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Li, silent on the subject of his inamorata, watched Thorne return to his eating, waiting a decent amount of time before he said, “I understand you have a bit of an issue.”
At that, Thorne’s chopsticks froze halfway to his mouth. He covered his consternation by making a show of putting them down slowly and carefully. “Exactly what have you heard, Li?”
“Exactly what you have. You and the rest of the senior staff at Politics As Usualare about to be investigated for illegal voicemail hacking.” He cocked his head. “Tell me, does the illustrious Senator A
“If she did,” Thorne said acidly, “she’d be jumping out of her skin.” He shook his head. “The investigation has not yet begun.”
“For the time being.”
“She must, on no account, find out. It will be the end.”
“Yes, the end of your gravy train. How many millions is your wife worth?”
Thorne regarded him bleakly.
“But the senator will find out the moment the investigation begins, if she hasn’t already.”
“She hasn’t, believe me.”
“Tick-tock, Charles.”
Thorne winced inwardly. “I need help.”
“Yes, Charles,” Li Wan said, “you most certainly do.”
El Enterradorled them to the back of the apse, down a short, dimly lit corridor, into the rectory, which smelled of incense, polished wood, and man-sweat. Beneath an enormous figure of Christ on the Cross were laid out the architectural plans for Maceo Encarnación’s villa on Castelar Street.
“Are you sure this is where our man is going to be?” Bourne had asked Constanza Camargo earlier in the evening.
“If, as you say, he was flown here to Mexico City,” she had replied, “this is the reason why.”
El Enterradortook them floor by floor, room by room, through the house. “Two floors,” came his papery whisper, “plus, most importantly, a basement.” He told them why.
“The roof is made of traditional unglazed Mexican tiles. Very sturdy. There are two exit doors on the ground floor—front and back. None on the second floor, save the windows. And as for the basement—” his long, stiletto-like forefinger showed them on the plan.
Then he lifted the top sheet, exposing another. “Those were the original plans. Here are the modifications Maceo Encarnación made when he moved in.” His forefinger stabbed out again. “You see, here—and here—and again here.” His black-ice eyes cut to them for an instant. “Good for you, possibly. Possibly not. That is not my business. I told Constanza Camargo that I would get you in. The rest is up to you.”
He stood up, his cowl throwing an oblique shadow across the modified plan. “Afterward, if you are successful, if you manage to escape, you will not come here, nor will you go to Constanza Camargo’s home.”
“We discussed with her what would happen,” Rebeka said, “after.”
“Did you?” Clearly, el Enterrador’s interest was piqued. “Well, well.”
“She must like us.”
El Enterradornodded. “I believe she does.”
“How do you know Señora Camargo?” Rebeka asked.
El Enterradorflashed them an evil smile. “We met in heaven,” he whispered, “or in hell.”
“That’s hardly helpful,” Rebeka said.
“We are in Mexico, Señorita. Here there are volcanos, serpents, madness, gods, sacred places. Mexico City is one such. It is built upon the navel of the Aztec world. Here, heaven and hell meet.”
“Let’s get on with it,” Bourne said, “shall we?”
The evil smile returned to the false priest’s lips. “An unbeliever.”
“I’m a believer in doing,” Bourne said, “not talking.”
El Enterradornodded. “Fair enough, but...” He handed a small object to Bourne. It was a tiny replica of a human skull, studded with crystals. “Keep this safe,” he said. “It is protection.”
“Against what?” Bourne asked.
“Maceo Encarnación.”
At that moment, Bourne recalled what Constanza Camargo had said: “ I underestimated Maceo Encarnación’s power. He is protected by an almost mystical power, as if by gods.”
“Thank you,” he said.
El Enterradorinclined his head, obviously pleased.
Rebeka said, “Are we to stay here?”
“No. You will be transported to the mortuary, where you will stay until the call comes.”
“The call will come to this particular mortuary?” Bourne said. “This one and no other.”
Bourne nodded, accepting el Enterrador’s word.
They were led out of the rectory, through a small, unobtrusive door, out into the churchyard beyond which stretched the vast cemetery, a city unto itself. There was a hearse awaiting them, its engine purring richly.
El Enterradoropened the wide rear door, and they climbed in. “ Vaya con Dios, mis hijos,” he said in a pious voice, and made the sign of the cross. Then he slammed the door shut, and the hearse rolled out of the churchyard, away from the basilica, making its funereal way through the blackened byways of Cementerio del Tepeyac, heading deeper and deeper into the mystical heart of the city.
18
PETER, DOWN IN the depths, felt the chill of death. Hands were at his throat.
He kicked out, but the water, seeming thick as sludge, defeated his attack. Bringing his hands up under those at his throat, he exploded them outward the moment they made contact. The pressure came off, but the two of them were still sinking down.
He scissored his legs, arrowing upward, but hands caught at him, dragging him back. Didn’t this man need to breathe as badly as he did, weren’t his lungs aching, his head pounding, his heart thumping painfully in his chest?
Peter could not see his antagonist, had never seen him, in fact. The moment his flashlight picked him out on the boat, he was blinded by the man’s own flashlight. Then came the attack, and both of them went into the water.
Down and down.
Peter felt the cold sucking the strength out of him. His limbs felt like lead weights. Then there was an arm around his throat, a choke hold, which he could not tolerate. Feeling for the man’s face, he jammed a thumb into one eye, pushing and pushing with all the strength left in him, and though the water impeded him, he had enough leverage that the choke hold vanished.
Peter spun to confront his attacker face-to-face. No light in the darkness. He had no idea how deep they had drifted, only that there was less than a minute before his lungs ran out of oxygen.
He rose, feathering his lower legs, then, instead of an ineffective kick, shoved the heel of his shoe into his attacker’s face. Instantly, then, he scissored his legs again, reaching upward with his arms, his first priority now to get to the surface.
With that goal fixed firmly in mind, he kicked harder than ever. It seemed an eternity, during which he might have blacked out for seconds at a time, reality drooling by in discrete segments, co
As he broke the surface, strong arms reached down, powerful hands gripped him—his men, alerted by the shot he had fired, must have been searching for him from the moment they boarded the Recursive.
He heard grunts above him, lifted his head to see two or three faces, among them Sam Anderson, his deputy, picked out in the glare of the spotlights. He squinted, half-blinded by the spots, like a creature from the depths. He heard Anderson turn and call for the spots to be angled slightly away, and was grateful when his men promptly complied.
That was when he felt something pinion his legs, then an immense weight pulling him inexorably back down into the water. Dimly, as he shouted, he wondered how his assailant could manage to stay underwater so long and still have the strength to try to pull him under.