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“Oh, Deel, I don’t mean to. You’re my friend. We’re closer than sisters. Even Peter doesn’t know what I’ve told you. Please try to understand.”
“I want to, Raya. Honestly, I do. But this just goes to show that you never really know anyone no matter how close you think you are.”
“But we areclose, Deel.” She reached out. “Listen to me, ever since I came back from Paris I’ve come to realize that there’s more to life than secrets. That’s all I have, really.” She laughed. “Except you, of course.” She sobered immediately. “But now I have the baby and— I’ve been thinking—using the baby as a weapon against Charlie—it’s heinous. For the first time in my life I feel dirty, as if I’ve crossed a line that sickens me. I can’t use my child in this way. I don’t want that for him. I don’t want this life for him. He deserves more than shadows, Deel. He deserves the sunshine and kids his age. He deserves a mother who isn’t always looking over her shoulder.”
Delia leaned over and kissed her friend on the cheek. “This is good, Raya. Ever since you told me about the baby, I’ve been waiting for you to come to that conclusion.”
Soraya smiled. “Now I have.”
“You’ll have to tell Peter.”
“I already have, more or less.”
“Really? How did he take it?”
“Like Peter. He’s so rational. He understands.”
Delia nodded. “He’s a good guy.” She frowned. “What will you tell Thorne?”
“Not a fucking thing. I don’t have to tell you what Charlie’s like.”
With a shudder of disgust, Delia conjured up the horrible, humiliating conversation, culminating in the moment when he had grabbed his crotch and said, “You don’t know what you’re missing.”
She felt the urge to tell her friend what Thorne had done, how he had hacked into her mobile, had tapes of the amorous voicemails Amy had left for her, but she bit her tongue. She didn’t want to upset Soraya, not in the state she was in now, not when Soraya was ready to embark on the next phase of her life, ready to leave all the dark shit behind.
Instead, she smiled, bit back her bitterness against Thorne, and said, “No, I’ve gotten to know him much better these days.” She leaned forward to kiss Soraya on the cheek. “Don’t worry. Your secrets are safe with me.”
Because I know you won’t take my advice,” Constanza Camargo said to Bourne, “I have no choice but to help you.”
“Of course you have a choice,” Rebeka said.
Constanza shook her head slowly. “You still have no conception of life here. There is destiny, only destiny. This ca
La comidawas finally at an end, and they had retired to her exquisite, jewel-like living room, paneled in ebony, evoking an earlier, gilded age. She sat back in her wheelchair, her hands laced in her lap, and, as she spoke, the years seemed to melt away, revealing the magnificent, vibrant beauty she had been in her twenties and thirties.
“Maceo Encarnación not only took my husband’s life, he took my legs as well. This is how it happened.” She took out a flat silver case, snapped it open, and, after offering each of them a cigarillo, plucked one out. Ma
She sat, smoking reflectively for several moments, before she began. “As I said, life in Mexico is bound to the wheel of destiny. Desire is also important—we are Latin, after all!—but, at the end of the day, desire hinders destiny. Acevedo found this out when he changed horses. He was destined to be a drug lord—this was his calling. He left it and he died.
“I should have learned from his mistake, but the truth is my desire for revenge blinded me, cut me off from my destiny, and, at the end of the day, cut me off from my legs. What happened was this: after Acevedo was shot dead, I summoned a cadre of men, Colombians who owed their livelihood, even their very lives, to Acevedo. They came here, and, at my direction, set out to end the life of the miserable Maceo Encarnación.”
She took another long drag from her cigarillo, which emitted smoke like a just-fired pistol. Then she continued: “I was foolish. I miscalculated, or, rather, I underestimated Maceo Encarnación’s power. He is protected by an almost mystical power, as if by gods. Acevedo’s loyalists were beheaded, and then he came after me himself.”
Her fist pounded against her useless legs. “Here is the result. He didn’t kill me. Why? To this day, I don’t know. Possibly, to him my living as a cripple was a more fitting punishment than death. More likely, it was raw cruelty.”
She lifted a hand, fluttering it back and forth, as if the reason for her continued life was unimportant. “This is a cautionary tale, Mr. Moore, not an attempt to elicit sympathy.” She turned to Rebeka. “But now you see, my dear, how the great wheel of destiny works. It has brought you to me or me to you, and there is a reason for that. Destiny has now combined with my desire for revenge. It has brought me the weapons I need because, Rebeka, I do not for a moment believe that you are Mr. Moore’s wife—” she smiled “—any more than I believe his name is Moore.” Her gaze shifted back to Bourne. “Mr. Moore, you would no more bring your wife to Mexico on such a mission than you would allow her to walk into a tiger’s den.”
She lifted a forefinger. “And make no mistake, going after Maceo Encarnación is walking into tiger territory. There will be no mercy, no second chances, only, if you are lucky, death.” She stubbed out her cigarillo. “ Butif you are verylucky and extremely clever, you may yet walk out of the tiger’s den with what you and I desire.”
17
TULIO VISTOSO ARRIVED in Washington, DC, with anxiety in his mind and murder in his heart.
How difficult was it, he thought, for Florin Popa to keep safe what he, Don Tulio, had so cleverly stolen on the steep, treacherous trail along the Cañon del Sumidero, outside Tuxtla Guttiérez, replacing the real thirty million with what he had been certain were undetectable counterfeit bills? And yet, Popa had failed, and his life was forfeit if he could not placate Don Maceo and his holy, all-powerful buyers within thirty-six hours.
He was still fulminating about the monumental fuck-up when he arrived at the Dockside Marina and saw the Cobalt in slip 31 crawling with cops. And not just cops, he realized with a jolt. Federales. He could smell them a mile away. They moved with a certain measured gait, like dray horses in their traces. He stared, horrified. The boat was well guarded, cordoned off with yellow crime scene tape.
Christ on the cross, what in the name of all that’s holy has happened?Instinctively, he looked around, as if Popa might be lurking somewhere in the vicinity. Where the hell was Popa? Don Tulio wondered with a sinking heart. Had Popa absconded with the thirty million? Don Tulio’s thirty million. This prospect terrified him. Or, worse, did the federaleshave it? Was Popa in their custody? With a trembling hand, he began to fire off a series of text messages to his lieutenants in a frenzied endeavor to recoup the thirty million as quickly as possible.
The Aztec felt like pulling his hair out. His crazed brain kept churning out dire possibilities, but a sliver of civilized veneer stopped him cold. Instead, he turned on his heel and stalked away. He swiped a hand across his forehead. Despite the chill, he was sweating like a pig.
Up ahead, a car pulled into a parking space in the lot and, a moment later, a young man leaped out. He pushed by Don Tulio as he hurried down the gangplank, onto the dock, and out to slip 31. Sensing something unusual, the Aztec turned. Sure enough, the federaleants crawling all over the Recursivebegan kowtowing to the new arrival: el jefe. This interested Don Tulio so, instead of hightailing it, he decided to hang around as unobtrusively as possible. This meant going down the gangplank himself and onto the dock. Choosing a deserted boat as far away as practical from the activity on the Recursive, he climbed aboard and busied himself doing nothing at all while he spied on the new arrival.