The Bourne Retribution (Jason Bourne 11)

Launching himself up the ladder, he put his left shoulder against the bottom of the trapdoor, sprang it open, and leapt up out of the vertical shaft. Slamming his elbow into one of the cops, he slashed the other with the knife he had picked up in the tunnel. One cop went down, bleeding, the other drew his gun, and Bourne, chopping down on his wrist, got him to drop it. He struck him in the throat and the cop collapsed, unconscious. Turning back, Bourne kicked the mobile out of the bleeding cop’s fist then, as he, too, drew his sidearm, rendered him unconscious with a blow to his ear.

When Bourne looked up, he saw Sam Zhang, looking big and terrified, gagged, bound to his chair, which had been rolled into the far corner. His eyes darted madly from Bourne to the downed cops and back to Bourne again.

As soon as Bourne removed his gag, he said in a hushed voice, “What are you doing back here? Where is Yue?”

Bourne, using his knife to slit open the ties with which Zhang had been affixed to his chair, said, “I doubled back. I figured this would be the last place Lim would look for me now.”

Zhang nodded and, somewhat unsteadily, held his arm out until Bourne poured him a glass of whiskey. Zhang grabbed it out of his hand, downed it in one fiery gulp. He gasped, shook his head like a wet dog, and held out the glass for more.

As Bourne was pouring it, he gasped out, “Yue?”

“Asleep in the basement.”

Zhang sipped at the whiskey. “How is she?”

“I’ll bring her up,” Bourne said, reluctant to tell Zhang that his “little sister” had been caught in a cave-in.

For the first time, noticing Bourne’s dust-strewn, disheveled appearance, he said, “Wait a minute. What happened down there?”

Ducking away from the question, Bourne returned to the basement, scooped up Yue, and, without waking her, climbed back, depositing her into an office chair.

“Mother!” Zhang cried, struggling out of his chair on legs made wobbly by his confinement. “She looks worse than you do!”

“She’s fine,” Bourne assured him. “There was a cave-in.” Before the fat man could comment, he added, “The man following me was caught in it and killed.”

Still, Zhang knelt in front of her chair, swaying precariously, holding on to the arms. “Little sister,” he whispered. “Little sister.”

“Who was the man who came after us?”

Zhang, scrutinizing Yue’s face, did not reply.

“Zhang,” Bourne said more forcefully. “It was the man who caused the cave-in.”

The fat man started as if Bourne had whipped him. “He promised to keep her safe!” It was almost a wail.

He was holding Yue’s tiny hand between his. “I don’t know,” he said tenderly, as if he was talking to her. “I never saw him before. I asked, but he was too busy putting a gun to my head.” He shook his head sadly. “I never should have given in; I never should have told him where you had gone.”

“You had no choice.”

“Cowards never have a choice, do they?”

Bourne put a hand on his meaty shoulder. “Think how much pain you saved Yue by staying alive.”

He tried to laugh, but it presented itself as more like blubbering. Bourne dragged the two cops out the back, dumping them in a putrid alley. When he returned Zhang was scrubbing the blood off the floor.

After he was finished, Bourne said, “C’mon.” He gathered Yue into his arms. “Why don’t we find someplace more private to talk while you care for little sister?”

Zhang nodded, lumbered out into the alley, and, opening his mobile, called for his car and driver.

Amir Ophir was working on the last-minute logistics of a rescue mission in the Sinai. Three Israelis hiking up Mount Sinai had been mistaken by a Hamas group for Mossad agents and taken prisoner. As he began the last modifications on the sitrep the call came in on his private mobile. He rose from his desk, strode down the hall as he answered.

“A moment.”

Banging into the men’s restroom, he checked the stalls, which were empty, then, putting his back to the door to keep anyone from entering, said, “What?”

