The Bourne Retribution (Jason Bourne 11)

The man cried out, blood bloomed like a field of poppies, and soundless footsteps came running.

Juan Ruiz had just worked out that something was wrong. Then Bourne was on him. He reacted by reversing his bloodless gravity knife and stabbing backward with it. He almost caught Bourne—the blade pierced his jacket, but not his flesh. Bourne delivered a vicious blow to Juan Ruiz’s kidney, which would have felled anyone else. Juan Ruiz was unfazed. He withdrew the knife and slashed backward a second time.

Bourne was prepared. He twisted Juan Ruiz’s forefinger at the apex of the strike, when his hand was farthest from his body. Jamming it backward, he broke the finger, then the one next to it.

Ignoring the pain, Juan Ruiz turned and delivered a massive blow to Bourne’s shoulder, almost spinning him completely around. Juan Ruiz, a street fighter by nature, grinned as he smashed his fist into Bourne’s side. Bourne staggered, the breath fairly knocked out of him. He felt like he broke his hand on the next blow to Juan Ruiz’s ribs. A sharp stab of pain shot through his wrist, all the way to his shoulder.

Juan Ruiz clamped a hand as large as a meat hook onto Bourne’s throbbing shoulder and squeezed so hard the bones beneath his fingers ground together. Blackness formed around the edges of Bourne’s vision, the center of which was ablaze with showers of sparks, each one accompanied by pinpricks of electric agony.

Determined to crush Bourne’s shoulder, Juan Ruiz became convinced he was on the verge of victory. He was unconcerned when Bourne twisted, assuming he was continuing to writhe in pain. He never saw the blow that felled him: a hand-edge kite to the place on his neck protecting the carotid artery.

Bourne caught him before he could fall to the ground. Diego de la Luna stared from Bourne to Maricruz, his mouth half open in shock.

“How,” he stammered. “How?”

“Show him,” Bourne said.

Maricruz opened her coat, revealing one of the Kevlar vests Bourne had gotten from the armorer.

“You were going to fuck me over, Diego.” She stepped up to him. “Now I’m going to have to hurt you.”

She took her right hand out of her pocket. A small blade in the shape of a beech leaf protruded from between her forefinger and her middle finger—a gleaming push-dagger that Bourne had also requested.

De la Luna, staring fixedly at the blade approaching his nether regions, swallowed convulsively.

“There’s only one punishment for a traitor,” Maricruz said in a soft tonal burr.

“Wait, Maricruz. Think of where we are,” Bourne said, still holding Juan Ruiz’s bulk.

“I don’t care.” Maricruz grabbed hold of de la Luna. “This fucker deserves a radically altered life.”

“She has a point there, Diego.”

“She’s crazy. Do something,” de la Luna implored.

“Sorry,” Bourne said, continuing their play-acting. “At the moment, my hands are full.”

“There must be something—”

“Give me Matamoros.”

De la Luna was clearly terrified. “What?”

“You give me Matamoros and I’ll see what I can do about changing Maricruz’s mind.”

“Fuck that.” Maricruz pressed the point of the push-dagger against de la Luna’s trousers.

“Oh, Jesus God,” he breathed. “I’ll do whatever you want.”

“I don’t care now,” Maricruz said.

De la Luna looked as if he was about to vomit.

“Maricruz,” Bourne said soothingly. “Keep your eye on the prize. We came for Matamoros.”

“This cocksucker already lied to us once, what’s to stop him from lying again?”

“She’s got a point, Diego. I guess there’s no recourse. She’s going to carve out a part of you—”

“Stop!” De la Luna was trembling like a newborn lamb. “I’ll do whatever you want. I swear it.”

“He swears it, Maricruz,” Bourne said. “Can you accept that?”

Maricruz moved the tip of the blade so that it pierced the fabric. “He’s full of shit.”

“Please!” De la Luna looked ready to jump out of his skin. “Just tell me what you want me to do and I’ll do it.”

