“I’m hungry.” Michelle pocketed her pen. “I haven’t eaten a thing all day, except for a Snickers I found in my drawer, and that was so stale the chocolate had turned white.”
“Finish your drink,” Halliday said.
She feigned a pout. “You know how I get when I drink on an empty stomach.”
Halliday chuckled. “So I’ve been told.”
“Well, it’s true and then some,” Mandy said. And in another voice entirely, deeper, with plenty of vibrato, a singer’s voice: “Dat li’l girl, she get freak-eee!”
“Whereas dis one,” Michelle said in precisely the same voice, “she already got her freak on!”
Both of them threw their heads back and laughed for precisely the same amount of time. Halliday, watching them, turning his head from side to side, felt a throbbing in his forehead, as if he were observing a tennis match from too close.
“Ah, there you are!” Mandy said as their foursome was about to be completed.
“We thought you might not be coming,” Michelle said.
Halliday palmed his diagram-covered napkin and hid it in his lap. Both the girls noticed but said nothing, simply smiling into the face of the newcomer.
“There is no power on earth.” Jalal Essai slid into the banquette and kissed Mandy in the place on her neck she liked best. “That could possibly have kept me away.”
Peter Marks stood very still. The man behind him smelled of tobacco and anger. The knife he held to Marks’s throat was razor-sharp, and Marks, who certainly had enough experience in these matters, had no doubt that Hererra would slit his throat.
“Señor Hererra, there’s no need for these melodramatics,” he said. “I’ll gladly share with you everything I know. Let’s just keep calm and not lose our heads here.”
“I’m perfectly calm,” Hererra said grimly.
“All right.” Marks tried to swallow. His throat had dried up. “I’ll admit up front that what I know isn’t very much.”
“It’s got to be more than that bastard Lloyd-Shithead was willing to share. He told me to concentrate on making arrangements to bring my son back to Spain, which he said wouldn’t be possible until the medical examiner was through with him.”
Now Marks understood why Hererra was in a fury. “I agree, the chief inspector is something of a dick.” He swallowed. “But he’s of no consequence now. I want to know why Diego was murdered almost as much as you do. Believe me, I’m determined to find out.” This was true. Marks would never find Bourne without discovering what had happened last night in the Vesper Club, and why Bourne would leave with the murderer as if they were friends. Something wasn’t adding up.
He felt Hererra breathing behind him. It was deep and even, which to Marks was very frightening indeed, because it meant that despite his grief this man was in full possession of all his faculties. This spoke of a powerful personality; it would be suicidal to fuck with him.
“In fact,” Marks continued, “I can show you a photo of the man who murdered your son.”
The knife blade trembled a moment in Hererra’s huge fist, then it was withdrawn, and Marks stepped away. He turned to face the older man.
“Please, Señor Hererra, I understand the depth of your sorrow.”
“Do you have a son, Señor Marks?”
“I don’t, sir. I’m not married.”
“Then you can’t know.”
“I lost a sister when I was twelve. She was only ten. I was so angry I wanted to destroy everything in sight.”
Hererra contemplated him for a moment, then said, “So you know.”
He took Marks into the living room. Marks sat down on a sofa, but Hererra remained standing, looking at the photos of his son and, presumably, his many girlfriends that lined the mantel. For a long time, the two men remained like that, Hererra silent, Marks unwilling to disturb the older man’s grief.
At length, Hererra turned and, crossing to where Marks sat, said, “I’ll see that photo now.”
Marks dug out his PDA, scrolled to the media section, and brought up the photo he’d gotten from Lloyd-Philips’s IT tech.
“He’s on the left,” Marks said, pointing to the as-yet-unidentified man.
Hererra took the PDA and stared down at the screen for so long that Marks thought he had turned to stone.
“And the other man?”
Marks shrugged. “An innocent bystander.”
“Tell me about him, he looks familiar to me.”
“Lloyd-Shithead told me his name is Adam Stone.”
“Is that so.” Something slithered across Hererra’s face.
Marks impatiently pointed again. “Señor, this is important. Do you know the man on the left?”
Hererra thrust the PDA back into Marks’s hand, then went to the bar setup and poured himself a brandy. He drank half straight off, then, in an effort to compose himself, set the glass carefully down. “Christ almighty,” he murmured under his breath.
Marks rose and came over to where he was standing. “Señor, I can help you if you’ll let me.”
Hererra looked over at him. “How? How can you help me?”
“I’m good at finding people.”
“You can find my son’s murderer?”
“With some help, yes, I believe I can.”
Hererra appeared to consider this for some time. Then, as if making up his mind, he gave a little nod. “The man on the left is Ottavio Moreno.”
“You know him?”
“Oh, yes, señor, I know him very well. Since he was a little boy. I used to hold him in my arms when I was in Morocco.” Hererra picked up his brandy and drained the glass. His blue eyes looked bleak, but Marks caught the storm of anger far back in the shadows beneath the intelligent brow.
“Are you telling me that Ottavio is the half brother of Gustavo Moreno, the late Colombian drug lord?”
“I’m telling you that he’s my godson.” The anger boiled forward into the set of his jaw, the slight tremor of his hand. “That’s why I know he couldn’t have killed Diego.”
Moira and Berengária Moreno lay entwined in each other’s arms. The plush owner’s cabin smelled of musk, marine oil, and the sea. Beneath them, the yacht rocked gently as if wanting to lull them to sleep. They knew, each in her own way, that sleep was out of the question. The yacht was due to leave the dock in less than twenty minutes. Slowly, they rose, their bodies love-bruised, their senses on overload, as if they had slipped out of time and place. Wordlessly, they dressed, and minutes later emerged from belowdecks. The velvet sky arched over them with what seemed like protective arms.
After she had a brief talk with the captain, Berengária nodded to Moira. “They’ve completed all the tests. The engine is in perfect running order. There should be no more delays.”
“Let’s hope not.”
Starlight spangled the water. Berengária had flown them in Narsico’s single-engine Lancair IV-P to Lic. Gustavo Díaz Ordaz International Airport on the Pacific coast. From there it was a short drive to the surfer’s paradise of Sayulita, where they met the yacht. All told, the trip took just over ninety minutes.
Moira stood next to Berengária. The crew, busy preparing to get under way, paid them no mind. It only remained for Berengária to debark.
“You’ve called Arkadin?”
Berengária nodded. “I spoke to him while you were freshening up. He’ll be there to meet the boat just before dawn. Of course after the delay, he’s going to want to board and check the entire shipment himself. You must be ready for him before then.”
“Don’t worry.” Moira touched her arm and produced in the other woman another little tremor. “Who is the recipient?”
Berengária slid her arm around Moira’s waist. “You don’t really need to know that.”
When Moira said nothing, Berengária leaned against her and sighed deeply. “My God, what a fucking snake pit this has turned out to be. Fuck men. Fuck them all!”
Berengária smelled of spice and salt spray, scents Moira liked. She found it intriguing to seduce another woman. There was nothing repellent about it, it was simply part of the job, something different, a challenge for her in every sense of the word. She was a sexual creature but, apart from one pleasant but inconsequential college experiment, had always been heterosexual. There was an edge of danger to Berengária she found attractive. In fact, making love to her was far more satisfying than it had been with a number of men she had bedded. Unlike those men-and excepting Bourne-Berengária knew when to be fierce and when to be tender, she took the time to seek out the secret places that touched Moira’s pleasure centers, concentrating on them until Moira convulsed over and over again.