The Bourne Retribution (Jason Bourne 11)
Then two plainclothes cops appeared in his limited field of view. They approached the uniforms who were smoking and the senior of the two spoke sharply to the beat cops. The uniforms stiffened, threw their cigarette butts into the gutter. The detectives gesticulated, the uniforms nodded and hustled across the street. They split up, out of Bourne’s sight.
The detectives consulted for a moment and then, clearly having decided on a course of action, also split up. One of them came directly toward the building Bourne was in. Bourne retreated up the stairs, stopping on the second-floor landing.
He heard the inner door open and sigh shut, then the sounds of the detective’s shoes ringing against the worn stone tiles, echoing up the stairwell.
Voices came to him and he leaned forward, listening as the detective spoke to the little boy.
“Niño, have you seen anyone come in you didn’t recognize?”
There was a long pause, then the boy answered: “I saw a man who doesn’t belong in the building.”
“When?”
“Just now.”
“Did you see where he went?”
“Up,” the boy said.
Without another word to his small witness, the detective began to climb the stairs. Bourne saw the flash of a handgun.
Being in the presence of her half sister unnerved Anunciata. Maricruz intimidated her, both by her elite pedigree and by her hauteur, which chilled Anunciata to the bone. The sole saving grace was the child. Angél’s presence was like a ray of bright light in the apartment. Everything she touched seemed to glow, as if the child were able to bring out the inner warmth of polished wood, spun silk, and thrown ceramic.
“You have a beautiful home,” Maricruz said as she strolled slowly around the living room.
“I don’t know about that,” Anunciata said. “It’s rather poor.”
“Poor?” Maricruz turned to her. “No, no. It feels comfortable, lived in. There are roots here.”
The comment struck Anunciata as curious, since she herself had been lamenting the lack of roots, a place she could come home to. She glanced at Angél. Maybe it wasn’t the things in the apartment that lacked the feeling she was looking for, because now that the child was here she could see that Maricruz was right. This was home.
From a shelf, she took down a wood carving of a coyote she had purchased in New Laredo, its head raised as if howling at the moon. Bringing it over to Angél, she crouched down, holding it out to her.
“You know, this coyote has been waiting a long time for a name,” she said. “Do you think you could give it one?”
The girl took the carving.
“Is the coyote a boy or a girl?” Anunciata asked.
With a serious expression, Angél turned the coyote around between her hands.
“A boy,” she said. “His name is Javvy.”
Maricruz looked at her for a moment, the ghost of a smile on her lips.
“Now that you’ve named him,” Anunciata said, “I think he wants to stay with you.”
The child hugged the coyote to her breast.
“Who is this beautiful woman?” Maricruz said.
Anunciata looked across the room to see her half sister holding a photo in a Oaxacan silver frame.
“Is she your mother?”
Anunciata stood up. All at once her heart was in her throat. It beat like a trip-hammer. “Yes, she is.”
“You’re a lucky woman.” Maricruz put the photo back on the shelf almost reverently. “To know your mother.” She seemed to say this last to herself, rather than to anyone else in the room. “You said she was murdered?”
“Poisoned.”
“Really? Who would want to do that to this beauty?”
“Shall I make tea?” Anunciata asked.
“Angél doesn’t like tea.” Maricruz turned, she had continued to stare at the woman in the photo. “You look just like her—your mother.”
“Thank you. She was a special woman—”
“But I suppose everyone tells you that.”
“—inside as well as out.”
Maricruz produced a smile that almost cracked her face. “Angél prefers coffee. And she likes it black, don’t you, guapa?”
The child, sitting on the sofa, legs straight out in front of her, hands clasped around Javvy the coyote, nodded. “With sugar.”
Maricruz laughed. “Yes. Lots of sugar.”
She followed Anunciata into the kitchen, watching her from the open doorway as she measured out the coffee and set a pot of water to boil.
“So many photos of your mother,” she said. “But not one of your father.”
Anunciata’s heart began to beat so hard it hurt. “My parents divorced when I was young. My father abandoned us.” Her hand was shaking so hard the cup rattled against its saucer before she had a chance to set them down.
“You don’t see him?”
“It was a long time ago.” Anunciata poured the coffee into the filter. “For all I know he’s dead.”
Maricruz continued her study of Anunciata’s back. “And you have no brothers—no sisters?”
Anunciata shook her head, not trusting herself to speak. She felt like she had let an enemy into her home, a venomous serpent who, loyal to their father, could destroy her if she found out who she really was. Why had Bourne done this to her? But she knew. It was the child. A child she longed for. He should have brought her himself. But again, she thought she understood why this was impossible. Maricruz—and Angél herself—might not have allowed it.
Finished making the coffee, she poured it into the cup. “Do you want to add the sugar?”
“Four teaspoons.” Maricruz came toward her. “You’d better get used to doing it.”
“Four isn’t healthy,” Anunciata said. “We’ll settle on two.”
“That’s the spirit!” Maricruz said softly.
Her voice was so close that Anunciata turned. Maricruz was a breath away, her eyes locked on Anunciata.
“Can you be trusted, I wonder?”
