Bourne threw the paring knife into the meat of the tall man‘s left thigh.
His squeal was indistinguishable from those of the piglets, which continued to run wildly. Ignoring them, Bourne grabbed Wayan by his shirtfront, but just then the thickset man grabbed a boning knife off the floor and launched himself at Bourne, who swung Wayan between them. The moment the attacker checked his knife thrust, Bourne kicked the weapon out of his hand, took him down, and slammed the back of his head against the floor. His eyes rolled up in their sockets.
Bourne rose, grabbed Wayan to keep him from fleeing, and whipped him around. Slapping him hard across the face, he said, ―I told you I didn‘t have time to bargain. Now you‘ll tell me who bought that cartridge from you.‖
―I don‘t know his name.‖
Bourne slapped him again, harder this time. ―I don‘t believe you.‖
―It‘s true.‖ Wayan‘s indifference had been ripped away; he was truly frightened. ―He was referred to me, but he never told me his name and I never asked. In my business the less I know the better.‖
That, at least, was true. ―What did he look like?‖
―I don‘t remember.‖
Bourne grabbed him by the throat. ―You don‘t want to lie to me.‖
―Clearly not.‖ Wayan‘s eyes rolled wildly in their sockets. His skin had taken on a greenish hue, as if at any moment he was going to be sick. ―Okay, looked Russian. He wasn‘t big, wasn‘t small. Well muscled, though.‖
―What else?‖
―I don‘t—‖ He gave a little yelp as Bourne slapped him again. ―He had black hair and his eyes… they were light. I don‘t remember…‖ He held up his hands. ―Wait, wait… they were gray.‖
―And?‖
―That‘s it. That‘s all.‖
―No, it isn‘t,‖ Bourne said. ―Who recommended him?‖
―A client…‖
―His name.‖ Bourne shook the pig man like a rag doll. ―I need his name.‖
―He‘ll kill me.‖
Bourne bent, withdrew the knife from the downed man, and placed the blade against Wayan‘s throat. ―Or I can kill you now.‖ He moved the blade just enough so a trickle of blood ran down Wayan‘s chest, staining his shirt.
―Your choice.‖
―Don…‖ The pig man gulped. ―Don Fernando Hererra… He lives in Spain, in the heart of the city of Seville.‖ Without further urging he provided Bourne with his client‘s address.
―How does Don Hererra make his living?‖
―International banking.‖
Bourne could not keep a smile from curling his lips. ―Now, of what use would your services be to an international banker?‖
Wayan shrugged. ―As I told you, the less I know about my clients the healthier it is for me.‖
―In the future, you should be more careful.‖ Bourne let go of him, pushed him roughly against the legs of one of the men, who was beginning to stir.
―Some clients are just plain toxic.‖
The moon had been called into the underworld by the ghosts of Anubis and Thoth, leaving only a forsaken starlight in its wake.
―Once again, I was wrong about you,‖ Chalthoum said, but without bitterness. ―Your primary mission is this Iranian indigenous group.‖
When she said nothing, he went on. ―I need you to help me.‖
―You are the state,‖ she said. ―How could I possibly help you?‖
He looked around, possibly to make sure none of his sentries had returned. Soraya watched him closely. If he was concerned with being overheard by one of his own men, what did that tell her? Had he finally broken away from al Mokhabarat? Had he turned rogue? But no, there was another explanation.
―There‘s a mole in my division,‖ he said, ―someone very high up.‖
―Amun, you‘re the head of al Mokhabarat, who—‖
―I suspect that it‘s someone higher up than me.‖ He puffed out his cheeks, let the stale air out of his lungs. ―Your contacts, your Typhon people, I think they could find out who the mole is.‖
―Isn‘t it your job to ferret out spies and traitors?‖
―Don‘t you think I tried? Here‘s what I got for my efforts: four agents killed in the line of duty and a severe reprimand about the growing incompetence of my agency.‖ The rage behind his eyes returned full force.
―Believe me when I tell you that the threat to me was thinly veiled.‖
Soraya considered this. Why should she care or help him when his organization might have shot down the plane? She said, ―Give me one good reason why I should help you.‖
―I know your people haven‘t gotten anywhere with confirming the identity of the Iranian indigenous group—and they won‘t, I promise you that. But I can.‖
At that moment a beam of light caused a swath of stars to vanish. Soraya moved several paces to her left in order to get a look at who was coming.
Delia approached over a low rise, the beam of her flashlight playing over them for a moment. Her face was turned into a Halloween mask by the illumination from below.
―I know the origin of the missile that hit the plane.‖
Chalthoum, with a quick warning glance at Soraya, crossed his arms over his chest. ―So?‖
―So.‖ Delia took a deep breath, let it all out before she continued. ―The missile was a ground-to-air Kowsar 3.‖
―Iranian.‖ Soraya felt a chill run through her. ―Delia, are you certain?‖
―I found fragments of the electronic guidance system,‖ her friend said.
―They‘re Chinese, similar to those on the C-701, which is an airto-surface missile. While the EGS is similar to that of the Sky Dragon, this one had a millimeter-wave radar seeker.‖
―Which is how it locked on so effectively to the aircraft,‖ Soraya said.
Delia nodded. ―That particular EGS is unique to the Kowsar.‖ She shot Soraya a significant look. ―This baby‘s got a speed of just below Mach One; the aircraft had no chance, none at all.‖
Soraya felt sick to her stomach.
Chalthoum‘s voice vibrated in genuine fury. ― Yakhrab byuthium!‖ May their houses be destroyed! ―The Iranians shot down the plane.‖
And with those words the world moved a giant step closer to war. Not one of the recent crop of regional wars like Vietnam, Afghanistan, and Iraq, which were terrible and bloody enough, but a full-blown world war. A war to end all wars.
Book Two
12
IJUST GOT OFF THE PHONE with the Iranian president,‖ the president said. ―He categorically denies any knowledge of the incident.‖