“We’ve come to Mexico City looking for someone,” Bourne said before Rebeka could answer.
“Ah.” Constanza smiled. “Not on a vacation.”
“Sadly, no.”
She waited while a servant spooned a dark, rich pork mole onto her plate. “And may I assume that your search is urgent?”
“Why would you say that?” Rebeka asked.
Constanza turned to her. “Did you think I didn’t see that evil-looking man lurking in the arrivals hall? I may be getting on in years, but I’m not senile!”
“I want to be as sharp as you are,” Rebeka said, “when I’m your age.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere,” Constanza said with a wink. “Why do you think I offered you a lift?” She leaned toward them, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “I want in on the action.”
“Action?”
“Whatever you two are up to. Whatever that evil-looking man wants to stop you from doing.”
“Since we’re speaking bluntly,” Bourne said, “that evil-looking man wants to kill us.”
Constanza frowned. “Now that I won’t put up with!”
Rebeka shook her head. “You’re not shocked?”
“After you’ve lived my life,” Constanza said, “nothing is shocking.” She turned to stare at Bourne. “Especially for people who say they’re in import-export. For many years, that was my husband’s line of work!”
She put her hands together, no longer interested in eating, if she ever had been. “So, tell me what you can and I will help you find whoever you’re looking for.”
“His name is Harry Rowland,” Bourne said.
“Or Manfred Weaving,” Rebeka added.
“Legends,” Constanza said, a sprightly gleam in her eye. “Oh, yes, I know about legends. Acevedo used them in the early days when we traveled abroad.”
“There’s something that may make this man easier to locate,” Bourne said. “We think he works for SteelTrap.”
Something new overcame Constanza’s expression, something powerful and dark and thoroughly unpleasant. She looked from one to the other. “This will undoubtedly sound overheated, even melodramatic. I wish it were either of those things.” Her eyes had turned dark and unfathomable with secrets best left untouched. “My best advice is to forget this man Rowland or Weaving. Whatever your business is with him, forget it. Leave Mexico City on the next flight.”
After enduring a restless night during which Charles Thorne was pursuing her through a labyrinth of dank corridors that smelled of anaesthetic and death, Delia awoke in her own bed with a pounding headache even three ibuprofen couldn’t quite eradicate.
She checked her phone to see if there had been any calls from Soraya’s ICU nurse, even though she knew there hadn’t been. One voicemail and two texts from Amy, wondering how she was. Amy and Soraya did not get along, which was a great sadness to her. She hadn’t wanted to believe it, but Amy was jealous of the intimacy she shared with Soraya. Even though she had assured Amy there was no physical component to their friendship, that Soraya was strictly hetero, she had come to the realization that Amy didn’t believe her. “I’ve read all the articles about how rampant homosexuality is in the Arab world,” Amy said in one of her less than finest moments. “It’s all been pushed underground, it’s all sub rosa, which makes the urge all the stronger.” Nothing Delia could say would dissuade Amy from her point of view, so she had stopped trying, and gradually the subject of Soraya dropped from their conversations.
Showered and dressed, she grabbed a bite at a McD drive-through. She might as well have been eating the cardboard packaging for all she could taste the food.
Arriving at the office, she occupied herself with figuring out a fiendishly clever double-blind detonation mechanism. When, at length, she looked at her watch, over two hours had passed. She stood up, stretched, and took a walk around the lab in an attempt to clear her head.
It was no use. No matter what she did, she remained alone with her thoughts and her seething anger at Charles Thorne. Her first concern, of course, remained Soraya, but now she was at a total loss to understand what had drawn her friend to that monster. Maybe it’s a heterosexual thing, she thought, with both amusement and bitterness. He had humiliated her. Far worse, she had allowed him to humiliate her.
She returned to her workstation, but now she was unable to concentrate, so, grabbing her overcoat, she returned to the hospital. It seemed important, somehow, to be near Soraya, especially because she was unconscious and vulnerable.
Already exhausted and terribly hungry, she went down the hall to the ICU, but once she was assured by Soraya’s nurse that there was no news, she took herself down to the basement commissary, filled up her tray with a mishmash of dishes, added a soda and, after paying, sat down at a Formica table. She ate staring at the huge analog clock on the wall, her thoughts with her friend, hoping that with every breath she took now she’d be closer to healing.
Dear God , she thought, stay close to Raya, protect her from harm, let her and the baby be okay.
Her eyes burned and her skin felt parched, products of spending time in the hospital’s canned air. She knew she should leave, take a break, walk around the block even, but somehow she could not get herself to do it. She waited for her mobile to ring, willing there to be good news.
And, at last, there was. Her mobile vibrated, she jumped up, and listened to the nurse even as she was on her way upstairs, her heart pounding in her chest. Too long a wait for the elevators, so she turned to the stairwell, taking the treads two at a time, thinking, Come on, Raya. Come on!
Pushing the large square button on the wall to open the automatic doors, she went into the ICU. On either side of a wide central aisle were screened-off bays from which issued the mechanical beeps, whistles, and sighs of the various machines keeping the critical care patients alive, in some cases, breathing.
She hurried past the burn and cardiac units. Soraya’s bay was the last one on the right. Her nurse, a young woman with her hair pinned back, looked at Delia with caring eyes.
“She’s awake,” the nurse said, reacting to the acute anxiety on Delia’s face. “Her vitals have stabilized. Dr. Santiago and one of his colleagues have been in. They seemed pleased with their patient’s progress.”
Delia felt as if she were walking on burning needles. “So the prognosis?”
“The doctors are cautiously optimistic.”
Delia felt a bubble in her chest deflate. “Then she’s out of the woods?”
“I would say so, yes.” The nurse offered one of those nursely smiles that could mean nothing at all. “Though there’s still a ways to go, she’s made remarkable progress.”
Delia said, “I want to see her.”
The nurse nodded. “Please don’t overtax her. She’s still very weak and is working for two.”
As the nurse was about to turn away, Delia said, “Has anyone else been in to see her?”
“I called you the moment the doctors were finished with their examinations.”
“Thank you,” Delia said fervently.
The nurse ducked her head. “Call me if you need me.” She pointed. “I’ll be at my monitoring station.”
Delia nodded, then, pushing aside the fabric curtain, went in to see her friend. Soraya, hooked up to a bewildering array of machines, was propped up on the high hospital bed. Her expression brightened considerably when she saw Delia.
“Deel,” she said, lifting her hand for her friend to take. She closed her eyes for a moment when she felt the warmth of Delia’s hand. “I’ve come from the back of beyond.”
“So the doctors tell me.” Delia’s smile was genuine. Raya looked far better than she had in recovery. The dusky-rose color had returned to her cheeks, happily replacing yesterday’s deathly pallor. “It’s been a rough ride, but now the worst is over, I know it.”