The Bourne Deception - By Robert Ludlum & Eric van Lustbader Page 0,62

knowing if the painting was a genuine Goya? Why had she lied about working for the Prado when, in his letter, Zuńiga addressed her as an outsider, not as an esteemed colleague of the museum? He’d find out soon enough.

He stared out the window at the infinity of gray-white, turned his mind to his quarry. He’d used Firth’s computer to gather information on Don Fernando Hererra. For one thing, Hererra was Colombian, not Spanish. Born in Bogotá in 1946, the youngest child of four, he was shipped off to England for university studies, where he took a First in economics at Oxford. Then, inexplicably, for a time his life took another path entirely. He worked as a petrolero for the Tropical Oil Company, working his way up to cuńero—a pipe capper—and beyond, moving from camp to camp, each time raising the output of barrels per day. Ever restless, he pushed on, buying a camp dirt-cheap because Tropical Oil’s experts were certain it was in decline. Sure enough, he turned it around and, within three years, sold it back to Tropical Oil for a tenfold profit.

That’s when he got into venture capital, using his outsize profits to move into the more stable banking sector. He bought a small regional bank in Bogotá, which had been on the verge of failing, changed its name, and spent the decade of the 1990s building it into a national powerhouse. He expanded into Brazil, Argentina, and, more recently, Spain. Two years ago he’d vigorously resisted a buyout by Banco Santander, preferring to remain his own master. Now his Aguardiente Bancorp, named after the fiery local licorice-flavored liquor of his native country, had more than twenty branches, the last one opening five months before in London where, increasingly, all the international action was.

He had been married twice, had two daughters, both of whom lived in Colombia, and a son, Jaime, whom Don Fernando had installed as the managing director of Aguardiente’s London branch. He seemed to be clever, sober, and serious; Bourne could find not the remotest hint of anything sinister about either him or AB, as it was known inside international banking circles.

He felt Tracy’s return before her scent of fern and citrus reached him. With a whisper of silk, she slid into the seat beside him.

“Feeling better?”

She nodded.

“How long have you been working at the Prado?” he said.

“About seven months.”

But she’d hesitated a moment too long and he knew she was lying. Again, why? What did she have to hide?

“If I remember correctly,” Bourne said, “didn’t some of Goya’s later works come under a cloud of suspicion?”

“In 2003,” Tracy said, nodding. “But since then the fourteen Black Paintings have been authenticated.”

“But not the one you’re going to see.”

She pursed her lips. “No one has seen it yet, except for the collector.”

“And who is he?”

She looked away, abruptly uncomfortable. “I’m not at liberty to say.”

“Surely—”

“Why are you doing this?” Turning back to him, she was abruptly angry. “Do you think me a fool?” Color rose up her neck into her cheeks. “I know why you’re on this flight.”

“I doubt you do.”

“Please! You’re on your way to see Don Fernando Hererra, just like I am.”

“Don Hererra is your collector?”

“You see?” The light of triumph was in her eyes. “I knew it!” She shook her head. “I’ll tell you one thing: You’re not going to get the Goya. It’s mine; I don’t care how much I have to pay.”

“That doesn’t sound like you work at the Prado,” Bourne said, “or any museum for that matter. And why do you have an unlimited budget to buy a fake?”

She crossed her arms over her breasts and bit her lip, determined to keep her own counsel.

“The Goya isn’t a fake, is it?”

Still she said nothing.

Bourne laughed. “Tracy, I promise I’m not after the Goya. In fact, until you mentioned it, I had no idea it existed.”

She shot him a look of fear. “I don’t believe you.”

He took a packet out of his breast pocket, handed it over. “Go on, read it,” he said. “I don’t mind.” Willard really did extraordinary work, he thought, as Tracy opened the document and scanned it.

After a moment, she glanced up at him. “This is a prospectus for a start-up e-commerce company.”

“I need backing and I need it quickly, before our rivals get a jump on the market,” Bourne lied. “I was told Don Fernando Hererra was the man to cut through the red tape and get the balance of the seed money my group