The Bourne Deception - By Robert Ludlum & Eric van Lustbader Page 0,53

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.

“How does Don Hererra make his living?”

“International banking.”

Bourne could not keep a smile from curling his lips. “Now, of what use would your services be to an international banker?”

Wayan shrugged. “As I told you, the less I know about my clients the healthier it is for me.”

“In the future, you should be more careful.” Bourne let go of him, pushed him roughly against the legs of one of the men, who was beginning to stir. “Some clients are just plain toxic.”

The moon had been called into the underworld by the ghosts of Anubis and Thoth, leaving only a forsaken starlight in its wake.

“Once again, I was wrong about you,” Chalthoum said, but without bitterness. “Your