— I do not.
Bourne made a show of ignoring the lie. -I work for the people who supply Wayan.
— Adam, what is this? Tracy said. -You told me you were interested in seed money for an e-commerce start-up.
At this, Hererra sat back, contemplating Bourne in, it seemed, an entirely new light. -It seems, Senorita Atherton, that Adam Stone lied to you as easily as he did to me.
Bourne knew he‘d made a desperate gamble. He‘d calculated that the only way to take control of the situation was to astonish the Colombian. In this, it appeared, he‘d been successful.
— The question is why?
Bourne saw his chance to tip the scales in his favor. -The people who hired me-the people who supply Wayan-
— I told you I don‘t know anyone named Wayan.
Bourne shrugged. -The people I work for know better. They don‘t like the way you‘re doing business. In fact, they want you out of it completely.
Don Hererra laughed. -Fausto, do you hear this, do you hear this man? He hunched forward so his face was close to Bourne‘s. -Are you threatening me, Stone? Because the air in my house is vibrating in such a way.
Now there was a stiletto in his hand. The hilt was inlaid with jade, the long blade as tapered as Hererra‘s own fingers. He tipped the blade forward until the point touched the skin above Bourne‘s Adam‘s apple.
— You should know I don‘t take kindly to threats.
— What happens to me is irrelevant, Bourne said.
— The senorita‘s blood will be on your hands.
— Surely you know how powerful my employers are. Whatever is going to happen is going to happen.
— Unless I change my business practices.
Bourne felt the shift in Hererra‘s thinking even before he said it. He was no longer denying his business in arms shipping. -That‘s correct.
Don Hererra sighed and made a sign to Fausto, who removed the muzzle and holstered the Beretta at the small of his back. Then he threw the stiletto onto the sofa cushion and, slapping his thighs, said, — I think, Senor Stone, we both could do with a walk in the garden.
Fausto unlocked the French doors, and the two men stepped out onto the flagstone path. The garden was an octagon embraced by the sturdy arms of the house. There was a small grove of lemon trees and, in the center, a tiled fountain in the Moorish style shaded by a palm tree. Here and there stone benches were scattered, both in sunlight and in dappled shade. The air was perfumed by the lemon trees, whose new leaves were emerging like butterflies from their winter cocoons.
Because it was cool out, Don Hererra indicated a bench in full sun. When they were seated side by side, he said, — I must admit Yevsen surprises me; he sends a man who is not only not a thug, but possesses uncommon wisdom. His head inclined a fraction, as if he were tipping his hat to Bourne. -How much is that Russian sonovabitch paying you?
— Not enough.
— Yes, Yevsen is one cheap bastard.
Bourne laughed. His great gamble had paid off: He had his answer. Wayan was being supplied by Nikolai Yevsen. Scarface had been sent by Yevsen, following Bourne all the way from Bali where he‘d first tried to kill him. He still didn‘t know why Yevsen wanted him dead, but he knew he‘d just moved a giant step closer to finding out. He had a line on who Don Fernando Hererra really was: Nikolai Yevsen‘s competitor. And if he convinced Hererra Bourne could be turned, Hererra would give up everything he knew about Yevsen, which just might include what Bourne needed to know.
— Certainly not enough for having a stiletto held to my throat.
— No one regrets that necessity more than I do.
The fissures in Hererra‘s face were set in high relief as they were struck by the slanting rays of the sun. There was a fierce pride in that face he‘d held in abeyance while he was playing the part of the gentleman, a granite toughness Bourne could appreciate.
— I know about your history in Colombia, he said. -I know how you took on the Tropical Oil Company.
— Ah, yes, well, that was a long time ago.
— Initiative never fades away.
— Listen to you. The Colombian gave him a shrewd sideways look. -Tell me, should I sell my Goya to Senorita Atherton?
— She has nothing to do with me, Bourne said.
— A chivalrous thing to say, but not quite true. Hererra held up an admonishing finger. -She was all too ready to take the Goya at an unfair price.
— That just makes her a good businessman.
Hererra laughed. -Indeed, it does. He delivered another sidelong glance.
— I suppose you won‘t tell me your real name.
— You saw my passport.
— Now is not the time to insult me.
