“I’ll see what I can do, Fitz,” he said, “but you have to get Indigo Ridge up and running ASAP.”

“I’ll go to the NeoDyme board and see about a massive hiring initiative.”

The president grunted. “With the stock on a rocket ride to the moon money won’t be a problem.”

FitzWilliams laughed. “Yes, sir. My fortune is already made.”

Don Fernando reappeared. “Essai has returned, Jason, and is asking for you. He’s in the library. It’s on the east side of the house. Meanwhile, Kaja and I will go prepare dinner.”

Bourne crossed the living room, went down a side hallway to the library. It was a square room, light and airy, unlike most libraries. A number of bookcases lined the walls on either side of the double windows. The room was furnished with a scattering of comfortable-looking chairs and throw pillows in Moroccan-patterned fabrics.

Jalal Essai was standing in the center of the room, his fingers steepled in front of him. He turned just as Bourne stepped into the room.

As usual, his mood was unreadable. “I imagine you have a number of questions to ask me.” He gestured to a pair of high-backed wing chairs. “Why not be comfortable while we talk?”

The two men sat, facing each other.

Bourne said, “Essai, there’s no point in talking if you continue to lie to me.”

Essai folded his hands in his lap. He appeared completely at ease. “Agreed.”

“Are you still working for Severus Domna?”

“I am not; I haven’t for some time. I did not lie about that.”

“And that sad tale about your daughter?”

“Unfortunately, also true.” Essai lifted a forefinger. “But I did not tell you the whole story. She was killed, yes, but it wasn’t by agents of the Domna. They would never have condoned such a thing.” He took a breath and slowly exhaled. “My daughter was murdered by agents of Semid Abdul-Qahhar.” He cocked his head. “You have heard of this man?”

Bourne nodded. “He’s the leader of the Mosque in Munich.”

“Indeed.” He leaned forward slightly, a certain tension informing his torso. “It was Abdul-Qahhar who took advantage of circumstances to forge a deal with Benjamin El-Arian.”

“What circumstances?”

“Ah, now we arrive at the crux of the matter.” Essai jerked his head. “That woman in there. She told you her story?”

Bourne nodded.

“Her father is the key to the mystery of why the Domna allowed Abdul-Qahhar to invade their precincts.”

“It wasn’t a deal?”

“Oh, yes, but the question is what kind of deal,” Essai said. “The vulnerability the Domna felt when your old organization, Treadstone, targeted them led El-Arian to make his deal with the Mosque.”

Bourne said nothing. This was the second time he’d heard about the Domna’s sense of vulnerability. The problem was he simply didn’t believe it. Either Essai was lying to him yet again, or Essai truly didn’t know the real reason Semid Abdul-Qahhar had been welcomed into the organization. What bothered Bourne the most was that from all he had been able to find out, the Domna had been set up to bridge the cultural and religious gap between East and West—a noble attempt to teach the two cultures to live in peace with each other. Why, then, would Semid Abdul-Qahhar, an Arab extremist masquerading as a benign Muslim, be allowed to upset Severus Domna’s carefully calibrated balance? Nothing added up. Bourne stared hard at Essai. Once again he was at a loss to classify the man as friend or enemy.

“You want to know who Christien Norén worked for, is that it?”

“Everyone in this house wants to know,” Essai said, leaning back. “We thought Kaja would know, or at least be able to give us some clue, which is why Don Fernando wanted me to fetch her along with Vegas.”

“Why didn’t you tell me all this back in Colombia?”

“Her father went after your old boss. Word is the two of you were close. I couldn’t be sure you’d do what needed to be done if you knew who she really was.”

This explanation sounded logical, and possibly it was true, but with Essai you never knew. Don Fernando had warned him about Essai’s pathological lying, not that Bourne hadn’t already suspected as much. On the other hand, it was helpful to get confirmation of his suspicion.

“And if I hadn’t come along?”

Essai shrugged. “I was negotiating with Roberto Corellos to help me when you fell into my life like a gift from Allah.” He smiled. “You make a habit of it.” His hand briefly lifted and fell. “But believe me, that’s all water under the bridge.”

Holding a conversation with Essai was an exhausting experience, listening to him and trying to ferret out what he was really saying—or, more often, not saying. “Unfortunately, none of this brings us any closer to discovering what the Domna is up to.”

“There’s something else.” He sat forward again and, as he did so, lowered his voice. “Benjamin El-Arian has been taking secret trips to Damascus. I discovered their existence purely by accident, through, of all people, Estevan Vegas. Going through Estevan’s bills of lading, I discovered a discrepancy in moneys that I traced to a round-trip first-class ticket from Paris to Damascus. Digging further, I turned up El-Arian’s name, along with the fact that this wasn’t his first trip to Damascus. El-Arian was paying for the trips by skimming off profits from the exports filtered through the oil fields in Colombia that Vegas manages for Don Fernando.”

“Any idea what El-Arian was doing in Damascus?”

Essai shook his head. “In that regard, I’ve hit a dead end. But I think it has something to do with the group Christien Norén worked for.”

“That makes no sense,” Bourne said. “The men who came after Kaja and her sisters are Russian.”

Essai rose. “Nevertheless, from what little my contacts in Damascus could glean, I think there’s a connection.”

Bourne wondered why Essai was so keen on finding out the truth about Christien Norén’s affiliation. Then, like a flash of lightning, the answer came to him. Essai didn’t believe the story about how El-Arian had come to make a deal with the Mosque, either. He was as skeptical as Bourne himself. He was convinced that the true reason would become apparent only when the mystery of Christien Norén was solved.

“Have you told Don Fernando any of this?”

Essai gave him an enigmatic smile. “Only you and I know.”

Boris stood very still. The alley stank of fish and stale frying oil. The noise of the traffic was like a hive of angry wasps. Zachek sauntered up as if he didn’t have a care in the world. His eyes were on Karpov all the time. He looked dapper in a long black cashmere coat, black kidskin gloves, and mirror-finish brogues with soles so thick Boris was certain they must contain a tongue of steel. This was an old trick dating back to the KGB: the steel useful for vicious stomping sessions. Some things, Boris thought, never went out of style, even among the Internet generation.

When Zachek came up to where the two men stood at the mouth of the alley, he said, “Fuck, Karpov, maybe you wouldn’t make such a good mentor, after all.”

Boris gestured with his chin. “Why not ask your comrade with a face full of metal for his opinion?”

Zachek opened his mouth, threw his head back, and laughed. “You old guys,” he said.

That was when Boris jammed his right elbow into the gunman’s Adam’s apple. At the same time, he shoved the gun away with his left hand. It went off, deafening all three of them. Boris shot the gunman point-blank with the Tokarev and the man arched back and slammed against the brick wall, where he left a mealy-looking Rorschach blood-blot.

Zachek was just starting to come out of shock when Boris grabbed him by the back of his soft, pelt-like collar and smashed his face into the blood-blot.

“What do you see there, Zachek, eh? Tell me, you little prick.” Boris dragged Zachek back. He switched to an upper-class-British–accented English. “I say Zachek, old bean, you’ve gotten blood all over your five-thousand-dollar cashmere overcoat. Not to mention those shiny shoes. What are they? John Lobb?”