“Well, the husband was real, I checked that,” Bourne said. “Also, the manner of his death.”

“Huh! The best liars sprinkle in as much truth as they can.”

“If I knew the real relationship between Constanza Camargo and Maceo Encarnación,” Bourne said, “I feel like I’d know everything.”

He stared through the cockpit glass. The Mirage hurtled through the aether like a weapon of revenge. Bourne had scores to settle, not only with Maceo Encarnación, but with Colonel Ben David as well.

“Everything is related, that’s what you’re telling me,” Soraya said. “Maceo Encarnación, Nicodemo, Core Energy, and the Mossad commander at the Israeli research station outside Dahr El Ahmar.”

“There’s another element involved,” Bourne said, “an element only hinted at because of its extreme importance.”

“Do you know who or what?”

“The Chinese. Specifically someone named Ouyang.”

“Hold on,” Soraya said. She was back in a flash. “According to my information, Ouyang Jidan is minister of the State Administration of

Grain.”

“CSP, more like it,” Bourne said.

“I don’t doubt it. What’s he doing nosing around Dahr El Ahmar?”

When Bourne told her about the Israeli SILEX project, she nearly exploded. “What are we going to do? With Ben David implicated, we can’t trust anyone in Mossad.”

“Leave it to me,” Bourne said. “I’ll be at Dahr within hours.”

“Have you considered that Dahr El Ahmar might be a trap?”

“Yes.”

Soraya waited for him to provide further explanation, but when nothing was forthcoming, she went on. “Any logistics we can provide—”

“Got it.”

“What still puzzles me,” she said, “is the thirty million in counterfeit dollars Peter found. I don’t know, maybe it’s just the Aztec trying to rip off his boss. People will do just about anything to get their hands on that much money.”

“True enough.”

“The thing is, the counterfeiting on the bills Peter found isn’t all that good. It’s nowhere near the level we’ve found in the bills created by the Chinese, which, sad to say, are virtual masterpieces of the counterfeiting art.” She paused a moment. “To be honest, that’s the reason I figured the money was unrelated. What if Maceo Encarnación suspected someone in his organization was skimming? It happens all the time. So he sets up this scenario so even if the perp manages to get away with it, he’s left with nothing.”

“It makes sense,” Bourne said. “Why don’t you follow up on that premise?”

“I already have. Seems as if the Aztec’s prime lieutenant got his head handed to him, literally.”

“That seals it then.”

She wanted to tell him about herself and about Peter’s condition, but she bit her tongue. He had more than enough on his mind. Time enough when this was over to let him know. Perhaps he’d even come back to Washington to see her. She’d like that.

She cleared her throat. “Okay, then. I guess that’s it for now. Keep in touch.”

She said this last with such intensity that Bourne might have queried her had she not already severed the connection. He settled back in his seat, closed his eyes, and thought about his last conversation with Don Fernando.

Robbinet had his driver take them to a small but very luxe boutique hotel in the thirteenth arrondissement, where, in a top-floor suite, an elegant woman looking no more than forty was waiting for them. This magnificent creature, whose name was Stephanie, was clad in a little black dress from Dior and was Robbinet’s current mistress. She already had clothes laid out for both Bourne and Don Fernando, as if she were a genie or a magician. When Robbinet had phoned her, Bourne couldn’t say, but he was immensely grateful nonetheless. While Don Fernando showered, Bourne filled Robbinet in on the scenario that had brought him and Don Fernando to Paris from Mexico City. “The identity of the body your divers will pull out of the Seine is Nicodemo,” he concluded. “His real name, however, is a matter of conjecture.”

“Dead is dead. I’ll take it,” Robbinet said, in his usual matterof-fact fashion. “I’m just grateful no harm has come to you or Don Fernando.” He grunted. “This has been quite a day, what with the abduction attempt and Don Fernando risen from the grave twice now, it seems. I was instrumental in doctoring the report of the crash of his private jet outside Paris.” He regarded Bourne attentively. “It seems the two of you are made for each other.”

Bourne turned to Stephanie. “Apologies for spoiling your evening.”

“With Jacques, I’m used to such interruptions.” Her smile was dazzling. When she stepped across the carpet to the minibar, her hips swayed ever so slightly. “It can’t be helped. Besides, Jacques and I have all night.”

Bourne and Robbinet conferred about the upcoming flight. Using Google Earth, Robbinet brought up the area around Dahr El Ahmar on his iPad. “I can’t see this Israeli encampment.”

“It’s all camouflaged,” Bourne said. “Plus, as you can see, the Lebanese have blocked out parts of the area so the Google cameras can’t see them in detail. Try looking at the White House and its grounds using the program—you can’t see a thing.”

Robbinet nodded. “For security purposes, we do that in certain parts of Paris.” His forefinger tapped the screen. “There’s an airstrip in Rachaiya, here.” His forefinger stabbed out. “It has the advantage of being both secluded and less than two miles from Dahr. There will be a driver and vehicle waiting for you when you land.”

“I don’t need them,” Bourne said.

“This man, Fadi, has intimate knowledge of the area,” Robbinet said. “My advice is to use him.”

By that time Don Fernando had exited the bathroom, resplendent in the outfit Stephanie had purchased for him.

“A perfect fit,” Robbinet said, admiring Don Fernando. “It’s a good thing I know you both so well.”

Bourne had spent the next twenty minutes scrubbing the grit, grime, and smell of the Seine off himself. Discovering a cache of disposable razors, he shaved, and by the time he climbed into his new clothes he felt reborn.

There was room for only one passenger in the Mirage jet Robbinet had ordered up, so Bourne was saved from arguing Don Fernando out of coming. They said goodbye to Robbinet and Stephanie, took the tiny elevator down to the lobby, and out onto the street, where the minister’s car was waiting for them.

They traveled through Paris, out onto the Périphérique, in silence.

But in the last moments, as they crossed the tarmac at the military airfield, Don Fernando turned to Bourne.

“You know, when I was younger I firmly believed that when I grew old, looking back on my life, I’d have no regrets, none at all. How idiotic! Now that I’ve more or less reached that age, I find that I have many regrets, Jason. More than I care to think of all at once.” The airfield was quiet. Apart from the sleek Mirage, crouched at the head of a runway, lights blinking, jets starting up, there was no activity.

Robbinet must have ordered the area cleared for security purposes. “But the one regret that stings me more than any other concerns

Maceo Encarnación,” Don Fernando continued. “Now, before you board, is the time to tell you.”

The wind ruffled his hair. It was an unnaturally warm night, as if spring had overtaken winter before its time, as if emotions supposed dead were rising to the surface.

Don Fernando took out a cigar and, in deliberate violation of the laws, lit up. Bourne knew from past experience that smoking cigars calmed him down.

“In my lifetime, Jason, I have been loved many times. That isn’t a boast, by the way, simply a fact. Many women have come and gone.”

He stared at the slowly smoldering end of his cigar. “And now they seem only like wisps of smoke—here, and then before you know it, gone.” He stuck the cigar back in his mouth and sucked on it, producing a faintly blue aromatic nimbus around his head. “But in all that time, there was only one woman I ever loved.”