The Bourne Deception - By Robert Ludlum & Eric van Lustbader Page 0,52

said: “Anyone else have a question?”

Still holding both his weapons, he looked hard into the eyes of each of the ninety-nine remaining Black Legion recruits, and saw in equal measure abject fear and unquestioning obedience. Whatever might happen next, wherever he might lead them, they were his.

It was at this moment that his satellite phone buzzed. He turned on his heel and walked away from the men, who stood silent, rigid as if made of stone. They wouldn’t move a muscle, he knew, until he gave the order, which wouldn’t be for a while.

Wiping sweat off his ear, he put the phone up to it, said, “What now?”

“How was your visit from Maslov?” Triton’s voice reverberated through the ether. As always, it was absolutely accentless English.

“Thrilling,” Arkadin said, “as usual.” As he spoke, he turned in a complete circle, trying to figure out the location of Triton’s men.

“You won’t find them, Leonid,” Triton said. “You don’t want to find them.”

Fair enough, Arkadin thought. Triton was the power putting this mission together, or at any rate he worked for the power that was footing the bill, including his own extremely generous pay package. He could see no advantage in antagonizing him.

Arkadin sighed, for the moment putting his rage aside. “What can I do for you?”

“Today, it’s what I can do for you,” Triton replied. “Our timetable has been moved up.”

“Moved up?” Arkadin glanced at the men, well conditioned but untrained for this mission. “I told you at the outset that I needed three weeks, and you assured me—”

“That was then, this is now,” Triton said. “The theoretical stage has passed; we’re now in real time, and the clock that’s ticking belongs neither to you nor to me.”

Arkadin felt his muscles contract as they did just before a physical confrontation. “What’s happened?”

“The cat is about to come out of the bag.”

Arkadin frowned. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“It means,” Triton said, “that evidence is quickly coming to light. Incontrovertible evidence that will set everything in motion. There’s no turning back now.”

“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