The Bourne Objective

Essai rose, crossed to the bed, and ripped the tape off Willard’s mouth.

“I know you’re wondering about that taste in your mouth.” He smiled. “You swallowed a bottle of castor oil.” He pointed. “Hence the diaper. Not long from now some very nasty stuff is going to be coming out of you. The diaper will help contain it, or at least some of it. I’m afraid there will be too much for it to absorb, and then…” He shrugged.

“Whatever you want from me you won’t get.”

“Bravo! That’s the spirit! But sadly for you, I’ve already gotten what I want. Like others El-Arian has dealt with or sent after me, you’ll be dumped on his doorstep. This procedure will continue until he ceases his actions and forgets about me.”

“He’s not about to do that.”

“Then he and I have a long road to travel.” Essai wadded up the tape and threw it away. He stuffed the roll back into the black bag. “You, however, have a significantly shorter road to travel.”

“I don’t feel well.” Willard said this in a curious voice, as if he were a querulous child talking to himself.

“No,” Essai said, stepping back from the bed, “I don’t suppose you do.”

[27]

NIGHT STILL LAY along the macadam roads and concrete sidewalks the following morning when Bourne arrived at Heathrow Airport. It was drizzling and chilly, and he was happy to get out of London. His flight left at seven twenty-five and arrived in Marrakech at one fifteen, with a brief stopover in Madrid. There were no direct commercial flights.

He was sitting in the only coffee shop open at that hour, its plastic chairs and tables wan in the fluorescent lights, sipping over-roasted coffee that tasted like ashes when Don Fernando Hererra appeared, walked over, and sat down without either invitation or greeting.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Bourne said.

Don Fernando said nothing. Lost within his beautiful suit, he seemed to have aged since the last time Bourne had seen him, though only a week or so had passed. He was staring absently at a display of luggage in the window of a store across the concourse.

“How did you find me?” Bourne said.

“I suspected you were going to Marrakech.” Abruptly he turned to Bourne and said, “Why did you kill my son? He was only trying to help you as I asked him to do.”

“I didn’t kill him, Don Fernando.” It was then Bourne felt the nick of the knife point on the inside of his thigh. “Do you think that’s wise?”

“I have traveled far beyond wise, young man.” His eyes were pale, liquid, filled with anguish. “Now I am a father grieving for his dead son. That’s all I am, that’s all the life this old frame can muster.”

“I would never harm Diego,” Bourne said. “I think you know that.”

“There is no one else but you.” Don Hernando’s voice, though soft, was like a cry full of pain and suffering. “Betrayal, betrayal!” He shook his head. “The only other possibility is Ottavio Moreno. He’s my godson. He would never lay a hand on Diego.”

Bourne sat very still, feeling a trickle of blood down his leg. He could end this at any moment, but he chose to let the situation play out because a violent end wouldn’t help him. He was extremely fond of Don Hererra; he couldn’t lift a finger against him. “And yet, it was Ottavio who knifed Diego,” he said.

“Lies!” The old man was quivering. “What possible reason-?”

“Severus Domna.”

At once Don Hererra blinked. A tic started in his right cheek. “What’s that you say?”

“You’ve heard of Severus Domna, I take it.”

The old man nodded. “I’ve crossed swords with a few members over the years.”

This interested Bourne greatly. Now he was doubly glad he had chosen not to act. “I have something Severus Domna wants,” Bourne said. “Its emissaries have followed me in London, Oxford-elsewhere here. Somehow one of them got to Diego. His assignment was to bring me to the Vesper Club, where they were waiting for me. Ottavio found out. He might have acted too hastily, but he was protecting me, I assure you.”

“You and he know each other?”

“We did,” Bourne said. “He died yesterday.”

The old man’s face grew hard. “How?”

“He was shot by a man employed by Jalal Essai.”

Don Hererra’s head swung around. Life was begi

“He wants the same thing Severus Domna wants.”

“He’s no longer with the group?”

“No.” Slowly Bourne became aware of the knife point being withdrawn.

“My sincere apologies,” the old man said.

“I know you must have been proud of Diego.”

For a time, Don Hererra said nothing. Bourne waved down a waiter and ordered two coffees. When cup and saucer were set down in front of Don Hererra, the old man stirred in some sugar, then took a sip, wincing at the taste.

“I can’t wait to get back to Sevilla.” His eyes engaged Bourne’s. “Before you go, there is something I must tell you. I used to hold Ottavio Moreno in my arms when I visited his mother. Her name is Tanirt and she lives in Tineghir.” He paused; his gaze was probing, and he was once again his old ca

Bourne nodded.

“Be very careful, señor. Tineghir is the nexus of Severus Domna. Tineghir is where it was born, where it first flourished, due mostly to Jalal Essai’s family. But the Essais were split when Jalal’s brother turned his back on Severus Domna, uprooted his family, and moved to Bali.”

That would be Holly’s father, Bourne thought.

“Benjamin El-Arian, whose family coveted the Essais’ power, used the schism to gain influence. So far as I know, he has been the leader of Severus Domna for some years now.”

“So it’s all-out war between Essai and El-Arian.”

Don Fernando nodded. “From what I’ve been able to glean, Severus Domna doesn’t take kindly to members leaving the fold. Blood in, blood out.” He finished off his coffee. “But back to Tanirt. I’ve known her for a long time. She is, in many respects, the female I’ve been closest to most of my adult life, and that includes my late wife.”

“I think I should know if she’s your mistress.”

The old man smiled. “Tanirt is a special person, which you will discover for yourself when you speak with her.” He leaned forward. “Escúchame, señor, she is the first person you must see when you arrive in Morocco.” He scribbled a line on a scrap of paper. “Call her at this number when you arrive. She will be expecting you. Her advice will serve you well, there can be no doubt. She sees all sides of every situation.”

“Am I to believe that she was Gustavo Moreno’s mistress, and now she’s yours?”

“When you meet her you will understand,” Don Fernando said. “But this much I will say. Tanirt is no one’s mistress. She is who she is. It is not for any man to have her in that way. She is…” He looked away for a moment. “… wild.”

Dimitri Maslov received the news that Colonel Boris Karpov was getting a haircut and shave at the Metropole barbershop with cautious optimism. Karpov, also a cautious man, never got his hair cut at the same place twice.

Maslov summoned Oserov, but was informed that Oserov was AWOL, having left Moscow the day before. Maslov, seething, had had enough of Oserov. In fact, he’d kept him on this long only to piss off Arkadin, for whom he harbored both a father’s love and a spurned parent’s bitter hatred. But Oserov’s humiliating failure in Bangalore had sunk him fatally. He had become all but useless to Maslov, having acquired the stink of defeat.

“Where did he go?” Maslov inquired of Oserov’s assistant. They were standing in the offices, surrounded by Maslov’s crew.

“Tineghir.” The assistant coughed and licked his dry lips. “Morocco.”

“Why did he go to Morocco?”

“He… he didn’t tell me.”