Robert Ludlum – The Sigma Protocol

Jackie Onassis sunglasses.

Anna and Bolgorio both rose from the low sofa.

Without shaking their hands, she said in Spanish, “I don’t see how I can

help you.”

Bolgorio stepped forward. “I am Captain Luis Bolgorio of the policia,”

he said with a bow of his head, “and this is Special Agent Anna Navarro

of the American Department of Justice.”

“Consuela Prosperi,” she said impatiently.

“Please accept our deepest condolences on the passing of your husband,”

he continued. “We simply wanted to ask you a few questions, and then

we’ll be on our way.”

“Is there some sort of problem? My husband was sick for a long time,

you know. When he finally passed away it was surely a great relief for

him.”

Not to mention for you, too, Anna thought. “We have information,” she

said, “indicating that your husband may have been killed.”

Consuela Prosperi looked unimpressed. “Please sit down,” she said. They

did, and she sat in a white chair facing them. Consuela Prosperi had

the unnaturally tight skin of a woman who has had too many facelifts.

Her makeup was too orange, her lipstick glossy brown.

“Marcel was ill for the last several years of his life. He was confined

to bed. He was in extremely poor health.”

“I understand,” Anna said. “Did your husband have enemies?”

The widow turned to her with an imperious glance. “Why would he have

enemies?”

“Senora Prosper!” we know all about your husband’s past endeavors.”

Her eyes flashed. “I am his third wife,” she said. “And we did not

speak of his business affairs. My own interests lie elsewhere.”

This woman could hardly be ignorant of her husband’s reputation, Anna

knew. She also did not seem to be much in mourning.

“Did Senor Prosper! have any regular visitors?”

The widow hesitated but an instant. “Not while we were married.”

“And no conflicts that you know about with his international ‘trading’

partners?”

The widow’s thin lips compressed, revealing a row of vertical age lines.

“Agent Navarro means no disrespect,” Bolgorio put in hastily. “What she

means to say is ”

“I’m quite aware of what she means to say,” Consuela Prosperi snapped.

Anna shrugged. “There must have been many people over the years who

wanted your husband apprehended, arrested, even killed. Rivals.

Contenders for territory. Disgruntled business partners. You know that

as well as I.”

The widow offered no response. Anna noticed her thick orange pancake

makeup cracking over her sun-lined face.

“There are also people who sometimes provide early warnings,” Anna went

on. “Intelligence. Security. Do you know if anyone ever contacted him

to warn him of any possible threats?”

“In the nineteen years we were married,” Consuela Prosperi said, turning

away, “I never heard anything of this.”

“Did he ever express to you the fear that people were after him?”

“My husband was a private man. He was an absentee owner of his

automobile dealerships. He never liked to go out. Whereas I enjoy

going out quite a bit.”

“Yes, but did he say he was afraid to go out?”

“He didn’t enjoy going out,” she corrected. “He preferred to stay in

and read his biographies and histories.”

For some reason, Ramon’s muttered words ran through her head. El diablo

sabe mas par viejo que par diablo. The devil knows more because he is

old than because he is the devil.

Anna tried a different tack. “You seem to have very good security

here.”

The widow smirked. “You do not know Asuncion, do you?”

“There is great poverty and crime here, Agent Navarro,” Captain Bolgorio

said, turning to her with outspread hands. “People of the Prosperisi

means must always take precautions.”

“Did your husband have any visitors at all in the last few weeks of his

life?” Anna went on, ignoring him.

“No, my friends came over quite a bit, but none of them ever went

upstairs to see him. He really had no friends in the last years. He

saw only me and his nurses.”

Anna looked up suddenly. “Who supplied his nurses?”

“A nursing agency.”

“Did they rotate–did the same ones come regularly?”

“There was a day nurse and an evening nurse, and yes, always the same

ones. They took very good care of him.”

Anna chewed at the inside of her lower lip. “I’m going to have to

examine certain of your household records.”

The widow turned to Bolgorio with an expression of indignation. “I

don’t have to put up with this, do I? This is a grotesque invasion of

my privacy.”

