custom in Spain.”

As they ate Bourne was aware of Diego watching him. At length, Diego said, “My father was very pleased that you came to see me.”

Pleased or interested? Bourne wondered. “How is Don Fernando?”

“As always.” Diego was eating like a bird, picking at his food. He either had no appetite or had something important on his mind. “He’s quite fond of you, you know.”

“I lied to him about who I was.”

Diego laughed. “You do not know my father. I’m quite sure he was interested only in whether you were friend or enemy.”

“I am Leonid Arkadin’s enemy, as he well knows.”

“Precisely.” Diego spread his hands. “Well, we all have that in common. This is the tie that binds.”

Bourne pushed away his plate. “Actually, I was wondering about that.”