“There’s no real way for you to know, is there?”
“To tell the truth, I mean.”
At that moment, the distinctive crackle of gunfire sounded from outside.
Bourne, holding his ground on the second-floor landing, heard the detective whispering into an earbud connected to what must be a wireless network that linked him to his partners. He retreated into the shadows of the door frame just to the left of the staircase.
He held his breath, watched as the detective, 9 mm drawn and ready to fire, eased up the last few stairs to the landing. Because it curved around to the right it was natural for him to look that way first. When he did, Bourne stepped out, slashed the edge of his hand down on the detective’s gun hand. When the 9 mm hit the tiles, it went off, the percussion unnaturally loud in the confined space. The bullet ricocheted and the detective flinched, his body all but doubled over.
Driving a knee into his chin, Bourne lifted him by his collar and struck him hard on the side of his neck. The detective’s eyes rolled up as he plunged into unconsciousness. Stripping off his ankle-length overcoat, Bourne put it on, dropped his own jacket on top of the body, which he dragged out of sight of anyone coming up or down the stairs. He relieved the detective of his badge, earbud, and ID case. Just then one of the apartment doors cracked open. He held up the badge and said, “Official business, señora.” He worked the electronic device into his ear. “Please step back into your apartment and keep your door locked until our inquiry is finished.” The door slammed shut, and he heard the locks being thrown.
At that moment the front door opened and the second detective stepped into the vestibule.
“Hernan?” he called. “Did I hear a shot fired?”
“Up here,” Bourne said into the wireless network. “I have subdued our target.”
“Our orders are to kill on sight.” Hernan’s partner took the stairs two at a time. “What the fuck are you waiting for?”
“This.”
&
nbsp; Bourne strode into him as he reached the landing, kicking him hard down the stairs. The kid who had been playing at the bottom was no longer there, Bourne was gratified to see. He followed the tumbling body, stepping over it as he picked his way across the vestibule and went out the front door. When he was halfway down the block, he raised the two uniforms on the wireless network, called for help, and gave them an address five blocks away.
Then he headed straight for Anunciata’s building.
36
Angél!”
Maricruz ran into the living room, bathroom, bedroom, then, returning to the living room, turned to Anunciata. “Where is she? She’s gone!”
Anunciata stopped her as she headed for the front door. Opening the wooden jalousies, she stepped out onto the long, narrow balcony with its curling wrought-iron railing.
Maricruz, a step behind her, said, “Angél, what are you doing?”
The girl was at the edge of the balcony, her small fingers entwined with the railing as she stood on tiptoe, scanning the street below.
“Get back inside!” Maricruz cried. “It’s not safe out here.”
Anunciata held her back as she lunged toward the girl.
“She’s taking care of herself,” Anunciata whispered, “in her own way.”
“What d’you mean?”
As if Maricruz were talking to her, Angél said, “He’s coming.”
“Who’s coming?” Maricruz asked.
“Dr. Javvy.”
“That’s not his real name.”
“It is to me,” Angél said without turning around.
“Out of the mouth of babes.” Anunciata looked at Maricruz. “He is who he is.”
“No matter what name he uses?”
“You know the answer to that.”
Following the sound of gunfire, the neighborhood had become preternaturally silent. Even the street was devoid of vehicular traffic.
“He’s here,” the girl said, at last turning away from her vigil of Caballo Calco. She rushed inside, slipping between the two women.
Maricruz stood stock-still. “I’ll be leaving with him.”
Anunciata nodded. “I know.”
“Angél likes you.”
“The feeling is mutual.”
Maricruz nodded. As Anunciata stepped toward the apartment’s interior, Maricruz put her hand on her arm.
“It doesn’t matter to me what name you use, either.”
When Anunciata’s eyes opened wide, Maricruz moved her hand to Anunciata’s cheek. “Did you think I wouldn’t recognize his face in yours?” Her smile was tentative, almost shy, if that could be believed of her. “The only difference between us is that I had the means to run far away.”
“Sadly,” Anunciata said so softly that Maricruz had to bend her head closer to hear clearly, “that’s not the only difference.”
Maricruz put her arm around Anunciata’s waist in what could only be described as a sisterly embrace. “What d’you mean?”
Anunciata looked her half sister in the eye, weighing whether or not to answer. In the apartment, they heard Bourne’s voice calling: “Maricruz, we have to go. Now!”
In that heated split-second Anunciata made up her mind. “I never knew he was my father until it was too late, until he coerced me into becoming his lover.” She winced at the shocked expression on Maricruz’s face. “What could I do? My mother’s livelihood hung in the balance. When he discovered that she had finally told me, he had her poisoned.”
Maricruz embraced her half sister. “Oh, Lolita!”
Anunciata gave her a rueful smile. “Now you know why I chose that name.”
Inside the apartment, Bourne and Angél were speaking in low voices, so earnestly that for a moment it stopped the two women in their tracks. Both of them were slightly dazed by the tumble of revelations they had shared. Without quite being aware of it, their fingers were entwined.
