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Outside, the night was very dark, without moonlight. Because of the cloud cover, only a wan halo of stars toward the crown of the sky was visible. Inside, the cantina stank of beer and body odor. The room was raucous with a desperation tinged by hopelessness and despair. She felt surrounded by people for whom tomorrow didn’t exist.
She wished that she and Moira could talk to each other, if only for the briefest moment, but under Arkadin’s eye that was impossible. Even going to the ladies’ room at the same time would doubtless arouse his suspicion. She didn’t know Moira’s cell number, so texting her was out. There remained only a verbal conversation laced with coded messages. If they were on parallel paths, or even by chance the same one, it was essential they not get in each other’s way.
Arkadin and Moira were dripping sweat when they returned to the table. Arkadin ordered beers for them, and another coffee for Soraya. Whatever might happen tomorrow, he was clearly enjoying being with the two women tonight.
“Moira,” Soraya said, “do you know anything about the Middle East, or is your expertise strictly in the Americas?”
“Mexico, Colombia, Bolivia, and to some extent Brazil are my territories.”
“And you work alone?”
“I have a company, but right now I’m on special assignment to Berengária Moreno.” Moira gestured with her chin. “And you?”
“My own company, though there’s a conglomerate that’s looking for a hostile takeover.”
“Multinational?”
“Strictly American.”
Moira nodded. “Import-export, you said?”
Soraya stirred some sugar into her coffee. “That’s right.”
“You might be able to use my, ah, expertise against hostile bidders.”
“Thank you, but no.” Soraya sipped her coffee, then put the cup back in its saucer. “I have my own, ah, enforcers.”
“What do you call a thought in a woman’s head?” Arkadin leaned forward, looking from one to the other. “A tourist!” He laughed so hard he almost choked on his beer. Then, noting their somber expressions, “Shit, lighten up, ladies, we’re here to have fun, not talk business.”
Moira looked at him for a moment. “What do you get when you cross a Russian with a Vietnamese? A car thief that can’t drive.”
Soraya laughed. “Now we’re having fun.”
Arkadin smiled. “Have any more?”
“Let’s see.” Moira drummed her fingers on the table. “How about this? Two Russians and a Mexican are in a car. Who’s driving? The police.”
Arkadin laughed and shook his finger at Moira. “Where do you pick up these jokes?”
“In prison,” Moira said. “Roberto Corellos loves making Russians the butt of jokes.”
“Time to switch to tequila,” Arkadin said, signaling the waiter. “Bring a bottle,” he said to the young woman who came over. “Something fine. A reposado or añejo.”
Instead of another ranchera, the jukebox began to play “Twenty-four Hours from Tulsa.” Gene Pitney’s high twang rang out over the laughter and shouts of the drunken patrons. But morning was coming, and with it a change in the clientele. As the night owls slowly staggered out, the night-shift people from the maquiladora drifted in, heads aching, tails dragging. There were fewer of them, as well, most of them stumbling home to fall into bed without taking off their clothes.
Before the tequila got to the table, Arkadin had grabbed Moira’s hand and was swinging her onto the dance floor, which for the first time all night was larger than a postage stamp. He held her close while they swayed to the Burt Bacharach melody.
“You’re something of a smart-ass,” he said, smiling like a shark.
“It didn’t come easy,” she said.
He laughed. “I can only imagine.”
“Don’t bother.”
Arkadin swung her around. “You’re wasting your time in South America. You should come to work for me.”
“Before I set up Corellos’s murder?”
“Let that be your last assignment.” He stuck his nose into the side of her neck and inhaled deeply. “How are you going to do it?”
“I thought you said no business.”
“Just this one bit, then it’s all fun. I swear.”
“Corellos is addicted to women. I have a co
Arkadin pulled her hips harder into him. “I like it. Set it up right away.”
“I want a bonus.”
He nuzzled her neck, licked her sweat. “I’ll give you anything you want.”
“Then I’m yours.”
Karpov’s cell phone rang while he was in the process of reprogramming Dimitri Maslov’s mole. Dakaev was drowning, or more precisely, he believed he was drowning, which was, after all, the point. But ten minutes later, when Dakaev was back in his stainless-steel chair and Karpov was pouring tea into a glass, his cell rang again. This time he answered it. A familiar voice was on the other end of the line.
“Jason!” Karpov cried. “How excellent to hear your voice.”
“Are you busy?”
Karpov glanced over at Dakaev, slumped over, his chin on his chest. He looked barely human, which was also the point. You couldn’t build something new without tearing down what had been there before.
“Busy? Yes. But never too busy for you. What can I do for you?”
“I assume you know Dimitri Maslov’s lieutenant, Vylacheslav Oserov.”
“You assume correctly.”
“Do you think you can find a way to get him somewhere?”
“If you mean somewhere like hell, yes I can.”
Bourne laughed in his ear. “I was thinking of something a little less terminal. A place, let us say, in Morocco.”
Karpov took a sip of tea, which was in desperate need of sugar. “May I ask why you need Oserov in Morocco?”
“He’s bait, Boris. I intend to catch Arkadin.”
Karpov thought of his sojourn in Sonora, his deal with Arkadin, and added him to the list of President Imov and Viktor Cherkesov. He had promised Arkadin his chance at Oserov, but fuck that. I’m too old and too bloody-minded to owe so many dangerous people so much, he thought. One less is a step toward none.
Then he looked over at Dakaev, the conduit to Dimitri Maslov and, therefore, Vylacheslav Oserov. After what he had just been through, he had no doubt that the prisoner would jump at the chance to do what Karpov asked of him.
“Tell me in detail what you need done.” Listening, Karpov smiled contentedly. When Bourne was finished, he chuckled deeply. “Jason, my friend, what I wouldn’t give to be you!”
Just after sunrise they were all sweaty enough to want to go into the water. At the convent, Arkadin gave Moira and Soraya oversize T-shirts. He was in surfer trunks that came down to his knees. His upper body and limbs were a museum of tattoos that, if interpreted correctly, traced his career in the grupperovka.
The three of them waded through the surf, pulled and pushed by the waves rushing onto the golden sand. The sky was still pink, paling out to the color of butter. Gulls dipped and swooped over their heads and tiny fish nibbled at their feet and ankles. The water came up and slapped them in the face, making them laugh like children. The unalloyed joy of being let free in the ocean.
Out beyond the surf line, Moira thought it odd that Arkadin kept diving for seashells rather than stare at her breasts through the wet T-shirt, especially after the way he’d been dancing with her at the cantina. She had found out little enough information about Soraya’s mission from the coded conversation Soraya had started and Arkadin had nipped off with his misogynistic joke.
While Arkadin was still trolling for shells, she set off after Soraya to see if the two of them could speak briefly. Diving through an incoming wave, she began to swim out to where Soraya was drifting on her back, but something caught her left ankle, jerking her back.
Jackknifing her body, she looked behind her. Arkadin had hold of her. She pushed back at him, palms against his chest, but he only drew her more closely to him. She rose up, breaking the surface, and found herself face-to-face with him.