Robert Ludlum's (TM) The Bourne Initiative (Jason Bourne series)(103)

His gaze burned into her. His mouth was half open. She could see a stirring beneath the zipper of his trousers.

“Ready?” she said. “Tell me when.”

A little animal noise exploded from the back of Gora’s throat.

A high-pitched scream, a loud crash, and the excited voices of the goons raised in explosive Russian curses put an immediate damper on Gora Maslov’s erotic fantasy. With a guttural curse of his own, he ran out of the bedroom, down the corridor.

What he confronted was Natalie on the carpet, beside a pool of stinking vomit and the broken shards of one of the busts of Caesar. The other bust—of Augustus, as it happened—looked down upon this plebian mess with true caesarian disinterest.

“What the fuck happened?” Gora shouted.

“I dunno, boss,” Goon Number One said.

“She clutched her stomach, staggered, knocked the head off its pedestal, and was sick,” Goon Number Two continued.

“Then she collapsed,” Goon Number One concluded.

“Is she alive, dead, or in between?” Gora asked.

“Dunno,” they both said at once.

“We haven’t checked,” said Goon Number Two.

“Well, for fuck’s sake, do!” Gora shouted. Whatever had sprouted in his trousers had suddenly turned inward like a frightened turtle.

Meanwhile, according to plan, Morgana had moved swiftly and silently on little bare feet down the corridor to Gora’s study. She knew she had very little time. She was looking for some proof that linked Gora to the impending auction of the Bourne Initiative, but what form that might take she had no idea.

“Even if you don’t think you have time, take in the whole scene,” her father had taught her. “Nine out of ten times whatever you’re looking for will get caught in the corner of your eye.”

And so it was. Desk, task chair, laptop, mobile phone and sat phone lying side by side, neat as soldiers on guard duty. The laptop was off, the mobile was guarded by a fingerprint reader, the sat phone had no numbers stored in it. Not a scrap of paper on the desktop, and the drawers contained nothing of value. But a blotch of yellow stuck in the corner of her eye: a Post-it note stuck to the left-side bezel of the laptop’s screen. It was curious how many people did that with their most important reminders. So insecure, and yet, like incriminating emails and texts, done all the time.

Moving around behind the desk, she leaned over, took a close look at what was written in the little yellow square: an international phone number and the word Keyre. A name? A place? She didn’t know. Just below, another international number, this one without a name or a place. Using the mnemonic her father had taught her, she memorized the numbers, figuring they must be extremely important if Gora hadn’t stored them in either phone.

“She isn’t dead,” Goon Number One said as he crouched beside Natalie in the salon.

“Well, that’s something,” Gora said distractedly. In his mind’s eye he was seeing the image of Morgana, her dress raised, her knees bent, her white thighs exposed, asking him, “Tell me when.” The frightened turtle had vanished, replaced by a snake, slowly stirring. “Get the cleaning materials,” he barked at Goon Number Two. “Clean up this mess, then get back to your usual post on the dock. At this late stage I don’t want anyone nosing around.”

As Goon Number One lifted Natalie’s head and shoulders off the carpet, she gave a tiny moan. Her eyelids fluttered.

“Clean her up, too, then get her to bed in one of the guest suites,” Gora ordered. “And for fuck’s sake get that stink out of here.”

Goon Number One wiped Natalie’s mouth with the still-damp towel from her water pistol experience, then lifted her in his arms, following his boss down the corridor toward the guest cabins.

“Make sure you get her out of those soiled clothes,” Morgana heard Gora say over his shoulder to Goon Number One. “Wash off all the muck. There’ll be something for her to wear in one of the closets.”

Morgana was standing in the corridor outside the master suite when Gora saw her.

“What’s happened?” she said.

“Nothing. Your friend got sick, that’s all.”

Morgana’s brow furrowed. “How sick?”

“I told you, it’s nothing.”

Gora reached for her, eager to return to the image in his mind’s eyes, but Morgana flew past him, running down the corridor.

“Wait!” Gora cried, and then, seeing that she wasn’t listening, “Fuck all.” He headed after her.

Morgana entered the room where Goon Number One had laid Natalie on the bed. He was cleaning the muck off the front of her dress, copping a feel of her breasts whenever he had the chance.

Crossing to where Natalie lay, Morgana swatted the goon’s hands away. “Get out of here. I’ll take care of her.”

The goon stood up, looked over at his boss. Gora gestured with his head, and the goon obediently stepped back.

“Nat,” Morgana said, bending over the bed. “Nat, what happened?”

Natalie stared up at Morgana, mouthed, I’m going to kill you.

Morgana gave her a grin only she could see, before trying to turn her over. Natalie moaned as if she were in great distress. Morgana made a show of putting her ear to Natalie’s chest. “Something’s wrong, her breathing’s labored,” she announced in a voice bordering on hysteria. “She might have inhaled some vomit. If her lungs are filling with liquid we’ll need to get her to a hospital or she’ll suffocate.”