El-Arian nodded and stepped to the north-facing window. He stared down at the wide road, the foreshortened people. He was a scholar, a professor of archaeology and ancient civilizations, a formal man with an almost regal bearing.

“This will work,” he said almost to himself.

“It will work,” Skara said as she came up beside him.

“What color?”

“Black. A Citroën.” She breathed against his shoulder. Her scent was curious, cinnamon and something slightly bitter, burnt almond, perhaps. “Three minutes from now no one will remember it.”

El-Arian nodded again, almost absently. The familiar frisson coming off her still made him slightly uncomfortable. He thought fleetingly of his wife and children safe, protected by many layers, but so far away.

“Who will I be tomorrow?”

He turned to see her slender hand extended. Reaching into the breast pocket of his jacket, he produced a thick packet.

Opening it, Skara found a passport, her new legend, a first-class air ticket with an open return, credit cards, and three thousand American dollars. “Margaret Penrod,” she read off the open passport.

“Maggie,” El-Arian said. “You call yourself Maggie.” He tilted his head slightly as his gaze returned to the street below them. “It’s all in the legend.”

Skara nodded, as if satisfied. “I’ll memorize it tonight on the plane.”

“There’s Laurent,” El-Arian said, indicating a figure in a dark suit exiting their building. He could not keep a certain excitement out of his voice.

Skara drew out a disposable cell phone and punched in Laurent’s number. At once, a pre-programmed code was transmitted. El-Arian had already commenced his mental countdown. Laurent gave a little shiver and, drawing out his cell, checked its screen.

“What’s he doing?” El-Arian said.

“Nothing,” Skara assured him. “He must have felt the pulse, that’s all.”

El-Arian frowned. “He shouldn’t have felt anything.”

Skara shrugged.

“Can he do anything about it?”

“Not a thing.”

At zero minus fifteen, a blur appeared in his peripheral vision, and he shifted his gaze to the oncoming black Citroën.

El-Arian craned his neck. “Is he calling someone?”

Skara’s shapely shoulders lifted and fell. “There’s no need to worry.”

The next instant El-Arian understood her certainty. The Citroën struck Laurent so hard he flew perhaps ten feet in the air. He hit the ground, lay there for several seconds, then, astonishingly, began to move, trying to crawl back to the curb. The car swerved to allow its right-hand tires to crush his head, then it sped off so fast that by the time bystanders started to rush out into the street it had vanished.

3

CORELLOS WAS GETTING antsy. Bourne could feel his body tensing in advance of the moment when he believed that he could take Bourne unawares.

“This is the moment,” Bourne said. “There won’t be another.”

Jalal Essai nodded, but Bourne could see the burning hatred in his eyes. Years ago, Bourne had been sent into Essai’s house to retrieve a laptop. To a man like Essai, there was no greater transgression than the invasion of his house, where his family ate and slept. This was the essential dilemma: Essai could not forgive Bourne, and yet he was being forced to put aside his bitter enmity in order to get what he now wanted. Bourne did not ever want to be in his damnable position.

All around Bourne, Corellos’s men put down their weapons.

“Hombre, do you know what you’re doing?” Corellos’s voice was drawn tight as a bowstring.

“I’m doing what needs to be done,” Essai said.

“You can’t trust this bastard. He was sent here to kill me.”

“The situation has changed. Now Mr. Bourne realizes that killing you will be counterproductive.” He cocked his head inquiringly. “Am I correct, Mr. Bourne?”

Bourne dropped his hold on Roberto Corellos, who took one staggering step away then stood under Essai’s stern gaze, trembling with barely suppressed emotion. Blood dripped from one nostril. Stalking to where one of his men stood, Corellos lifted an arm and wiped his nose on the sleeve of his shirt. The man made the mistake of staring at Corellos’s nose. Corellos tore the AK-50 out of his grip and beat him to his knees with the butt.

Bourne was busy working out the relationship between the two men. Before this encounter he would not have believed that Corellos would take orders from anyone else. His command of his dominion was absolute; none dared challenge him, including the new, rising order: the Russian, Albanian, and Chinese mobs. His clear subservience to Jalal Essai was both puzzling and intriguing. He’s entered a new and larger arena, Bourne thought. Essai has enticed him into the Domna’s sphere. And then he thought: What prize has Essai offered him? And the most important question of all: What is Essai up to?

Allowing himself to be captured had paid off. He’d sensed that the men had been sent by Corellos, but Essai’s shocking appearance had led him into another world, one in which his interest was heightened.

Essai spread his hands in an inclusive gesture of amity. “There are camp chairs over there under that tree. Let’s all sit down, break bread together, drink some tea, and talk.”

“Pick up your damn weapons, maricóns,” Corellos growled, glaring from one man to another. And then, tossing his head, “Bring tequila, lots of it,” he shouted to another of his men, a direct slap at Essai who, as a Muslim, was not allowed to drink alcohol.

As they seated themselves, Essai smiled a secret smile, his eyes holding the smolder of a banked fire, as if he had already devised a suitable punishment for Corellos’s disrespect. Not now, not tomorrow or the day after. Patience was one of the unofficial seven pillars of Islam, whereas Corellos was hot-tempered, given to sudden eruptions of violence. In fact, Bourne knew the comment to be an attempt to regain some of the face the drug lord had lost in front of his men. Not that that would mitigate the offense in Essai’s eyes. These two might be partners, he observed, but they sure as hell didn’t like each other, a state of affairs that might prove useful in the future.

Essai watched Bourne, completely ignoring Corellos as the drug lord, bent over, tipped a full bottle of tequila over his nose. Snorting out blood and booze, he drank in long, greedy swigs, his eyes fizzing with rage. Essai had arranged his camp chair so that he faced Bourne. It was thus clear that Corellos was to be an observer of this conversation, rather than a participant.

“The Domna has you in its sights,” Essai began.

“It already tried to kill me in Thailand.” Bourne sat back. “So now it’s the other way around.”

Essai, Bourne, and Corellos were handed posole in a terra-cotta bowl, along with a wooden spoon. Corellos spat in his and, with a backhanded slap, sent it spinning away. He returned to his tequila, the bottle glinting in a leopard spot of sunshine as he tilted it up.

Essai nodded. “Possibly. Nevertheless, you have wounded them gravely, and believe me when I tell you that they will not stop until you’re dead.”

“The feeling is mutual.”

Essai peered at him from out of fathomless eyes. “I believe you mean that.” He sighed, put down his bowl, and laced his fingers in his lap.

Bourne tried to discern whether Essai was resigned or satisfied. Possibly he was both.

“I know you don’t trust me.” He shrugged. “Frankly, I’d feel the same were I where you’re sitting now.” He leaned forward, elbows on knees. “But I’ll tell you something: You royally screwed the Domna. The plan was to use the cache of Solomon’s gold to create a new gold standard, undermining America’s currency. Now, of course, you’ve swept that off the table. Countless time and money has been irretrievably lost.” He applauded. “Well done!”