Bourne 7 – The Bourne Deception

— Quite right, the president agreed. -Who the hell is this Danziger?

— M. Errol Danziger. The NSA‘s current deputy director of signals intelligence for analysis and production.

The president returned to his contemplation of the passing streetscape.

— Have I met him?

— Yes, sir. Twice, the last time when you were at the Pentagon just last-

— Remind me, please.

— He brought in the printouts Hernandez distributed.

— I don‘t recall the man.

— Hardly surprising, sir. There‘s nothing remarkable about him. Halliday chuckled. -That‘s what made him so valuable during his stint in the field. He worked Southeast Asia before moving into the Operations Directorate.

— Wet work?

Halliday was startled by the question. Nevertheless, he saw no point in lying. -Indeed, sir.

— And returned home to tell the tale.

— Yes, sir.

The president made an unintelligible sound deep in his throat. -Bring him to the Oval Office at- He snapped his fingers for the press secretary‘s attention. -Solly? Opening, today.

Solly put his call on hold, scrolled through a second PDA. -Five twentyfive, sir. But you only have ten minutes before the formal press conference. We need to make the six o‘clock news.

— Of course we do. The president lifted a hand, smiling. -Five twentyfive, Bud. Ten minutes is more than enough time for a yea or nay.

Then, abruptly, he turned to other matters, a crisis agenda packed with daunting security issues, at the end of which was not a hot bath and a good meal, but a phone conference with his director of protocol, deciding on who to invite to the state funeral for DCI Hart.

Seconds after Bourne took the phone, Hererra‘s young man had stolen into the room. Now he pressed the muzzle of a Beretta Px4 9mm pistol to Tracy‘s left temple. She was wide-eyed, sitting painfully erect at the edge of the sofa.

— My dear fellow, Don Fernando Hererra said as he took the cell from Bourne, — I may not know who you are, but I know this much: My threatening you will avail me nothing. His smile was sweet, almost soft. -Whereas if I tell you that I will have Fausto blow her brains out-pardon the crudeness of my words, Senorita Atherton-unless you tell me who you are, I feel certain that you will be more inclined to tell me the truth.

— I admit that I‘ve underestimated you, Don Hererra, Bourne said.

— Adam, please tell him the truth. Tracy was clearly terrified for her life.

— I know that you‘re a confidence man, just as I know you‘ve come to swindle me out of my Goya, which, by the way, Professor Alonzo Pecunia Zuiga-

the real Don Alonzo-has confirmed to me is authentic. He pointed. -He has also confirmed that Senorita Atherton is genuine. How you seduced her into going along with your scheme is between the two of you. But his expression conveyed his dismay and disappointment at Tracy‘s fall from grace. -My concern is who you are and which of my enemies hired you to con me.

Tracy shivered. -Adam, for God‘s sake-

Hererra cocked his head. -Come, come, Senor Con Man, you have forfeited your right to scare the young lady.

It was time for him to act, Bourne knew that. He also knew that the situation was on a razor‘s edge. Hererra was the wild card. On the surface it seemed unlikely that such a polished gentleman of Seville would actually direct the young man to pull the trigger. However, Hererra‘s black-hands work in the oil fields of Colombia belied his current gentlemanly identity. At heart, he might still be that rough-and-tumble man who fought, finessed, and bullied his way to a fortune in the oil industry. A man didn‘t successfully do business with the Tropical Oil Company without a heart as hard as mahogany, and without spilling some blood. In any event, it was not for Bourne to gamble with Tracy‘s life.

— You‘re right, Don Hererra. My apologies, Bourne said. -Now to the truth: I was hired by one of your enemies, but not to take the Goya from you.

Tracy‘s eyes opened even wider.

— I came up with this ruse to get in to see you.

Hererra‘s eyes glittered as he drew up a chair to sit in front of Bourne.

— Continue.

— My name is Adam Stone.

— Forgive me if I‘m skeptical. He snapped his fingers. -Passport. And use your left hand. You don‘t want to alarm Fausto, believe me.

Bourne did. With the tips of the fingers on his left hand, he produced his passport, which Hererra scrutinized as if he were a special agent from immigration.

As he handed back the document, he said, — All right, Senor Stone, what are you?

— I‘m a freelance specialist in let us say hardware of a special nature.

Hererra shook his head. -Now you‘ve lost me.

— Don Hererra, you know a Balinese merchant by the name of Wayan.