Bourne, always aware of everything, noticed and nodded, as if he had expected this outcome all along. And perhaps he had, Anunciata thought with a great outpouring of affection for this man who had now saved her in so many ways.
“It’s time,” Bourne repeated as he rose from his crouched position in front of the girl, “to say good-bye.”
Maricruz detached her hand from Anunciata’s, went across the room and picked Angél up, giving her a good squeeze. She kissed her on both cheeks.
“I’ll miss you,” she said softly.
“I like it here,” the girl said.
Laughing, Maricruz put her gently down.
“That’s good, guapa. That’s very good.” She smiled knowingly. “You take care of Lolita, okay?”
“Okay,” the child said gravely.
“We’ll take care of each other,” Anunciata said, taking the child’s hand in hers.
For a moment something powerful but unspoken passed between the two women. Then Maricruz turned to Bourne, her eyes magnified by tears.
“Let’s go.”
You set this all up,” Maricruz said, though by her tone Bourne could tell it wasn’t an accusation. “You knew what would happen.”
“I knew what could happen,” he said as they crossed the street and went down the block. “Not the same thing.”
A battered, rust-stained green Ford pickup truck with slatted wooden sides looked to fit the bill. It took no time to get the door open and hot-wire the ignition. The truck started up in a belch of greasy smoke.
“Perfect!” he said, putting the vehicle in gear and heading out of the immediate neighborhood.
“I’m talking about the fact that I’m still with you.”
“Where are you going to go on your own?” he said. “Back to Carlos? He’s hip-deep in an international incident and sinking fast.”
“Maybe that’s better than killing him,” she said under her breath.
He shot her a quick look. “Is that what Matamoros had planned for you?”
“It was my idea.” She snorted. “Don’t look so surprised.”
He shook his head. “Why did you come back here? Why did you insert yourself between the cartels and Carlos?”
“For my father.”
“Really? I don’t believe you.”
“Believe what you want. You don’t know a thing about me.”
“I know you hated your father.”
“I didn’t—”
“Otherwise you never would have run away so far, so fast.”
“There might be other reasons.”
“There might be,” he said, taking a turn to avoid a police cruiser, “but they have nothing to do with you.”
She stared out the window at the cityscape passing before her like a film directed by someone she once knew. “Where are we going?”
“To see Matamoros, where else?”
She turned back to him, her eyes narrowed. “What do you want with him?”
Bourne turned down another street, avoiding the heavily trafficked avenues. They passed another row of buildings, other groups of stoop-dwellers, suspicious eyes ignoring them, the old Ford painting them as part of the run-down scenery.
“This is a time,” he said, “when all debts are being repaid, when all obligations will be settled.”
“Retribution,” Maricruz said.
He nodded. “Retribution.”
She was silent for several moments, seemingly sunk in contemplation. “You’re out to wreck my father’s drug business, aren’t you?”
“Your father and his cohorts killed someone close to me.”
Maricruz nodded. “All debts are being repaid.” She stared straight ahead. “That would include my husband.”
He turned the wheel, guiding the truck to the curb, where he stopped, the engine idling. “You can get out now, if you like. Your choice.”
“Whether I leave or not, you’ll still be coming.”
“Nothing will stop me.”
She pulled out the handgun she had been carrying, stuck it to his temple.
“Ma
ricruz, you’re not that crazy.”
She squeezed the trigger.
37
Director Yadin hadn’t meant to spend the night on the boat, but as his father had set in plenty of stores and with darkness coming down, he made no effort to head back to shore. Instead, he and his father reefed the sails, dropped anchor, and set about making dinner. Actually, it was Yadin’s father, Reuben, who prepared the food while his son set the table he pulled up off the cabin bulkhead.
“Wine?” Eli said.
Reuben shook his head. “My gout is acting up again.”
“Old age.”
“Age, period.” Reuben stirred the couscous as he dropped in golden raisins, chopped-up dates, and toasted almond slivers.
The Director sat against the bulkhead, facing his father. “You’ve become melancholy in your retirement.”
“If only you’d let me retire, Eli!”
“Ha, ha! Good one, Pop.”
Reuben glanced up sharply. “You know, Eli, sometimes I worry you’ve become too American.”
Eli reached out, grabbed a handful of almonds. “There’s no such thing.”
“You see? That’s precisely what I’m talking about!” the old man said in mock-horror.
The Director sighed deeply. “Abi, I fear I have set in motion an apocalyptic confrontation.”
“Try harder not to understate the case, Eli.”
The Director laughed without a trace of humor. “Ophir is going after Bourne.”
“Can you blame him after the way Bourne humiliated him in Damascus?”
“Amir needed to be humiliated. His secret mission was to keep General Wadi Khalid alive. Khalid, whom Minister Ouyang had taught to administer the most heinous torture techniques; Khalid, whom Amir and I were sent into Damascus to terminate. We didn’t, due to Amir’s treachery, but Bourne was also in Damascus, and it was he who killed Khalid.”
Reuben began to fry up some merguez sausage. “Ancient history.”
“Not for men with long memories and an exaggerated sense of outrage. I speak now of our friends, Ouyang, and Amir Ophir, Ouyang’s mole inside our family.”