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“I...” Richards closed his eyes, swallowed hard. He was dying, so what the hell. “I thought if he and Soraya Moore liked me, took me in, I could—”
“What? What could you have, Richards? Friends? Colleagues?” He shook his head. “No one cares about you, Richards. No one wants to work with you. You’re an insect I’m about to squash. You have a gift, but your human flaws outweigh your usefulness to us. You can’t be trusted.”
“I made my choice. I chose you.” Richards’s voice sounded pathetic, even to him. Tears leaked out of his eyes and he began to weep. “It’s not fair. It’s not fair.”
Clearly disgusted, Tom Brick let him go, lifted his gaze, and nodded to his driver, holding Richards up. The knife slid in farther, was twisted so violently Richards’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. The sound that emerged through the hand clamped over his mouth was not unlike that a pig makes when the slaughtering blade comes down.
The moment the door to the apartment swung open and the carving knife slashed out, Bourne caught Don Fernando’s fist.
“Easy, Don Fernando.”
Don Fernando stared at him, obviously shaken. “It was you, Jason? You were outside my door earlier?”
Bourne shook his head as he stepped into the apartment and closed the door behind him. “I only just got here.” He cocked his head. “Someone was trying to get into the apartment?”
“That or he was keeping watch on me.”
“There was no surveillance on the building,” Bourne said, taking the carving knife from the older man’s hand. “I checked.”
“Maceo Encarnación and Harry Rowland are here in Paris. I think it was Rowland at my door earlier.”
“Don Fernando,” Bourne said, “Rowland is Nicodemo.”
“What? Are you certain?”
Bourne nodded. “He’s with Maceo Encarnación. I followed them here from Mexico City.”
“The woman?”
“Rebeka was a Mossad agent.” Bourne sat on a sofa. “She’s dead.”
“Ah, well, then we both lost someone.” Don Fernando sat heavily next to Bourne. “I’m sorry.”
“What happened?”
Don Fernando told him briefly about how Maceo Encarnación had sent Martha Christiana to kill him, and what had happened after he and Martha met. “She went out the bedroom window, leaped across me while I was sleeping. She could have killed me, but she didn’t.”
“You were lucky.”
Don Fernando shook his head. “No, Jason. Today I don’t feel in the least bit lucky.” He laced his fingers together. “Hers was a soul in torment. Perhaps she needed a priest. I am no priest. In this case, I might have played the role of the devil.”
“We’re all pursued by shadows, Don Fernando. There are times when they catch up to us. There’s nothing more to be done; we have to move on.”
Don Fernando nodded. He picked up Martha Christiana’s compact, popped it open, and showed Bourne the micro-SD card hidden beneath the false bottom. “I can’t help but think she left this for me to find.” He shrugged. “But perhaps that’s just wishful thinking.”
“Have you looked at what’s on the card?”
Don Fernando shook his head. “Not yet.”
“Well,” Bourne said, plucking up the card, “it’s time we did.”
Maceo Encarnación went up to the cockpit of his private jet. The door was open, the Chinese pilot going through a pre-flight checklist. “Do you think he’ll make it back in time?” the pilot asked without looking up.
Maceo Encarnación grunted as he slipped into the navigator’s seat. “Impossible to say.”
“Your attachment to him is well known.”
Maceo Encarnación contemplated the pilot for some time. “What you mean,” he said slowly and finally, “is that Minister Ouyang disapproves of my attachment to Nicodemo.”
The pilot, who was also Minister Ouyang’s agent, said nothing. He sat very still, as if attempting to divine the air currents.
“Nicodemo is my son. I raised him, taught him.”
“You took him from her.”
The pilot spoke without judgment, his voice perfectly neutral. Nevertheless, Maceo Encarnación took offense. He could not do otherwise; it was in his nature.
“His mother was married to someone else,” Maceo Encarnación said, more to himself than to the pilot. “I loved her, but her husband was a powerful man, and I needed his power. She could not keep the child, could not even be with the husband while it was growing inside her. She took herself to Mérida, to her aunt’s estancia for the five months she was showing. I took the boy from her, raised him.”
“You said that already.”
Maceo Encarnación hated these people, but he was forced to deal with them. No one else had their power, their expertise, their deep pockets, their vision. Nevertheless, he often, as now, had to exert an iron will to keep himself from beating them to a bloody pulp. The fact that he could not treat them as he treated his own people was like a knife in his gut. He often dreamed of this Chinese agent on the edge of the Pacific, his severed head rolling fish-eyed in the surf, while his trunk twitched, spewing blood like the fountain in Chapultepec Park.
“I repeated it because it’s important in the understanding of my attachment, and I can never be certain of your grasp of Spanish.” Maceo Encarnación did not bother to wait for a response from the agent, knowing none would be forthcoming. Was there ever a poorer match in allies, he thought, than extrovert Mexican and introvert Chinese?
This agent had a name, but Maceo Encarnación never used it, assuming that it was false. Instead, he thought of him as Hey-Boy, a despicable term that amused him no end. He would tell him the story—part of it that he would take for the whole—because it amused him to do so. What he would not tell him was the private part. The identity of Nicodemo’s and his sister Maricruz’s mother remained locked inside him. Constanza Camargo had given birth to Nicodemo early in their years-long affair. Maricruz was born three years later. Constanza was the one woman he had ever loved, the one woman he could never have, first, because of Constanza’s husband, and then because of Constanza herself, who loved him, loved her two children with him, but had vowed never to see them, never to interrupt the flow of their lives with the truth, to complicate and warp their destinies in the name of her desire.
“So,” Maceo Encarnación said now, “Nicodemo, parted from his mother, became mine, body and soul. As soon as he was old enough, I sent him to a special school in Colombia. I felt it imperative that he learn the trade.”
“The drug trade,” the agent said, with u
“That and the arms trade.” Maceo Encarnación pursed his lips. “As Minister Ouyang well knows, my prime interest is in arming those who need it most.” When speaking with the agent, he always assumed he was speaking with Ouyang, the spider in the center of his Beijing web.
“You are most altruistic.”
Maceo Encarnación’s left hand twitched. Not for the first time, Hey-Boy had crossed the line that would, in any other circumstance, have cost him, quite literally, his head. Once more it was necessary for Maceo Encarnación to remind himself of the extreme importance of Minister Ouyang and his minions. Without Ouyang’s assistance, the deal with Colonel Ben David would never have been possible.
“My altruism is matched only by Minister Ouyang’s,” he said, enunciating slowly and carefully. “You would do well to remember that.”
The agent stared out the cockpit window. “When do we leave?”
“When I tell you to start the engines.” Maceo Encarnación looked around. “Where is it?”
The pilot looked at him with his long Mandarin eyes. His spidery fingers drew out from beneath his seat an olive-drab metal box with a fingerprint lock. Maceo Encarnación pressed the end of his right forefinger onto the pressure-pad, and the lock opened.