coercion, because there seemed no other way to control him. And not even those methods had proved to be a sure thing. Though Marks was personally aware of Bourne's recent work bringing down Black River and stopping an incipient war with Iran, he knew next to nothing about the man. He was a complete enigma. It was futile to predict his responses in any given situation. And then there was the fact that many people who had tried to get close to him had died sudden and violent deaths. Happily, Soraya wasn't one of them, but Marks worried that it might be just a matter of time.
"Bad news?" Don Fernando Hererra said.
"Just more of the same," Marks said. "I've a meeting to go to."
They were seated in the living room of Diego Hererra's home, surrounded by photos of him. Marks wondered whether being here was painful or comforting for the father.
"Senor Hererra, before I go, is there anything more you can tell me about your godson? Do you know why he was at the Vesper Club last night, or why he might have stabbed Diego? What sort of relationship did they have?"
"None, to answer your last question first."
Hererra took out a cigarette and lit up but didn't seem interested in smoking it. His eyes roved the room, as if afraid to alight on any one thing for long. Marks suspected that he was nervous. About what?
Hererra contemplated Marks for some moments. The ash from his unsmoked cigarette toppled soundlessly to the carpet, where it lay between his feet. "Diego did not know of Ottavio's existence, at least so far as his relationship to me was concerned."
"Then why would Ottavio kill Diego?"
"He wouldn't, therefore I refuse to believe that he did."
Hererra told his driver to take Marks to the nearest rental-car office. He insisted that he and Marks exchange phone numbers. Those words of disbelief resounded in Marks's head as he punched the address Bourne had given him into the GPS program on his PDA.
"I want to stay abreast of your investigation," Hererra said. "You promised me that you would find my son's killer. You should know that I take all promises made to me extremely seriously."
Marks saw no reason to doubt him.
Fifteen minutes after he drove out of the rental-car lot, his PDA buzzed and he read a text message from Soraya. Within minutes Willard called him.
"Progress."
"I've made contact," Marks said, meaning Bourne.
"You know where he is?" A slight quickening of Willard's voice.
"Not yet," Marks lied. "But I will soon."
"Good, I'm in time."
"Time for what?" Marks asked.
"The mission has changed somewhat. I need you to facilitate a meeting between Bourne and Arkadin."
Marks searched for hidden meaning in Willard's voice. Something back home had changed. He hated being out of the loop and felt at an immediate disadvantage. "What about the ring?"
"Are you listening to me?" Willard snapped. "Just do as you're ordered."
Now Marks was certain that he was being denied access to a major development. He felt the old anger against the machinations of his superiors rising up in his throat like bile.
"Has Soraya Moore made contact?" Willard continued.
"Yes. I just received the rearranged text message from her."
"Contact her," Willard said. "Coordinate your efforts. You need to get the two men to the following place." He gave Marks an address. "How you do it is up to you, but I do have some information Arkadin should find interesting." He told Marks what El-Arian had told him about the missing piece of information without which the file on the laptop's hard drive was useless. "You have seventy-two hours."
"Seventy-two - ?" But he was talking to dead air. The conversation was over.
At the next intersection, Marks checked the GPS map on his PDA to make sure that he hadn't missed a turn while talking with Willard. The morning had started out sunny, but clouds had rolled in, turning everything to shades of gray. Now a light drizzle blurred the edges of even the sharpest angles on buildings and signs.
The light turned green and, as he left the intersection behind, he noticed a white Ford moving into his lane right behind him. He knew a tail when he saw one. He'd seen the white Ford before, several vehicles behind him, though now and again he'd lost sight of it behind a large produce truck. The Ford was occupied by only the driver, who wore dark glasses. Stepping on the accelerator, he sent his rental car lurching forward as he ground the gearshift up