Robert Ludlum's the Bourne Imperative (26 page)

After enduring a restless night during which Charles Thorne was pursuing her through a labyrinth of dank corridors that smelled of anaesthetic and death, Delia awoke in her own bed with a pounding headache even three ibuprofen couldn’t quite eradicate. 

She checked her phone to see if there had been any calls from Soraya’s ICU nurse, even though she knew there hadn’t been. One voicemail and two texts from Amy, wondering how she was. Amy and Soraya did not get along, which was a great sadness to her. She hadn’t wanted to believe it, but Amy was jealous of the intimacy she shared with Soraya. Even though she had assured Amy there was no physical component to their friendship, that Soraya was strictly hetero, she had come to the realization that Amy didn’t believe her.
“I’ve read all the articles about how rampant homosexuality is in the Arab world,”
Amy said in one of her less than finest moments.
“It’s all been pushed underground, it’s all sub rosa, which makes the urge all the stronger.”
Nothing Delia could say would dissuade Amy from her point of view, so she had stopped trying, and gradually the subject of Soraya dropped from their conversations.

Showered and dressed, she grabbed a bite at a McD drive-through. She might as well have been eating the cardboard packaging for all she could taste the food.

Arriving at the office, she occupied herself with figuring out a fiendishly clever double-blind detonation mechanism. When, at length, she looked at her watch, over two hours had passed. She stood up, stretched, and took a walk around the lab in an attempt to clear her head.

It was no use. No matter what she did, she remained alone with her thoughts and her seething anger at Charles Thorne. Her first concern, of course, remained Soraya, but now she was at a total loss to understand what had drawn her friend to that monster.
Maybe it’s a heterosexual thing
, she thought, with both amusement and bitterness. He had humiliated her. Far worse, she had allowed him to humiliate her.

She returned to her workstation, but now she was unable to concentrate, so, grabbing her overcoat, she returned to the hospital. It seemed important, somehow, to be near Soraya, especially because she was unconscious and vulnerable.

Already exhausted and terribly hungry, she went down the hall to the ICU, but once she was assured by Soraya’s nurse that there was no news, she took herself down to the basement commissary, filled up her tray with a mishmash of dishes, added a soda and, after paying, sat down at a Formica table. She ate staring at the huge analog clock on the wall, her thoughts with her friend, hoping that with every breath she took now she’d be closer to healing.

Dear God
, she thought,
stay close to Raya, protect her from harm, let her and the baby be okay.

Her eyes burned and her skin felt parched, products of spending time in the hospital’s canned air. She knew she should leave, take a break, walk around the block even, but somehow she could not get herself to do it. She waited for her mobile to ring, willing there to be good news.

And, at last, there was. Her mobile vibrated, she jumped up, and listened to the nurse even as she was on her way upstairs, her heart pounding in her chest. Too long a wait for the elevators, so she turned to the stairwell, taking the treads two at a time, thinking,
Come on, Raya. Come on!

Pushing the large square button on the wall to open the automatic doors, she went into the ICU. On either side of a wide central aisle were screened-off bays from which issued the mechanical beeps, whistles, and sighs of the various machines keeping the critical care patients alive, in some cases, breathing.

She hurried past the burn and cardiac units. Soraya’s bay was the last one on the right. Her nurse, a young woman with her hair pinned back, looked at Delia with caring eyes.

“She’s awake,” the nurse said, reacting to the acute anxiety on Delia’s face. “Her vitals have stabilized. Dr. Santiago and one of his colleagues have been in. They seemed pleased with their patient’s progress.”

Delia felt as if she were walking on burning needles. “So the prognosis?”

“The doctors are cautiously optimistic.”

Delia felt a bubble in her chest deflate. “Then she’s out of the woods?”

“I would say so, yes.” The nurse offered one of those nursely smiles that could mean nothing at all. “Though there’s still a ways to go, she’s made remarkable progress.”

Delia said, “I want to see her.”

The nurse nodded. “Please don’t overtax her. She’s still very weak and is working for two.”

As the nurse was about to turn away, Delia said, “Has anyone else been in to see her?”

“I called you the moment the doctors were finished with their examinations.”

“Thank you,” Delia said fervently.

The nurse ducked her head. “Call me if you need me.” She pointed. “I’ll be at my monitoring station.”