Bourne waited a moment. “Let him use his mobile, Maricruz.”

“Really?”

He nodded. “But keep the push-dagger where it is.”

De la Luna closed his eyes, licked his dry lips. His hand was shaking when he took the phone out.

“Call Matamoros,” Bourne said. “Tell him you and Juan Ruiz have Maricruz.”

“And?”

“Come on,” Bourne said. “You know he’s going to want to get the hell out of Mexico City the moment he has her. Tell him you’ll meet him at the airfield where his plane is located.”

De la Luna nodded. “Anything else?”

“If you tell him anything else,” Maricruz said, “you’ll be singing a permanent high C.”

In the moments before his mobile rang, Felipe Matamoros was contemplating completely wrecking the hotel room. He had to do something; the waiting was driving him out of his mind. He had started drinking—the bottle of mescal he had ordered from room service was already nearly empty, but such was his distress he scarcely felt the effects of the alcohol.

Then his mobile buzzed, he saw it was de la Luna, and he accepted the call.

“This had better be good news.”

“It is, jefe. Juan Ruiz and I have found the Encarnación bitch.”

“You have her?”

“We do, jefe. Tied up as neatly as a Christmas present.”

A wave of relief washed over Matamoros so profound he nearly staggered. “Excellent work, Diego. Bring her to the airfield. I can’t bear another moment in this accursed city.”

Before leaving, he took the bottle of mescal, unzipped his trousers, and urinated into it. He had drunk a lot, so the stream went on and on, steaming like that of a racehorse. When he was finished, he zipped up, screwed the top back on the bottle, and replaced it in the bar.

Then he went out of the room, and never looked back.

46

The police were called, but due to Minister Ouyang’s exalted position, what inquiry had been anticipated quickly dissolved, much to the disgust of the Kunlun Mountain Fist elders. Theirs was not a world normally constrained by the necessities of political corruption, and while they were not unaware of Ouyang’s place in the Middle Kingdom they never for a moment believed it would impact them.

Now that it had, they were in something of an uproar. Blood spilled in anger within the precincts of their martial arts monastery was unthinkable. There was even some thought of burning down the entire complex and moving elsewhere. Fortunately, cooler heads prevailed, but the knowledge that they were not immune from the evils of the real world forever changed their view of both their art and the candidates who came seeking to share their knowledge.

Shen, the head wushun master, was designated as the one to represent the complex in confronting the murderer before he left the training ground where the crime had been committed.

“Ouyang,” he said, addressing the Minister in deliberately demeaning fashion, “please do not take off your gi. The bloodstains are your responsibility. You must wear it out of the complex.”

“I understand, Master Shen.”

“I don’t believe you do. What you have done here today is unforgivable.”

“It was a tragic error. I was not in my right-mind.”

“Tragic it was, Ouyang, but we cannot countenance it as an error. The taking of a human life is never an error.”

“But isn’t that what we’re training for?”

Shen looked at Ouyang as if he had never seen him before. “Our training is a pathway to another plane of existence, a higher plane, where—”

“That’s just plain bullshit.” Ouyang was fed up with these people. “You preach a higher plane of existence while teaching your students how to make war. You have taught me how to make war, Master Shen. You have done a

n admirable job, and I’m grateful. But now it is time for me to leave this isolated hothouse, to apply what you have taught me to the real world.”

Felipe Matamoros used a carousel of private airstrips on the outskirts of Mexico City to fly in and out of the Distrito Federal. His plane was fueled and waiting for him on the northwest outskirts of the city, where buildings were still few and low.

He arrived with six of his hardened gunmen, nerves still stretched taut as a drawn bow. The mescal was finally starting to kick in, making the world look brighter and slightly surreal, like a candyland of sorts.

The brutish men stood guard, assault rifles at the ready, while he entered the plane and spoke to the pilot, giving him their destination and the route least likely to be observed by radar. In any case, the pilot always flew low enough to keep out of range of the normal elevations regularly monitored by the police.