He listened for some time, his expression becoming more and more clouded. “Retzach is dead? Are you absolutely certain?” He rolled his eyes, his tongue unconsciously clucking against the roof of his mouth. The situation had progressed from dangerous to untenable. How was he to explain this lapse to the Director? Yadin was not known for his lenience in the face of failure, and Ophir had no intention of placing himself on that sacrificial platter. He knew full well the fate of those who did because they had no choice.

He had a choice, though it was unpalatable. There had seemed little or no possibility that he would have to activate the backup plan, but Retzach’s death—probably at Bourne’s hands—had forced his hand. It was either that or face the music with the Director.

No choice. No choice at all.

Returning to his office, he picked up the phone and made a call.

17

The Director was standing in front of a painting by Alighiero Boetti composed of letters, mainly in English, but also in Arabic. In that context, the letters took on another, more artful meaning that lent them a beautiful impressionistic dimension, shockingly and thrillingly at odds with the usual concreteness of language. He did not turn when Ophir came up beside him. At this hour of the day the Tel Aviv Museum of Art, housed in its severe post-modern building, was nearly empty. Here and there, the Director’s bodyguards could be seen strolling nonchalantly as they pretended to study the paintings on the walls.

“Have we ever sent any of our cryptographers here?” the Director said. “I’ve always harbored the suspicion there was a hidden message in this.”

Ophir did not bother to answer; he knew the Director was as interested in Boetti’s painting as he was, which meant not at all.

“Update,” the Director said with such frost in his voice that Ophir felt himself shudder.

“Bourne has definitely slipped his leash,” Ophir said. He was sick to death of not knowing what mission the Director was running. “I warned you. The Americans couldn’t control Bourne; I can’t imagine why you thought you could.” When the Director made no reply, Ophir continued. “He discovered the bug in the passport we gave him. Apparently, the moment he set foot in Shanghai, he affixed it to the underside of a taxi, leading us on a wild goose chase until we figured out what had happened.”

“Clever chap, that Bourne.”

“What are you saying? His actions are indefensible.”

Director Yadin finally turned to look at Ophir. “Bourne did precisely what I expected him to do.”

Ophir stared at him with a dumbfounded expression. “I…I don’t understand.”

The Director shrugged. “Amir, my friend, it’s just as you say. Bourne is ungovernable. He will not work leashed. This is what the Americans never understood about him. They continually tried to tame him, to fit him into the mold they made for him. But when he escaped that mold he was absolutely determined never to go back.”

“Then how can he help us, Memune?”

The Director, hands behind his back, began to stroll with Ophir at his side. “Though Bourne can’t be leashed, Amir, he can be guided. Bourne is a bullet. Aim the gun and the bullet finds its mark. That’s precisely what I’ve done: I’ve guided him onto the proper path. How he finds his way along that path is of no interest to me.” He nodded his shaggy head. “From here, I will take my boat out for a sail, to grieve and to help clear my head.”

“And I?”

“Finish up this Sinai business before it gets more messy than it already is. I want our citizens out of our enemies’ hands and safely back on home soil by midnight. Is that clear?”

“Perfectly, Memune.”

“Forget Bourne, Amir. You have had your say. Now leave him to me.”

Ophir watched the Director and his retinue of bodyguards leave the museum, then started out himself. On the plaza in front of the museum, he saw the three c

ars pull out, and was surprised to see the entourage separate. The two cars housing the bodyguards peeled away, while the Director’s car went in another direction—and it wasn’t toward the waterfront where his boat was rocking at its slip.

Curious, Ophir slid behind the wheel of his car and followed the Director as his car slid in and out of traffic. He had been pleased when Yadin had told him that he was going for a sail. The Director had looked pale and haggard—and was it his imagination or had he lost weight?

In front of him, the Director’s car had turned onto Weizmann Street, then parked in front of the Sourasky Medical Center.

What in the world? thought Ophir as he watched Yadin stride up the ramp and enter the medical center itself. Pulling his car into a space, Ophir got out and hurried up the ramp, into the cool, quiet interior.