Bolgorio tented his hands as if in supplication. “Please, Senora Pros

peri, her only interest is to determine whether there was any

possibility of homicide.”

“Homicide? My husband’s heart finally gave out.”

“If we must, we can obtain them at the bank,” Anna said. “But it would

be so much simpler if–”

Consuela Prosper! got up and suddenly stared at Anna, nostrils flared,

as if the American were a rodent that had made its way into her house.

Bolgorio spoke in a low voice. “People like her, they do not tolerate

invasions of their privacy.”

“Senora Prosperi, you say there were two nurses,” Anna said, soldiering

on. “Were they very reliable?”

“Very.”

“But were they never sick or absent?”

“Oh, from time to time, of course. Or they would ask for a night off

when there was a holiday. Ano Nuevo, Dta de los Trabajadores, Carnaval,

that sort of thing. But they were very responsible, and the agency was

good about bringing in replacements without my ever having to worry.

And the replacements were every bit as well trained as the regular

nurses. Even on Marcel’s last night, the substitute nurse did

everything she could to try to save him–”

Substitute nurse. She sat upright, suddenly alert. “There was a

substitute nurse on the night he died?”

“Yes, but as I said, she was as well trained–”

“Had you ever seen her before?”

“No …”

“Can you give me the name and phone number of the nursing agency?”

“Of course, but if you’re implying that this nurse killed Marcel, you’re

being foolish. He was ill.”

Anna’s pulse quickened. “Can you call this agency?” she asked

Bolgorio. “And I’d like to go to the morgue right now–could you please

call ahead and arrange to have the body prepared for us.”

“The body!” Consuela Prosper! said, alarmed, rising to her feet.

“My deepest apologies if we must delay the funeral,” Anna said. “We’d

like your permission to do an autopsy. We can always get a court order,

but it would be simpler and faster if you’d give us permission. I can

guarantee you, if you’re having an open-casket service, no one will ever

be able to tell–”

“What are you talking about?” the widow said, genuinely puzzled. She

walked to the immense fireplace and lifted an ornate silver urn from the

mantel. “I just received my husband’s ashes a few hours ago.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

Washington, D.C.

Justice Miriam Bateman of the United States Supreme Court got up with

great effort from her massive mahogany partners’ desk to greet her

visitor. Leaning on her gold-handled cane, she made her way around the

desk and, smiling warmly despite the great pain from her rheumatoid

arthritis, took her visitor’s hand.

“How nice to see you, Ron,” she said.

Her visitor, a tall black man in his late fifties, leaned over to give

the diminutive Justice a peck on the cheek. “You look wonderful as

always,” he said in his deep, clear baritone, his enunciation precise.

“Oh, rubbish.” Justice Bateman hobbled over to a high-backed wing chair

by the fireplace, and he took the matching one next to her.

Her visitor was one of Washington’s most influential private citizens, a

widely respected, extraordinarily well-connected attorney in private

practice who had never held a government job, yet had been a confidant

of every President, Democrat and Republican, since Lyndon Johnson.

Ronald Evers, famous, too, for his splendid wardrobe, was wearing a

beautiful charcoal pin-striped suit and a subdued maroon tie.

“Madame Justice, thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”

“For God’s sake, Ron, it’s Miriam. How long have we known each other?”

He smiled. “I believe it’s thirty-five years … Miriam, give or take a

decade. But I still keep wanting to call you Professor Bateman.”

Evers had been one of Miriam Bateman’s star students at Yale Law School,

and he had been instrumental behind the scenes in getting Justice

Bateman nominated to the High Court some fifteen years earlier. He

hunched forward in his chair. “You’re a busy lady, and the Court’s in

session, so let me get right to the point. The President has asked me

to sound you out on something that must not leave this room, something

he’s been giving a lot of thought to. Please understand, this is highly

preliminary.”

Justice Bateman’s piercing blue eyes radiated keen intelligence behind

the thick lenses of her eyeglasses. “He wants me to step down,” she

said somberly.

Her directness caught her visitor unprepared. “He has enormous respect

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