The Bourne Imperative (Jason Bourne 10)

“For a man like you, that must be terrible indeed.”

Bourne drove a fist deep into Encarnación’s stomach. He doubled over, and Bourne pulled him erect by his hair.

The Mexican’s red-rimmed eyes opened wide. “You killed my son.”

“He killed himself.”

Maceo Encarnación spat into his face. “How dare you!”

“I tried to subdue him underwater, but you trained him too well. He would have killed me and Don Fernando if I hadn’t killed him.”

“¡Asesino!” Encarnación slipped a push-dagger from a sheath hidden beneath his clothes. His fist shot out, the blade aimed at Bourne’s heart.

Bourne grasped the wrist, and turned it, snapping it in two. Maceo Encarnación grimaced, slammed Bourne’s throat with the heel of his other hand. Bourne, a low animal growl erupting from deep inside him, spun him around, grasped his head in both hands, and cracked the neck completely in two. As he let Maceo Encarnación go, the Mexican’s head lolled at an unnatural angle, as if begging to be separated from the rest of him.

Epilogue

Tel Aviv, Israel

The Director would like to talk with you,” Dani Amit, head of Mossad Collections, said.

“Talk with me,” Bourne said. “Not kill me.”

Amit laughed, but his pale blue eyes remained steady and grave. The two men were sitting at a small table at Entr’acte, a seaside restaurant along Tel Aviv’s sweeping scimitar beach.

“The termination order was a mistake. Obviously.”

“In our business,” Bourne said, matching Amit’s tone, “almost everything is a mistake in hindsight.”

Amit’s eyes drifted to the water, the lines of empty chairs set up on the beach. “That which doesn’t kill us turns us gray.”

“Or insane.”

Amit’s gaze snapped back.

“It was insane to send someone after Rebeka,” Bourne said.

“She went off the grid. She broke protocol.”

“Because she couldn’t trust anyone.”

Amit sighed and folded his hands together, as if in prayer. “Concerning Dahr El Ahmar, we owe you a great debt of gratitude.”

“Rebeka suspected Ben David was rotten.” Bourne would not let the subject go. “She was right.”

Amit licked his lips. “Concerning Rebeka, we have received her body from the authorities in Mexico City.”

“I know. You will bury her with honors. I want to be there.”

“Outsiders are not permitted—” Amit bit off the automatic response, and nodded. “Of course.”

A soft breeze ruffled Bourne’s hair. His body ached. He could feel every place the flames had touched him, every place Maceo Encarnación had struck him.

“Did she have family?”

“Her parents are dead,” Amit said. “You’ll meet her brother at the funeral.”

“He’s Mossad also.”

“Finish your espresso,” Amit said, “then we must go.”

Aboard the Director’s boat, Bourne was provided with a panoramic view of the city. The sun beat down from a sky studded with small clouds, scudding before a following wind. He seemed far removed from the snowy highlands of Lebanon.

“You’re a fine sailor,” the Director said. “What other talents have you hidden from us?”

“I don’t forgive.”

The Director looked at him. “That’s a very Mossad trait.” His Brillo hair seemed impervious to the wind. “That said, we’re all human, Bourne.”

“No,” Bourne said. “You’re Mossad.”

The Director pursed his livery lips. “Well, there’s truth to that, no doubt, but as you’ve already discovered, we’re not infallible.”

Bourne looked back at the glaringly white city and was suddenly aware of the ages of history buried there. He took out the thin gold chain with the star of David.

The Director saw it and came and sat beside his guest. “That was Rebeka’s.”

Bourne nodded.

The Director took a deep breath and slowly let it out. “I go sailing whenever one of my people has been killed.”

Bourne was silent. The star of David dangled between them, spinning slowly, now and then catching sunlight and redirecting it. After a long time, he said, “Does it help?”

“Out here in the clean air and the calm of the water, without the burden of the city on my back, I can finally feel how lost I am.” The Director looked down at his strong, capable hands. “Is that a help?” He shrugged, as if to himself. “I don’t know. Do you?”

Bourne, thinking how helpless he was when Rebeka’s life slipped away, felt, like a little earthquake, echoes of identical sorrows, and understood with a terrible finality that he was as lost as the man who sat beside him.