Bourne and Rebeka deplaned in Mexico City with the Babylonian on their backs.
“There’s no way out,” Rebeka said. “He has us trapped in here.”
“There’s still customs and immigration to consider.” Bourne was aware of the Babylonian, ambling five or six people behind them. He needed to stay there in order to keep them in sight.
“We should split up,” Rebeka said, passport out and open as they joined the first-class line to be processed into Mexico.
“That’s what he’ll expect us to do,” Bourne said. “I imagine he’ll welcome that, a man like him. Divide and conquer.”
They inched forward toward the white line painted on the concrete floor that marked the last staging area before handing over their passports.
“Do you have a better idea?” Rebeka asked.
“I will,” Bourne said, “in a minute.”
He looked around at all the faces—the men and women, the children of all ages, the families traveling with strollers and the paraphernalia endemic to babies and toddlers alike. Three teenage girls with teddy bear backpacks giggled and did a little dance, a woman drew up in an airline wheelchair, a three-year-old broke away from her mother and began wandering through a thicket of people who laughed and patted her on the head.
“What we have to do,” Bourne said, moving, “is make something happen.”
“What?” But she followed him as he stepped over to the longer line of economy-class passengers that snaked through the hall.
He came up beside the woman in the wheelchair. She was dressed in a chic pinkish Chanel suit, her thick black hair pulled severely back from her face in a complex bun. Bending over, he said, “You shouldn’t be waiting on a long line. Let me give you a hand.”
“You’re very kind,” she said.
“Tim Moore,” he said, giving the name on the passport he was using.
“Constanza.” She had a face in which the DNA of the Olmec and their Spanish conquerors mingled as it had in their centuries-old bloody battles. Her skin was the color of honey, her features hard, almost brutal in the unquestionable beauty that seemed timeless. “Honestly, I don’t know why they deposited me here. The attendant said to wait just a moment, but she hasn’t come back.”
“Don’t worry,” Bourne said. “My wife and I will have you through here in no time.”
With Rebeka following, he pushed the wheelchair off the long line and headed straight through to the head of the first-class line.
“Halevy is watching,” Rebeka whispered to Bourne.
“Let him,” he said. “There’s nothing he can do.”
Constanza cocked her head, her clever eyes questioning. “What’s that, Mr. Moore?”
“I’ll need your passport.”
“Of course.” She handed it over as they came up to the immigration cubicle.
He handed over the three passports. The official opened them, stared into their faces. “This woman is a Mexican citizen. You two should be in that line over there.”
“Señor and Señora Moore are with me,” Constanza said. “As you can see, I can’t get around without them.”
The official grunted. “Business or pleasure?” he said to Bourne in a bored voice.
“We’re on vacation,” Bourne said, matching the official’s tone.
Their passports were duly stamped and Bourne pushed the wheelchair through into the baggage claim area, Rebeka just behind him. They stayed with Constanza, helping her with her baggage, while, some yards away, the Babylonian fumed, pacing, helpless to come nearer.
Outside security, she was met by her chauffeur, a burly Mexican with tiny piggy eyes, a pockmarked moon face, and the demeanor of a doting uncle. He unfolded a beautiful aluminum wheelchair, transferring his charge into it without seeming effort.
“Manny,” Constanza said as they all headed for the exit doors, “this is Señor Moore and his wife, Rebeka. They were kind enough to help me through immigration. They’re nice people, Manny, and one so infrequently meets nice people nowadays, isn’t that so?”
“Absolutely, Señora,” Manny said dutifully.
She turned her head. “Mr. Moore, you and Rebeka must be my guests. There’s plenty of room in the auto and, since it’s lunchtime, I insist you take the meal with me.” She waved a hand. “I’ll not hear a word to the contrary. Come along now.”
She wasn’t kidding about having room. Her “auto” was a Hummer limo with a custom interior that made it as comfortable as a living room.
“Tell me, Mr. Moore, what is your line of work?” Constanza said when they had settled themselves and Manny, behind the wheel, had pulled out into the circular traffic flow leaving the airport. She had the sort of body most women of twenty would kill for: big-breasted, slimwaisted, long-legged.
“Import-export,” Bourne said without hesitation.
“I see.” Constanza, watching Rebeka as she stared back at the pickup area, continued, “I so love people with secrets.”
Rebeka turned. “I beg your pardon?”
“My late husband, Acevedo Camargo, was a man composed almost entirely of secrets.” She smiled slyly. “Sometimes I think that’s why I fell in love with him.”
“Acevedo Camargo,” Bourne said. “I’ve heard that name.”
“I expect you have.” There was a distinct twinkle in Constanza’s eyes as she addressed Rebeka. “My late husband made his money, like so many clever men in Mexico, in the drug trade.” She shrugged. “I’m not ashamed of it, facts are facts, and, besides, it’s better than kowtowing to Gringos with your face in the dust.” She waved a hand. “No offense, but we’re in my country now. I can say what I want, when I want.”
She smiled benignly. “You mustn’t misunderstand me. Acevedo was a good man, but, you see, in Mexico, more often than not, good men die. Acevedo turned his back on the drug trade. He became a politician, a crusader against the people who had made him a multimillionaire. Brave or stupid? Possibly both. They killed him for it, gunned him down in the street between his office and his armored car, a hail of bullets; no one could have saved him, not even if he had had a dozen bodyguards instead of three. They all died that evening. I remember the sun was red as a bullfighter’s cape. That was Acevedo—a bullfighter.”
She sat back, apparently exhausted by her memories. Manny drove along the Circuito Interior Highway, heading into the dusky west.
“I’m so terribly sorry,” Rebeka said, after exchanging a quick look with Bourne.
“Thank you,” Constanza said, “but there’s really no need. I knew the life I was drawing when I fell in love with him.” She shrugged. “What can you do when desire and destiny become entwined? This is life in Mexico, which is made up of equal parts poverty, hopelessness, and shit. An endless series of defeats. Excuse my bluntness, but I’ve lived long enough to know how tedious it is to beat around the bush.”
Her hand, slender, elegant, and burnished with nail polish and jeweled rings, made circles in the air. “Because this is what life is here, we learn to take any path that will lift our faces from the mud. I chose Acevedo. I knew who and what he was. He would not, could not, hide those things from me. Over the years, I advised him. No one knew, of course. Such things are frowned upon for a woman.” She smiled, almost wistfully. “I gave him more money instead of children. Being tied to the kitchen and the nursery was not for me. I told him that at the very beginning. Still he loved me and wanted me.” Her smile broadened. “Such a good man. He understood so much. Except how to survive.” She sighed. “Smart as he was, what he never figured out was that it made no difference whether the law was raped and pillaged by the government or by the criminals.”
She lifted her head, a brave smile on her face. “Thinking back on it, I’m certain now that he knew he would be killed. He didn’t care. He wanted to do what he wanted to do.” That enigmatic smile again. “Brave and stupid, as I said.”