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She said nothing more. It did not matter how he had found her history, only that he knew. One more astonishment: She was not unhappy that he knew. Somehow, even without asking, she understood that it would remain their secret.
She stared at the countryside, and like a sleeper waking from a pleasant dream into harsh reality she remembered that she had been sent here to kill this man. The idea seemed absurd to her now, and yet she knew that she had no choice. She never did once she took a commission from Maceo Encarnación.
Emerging from her difficult thoughts, she saw that they were turning off Castle Road into an area of Gibraltar unfamiliar to her. After several small streets, they came to a triangle of parkland, dotted with pencil cypress and palm trees. Martha rolled down the tinted window, heard the clatter of swaying fronds. A bright spray of gulls flickered by. Sunlight glimmered off a bisque-tile roof, which came nearer as the car rolled up a driveway and came to rest before a pillared portico.
“Where are we?” Martha said.
Without a word, Don Fernando accompanied her up the stone steps, across the portico, and into a large, airy entryway, dominated by a cut-crystal chandelier and a high mahogany banc behind which sat a young woman, efficiently fielding calls while entering data on a computer console.
A business of some sort, Martha thought. Possibly one of his.
Leaning forward, Don Fernando handed over a folded sheet of paper, which the young woman unfolded as if it were an official document. Her clear eyes sca
Inside the doors, a uniformed woman, somewhat older, with a kind face and demeanor, waited for them, her hands clasped in front of her like a nun. When she saw them, she turned, leading them down a wide, thickly carpeted hallway, interspersed with closed doors between which hung various photos of Gibraltar down through the years. The only thing that hadn’t changed was the great shrugged shoulder of rock, uncounted ages old.
At length, the woman stopped in front of a door and gestured. “Take as long as you wish,” she said. She retreated down the hall in the direction they had come before Martha had a chance to ask her what this was all about.
Don Fernando looked at her without an expression she could read.
“I’ll be right here if you need me.”
She was about to query him, but immediately realized that it would do no good. Resigning herself, she pushed open the heavy door and stepped inside.
How can they be looking for us?” Rebeka said. “They can’t know our faces.”
“Nevertheless, they’re here. Whether or not they know our faces, they’re looking for the people at the construction site who escaped on foot.”
“Anyone who looks guilty or is trying to hide.”
Bourne looked at her. “Hit me.”
Her eyes found his, found the answer she was seeking there. Leaning across the table, she slapped him hard across the face, back up, upending her chair, and shouted, “Bastard!”
The cops looked, but then so did everyone else in the café, even the servers, who stood frozen in place.
“Calm down,” Bourne said loudly, still seated.
“Calm down? How could you do this to me! And with my own sister!”
He rose now, the second scene of the play begi
“Don’t tell me what to do!” She tossed her head. “You have no right.”
“I have every right,” he said as he grabbed her wrist.
Rebeka jerked back even as he held on. “Let me go, you sonofabitch!”
The physical contact was enough for the police, who stood up simultaneously and approached the table. “Sir,” the older of the two said, “the lady wants you to let her go.”
“Stay out of this,” Bourne said.
“Do it!” The younger one moved forward menacingly, and Bourne at once dropped his hold on Rebeka’s wrist.
“Are you all right, ma’am?” the older cop said. “Do you want to press charges?”
Eyes flashing, Rebeka said, “I just want to get out of here.” Gathering up her coat and shoulder bag, she turned and stalked out of the café, all eyes following her.
The older cop turned his attention to Bourne. “Pay your bill and clear out. And stay away from the woman, hear?”
Bourne put his head down, threw some krona on the table and swept out. As the door closed behind him, the café returned to life. The cops sat back down and finished their coffees, the incident evaporating instantly from their minds.
Bourne met Rebeka around the corner. She was laughing.
“How’s your cheek?”
“I’ll turn the other one.”
She laughed even harder. It was a rare lighthearted moment in their time together. Across the street, he saw Christien standing beside a black late-model Volvo. He was smoking a small cigar and eying the almost steady stream of young women, wrapped in their winter coats, as if he had not a care in the world.
Evading the traffic, Bourne and Rebeka crossed the street. He gri
“I have a trace on the copter,” Christien said. He was far too savvy to ask Bourne any more about Rebeka than Bourne had seen fit to tell him over the phone. “That proved to be no problem. There aren’t many with those markings—in fact, only one.”
“What kind of markings are they?” Rebeka asked.
Christien gave her the once-over in the rearview mirror. “This is where the abduction gets interesting.”
He handed Bourne a folder filled with high-resolution photos. Rebeka leaned forward between the bucket seats to get a good look.
“We have access to a number of the city’s surveillance cameras.” Christien made a turn onto Prästgatan, moving more slowly with the increasing crush of traffic. “I had those blown up, and our computer enhanced the images. Page through them; you’ll see why.”
There were four 8x10 photos. The enlargements and enhancements had drained them of almost all color, but both Bourne and Rebeka recognized the helicopter that had shot at them and had snatched Harry Rowland. As if they needed confirmation, the second photo showed Rowland through the window of the side door. Bourne flipped to the third photo.
“Kungliga Transport,” Rebeka read. “It looks like a typical commercial aircraft.”
“Yes,” Christien said, “but it’s not. Look at the last photo. Up past the tail rotor.”
Bourne flipped again; this photo was an even closer shot. He held it up so more light fell on it.
“That’s a corporate logo,” he said, “but I can’t make out the name.”
“It’s too small, even for the enhancements.” They stopped at a light. Christien tapped the logo. “See the shape? It’s kind of unusual, so we ran the outline through one of our bleeding-edge computer recognition programs, and what do you know, we got a hit. This copter belongs to SteelTrap.”
“Internet security,” Rebeka said. “Top-shelf stuff.”
Christien nodded. “Talk about bleeding edge. SteelTrap software is light-years ahead of anyone else’s.”
“What,” Bourne said, “is SteelTrap doing trying to kill me and, at the same time, rescue Harry Rowland?” He turned to Rebeka. “You said Rowland worked for a terrorist network?”
“Which one?” Christien said.
“ Jihad bis saif,” Rebecca said. “I overheard Colonel Ben David talking about it in Dahr El Ahmar. He thought I was still unconscious.”
“Who was he talking with?” Bourne asked her.
She shook her head. “I don’t know.” She sat back, arms crossed under her breasts. “One thing seems clear, though: it looks like SteelTrap does more than produce bleeding-edge software.”