Heading over to the information desk, he asked for Eli Yadin, an outpatient at the center. The man behind the granite banc directed him to another banc on the right side of the immense glass-paneled entrance hall.

The woman behind this counter was young, fit, with that certain confident air only a stint in the Israeli Army could give her.

“How may I help you?” she said with a practiced smile.

“I’m looking for Eli Yadin,” Ophir said. “I believe he’s an outpatient here.”

“In what specialty?”

“I don’t know.”

The young woman wrinkled up her freckled nose, frowning at him. “Sir, we have sixteen separate outpatient clinics.”

Ophir considered for a moment. “Try oncology.”

She input the Director’s name. “Sorry, sir. I don’t find his name listed.”

“Surely you can cross-reference all of them.”

She looked both dubious and suspicious. “I can, but…”

Ophir flipped open his official ID. He hadn’t wanted to identify himself, but she had left him no choice.

The young woman, looking hard and long at the ID, finally said, “I’ll see what I can do.”

Her fingers flew over her terminal keyboard, the end result of which was a firm shake of her head. “I’m sorry, sir, there’s no one in any of the outpatient clinics by that name.”

“But there must be,” Ophir said, baffled.

“I’ve done everything I can for you, sir,” the young woman said, and turned away to take a phone call.

Of course, Ophir thought as he retraced his steps and exited onto the ramp leading to Weizmann Street, if the Director had registered under an alias he’d never find him. But by the time he was back behind the wheel and driving away, the small mystery was far from his thoughts. His mind was already overtaken by the last crucial steps he needed to take in order to assure the safe return of the three Israelis held prisoner in the Sinai.

Carlos is on board,” Maricruz said when she and Matamoros had retired to the Los Zetas compound.

They stood on the long veranda, sipping mescal viejo, staring out at the palm fronds clacking in the wind.

“You were with him a long time.”

“Jealous?”

Matamoros snorted.

It was past midnight. A horned moon appeared and disappeared behind scudding clouds that brought a humid wind presaging heavy rain. Around them, armed guards patrolled the periphery, just beyond the eight-foot stucco walls that enclosed the compound. Other guards paced through the gardens and oasis-like fistfuls of palms. Save for the cicadas, tree frogs, and the occasional harsh bark of a street dog, the night was blanketed with a velvety silence, as if they were at a resort on the Mayan coast. All that was missing was the soft splash of the waves onto the beach.

“It was a pleasure dealing with Carlos,” she went on. “He’s a businessman; he understood the benefits of my proposition without my having to go into a dog-and-pony show.”

“Giron wasn’t involved?”

“He wasn’t even mentioned.” Maricruz finished off her mescal. “The three of us will meet tomorrow morning at nine to finalize the alliance.”

Matamoros nodded. He seemed distracted. They went inside. He pointed out her room, then went down the wood-paneled corridor into his bedroom and shut the door behind him.

The bedroom designated for Maricruz was also wood-paneled, generously proportioned, with a king-size bed, oversize furniture, an odd combination of bullfight etchings and photos of exotic dancers on the walls. The en suite bathroom was luxurious—marble-clad, with separate shower and soaking tub from which the occupant could gaze at the floodlit gardens.

Stripping off her clothes, she stepped into the shower, let the needles of water sluice the dust and sweat off her skin, while she threw her head back, closed her eyes, and thought of nothing at all.

Toweled off and in bed between the soft sheets, she half expected Matamoros to knock on her door. When he didn’t, she was unsure whether she was relieved or disappointed.

That night she dreamed she was swimming in blood, a suffocating dream that not so much frightened her as left her feeling enervated. She opened her eyes, slowly surfacing, and thought she heard gunshots. But when she started fully awake, sitting up in bed, the early morning held only cocks’ crows and, again, the barking of dogs, foraging the streets of San Luis Potosí.

