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He had made Nicodemo. He was wholly Maceo Encarnación’s creature in a way his sister, Maricruz, never was and never would be. Maricruz was very much her own person. Even though Nicodemo had his uses, he was never the person his sister was. Maceo Encarnación loved Maricruz in a way he could never love Nicodemo. Nicodemo was a tool, a means to an end; Maricruz was the entire workshop, the end itself. Maricruz knew he was her father; Nicodemo didn’t. Neither knew who their mother was.
He dozed for a while, dreaming of Constanza Camargo in the form of the great serpent that founded Tenochtitlán. Constanza opened her mouth, her forked tongue flicked out, revealing destiny and desire, and Maceo Encarnación, himself a little boy, knew he was meant to choose one or the other. Destiny or desire. He had chosen destiny, and all desire had been excised out of him. In this way, leaving people behind was as easy and, in its way, as pleasurable as swallowing a mouthful of mellow aged tequila.
When, hours later, he awoke, the jet was descending out of the sky like a great eagle toward the small airfield on the outskirts of the mountain town of Rachaiya. The plane began to judder and dip, and he fastened his seat belt. Peering out the window, he saw that the weather had changed. There was windblown snow on the ground here, as well as in the higher elevations, and more snow was falling out of the gunmetal sky. Colonel Ben David did not disappoint: one of the two AH-64 Apache attack helicopters under his command was standing by, ready to take Maceo Encarnación to the Mossad camp outside Dahr El Ahmar.
Reaching across the aisle, Encarnación drew to him the suitcase fitted with the thumbprint lock. As the plane hit the runway and began to slow, taxiing toward the copter, he released the lock, then opened the suitcase to stare one last time at thirty million dollars.
The call came in while Soraya and Peter, both exhausted, had fallen into a deep, drug-like sleep. Delia, having taken some of her built-up sick days, was watching over them. She crossed to the table beside Soraya’s bed, picked up her mobile, and saw that the call was from Secretary Hendricks.
Leaning over Soraya, she shook her. Then, seeing that her friend was slow to rouse herself, she leaned farther and kissed her on the forehead. Soraya’s eyes opened, and she saw Delia holding up her mobile so she could see Hendricks’s name on the caller ID.
When Soraya took the mobile from her, Delia nodded, smiling, and went out of the room.
“Mr. Secretary,” Soraya said, formally.
“Soraya, are you all right?”
“Fine, sir. I fell asleep.”
“No one’s more entitled to sleep than you, but I’ve got some pressing news regarding Tom Brick. Sam Anderson brought him into custody a couple of hours ago. Forensics found traces of Dick Richards’s blood on the cuffs of his trousers.”
Soraya sat up straight. “Sir?”
“Brick’s rolled over. He doesn’t want to go to jail.”
“He’s made a deal.”
“Given us the person who knifed Richards,” Hendricks said. “But there’s more—much more. I’m certain you recall the mysterious counterfeit thirty million Peter discovered.”
“I do, sir.” Soraya listened to what Hendricks had to say on the subject, delivered to him in writing by Sam Anderson in Tom Brick’s own hand.
“Oh, my God,” she said, when Hendricks was finished.
“My thought, exactly. Get your agents in Lebanon on this ASAP.”
“Will do,” Soraya said. “Thank you, sir.”
“Thank Anderson when you see him. The man’s done a stellar piece of work.”
The moment Soraya cut the co
Sir,” Bourne’s pilot said, “I won’t be able to set you down at the airfield in Rachaiya. There’s a private jet sitting on the runway.”
Maceo Encarnación, Bourne thought. “Options.”
“Only one,” the pilot said. “There’s a flat space a mile to the east.”
“Can you do it?”
The pilot gri
Bourne nodded. “Let’s do it.” Using his satphone, he dialed the number Robbinet had given him, and, after a coded exchange, gave the driver waiting for him the new coordinates.
“You understand I won’t be able to wait for you,” the pilot said as the Mirage banked to the east. “Even with Minister Robbinet’s influence, the less time this plane is in Lebanese airspace, the better.” The field in view, he began a rapid descent. “These days, the Lebanese government is understandably jumpy.”
“Any idea how long that plane’s been on the ground?” “No more than twenty minutes, sir. It took off from Paris an hour and thirty-five minutes before we did, but the Mirage is far faster. A commercial flight takes approximately four hours. We’ve covered that distance in two hours and forty-five minutes. That jet is considerably slower. I calculated the respective speeds of the two planes before we took off.”
“Good man,” Bourne said.
“Thank you, sir.” The pilot engaged the controls. “Now hold on, this is bound to be a bit of a bone-shake.”
The Mirage came down very fast, but contrary to what the pilot had said, the landing was as smooth as could be expected under the circumstances. Bourne unbuckled as soon as they began to taxi and was ready with the backpack Robbinet had provided him so that the moment the Mirage came to a halt, he popped the canopy and climbed down the curved side. He ran, half hunched over, as quickly as he could, giving the pilot a clear space in which to take off. As he reached the far edge of the field, the jet turned, paused, then was released down the flat expanse and rose quickly into the air.
Bourne turned away and made for a thin stand of ratty-looking pines, beyond which the vehicle and driver would be waiting. His shoes crunched over the several inches of snow that lay on the ground, but in among the trees the snow was patchy, as if eroded away by the bed of pine needles. A chilly wind wandered with a mournful sound through the trees; the air was dry and thin, tinged with the unmistakable scent of pine tar.
Peering through a gap in the trees, he looked out to the northwest. Sure enough, there was the vehicle, an old military Jeep with open sides and a canvas top. By its side, smoking languidly, was Fadi, Robbinet’s asset, a small, dark, muscular man with rounded shoulders and a shock of black hair. He must have heard the plane land because he was looking toward the field, as if anticipating Bourne’s imminent arrival.
Bourne pursed his lips, producing a bird whistle. Fadi peered into the trees, then smiled when he saw Bourne step out. Clambering into the Jeep, he started it up and swung it around in a shallow arc, stopping in front of where Bourne stood.
“Right on time,” he said as Bourne climbed in beside him. He reached into the backseat and handed Bourne a sheepskin coat. “Here, put this on. This high in the mountains, it’s a good deal colder than in Paris.”
As Bourne pulled off his backpack and slid his arm into the jacket, Fadi put the Jeep in gear. “Next stop Dahr El Ahmar.”
A sudden metallic insect buzz launched Bourne out of the Jeep. He rolled across the snow-packed ground as the Jeep, struck squarely in its midsection, was hurled end over end into the fizzing air by the shoulder-launched missile. The boom of the explosion echoed off the foothills, bent the stand of pines, the tips of the nearest ones turned black and smoking. The Jeep crashed down, and Fadi, as black and smoking as the pine-tops, was thrown from the charred wreckage to lie twisted and fried in the melting snow.
Scrambling, Bourne kept the burning vehicle between himself and the area his hearing confirmed the missile had come from. A low rise in that direction was, he was fairly certain, where the enemy was lying in wait. There were numerous implications to be divined from the bombed-out vehicle, but number one, so far as Bourne was concerned, was that he had been expected. Maybe they had heard his plane land; maybe they had followed Fadi. Either way, Soraya had been right. He had been prepared for a trap at Dahr El Ahmar, but not here, after the Mirage had been diverted. It was possible, though, that Encarnación’s pilot had spotted the Mirage and contacted the encampment.