“Just a moment,” he said.

Soraya, acutely attuned to both these men, felt immediate alarm. If Amun was going to start a fight she had to find a way to head it off.

“Amun, let’s just go,” she said in as even a voice as she could muster. She had been witness to Amun’s temper; she did not ever wish to be on the receiving end of it.

“I said wait,” he said in that tone of voice that turned lesser human beings to stone.

Aaron took his hand off the gearshift and half turned in his seat. To his credit, he was content to be patient.

“That was a good piece of work in there.” Amun stared straight into Aaron’s eyes. “I admired the technique.”

Aaron nodded. “Thank you.”

It was clear he had no idea where this was going. Neither did Soraya.

“You hit a nerve with Marchand and you left him wondering and frightened,” Amun continued. “It’s too bad you didn’t plant a bug in his office. Then we could have found out who he’s calling right now.”

Aaron appeared slightly put out by Amun’s denseness. “This isn’t Egypt. I’m not allowed to bug people’s offices or homes without proper authorization.”

“No, you aren’t.” Amun unzipped his bag and pulled out a dull black box about the size of a first-generation iPod. It had a grille on the top. “But I can.”

He flipped a hidden switch and at once they heard Donatien Marchand’s voice caught in midsentence. They were able to listen to the rest of the phone conversation.

“—God alone knows.”

…

“Not really, no, it’s not the first time I’ve had an inquiry from the Quai d’Orsay.”

…

“Certainly, but I tell you this one feels different.”

…

“No, I don’t know why.”

An unusually long silence.

“It’s the Egyptian. Having the head of al Mokhabarat—”

…

“Bullshit, you wouldn’t like it, either. The guy gave me the creeps.”

…

“Now I don’t know what—”

…

“You try that, then. You didn’t look these people in the eye.”

…

“Really? I haven’t even mentioned the woman—Soraya Moore.”

…

“Well, you may know her, but I don’t. She worries me most of all.”

…

“Because she says nothing and sees everything. Her eyes are like X-ray machines. I’ve had the misfortune of meeting several people like her. Inevitably, it’s gotten messy—very messy. And with this Laurent business, messy is the last thing we need.”

…

“Oh, you do, do you? And who would that be?”

There ensued what seemed to be a shocked silence before Donatien Marchand’s voice started up again.

“You can’t be serious. Not him. I mean to say, there’s got to be another alternative.”

…

“I see.”

Marchand sighed in what sounded like resignation.

“When?”

…

“And it has to be me?”

…

“All right then.” Marchand managed to inject a girder of steel into his voice. “I’ll give him his orders immediately. The usual price?”

A moment later the connection was broken. The three eavesdroppers sat in silence, their bodies very still. The atmosphere was suddenly stifling, the musk of men and woman mingling into a thick stew. Soraya felt the slow, heavy beat of her heart. It was one thing listening in on a conversation, quite another when a key part of that conversation concerned you.

“Interpretation?” Aaron said a bit breathlessly.

“It sounds as if Marchand has been ordered to contact a hit man.”

Aaron nodded. “That was my take, as well.” He turned his head. “Amun?”

The Egyptian was staring out the Citroën’s window and didn’t bother to answer. “Here he comes,” he said, pointing to Marchand, whom they could see emerging from the Monition Club. He got into a black BMW and took off.

As Aaron put the Citroën in gear and pulled out after him, Amun said, “I assume you’ve both lost your appetite.”

The federales were looking for Bourne, all right. At least the identity Bourne had used to enter Colombia. Of course, that identity no longer existed. Neither did the man in the blurry wire photo the cops were passing around the international departures terminal in Bogotá.

“Don’t worry,” Bourne said from his seat in the wheelchair, “it’s me the federales have an interest in, not you or Rosie.”

“But the Domna has connections—”

“In this case,” Bourne cut in, “I very much doubt they’d want the federales involved. Too many questions would be asked.”

Nevertheless, as Vegas pushed Bourne across the concourse, he exuded nervous energy the way the sun generates heat. This was a problem—of what magnitude Bourne could not yet determine—for cops could smell fear from a thousand yards away.

Directing them to the business-class lounge, Bourne presented their tickets to one of the attendants, a slim, deeply tanned young woman, who personally showed them the best place to park the wheelchair, then went to get a server for them. There were definitely perks to being perceived as disabled, Bourne thought, but right now the most important one was throwing the federales off his trail.

When the server appeared, Bourne ordered a stiff drink for Vegas to calm him down. Rosie ordered her own; Bourne wanted nothing.

“I’ll be fine once I see Don Fernando again,” Vegas said.

“Stop looking around,” Bourne said. “Concentrate on me.” He turned to Rosie. “Hold his hand and don’t let go, no matter what.”

Rosie hadn’t said a word since they disembarked their regional flight from Perales, but Bourne sensed little fear in her. Her innate trust that Vegas would protect her come what may appeared to insulate her from their precarious situation.

The moment she gripped Vegas’s hand, he relaxed visibly, which was lucky since, at that moment, a pair of federales stepped into the lounge and started querying the receptionists. Both of them shook their heads when they looked at the photo of Bourne. Nevertheless, the two cops decided to make a circuit of the lounge.

Vegas had not yet seen them, but Rosie had. Her eyes locked on Bourne. He grinned at her, he laughed as if she had made a joke. Understanding, she laughed back.

“What’s going on?” Vegas said. “What the hell is so damn funny?”

“In a minute or two, a pair of federales will pass by here.” Bourne saw the fear bloom anew in the older man’s face. He was a country fellow, unused to the confines of the big city, and here in the lounge there was nowhere to run.

He had already consumed more than half his drink. His face was pale. Bourne could see the bones of his skull clearly beneath the suddenly waxy skin; dead men looked better. Seeking to distract him, Bourne asked him about the oil fields—his early days, when he was learning the trade, when the danger was the most acute. He became animated, as Bourne had hoped. Clearly, he loved his work and was adept at its every nuance. All the while, Rosie listened as attentively as if she were a geological engineer.

The federales were fast approaching their area, strutting with their chests out, their hands on the butts of their sidearms. Tension ratcheted up. Even Rosie was not immune, Bourne saw.

“I saw the tamarind tree out back,” Bourne said, “and the cross that marked the grave.”

“We do not speak of this,” Vegas said, shaking.

“Mi amor, cálmate.” Rosie kissed him on the cheek. “He couldn’t know.”

“I had no intention—”

Rosie lifted a hand to stop him. “You couldn’t know,” she said grimly. She offered Vegas a wan smile that guttered like a candle in the wind. She turned back to Bourne. “Our son, nine days old and already he held the entire world in his eyes.” A tear slid down her cheek, which she immediately wiped away with the back of her hand. “This is how it is with children, before they are corrupted by the adult world.”