Swinging her long legs out of bed, she relieved herself, dressed quickly, and went out of the bedroom. Down the hallway and into the living room, which she found deserted, she looked around, and then proceeded to the kitchen. Also deserted. Turning back, and now with a mounting sense of urgency, she returned to the bedroom hallway, pushed open the door to Matamoros’s room. It was empty; the bed hadn’t been slept in.

Returning to her bedroom, she pulled out her Bersa Thunder .380, checked that it was fully loaded, then headed immediately to the entrance, where she pulled open the front door and stepped out into the courtyard. There were no guards, no one at all. The compound was blanketed by a deathly stillness, and she was reminded of her suffocating dream.

Hurrying through the gardens, past the clumps of palm trees, she hauled open the gate to the compound. A large black SUV was parked a hundred yards away. The rising sunlight spun off its windshield, turning it opaque.

Scanning the immediate vicinity, Maricruz approached the SUV with a measure of caution. She moved around to the left side of the vehicle, bending slightly to look in the windows, but they were smoked and she couldn’t see a thing.

She looked around again, hoping to see Matamoros or one of his men, but there was no one. Resisting an urge to run, she approached the SUV, reached out, and opened the passenger’s-side door.

A gasp escaped her half-parted lips. Crammed into the interior of the SUV were fourteen men. All had been beheaded. She jumped back as something came bouncing out, hit the SUV’s running board, then dropped to the ground.

Staring up at her with gray, glazed eyes and a terrified expression was the severed head of Raul Giron.

You need somewhere safe,” Sam Zhang said. “A place where neither Captain Lim nor anyone else can find you.” He tapped his driver on the shoulder and spoke to him in a voice that didn’t carry back to Bourne and Yue. Then he sat back, his bulk squeezing his two passengers together. “I know such a place. We’re going there now.”

Yue was slung across the seat, her head and shoulders against Bourne’s chest.

“Lim cut our conversation short,” Bourne said to Zhang.

“Is that so? What were we talking about?”

“Ouyang Jidan.”

Zhang pursed his thick lips. “I don’t remember that.”

“I had heard he had come here from Beijing.”

“Why does that concern you?”

“He and I have a reckoning. He’s responsible for the murder of someone I knew.”

Zhang turned his head. “That sounds properly lacking in details.” He shrugged. “Minister Ouyang has been responsible for many deaths.”

“I only care about this one,” Bourne said.

They went across the bridge, heading back to Pudong,

Shanghai’s glittering modern half. The car turned down the Bund, then rolled to a stop in front of the glass-and-steel facade of one of the city’s finest hotels.

Zhang asked for a wheelchair when the door was opened by one of the uniformed attendants. Moments later Bourne placed Yue in the wheelchair and, with the man who brought it pushing it, the four of them went through the doors, past gleaming polished marble and Maw-Sit-Sit—a green stone mined in Burma—to the bank of elevators. They rose in silence until they reached the twenty-first floor.

“I’ll take it from here,” Zhang said, slipping a bill to the man and replacing his hands on the wheelchair’s handlebars.

They left the attendant in the elevator. Bourne followed Zhang down the lushly carpeted hallway, past the shell-shaped sconces emitting mellow light, to the double doors of a suite. Zhang used an electronic key-card to enter the room, then wheeled Yue in.

As Bourne stepped across the threshold, he felt the quick jab of a needle in the side of his neck. He tried to whirl, but whatever had been injected into him had already slowed his reflexes. He was in midturn when his knees buckled. Someone caught him from behind. His balance failed, his vision blurred, and his thoughts swam away from him like a school of fish.

The last thing he saw was Yue rising from the wheelchair, a wolfish smile on her face. She kissed him on the lips, then struck him hard across the face, plunging him into oblivion.

Book Two

18

Jin put his foot between the elevator doors, preventing them from closing. When the doors retracted, he hit the EMERGENCY STOP button. By straining, he could hear the soft click of the wheelchair as it progressed down the carpeted hallway.