attention now. Behind the manager's back he could see the scarred man break out into a sly smile. He walked Steptoe closer and closer to the cashier, which was on the right side of the slots room, conveniently located near the entryway so that the clientele could buy chips on their way in and the occasional winners could cash out as they left - if they made it past all the other glittering lures the gambling profession threw at them.
"How much money?" Steptoe could not keep a note of greed out of his voice.
"Half a million," Bourne said without hesitation.
Steptoe didn't know whether to frown or lick his chops. "I'm afraid I don't know you..."
"James. Robert James." They were nearing the cashier's cage and, by proximity, the front door. "I'm an associate of Diego Hererra's."
"Ah. I see." Steptoe pursed his lips. "Even so, Mr. James, this establishment does not know you personally. You understand, we cannot put up such a large amount - "
"Oh, no, that's not what I meant to imply." Bourne feigned shock. "Rather I need your permission to leave the premises during the game in order to obtain the amount in question, so that I can remain in the game."
Now the manager did frown. "At this time of night?"
Bourne radiated confidence. "A wire transfer can be effected. It will only take twenty minutes - thirty, at most."
"Well, it's highly irregular, don't you know."
"Half a million pounds, Mr. Steptoe, is a large amount of money, as you yourself pointed out."
Steptoe nodded. "Quite so." He sighed. "I suppose that under the circumstances it can be allowed." He waggled a forefinger in Bourne's face. "But be quick about it, sir. I can give you no more than half an hour."
"Understood." Bourne shook the manager's hand. "Thank you."
Then he and the scarred man turned, went up the steps, across the entryway, through the glass doors, and into the windswept London night.
Several blocks away, as they turned a corner, Bourne rammed the scarred man hard against the side of a parked car and said, "Now tell me who you are and why you killed Diego."
As the scarred man reached for his knife Bourne gripped his wrist. "Let's have none of that," he said. "Give me answers."
"I would never harm you, Jason, you know that."
"Why did you kill Diego?"
"He'd been told to bring you to the club at a certain time tonight."
Bourne remembered Diego looking down at his watch and saying, "Now's the time to take ourselves to Knightsbridge." An odd way to put it, except if this man was telling the truth.
"Who told Diego to bring me there?" But Bourne already knew.
"The Severus Domna got to him - I don't know how - but they gave him precise instructions on how to betray you."
Bourne remembered Diego picking at his food as if he had something important on his mind. Had he been anticipating the betrayal? Was Ottavio right?
The scarred man stared into Bourne's face. "You really don't know me, do you?"
"I told you I didn't."
"My name is Ottavio Moreno." He waited a beat. "Gustavo Moreno's brother."
A tiny tremor of recognition raced through Bourne as the veils of his amnesia stirred and tried to part.
"We met in Morocco." Bourne's voice was barely a whisper.
"Yes." A smile creased Ottavio Moreno's face. "In Marrakech, we traveled into the High Atlas Mountains together, didn't we?"
"I don't know."
"Good God!" Ottavio Moreno's face registered surprise, perhaps even shock. "And the laptop? What about the laptop?"
"What laptop?"
"You don't remember the laptop?" He grabbed Bourne by the arms. "Jason, come on. We met in Marrakech in order to get the laptop."
"Why?"
Ottavio Moreno frowned. "You told me it was a key."
"Key to what?"
"To the Severus Domna."
At that moment they heard the familiar high-low wail of police sirens.
"The mess we left behind in the Empire Suite," Moreno said. "Come on, let's go."
"I'm not going anywhere with you," Bourne said.
"But you must, you owe me," Ottavio Moreno said. "You killed Noah Perlis."
In other words," Secretary of Defense Bud Halliday said as he scanned the report in front of him, "between retirements, normal attrition, and requests for transfer - all of which, I see, have been not only granted but expedited - a quarter of the Old Man's CI has moved on."
"And our own personnel have moved in." DCI Danziger did not bother to keep the satisfaction out of his voice. The secretary appreciated confidence as much as he disliked indecision. Danziger took back the report and carefully folded it away. "It will be