―I knew that from the beginning,‖ Arkadin snapped. ―So did Maslov.‖
―You have until Saturday to carry out your mission.‖
Arkadin nearly jumped. ―What?‖
―There is no other recourse.‖
Triton disconnected with a finality that rang like gunfire in Arkadin‘s ear.
Willard wanted to go with him, but Bourne refused. Willard was smart enough to understand it; he simply wanted his desire on the record. During the time Bourne was recovering, Willard had amassed a list of a baker‘s dozen individuals on the island either known or suspected of trading in contraband weapons, but only one who reputedly dealt in the highly specialized sniper‘s rifles and full-metal ammo that had been used to shoot Bourne. On an island as small as Bali it would have been a breach of the security net he‘d thrown around Bourne to canvass all of the purported dealers—it would have drawn too much attention to himself.
Firth rented Bourne a car, and he drove into the chaos of the capital city of Denpasar. It wasn‘t difficult to locate the Badung Market, but finding a place to park was another matter. Finally, he found an area presided over by an old man with a split-melon smile.
Bourne wove through the spice and vegetable areas to the rear, where the butchers and the meat vendors had their stalls. Willard had said that the man he wanted looked like a frog, and he wasn‘t far off the mark.
The vendor was selling a brace of suckling pigs, live, still trussed to bamboo poles, to a young woman who by her dress and attitude must work for someone with money and status. People were queued up at the next stall to buy loins and breasts, and cleavers came down on sinew and bone, blood flying like the blooming of flowers.
As soon as the young woman had paid for her pigs and signaled for two waiting men to take them away, Bourne stepped up and addressed the squat man.
His name was Wayan, which meant ―first.‖ All Balinese were given their names based on the order of their birth, first through fourth; the fifth child, if there was one, became Wayan again.
―Wayan, I need to speak with you.‖
The vendor regarded Bourne with indifference. ―If you wish to buy a pig—
?‖
Bourne shook his head.
―They‘re the best on the island, ask anyone.‖
―Another matter,‖ Bourne said. ―In private.‖
Wayan smiled blandly, spread his hands. ―As you can plainly see there is no privacy here. If you don‘t wish to make a purchase—‖
―I didn‘t say that.‖
Wayan‘s eyes narrowed. ―I don‘t know what you‘re talking about.‖
He was about to turn away when Bourne produced five hundred-dollar bills.
Wayan glanced down at the money and something flickered behind his eyes.
Bourne was willing to bet it was greed.
Wayan licked his thick lips. ―Unfortunately, I don‘t have that many pigs.‖
―I only want one.‖
As if by magic, the .30-caliber M118 casing Bourne had found in Tenganan appeared between his fingers. He dropped it into the center of Wayan‘s palm.
―One of yours, I believe.‖
The pig merchant, recalcitrant still, merely shrugged.
Bourne flourished another five hundred in a tight roll. ―I don‘t have time to bargain,‖ he said.
Wayan gave Bourne a sharp look, then, gathering up the thousand, jerked his head for Bourne to follow him.
Contrary to what he had said, there was an enclosed space at the rear of the stall. On a rickety bamboo bench sat several paring and boning knives. As Bourne followed Wayan inside a burly man rushed him from the left. At the same time, a tall man stepped toward him from the right.
Bourne slammed the burly man in the face, breaking his nose, ducked under the grasp of the tall one, and, rolling himself into a ball, launched himself across the small space. He crashed into the bamboo poles, sending the pigs and knives down around him. Grabbing a paring knife, he cut the bonds of three of the piglets. Squealing in their new-found freedom, they ran across the floor, forcing both Wayan and the tall man to dance out of the way.
Bourne threw the paring knife into the meat of the tall man‘s left thigh.
His squeal was indistinguishable from those of the piglets, which continued to run wildly. Ignoring them, Bourne grabbed Wayan by his shirtfront, but just then the thickset man grabbed a boning knife off the floor and launched himself at Bourne, who swung Wayan between them. The moment the attacker checked his knife thrust, Bourne kicked the weapon out of his hand, took him down, and slammed the back of his head against the floor. His eyes rolled up in their sockets.
Bourne rose, grabbed Wayan to keep him from fleeing, and whipped him around. Slapping him hard across the face, he said, ―I told you I didn‘t have time to bargain. Now you‘ll tell me who bought that cartridge from you.‖
―I don‘t know his name.‖
Bourne slapped him again, harder this time. ―I don‘t believe you.‖
―It‘s true.‖ Wayan‘s indifference had been ripped away; he was truly frightened. ―He was referred to me, but he never told me his name and I never asked. In my business the less I know the better.‖
That, at least, was true. ―What did he look like?‖
―I don‘t remember.‖
Bourne grabbed him by the throat. ―You don‘t want to lie to me.‖
―Clearly not.‖ Wayan‘s eyes rolled wildly in their sockets. His skin had taken on a greenish hue, as if at any moment he was going to be sick. ―Okay, looked Russian. He wasn‘t big, wasn‘t small. Well muscled, though.‖
―What else?‖
―I don‘t—‖ He gave a little yelp as Bourne slapped him again. ―He had black hair and his eyes… they were light. I don‘t remember…‖ He held up his hands. ―Wait, wait… they were gray.‖
―And?‖
―That‘s it. That‘s all.‖
―No, it isn‘t,‖ Bourne said. ―Who recommended him?‖
―A client…‖
―His name.‖ Bourne shook the pig man like a rag doll. ―I need his name.‖
―He‘ll kill me.‖
Bourne bent, withdrew the knife from the downed man, and placed the blade against Wayan‘s throat. ―Or I can kill you now.‖ He moved the blade just enough so a trickle of blood ran down Wayan‘s chest, staining his shirt.
―Your choice.‖
―Don…‖ The pig man gulped. ―Don Fernando Hererra… He lives in Spain, in the heart of the city of Seville.‖ Without further urging he provided Bourne with his client‘s address.