Then she hauled open the door and peered out, looking both ways. Apart from an old man shuffling away from her, holding on to the rolling rack that held his fluid drip, no one was about. Across the corridor was a utility room. She steeled herself and stepped out. The moment she did, she heard voices approaching. One was Aaron’s. He wasn’t alone. Willing her legs to move, she lunged for the handle of the utility room door, swung it open, and stepped inside. Just as the door sighed shut she caught a glimpse of Aaron flanked by two doctors heading for her room.

Bourne and Essai found Kaja and Vegas in the entryway. The front door was open and, beyond, Don Fernando could be seen directing two cars up his driveway.

“It’s ten o’clock,” Kaja said. As if she sensed that Bourne and Essai, having appeared together, wanted to talk with her, she added, “Dinner time is sacred for Don Fernando.”

Bourne approached them. “Estevan, how are you feeling? You’ve been asleep for hours.”

Vegas steepled his fingers against his forehead. “A little groggy, but better.”

Don Fernando stepped into the doorway. “Our transportation has arrived.”

Their destination was a seafood restaurant on the other side of Cadiz. Its expansive terra-cotta-tiled terrace abutted a stone seawall that overlooked the southern part of the harbor. Boats lay at anchor, bobbing gently in the swells. A launch pearled the water as it passed by, leaving a fast-dissolving froth in its wake. Moonlight lay on the water like a silver mantilla; overhead were handfuls of stars.

The maître d’, making a fuss over Don Fernando, showed them outside to a round table near the seawall. The restaurant was filled with glamorous types. Gold and platinum baubles on the wrists of slender women in Louboutin shoes gleamed in the candlelight. Jewels graced their throats and long necks.

“I feel like an ugly duckling,” Kaja said as they seated themselves.

“Nonsense, mi amor.” Vegas squeezed her hand. “No one here outshines you.”

Kaja laughed and kissed him with what seemed great affection. “What a gentleman!”

Bourne was sitting on the other side of her, and he felt the heat of her thigh pressing against his. She was turned toward Estevan, their hands still clasped. Her thigh slid back and forth against him, the friction creating a clandestine link between them.

“What’s good to eat here?” he asked Don Fernando, who was seated on his right hand. Don Fernando’s answer was drowned out by the roar of Vespas swinging along the sea road outside the restaurant.

The waiter uncorked the first bottle of wine from the stash Don Fernando had brought with him. They all drank a toast to their host, who told them that he had already ordered.

Bourne took his leg away from Kaja’s, and, when she turned to look at him inquiringly, he gave her a brief but emphatic shake of his head.

Her eyes narrowed for the space of a breath, then, announcing her need to leave the table, she pushed her chair back hard and stalked across the terrace. Don Fernando shot Bourne a warning look.

Vegas put down his napkin and was about to rise when Don Fernando said, “Estevan, calmaté, amigo. This is a security matter; I’d rather have Jason keep an eye on her.”

Bourne got up and, crossing the terrace, stepped into the closed-in part of the restaurant, where he was assailed by the aromatic scents of seafood being cooked with Moroccan and Phoenician herbs and spices. He spotted Kaja exiting the front door, and he snaked his way around the tables crowded with boisterous patrons.

He caught up with her on the narrow sidewalk. “What do you think you’re doing?”

She pulled away from him. “What does it look like?”

“Kaja, Estevan will suspect something.”

She glared at him. “So? I’m tired of all you men.”

“You’re acting like a spoiled child.”

She turned and slapped him across the face. He could have stopped her, but he felt the outcome would be worse.

“Feel better now?”

“Don’t think I don’t know what’s happening here,” she said. “Don Fernando is terrified I’ll tell Estevan who I really am.”

“Now would not be a good time.”

“Say what you mean. Never would be a good time.”

“Just not now.”

“Why not now?” Kaja said. “He treats Rosie like a child. I’m not a child anymore. I’m not Rosie.”

Bourne kept an eye on the road, the clouds of young men on Vespas laughing drunkenly, vying with one another as they rode at a daredevil’s pace. “It was a risk bringing both of you to Cadiz, but the alternative would have meant both your deaths.”

“Don Fernando should never have gotten Estevan involved in smuggling for the Domna,” she said. “It’s clear he’s not cut out for that kind of life.”

“Don Fernando wanted a way in,” Bourne said.

“Don Fernando used Estevan,” she said, disgusted.

“So did you.” Bourne shrugged. “In any case, he could have refused.”

She snorted. “Do you think Estevan would refuse that man? He owes Don Fernando everything.”

“Querida!”

They both turned to see Vegas emerge from the restaurant, his expression filled with concern.

“Is everything all right?” He came toward her. “Did I do something to make you angry?”

Kaja automatically turned on her megawatt Rosie smile. “Of course not, mi amor.” She had to raise her voice over the revving Vespas. “How could you do anything to make me angry?”

Taking her in his arms, he swung her around, her back to the street. Three shots buzzed past Kaja’s shoulder and head, and blew Estevan backward, out of her embrace, and Bourne leapt onto her, covering her as the white Vespa with the gunman accelerated away from the curb. Bourne dragged her to her feet.

“Estevan!” she cried. “Estevan, oh, my God!”

Vegas had landed in a bloody heap against the restaurant’s front. The white stucco was spattered with his blood. Bourne kept her away, pushing her into the arms of Don Fernando, who had run out of the doorway.

“They tried again!” Bourne shouted. “Keep her inside!”

Then he stepped off the curb, corralled a young rider who had just stopped to gawk at the bloody body, and yanked him off his Vespa.

The boy stumbled over the curb, landing on his backside. “Hey! What?” he cried as Bourne roared away down the traffic-choked road.

22

PETER MARKS FLOATED in and out of consciousness like a swimmer caught in a rip current. One moment, his feet seemed to be on solid footing, the next they were sliding away as a wave crashed over him, taking him off his feet, spinning him down into a reddish darkness distinguished by vertigo and pain.

He heard his own groans and the voices of unfamiliar people, but these seemed to be either at a great remove or filtered through layers of gauze. Light hurt his eyes. The only thing he could get down was baby food, and this only occasionally. He felt as if he were dying, as if he lay suspended between life and death, an unwilling citizen of a gray limbo. At last he understood the phrase bed of pain.

And yet, there came a time when his pain lessened, he ate more, and, blessedly, limbo faded into the realm of dreams, only half remembered, receding as if he were on a train speeding away from a dreadful place in which it had been stalled.

He opened his eyes to light and color. He took a deep breath, then another. He felt his lungs fill and empty without the crushing pain that had gripped him for what seemed like forever.

“He’s conscious.” A voice from above, as if an angel were hovering, beating its delicate wings.

“Who…” Peter licked his lips. “Who are you?”

“Yo, it’s Tyrone, Chief.”

Peter’s eyes felt gluey, there were coronas around everything he looked at, as if he were hallucinating. “I… Who?”

“Tyrone Elkins. From CI.”