“Once that I can remember.”
She had wrapped herself in the protection of her own arms. “It’s a fucking snake pit. A gorgeous snake pit, admittedly, but a snake pit nonetheless.”
“It’s gotten worse in the last five years.”
“The cartels are no longer underground since they’ve integrated with the Colombians. There’s so much money that all the right officials, even the police, are in on the action. The drug trade is out of control. It’s threatening to inundate the entire country, and the government doesn’t have either the will or the inclination to stem the rising tide. Anyway, any time someone in authority pops up trying to take charge, he gets his head lopped off.”
“Not much incentive to swim against the tide.”
“Unless you’re swinging the hammer of God.”
Another silence descended, as if from the high, clear sky through which they were flying. Bourne listened to her soft, even breathing, as if he were lying in bed next to her. Despite this, he was acutely aware of how separate from her—from everyone—he felt. And, abruptly, he understood what she was trying to get out of him. Was he incapable of feeling any deep emotion about anyone? It seemed to him now that each death, each parting he had memory of, had inoculated him over and over, until he was now fully anaesthetized, incapable of doing anything more meaningful than putting one foot in front of the other in the darkness. There was no escape for him, and Rebeka knew it. That was why she had brought up the notion of an island in the sun. Leaving the darkness behind was not an option for him. He had spent so many years negotiating its mysterious byways that he would only be blinded in the sunlight. This realization, he understood, was what had saddened her, wrapping her in melancholy. Whether it was because she had seen herself in him or because she actually desired the exile for herself remained to be seen.
“We should go back to our seats,” he said.
She nodded distractedly. They left the bathroom and went back down the aisle. That was when he saw Ilan Halevy, the narrow brim of a hat pulled low, sitting in the last row of first class, reading a copy of the Financial Times. The Babylonian looked up over the rim of the newspaper, delivering a wicked grin.
14
"WHAT D’YOU MEAN I can’t see her?”
“She’s crashing, Charles.” Delia put her hands against his chest, pushing Thorne back from the recovery room.
He stood against the wall as doctors and nurses pushing stainless steel carts hurried past.
He followed them with his eyes. His mouth was half open and he seemed to have trouble breathing. “What’s happening, Delia?”
“I don’t know.”
“You were in there.” His restless gaze lit on her. “You must know something.”
“We were talking and she just collapsed. That’s all I know.”
“The baby.” He licked his lips. “What about the baby?”
Delia reared back. “Ah, now I get it.”
“What d’you mean?”
“Why you’re here. I get it. It’s the baby.”
Thorne appeared confused—or was that alarm on his face? “What are you talking—”
“If the baby dies, all your troubles die with it.”
He came off the wall, his eyes blazing. “Where the hell do you come off—?”
“The baby dies and you don’t have problems with Ann, do you? No explanations needed, it’s as if the baby never existed, your affair with Soraya a distant memory, far away from the press and the bloggers, looking for dirt twenty-four–seven.”
“You’re nuts, you know that? I care about Soraya. Deeply. Why can’t you accept that?”
“Because you’re a cynical, self-centered sonofabitch.” Thorne took a breath, gathering himself. His eyes narrowed. “You know, I thought we could be friends.”
“You mean you thought you could recruit me.” She produced a steely laugh. “Fuck off.”
Turning her back on him, Delia went to talk to Dr. Santiago as he emerged from Soraya’s room.
“How is she?”
“Stable,” Dr. Santiago said. “She’s being moved to the ICU.” Delia was aware that Thorne had come up behind her. She could almost hear him listening.
“What happened?”
“A slight blockage developed at the surgical site. Rare, but it happens sometimes. We’ve cleared it and we’re giving her a low dose of
blood thinner. We’ll try to get her off it as soon as we deem it safe.”
“Safe for her,” Delia said. “What about what’s safe for the baby?”
“Ms. Moore is our primary patient, her life takes precedence. Besides, the fetus—”
“Her baby,” Delia said.
Dr. Santiago regarded her enigmatically for a moment. “Right. Excuse me.”
Delia, melancholy and forlorn, watched him disappear down the hallway.
Thorne sighed. “Now I see how it is between you and me, I’ll lay my cards on the table.”
“When will you learn I don’t give a shit about your cards?”
“I’m wondering whether Amy will feel the same way.”
Delia spun on him. “What did you say?”
“You heard me.” The challenge in his voice was unmistakable. “I have transcripts of your voicemails with Amy Brandt.”
“What?”
“Surprised? It’s a simple hack. We use a software program that imitates caller ID. It’s how we can gain access to your mobile phone—
anyone’s, really—and bypass the password protection.”
“So you have—”
“Every message you and Amy have left for each other.” He could not hide a smirk. “Some of it’s pretty hot.”
She slapped him across the face so hard he rocked back on his heels.
“You hit like a guy, you know that?”
“How the hell d’you live with yourself?”
He laughed thinly. “It’s a dirty job, but someone’s got to do it.” She eyed him warily. “If you have a point, make it.”
“We each have something on the other.” He shrugged. “Just something to remember.”
“I don’t care—”
“But Amy does, doesn’t she? In her line of work she has to be careful. A shitload of parents don’t like their kids being taught by a lesbian.”
Delia thought of several choice things to say, but at that moment a pair of grim-faced nurses wheeled Soraya out of recovery, past them, down the hall to the ICU. There was silence for a time after that.
“So there’s our truce,” Thorne said, “laid out for you.”
Delia turned back to him. “Did you ever care about Soraya, even for a moment?”
“She’s a hellcat in bed.”
“What’s the matter? Ann’s not enough for you?”
“Ann has sex with her job. Otherwise she’s a cold fish.”
“My heart goes out to you,” she said acidly.
He gave her a lupine grin. “And mine to you.” He grabbed his crotch. “You don’t know what you’re missing.”
Maceo Encarnación, staring out the Perspex window as his jet circled Mexico City prior to landing, saw the familiar fug of brown effluvia that hovered over the sprawling metropolis like a filthy carpet.
A combination of the happenstance of geography and the unbridled emissions of modern progress formed this almost permanent atmospheric layer. Mexico City, built upon the ruins of the great Aztec megalopolis Tenochtitlán, seemed to be drowning in its own future.
The first thing his lungs inhaled when he stepped onto the rolling stairs was the stink of human shit, used to fertilize many of the crops. In the street markets where fruits and vegetables were laid out on the ground, dogs and toddlers alike pissed and shat on the wares without consequence.
Encarnación ducked into a black armored SUV, its motor running so that it sped off the moment he had settled into the backseat. His elaborate colonial California-style house, with its pseudo-baroque quarry windows, front garden, and elaborate wood-clad interior hallways, was on Castelar Street, in Colonia Polanco. Situated less than a mile from Chapultepec Park and the Museum of National History, it was constructed of pale yellow stone and tezontle, the indigenous reddish volcanic stone that marked so many of the city’s great structures.