Delia nodded, then, pushing aside the fabric curtain, went in to see her friend. Soraya, hooked up to a bewildering array of machines, was propped up on the high hospital bed. Her expression brightened considerably when she saw Delia.

“Deel,” she said, lifting her hand for her friend to take. She closed her eyes for a moment when she felt the warmth of Delia’s hand. “I’ve come from the back of beyond.”

“So the doctors tell me.” Delia’s smile was genuine. Raya looked far better than she had in recovery. The dusky-rose color had returned to her cheeks, happily replacing yesterday’s deathly pallor. “It’s been a rough ride, but now the worst is over, I know it.”

Soraya smiled and Delia burst into tears.

“What is it? Deel, what is it?”

“That’s your old smile, Raya. The smile I know and love so much.” She leaned over and kissed her friend tenderly on each cheek in the European manner. “Now I know I have my best friend back. Everything’s going to be all right.”

“Come here,” Soraya said. “Sit by me.”

Delia perched herself on the edge of the bed, keeping hold of her friend’s hand.

“I’ve been dreaming non-stop, Deel. I dreamt I was in Paris with Amun, that he hadn’t been killed. I dreamt I was with Aaron. And I dreamt that Charlie was here.” Her eyes, clearer now, gazed into Delia’s. “Is Charlie still here, Deel?”

“No, he left.” Delia’s eyes cut away, then returned to her friend. “He said the baby changed everything, that he wants to keep you in his life.”

“In other words, you misread him.”

“I guess so.” She had no intention of telling Soraya that Thorne had threatened her.

“Good. That’s so good.” Soraya squeezed her hand. “You did precisely what I wanted you to do.”

“What?” Delia’s head came up.

Soraya’s smile was tinged with regret. “I used you, Deel. Before the attack, I went to see him, but what I wanted so disgusted me, I couldn’t tell him. I needed you to do that for me.” She squeezed her friend’s hand. “Don’t be angry.”

“How could I be angry with you?” Delia shook her head. “But I don’t understand.”

Soraya gestured. “Could I have some ice water?”

Delia rose and poured water from a plastic pitcher into a plastic cup and handed it to Soraya, who drank deeply.

When she handed the empty cup back, she said, “I need a way to keep Charlie tied to me.”

“Once again, not understanding.”

Soraya laughed softly and put a hand on her belly. “Come here, Deel. I can feel the baby moving.”

Leaning over, Delia put her hand next to Soraya’s, and when she felt the baby kicking, she laughed as well. Then she sat back. “Okay, Raya, time to tell me how we’re all linked, you, me, and Thorne.”

Soraya studied her for a moment. At length, she said, “My relationship with Charlie is not what I’ve made it appear to you.”

Delia shook her head mutely.

“It’s business.”

“Having an affair with him was business?” The shock reverberated straight through Delia. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“I wish I were.” Soraya sighed. “It’s the reason I hooked up with him in the first place.” She smiled. “That’s all I can tell you. I feel so guilty using you like that.”

“Jesus, no, Raya. I...” Now things that had made no sense to Delia slid into focus. “Frankly, I could never understand what you saw in him.” 

“Secrets, Deel. Secrets. They rule my life. You know that.” “But this. Hopping into his bed because—”

“A centuries-old tradition. Ask Cleopatra, Lucretia Borgia, Mata Hari.”

Delia looked at her friend as if in an entirely new light. “And the baby?”

Soraya’s eyes glittered. “It’s not his.”

“Wait, what? But you told me—”

“I know what I told you, Deel. But I need Charlie to believe it’s his.” She rubbed her belly. “It’s Amun’s.”

Delia felt dizzy, as if she had lost her moorings in this new world Soraya was revealing layer by mysterious layer. “What if he asks for a paternity test?”

“What if I tell his wife about us?”

Delia stared at Soraya with a new understanding, a kind of astonishment, and something else entirely. “Raya, you’re scaring the hell out of me right now.”

“Oh, Deel, I don’t mean to. You’re my friend. We’re closer than sisters. Even Peter doesn’t know what I’ve told you. Please try to understand.”

“I want to, Raya. Honestly, I do. But this just goes to show that you never really know anyone no matter how close you think you are.”

