The Bourne Objective

“Narsico’s publicist said you’re writing a piece about tequila, is that right?” Her voice was deep for a woman, and vibrant, as if at an early age she’d been taught to sing.

“It is.” Moira took a sip of her sangria.

Launching into his opening pitch, Narsico informed her that tequila was made from the piña, the heart of the agave plant.

Barbara interrupted him. “What sort of a piece are you writing?” She sat on the opposite side of the table from the two of them, which Moira thought a telling choice. The natural thing would be to sit next to your husband.

“It’s sociological, really. The origins of tequila, what it has meant to the Mexicans, that sort of thing.”

“That sort of thing,” Barbara echoed. “Well, to begin with tequila isn’t a Mexican drink at all.”

“But the Mexicans had to know about the agave plant.”

“Of course.” Barbara Skydel took a plate and filled it with food from different serving platters. “For centuries the piña had been cooked and sold as candy. Then the Spaniards invaded. It was the Spanish Franciscans who settled in this fertile valley and founded the town of Santiago de Tequila in 1530. It was the Franciscans who conceived of fermenting the piña’s sugars into a potent liquor.”

“So,” Moira said, “the agave was yet another aspect of Mexican culture appropriated and changed by the conquistadores.”

“Well, it’s worse than that, really.” Barbara licked her fingertips, reminding Moira of Roberto Corellos. “The conquistadores merely killed the Mexicans. It was the Franciscans who traveled with them, systematically dismantling the Mexican way of life and replacing it with the particularly cruel Spanish version of Catholicism. Ethnically speaking, it was the Spanish church that destroyed Mexican culture.” She smiled with her teeth. “The conquistadores were merely soldiers, they were after Mexican gold. The Franciscans were the soldiers of God, they wanted the Mexican soul.”

As Barbara poured herself a goblet of blood-red sangria, Narsico cleared his throat. “As you can see, my wife has become a fierce advocate of the Mexican way of life.”

He seemed embarrassed by this discussion, as if his wife was guilty of bad ma

“You didn’t always hold that conviction, Señora Skydel?”

“Growing up in Colombia, I knew only the struggle of my people against our dictator-generals and fascist armies.”

Narsico sighed theatrically. “Mexico has changed her.”

Moira did not miss the hint of bitterness in his voice. She studied Barbara as she ate, an elemental act that often revealed more about people than they realized. Barbara ate quickly and aggressively, as if there were a need to defend her food, and Moira wondered what her upbringing had been like. As the only female child she would have been served last, with her mother. Also, she was wholly concentrated on her food, and Moira imagined it was a sensual experience for her. Moira liked the way she ate, she found it endearing, and she thought again of Corellos’s description of her as a piranha.

At that moment Narsico’s cell phone buzzed, and taking it up, he rose and excused himself. Moira noticed that Barbara ignored him as he walked back inside the hacienda.

“As you can already see,” Barbara said, “there are a number of ways to tell this story.” She had a very direct way of speaking, and of looking at you when she spoke. “I’d like to influence the way you tell it.”

“You already have.”

Barbara nodded. She was one of those fortunate women with excellent bone structure, lucid skin, and a tight, athletic body, all of which naturally defied the passing of time. It was impossible to guess her precise age. Judging by her ma

“Where are you from?”

“Actually, I just came from Bogotá,” Moira said. She knew she was taking a chance, but she didn’t have the time to draw this out, and she felt the need to take advantage of Narsico’s absence. “I saw Roberto Corellos, Narsico’s cousin.” She watched the other woman’s face carefully. “And, coincidentally or not, an old friend of yours.”

Something dark and cold passed across Berengária Moreno’s face. “I don’t know what you mean, Corellos and I never saw eye-to-eye,” she said coldly.

“How about mouth-to-mouth?”

For a long, uncomfortable moment Barbara sat perfectly still. When she opened her mouth again she no longer looked handsome, or even appealing, and Moira knew precisely what Corellos had meant. Here comes the piranha, she thought.

In a low voice filled with menace Barbara said, “I could have you thrown out on your ass, beaten senseless, or even-” She bit back her words.

“Or what?” Moira said, egging her on. “Have me killed? Well, we know your husband wouldn’t have the balls to do it.”

Unexpectedly, Barbara Skydel exploded into laughter. “Oh, Jesus mio, can you imagine?” But almost immediately she sobered up. “Roberto had no business telling you about what happened.”

“You’ll have to take that up with him.”

Moira noticed Barbara glance back at the house where Narsico, still on his cell, paced up and down behind one of the French doors.

Barbara stood. “Why don’t we go for a walk?”

After hesitating for a moment, Moira drank off the last of her sangria and, rising, followed Barbara down past the te

Moira mentally braced herself for the worst. “What makes you say that?”

Barbara leaned in toward her in the menacing ma

“What can I say?” Moira shrugged. “He liked me.”

Barbara snorted. “Roberto doesn’t like anyone, and he only loves himself.” She cocked her head, and abruptly her ma

“He didn’t touch me.”

The back of Barbara’s hand stroked Moira’s cheek. Was Barbara jealous, trying to seduce her, or just screwing with her mind?

“Somehow you got to him. How did you do it?”

Moira smiled. “I graduated top of my class in charm school.”

Barbara’s long fingers were like feathers against her cheek and ear. “What did Roberto see in you? He may be a brute and a swine, but one of his great strengths is sizing up people virtually from the moment he meets them. So I’m left wondering why you’ve come here.” She pressed her lips against Moira’s cheek. “It isn’t to interview my husband, I think we’ve established that much.”

Moira felt she needed to shock Barbara in order to gain the upper hand. “I’ve come to investigate the murder of the man found on your property several weeks ago.”

Barbara stepped back. “You’re police? The American police are interested in the murder?”

“I’m not police,” Moira said. “I’m federal.”

All the breath seemed to go out of Barbara. “Christ,” she said. “That’s how you got to Roberto.”

Moira said, “Berengária, I want you to take me to the place where the body was found. I want you to take me there now.”

Bourne drove Ottavio Moreno’s gray Opel, following precisely the directions Coven had given him. Beside him, Ottavio was readying all the purchases Bourne had made. There was silence between them, just the thrumming of the tires on the road, the hiss of oncoming traffic working its way through the closed windows.