He turned to the window when he heard several bursts of machine-gun fire, but could not see who his men were firing at. Pulling an assault rifle off the rack on the cockpit wall, he stepped into the cabin. In a half crouch, he was heading toward the door when the entire tail section of the plane exploded into a fireball inferno.

Matamoros, hurled onto his back, was fortunate to be lying in the aisle as pieces of the fuselage and tail flew by over his head. As soon as he was able, he scrambled to his feet. Incredibly, the forward door and gangway were still intact. Hurling himself out of the plane, he scrambled down the gangway.

Four of his six men were dead, caught in the conflagration. The other two, seeing him, clustered around him, facing outward. He saw Jason Bourne emerging from behind a stucco building and cursed under his breath. Bourne was holding something at waist level.

Matamoros started to fire and his men followed suit. Then something inexplicable happened. A jet of superheated flame shot out toward him. His men screamed as their clothes caught fire. The stench of burning flesh was enough to make anyone gag, but Matamoros ignored it.

Stepping between his two writhing, shrieking men, he kept his assault rifle aimed at the hated figure behind the horizontal column of flame, squeezing the trigger, the bullets spewing out at a horrific rate. “I’ll kill you!” he shouted. “I’ll kill you!” But the thick tongue of fire kept advancing, and he left it a moment too late.

The flames reached him, covered him, and began to devour him with an unnatural greed. He tried to scream, but the fire rushed down his throat. Everything turned bright purple. Then something popped inside his head, and all was fire, smoke, and the char of scorched bone.

Book Four

47

You look so pale, Eli. I can see the toll this is taking on you.”

The Director shook his head. “It’s devastating.”

Reuben Yadin nodded. “It’s one secret I fervently wish didn’t exist.”

“I know, abi. The ordeal has been so difficult. But I can’t think of myself.”

Reuben studied his son’s face as they exited the Tel Aviv Sourasky Medical Center. Weizmann Street was still burdened with traffic and bustling people, even at this hour of the evening.

He glanced around. “You’re certain no one followed you?”

“I took the usual precautions, but even if someone did, there’s no way they can suspect.”

They snaked their way through the crowds on their way home from a long day. Here and there, army personnel could be seen, strategically placed, looking at nothing and everything.

Eli’s hands were jammed in the pockets of his coat. “Let’s talk about something else.”

“Shall we talk about the plan, then?”

“There’s nothing to talk about. Every piece is in motion.”

“But the plan is as fragile as a thin sheet of glass,” the old man said.

“At least no one but us can see through the glass.”

“This isn’t a time for jokes, Eli,” his father admonished.

“I disagree. This is precisely the time for jokes, abi. A little levity allows you to take a step back, imagine the plan from different angles, look for any flaw—no matter how tiny.”

“And what have you found?”

“If there’s a flaw, I can’t see it,” the Director said. “If there’s a flaw, there’s nothing I can do about it.”

“You can recall Bourne.”

“You try recalling Bourne,” Eli said. “The mountain won’t move; the mountain won’t even acknowledge your existence. But you see, abi, this stubbornness and this absolute will to move forward are two of the things that elevate him above all others in his trade.”

“Eli, I worry you’re putting too much faith in this one man—a man who’s proven himself to be the enemy of organization and tradecraft rules.”

“And yet he has his own tradecraft rules.”

“The trouble is he invents them as he goes along. He takes too many chances.”

“Ah, but, abi, this is where Bourne is most misunderstood. Where his former bosses fear him because they can’t control him, I know I can’t control him. I seek only to guide.”

“He’s damaged, Eli.”

“Well, yes. That’s irrefutable. But the prevailing wisdom—if you want to call it that—is the damage he has suffered has made him dangerous and unreliable. I see his damage in another light—it has made him harder, faster, wiser.” The Director looked across the street into a darkened shop window filled with mannequins—sleek and smooth and anonymous—awaiting a new shipment of clothes. “He’s also sad, abi. Very sad.”

