Diaz nodded. “As always, Don Fernando.” Then he turned on his heel and shouted to his men, “¡Vámanos, muchachos!” He strode off, the two uniforms in his wake.

When the cruiser had backed up and taken off down the sea road, Don Fernando gestured. “The way of the world never changes, eh, Jason?” He gestured. “Come, now we attend to Marlon Etana.”

“Not you,” Bourne said as he went back to the side of the boat. “I’ll do it.”

Reaching down, he removed a boat hook from the side of the cockpit, snagged the collar of Etana’s jacket, and hauled him up until his head, arms, and torso balanced on the gunwale. Don Fernando grabbed Etana’s belt and dragged him the rest of the way into the boat. For a moment he stared down at the corpse, which was spewing seawater out of its open mouth. Then he crouched down beside Etana, his knees creaking.

Bourne watched as Don Fernando’s hands pulled aside Etana’s jacket and went through all his pockets as skillfully as a sneak thief. Don Fernando handed Bourne Etana’s phone, wallet, and keys. Then he rose and hauled the anchor out of its compartment in the bow of the boat. Unhooking the chain from its attaching ring, he wrapped it around Etana’s corpse.

“Let’s get him over the side,” Don Fernando said.

“In a minute.” Crouching down, Bourne pried open Etana’s mouth and tested his teeth. A moment later he held up the false tooth that contained the cyanide capsule. When he rose, he produced the false tooth he had taken off the Russian in the warehouse. Holding one in each hand, he showed them to Don Fernando.

“Where did you get that?” the older man said.

“I went inside the warehouse, where I killed the gunman and his driver,” Bourne said. “The gunman bit into his while I was questioning him. This one is from the driver.” When Don Fernando said nothing, Bourne added, “This hollow tooth is an old NKVD trick to keep its members from talking if they were captured.”

Don Fernando pointed to Etana. “I can’t get him over the side myself.”

“Only if I get answers.”

Don Fernando nodded.

Bourne pocketed the suicide capsules and they hoisted Etana up over the gunwale and into the water. He sank out of sight immediately.

Don Fernando sat on the gunwale, facing Bourne. He seemed very tired, and suddenly old, shrunken in on himself. “Marlon Etana was put in place to inform on the Domna.”

“In other words, he was Christien Norén’s replacement.”

“Precisely.” Don Fernando rubbed his hands down his trousers. “The problem was, Etana went rogue.”

“El-Arian turned him?”

Don Fernando shook his head. “He made a secret deal with Essai when Essai became a dissident.”

“Etana belonged to the same organization that Christien did, that you do.” Bourne dealt the older man a hard look. “It’s past time you told me about it.”

“You’re right, of course.” Don Fernando ran a hand across his eyes. “Maybe if I had, Essai would still be alive.” He waited for a moment, as if deciding how best to explain the next part. At length, he pushed himself off the gunwale. “It’s time for a drink and some serious talk.”

Don Fernando chose a seaside café that looked closed, but wasn’t. Many of the chairs were overturned on the tabletops and a young boy with hair down to his shoulders was sweeping the floor in a desultory manner, as if he were already asleep.

The proprietor waddled out from behind the bar to shake Don Fernando’s hand and escort them to a table. Don Fernando ordered brandy but Bourne waved away the notion of alcohol. He wanted his head clear.

“When my father died, everything changed,” Don Fernando said. “You must understand: My father was everything to me. I cherished my mother, yes, but she was ill, bedridden much of my life.”

When the snifter was set upon the table, Don Fernando stared into the amber liquid. He wet his lips with it before he began. “My father was a big man in every way imaginable. He was tall, and powerful, both physically and in spirit. He dominated every room he walked into. People were frightened of him, I could see it very clearly in their eyes; when they shook hands with him, they trembled.”

The proprietor appeared with a glass of sherry and set it down in front of Bourne, even though he hadn’t ordered it. He shrugged, as if to say: A man should not engage in serious conversation without proper fortification.

“Starting when I was seven, he took me hunting,” Don Fernando continued when the proprietor had returned to his place behind the bar. “This was in Colombia. I shot my first gray fox when I was eight. I had tried for a year but could not pull the trigger. I wept the first time I saw my father shoot one. My father took me over to it, dipped his fingertips into its blood, and smeared my lips with it. I recoiled, gagging. And then, under his stern gaze, I felt ashamed. So I screwed up my courage, returned to the fox, bloodied my own fingers, and stuck them in my mouth. My father smiled, then, and I never before or since felt such a sense of complete satisfaction.”

Bourne sensed that these memories unnerved Don Fernando, that he was privileged to be hearing them.

“As I said, when my father died everything changed. I took over his business, for which he had been training me for years. It was difficult to see him on his deathbed, so frail, laboring to take a breath, this man who had felled trees and enemies with equal ease and zeal. We all come to this point in our lives, I know, but with my father it was different because of what he had trained me for, what was waiting for me the moment he passed.”

Don Fernando had drained his glass. Now he signaled for more. The proprietor came with the bottle, filled the snifter, then left the bottle.

Don Fernando nodded his thanks before he went on. “In the last years of his life, my father introduced me to a number of men. All of them were Russian, all of them frightened me on some”—he waved a hand—“I don’t know, some primitive level. In their eyes I saw a world filled with shadow, piled with death.” He shrugged. “I don’t know how else to explain their effect on me.

“Gradually, though, I grew used to them. The darkness that had fallen over me didn’t recede, rather it became understandable. I was introduced to death, and then I had cause to recall my first blooding, and I was never so grateful for how my father helped me. Because these men dealt in death—as, it turned out, did my father.”

Don Fernando held out his hand and when Bourne extended his, he gripped it tightly, clapping his other hand over them both.

“As I said, Jason, all of the men my father introduced me to were Russian—all, that is, save one. Christien Norén.”

26

“I NEED A CELL,” Peter Marks said. He was sitting up in bed, though he was able to walk now without panting like an overtaxed engine.

Deron dug out a burner cell in a blister pack. “You may be surprised to know that whoever was after you is even more powerful than we thought.”

Peter cocked his head. “Nothing would surprise me now. How’s that?”

Deron slit open the blister pack, freeing the phone. “I sent Ty to the Metro police to find out about your kidnappers. They claim they have nothing. Someone did make a nine-one-one call, but by the time a patrol car arrived on the scene, there was nothing to see, no bodies, no ambulance, and obviously, no you.”

Peter sighed. “Back to square one.”

“Not exactly.” Deron handed over what appeared to be a human tooth. “Ty found this at the scene and grabbed it before he helped you onto his motorcycle. You must have knocked it out of one of your kidnappers.”

Peter turned the tooth over in his hands. “How does it help me?”

As he probed at it, Deron said, “Watch it!” and snatched it out of his hand. “This only looks like a tooth. It’s actually hollow, filled with liquid hydrogen cyanide.”