“But we
are
close, Deel.” She reached out. “Listen to me, ever since I came back from Paris I’ve come to realize that there’s more to life than secrets. That’s all I have, really.” She laughed. “Except you, of course.” She sobered immediately. “But now I have the baby and— I’ve been thinking—using the baby as a weapon against Charlie—it’s heinous. For the first time in my life I feel dirty, as if I’ve crossed a line that sickens me. I can’t use my child in this way. I don’t want that for him. I don’t want this life for him. He deserves more than shadows, Deel. He deserves the sunshine and kids his age. He deserves a mother who isn’t always looking over her shoulder.”

Delia leaned over and kissed her friend on the cheek. “This is good, Raya. Ever since you told me about the baby, I’ve been waiting for you to come to that conclusion.”

Soraya smiled. “Now I have.”

“You’ll have to tell Peter.”

“I already have, more or less.”

“Really? How did he take it?”

“Like Peter. He’s so rational. He understands.”

Delia nodded. “He’s a good guy.” She frowned. “What will you tell Thorne?”

“Not a fucking thing. I don’t have to tell you what Charlie’s like.”

With a shudder of disgust, Delia conjured up the horrible, humiliating conversation, culminating in the moment when he had grabbed his crotch and said,
“You don’t know what you’re missing.”

She felt the urge to tell her friend what Thorne had done, how he had hacked into her mobile, had tapes of the amorous voicemails Amy had left for her, but she bit her tongue. She didn’t want to upset Soraya, not in the state she was in now, not when Soraya was ready to embark on the next phase of her life, ready to leave all the dark shit behind.

Instead, she smiled, bit back her bitterness against Thorne, and said, “No, I’ve gotten to know him much better these days.” She leaned forward to kiss Soraya on the cheek. “Don’t worry. Your secrets are safe with me.”

Because I know you won’t take my advice,” Constanza Camargo said to Bourne, “I have no choice but to help you.”

“Of course you have a choice,” Rebeka said.

Constanza shook her head slowly. “You still have no conception of life here. There is destiny, only destiny. This cannot be explained or understood, except, possibly, in history. A story, then.”

La comida
was finally at an end, and they had retired to her exquisite, jewel-like living room, paneled in ebony, evoking an earlier, gilded age. She sat back in her wheelchair, her hands laced in her lap, and, as she spoke, the years seemed to melt away, revealing the magnificent, vibrant beauty she had been in her twenties and thirties.

“Maceo Encarnación not only took my husband’s life, he took my legs as well. This is how it happened.” She took out a flat silver case, snapped it open, and, after offering each of them a cigarillo, plucked one out. Manny, always at her side, lit it for her. “I hope you don’t mind if I smoke,” she said in a tone that said she had no intention of stopping.

She sat, smoking reflectively for several moments, before she began. “As I said, life in Mexico is bound to the wheel of destiny. Desire is also important—we are Latin, after all!—but, at the end of the day, desire hinders destiny. Acevedo found this out when he changed horses. He was destined to be a drug lord—this was his calling. He left it and he died.

“I should have learned from his mistake, but the truth is my desire for revenge blinded me, cut me off from my destiny, and, at the end of the day, cut me off from my legs. What happened was this: after Acevedo was shot dead, I summoned a cadre of men, Colombians who owed their livelihood, even their very lives, to Acevedo. They came here, and, at my direction, set out to end the life of the miserable Maceo Encarnación.”

She took another long drag from her cigarillo, which emitted smoke like a just-fired pistol. Then she continued: “I was foolish. I miscalculated, or, rather, I underestimated Maceo Encarnación’s power. He is protected by an almost mystical power, as if by gods. Acevedo’s loyalists were beheaded, and then he came after me himself.”

Her fist pounded against her useless legs. “Here is the result. He didn’t kill me. Why? To this day, I don’t know. Possibly, to him my living as a cripple was a more fitting punishment than death. More likely, it was raw cruelty.”

She lifted a hand, fluttering it back and forth, as if the reason for her continued life was unimportant. “This is a cautionary tale, Mr. Moore, not an attempt to elicit sympathy.” She turned to Rebeka. “But now you see, my dear, how the great wheel of destiny works. It has brought you to me or me to you, and there is a reason for that. Destiny has now combined with my desire for revenge. It has brought me the weapons I need because, Rebeka, I do not for a moment believe that you are Mr. Moore’s wife—” she smiled “—any more than I believe his name is Moore.” Her gaze shifted back to Bourne. “Mr. Moore, you would no more bring your wife to Mexico on such a mission than you would allow her to walk into a tiger’s den.”