“Aren’t we all.” Reuben pulled at his ear. “I don’t know about you but I need a drink—maybe two.”

“What about your gout?”

“Fuck my gout,” the old man said as they headed diagonally across the street toward a restaurant. “Fuck everyfuckingthing.”

When they were settled at a table with a clear view of the front windows, Reuben said, “Dani Amit?”

“He’s in the Sinai,” Eli said. “Happily soaking up useless intel for our American friends.”

“Good, then we have a clear field interrogating the Chinese nationals Bourne brought back with him.”

Reuben accepted the slivovitz from the waiter, downed half of the fiery liquid in one gulp, then set the small glass down. He watched his son sipping at his Yarden, a wine grown on the Golan and Naphtali Ridge, where the winter weather helped the grapes ripen fully.

“When did you start drinking wine?” the old man said gruffly.

“When you weren’t looking. I’m not old school like you, Pop.”

“What did I tell you about calling me ‘Pop’?” When his son didn’t respond, he tipped his head back, let the rest of the slivovitz slide down his throat, then called for another. After the waiter refilled his glass, he said, “Do you think you’ll get anything useful out of the Chinese?”

“Bourne said it was simply a matter of how we got the intelligence out of them, not if.”

Reuben made a face. “Treat them like lost children, you mean.”

“There’s a time to intimidate, a time to spill blood, and a time for compassion.”

Reuben leaned forward, his elbows on the table. “These people are our enemy, Eli.”

“Because they’re Chinese?”

“That’s right.” The old man nodded. “Have you thought about the possibility of them being moles?”

“I’ve thought about that and many other scenarios,” Director Yadin said. “I’ve rejected them all. The girl has admitted working for Cho Xilan; the man has worked both sides of the street. They’re done, abi. They want out, and they’re willing to sing for their exit.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“Well then—” The Director threw some bills on the table. “—why don’t you accompany me when I interrogate them?”

Yue and Sam Zhang were playing mah-jongg when the Director and his father entered the safe house, on a backwater street in a blue-?collar residential neighborhood of Tel Aviv.

“Whateve

r that is,” Zhang said, looking up from the tiles, “it smells good.”

Eli set down the two shopping bags of take-out food he had purchased on the way, walked over to the table, and sat down between the two.

“Who’s this?” Zhang said, using his thumb to indicate Reuben.

“I have questions,” the Director said.

Zhang pursed his lips. “And I have answers—for Jason Bourne, not you.”

“Bourne isn’t here.” Eli laid his hands flat on the table. “I will have to do.”

Zhang sat back, arms crossed defensively over his chest.

Turning to Yue, the Director said, “This attitude isn’t helpful for anyone—especially the two of you.”

Yue eyed him for a moment, then said, “Who’s the old guy?”

“My father.”

Zhang guffawed. “You need your father to hold your hand?”

“He was the Director of Mossad before me. He taught me everything I know.”

Zhang turned away, but Yue seemed to be considering. “Ask your first question,” she said.

“Little sister!” Zhang looked scandalized.

She held up a hand to forestall his protest. “I want to hear it, Sam.”

The Director opened a thick folder he had before him, ran his forefinger down the first page. “Who killed Wei-Wei?”

“A man posing as a police officer,” Yue said without hesitation. “He knew that Wei-Wei had been ordered to meet Bourne at a certain tea shop at a certain time. He killed Wei-Wei, then sent a boy with a note to lure Bourne to Wei-Wei’s apartment.”

“What happened?”

“I killed the fake cop, Bourne witnessed it and took off after me. He caught me and, well, you know…”

Frowning in concentration, Eli flipped over a number of pages. “This man who killed Wei-Wei”—he glanced up at Zhang—“who did he work for?”

Zhang glanced over at Yue, who nodded at him ever so slightly.