stared down at the screen for so long that Marks thought he had turned to stone.
"And the other man?"
Marks shrugged. "An innocent bystander."
"Tell me about him, he looks familiar to me."
"Lloyd-Shithead told me his name is Adam Stone."
"Is that so." Something slithered across Hererra's face.
Marks impatiently pointed again. "Senor, this is important. Do you know the man on the left?"
Hererra thrust the PDA back into Marks's hand, then went to the bar setup and poured himself a brandy. He drank half straight off, then, in an effort to compose himself, set the glass carefully down. "Christ almighty," he murmured under his breath.
Marks rose and came over to where he was standing. "Senor, I can help you if you'll let me."
Hererra looked over at him. "How? How can you help me?"
"I'm good at finding people."
"You can find my son's murderer?"
"With some help, yes, I believe I can."
Hererra appeared to consider this for some time. Then, as if making up his mind, he gave a little nod. "The man on the left is Ottavio Moreno."
"You know him?"
"Oh, yes, senor, I know him very well. Since he was a little boy. I used to hold him in my arms when I was in Morocco." Hererra picked up his brandy and drained the glass. His blue eyes looked bleak, but Marks caught the storm of anger far back in the shadows beneath the intelligent brow.
"Are you telling me that Ottavio is the half brother of Gustavo Moreno, the late Colombian drug lord?"
"I'm telling you that he's my godson." The anger boiled forward into the set of his jaw, the slight tremor of his hand. "That's why I know he couldn't have killed Diego."
Moira and Berengaria Moreno lay entwined in each other's arms. The plush owner's cabin smelled of musk, marine oil, and the sea. Beneath them, the yacht rocked gently as if wanting to lull them to sleep. They knew, each in her own way, that sleep was out of the question. The yacht was due to leave the dock in less than twenty minutes. Slowly, they rose, their bodies love-bruised, their senses on overload, as if they had slipped out of time and place. Wordlessly, they dressed, and minutes later emerged from belowdecks. The velvet sky arched over them with what seemed like protective arms.
After she had a brief talk with the captain, Berengaria nodded to Moira. "They've completed all the tests. The engine is in perfect running order. There should be no more delays."
"Let's hope not."
Starlight spangled the water. Berengaria had flown them in Narsico's single-engine Lancair IV-P to Lic. Gustavo Diaz Ordaz International Airport on the Pacific coast. From there it was a short drive to the surfer's paradise of Sayulita, where they met the yacht. All told, the trip took just over ninety minutes.
Moira stood next to Berengaria. The crew, busy preparing to get under way, paid them no mind. It only remained for Berengaria to debark.
"You've called Arkadin?"
Berengaria nodded. "I spoke to him while you were freshening up. He'll be there to meet the boat just before dawn. Of course after the delay, he's going to want to board and check the entire shipment himself. You must be ready for him before then."
"Don't worry." Moira touched her arm and produced in the other woman another little tremor. "Who is the recipient?"
Berengaria slid her arm around Moira's waist. "You don't really need to know that."
When Moira said nothing, Berengaria leaned against her and sighed deeply. "My God, what a fucking snake pit this has turned out to be. Fuck men. Fuck them all!"
Berengaria smelled of spice and salt spray, scents Moira liked. She found it intriguing to seduce another woman. There was nothing repellent about it, it was simply part of the job, something different, a challenge for her in every sense of the word. She was a sexual creature but, apart from one pleasant but inconsequential college experiment, had always been heterosexual. There was an edge of danger to Berengaria she found attractive. In fact, making love to her was far more satisfying than it had been with a number of men she had bedded. Unlike those men - and excepting Bourne - Berengaria knew when to be fierce and when to be tender, she took the time to seek out the secret places that touched Moira's pleasure centers, concentrating on them until Moira convulsed over and over again.
Not surprisingly, she was unlike Roberto Corellos's dismissive description of her as a piranha. She was both tough and vulnerable, a