The Bourne Retribution (Jason Bourne 11)

Deng tilted his head back as if he could see the stars of a velvety night sky, and closed his eyes. “It will cement my legacy for the next decade.”

“It will clamp down on your restless populace, which has become decadent and a nuisance due to the Western plague of social media.”

“A week after the new general secretary is anointed, he will announce reforms that will resonate with the populace—cutting down on meetings, the length of those meetings, feasts, flower arrangements, expensive cars and homes, frivolous or showy spending—but for us will mean nothing. Nothing substantive will change.”

“Except cementing the link between China and elements within Russia that has for decades been crumbling into disuse,” Pasha said.

Deng Tsu thought briefly of Jason Bourne, but knew that even if Ouyang’s fixation on the rogue agent had a basis in fact, if against all logic Bourne were to somehow infiltrate the compound, Kai would put an end to him once and for all.

53

Protected by tiers of diplomatic protocol, Bourne accompanied Ambassador Liu through the massive gates of the Party compound, entering the movable inner sanctum of the modern-day Middle Kingdom. The sight of the opulent villas set on cliffs overlooking Beidaihe’s beaches and the Bohai Sea was so transporting it seemed to exist in some other, less politically oppressive country.

The streets between villas were alive with soldiers, both on foot and in jeeps, some with dogs, others with machine pistols, but despite the manpower and armament there was no discernible tension, which seemed to have been left behind in Beijing.

Ambassador Liu had been assigned a relatively modest villa only steps away, the ambassador informed Bourne with ill-concealed pride, from the far larger one housing Minister Ouyang and his staff.

Bourne carried the ambassador’s luggage up the steps and into the villa.

“I won’t be needing you from now on,” Liu informed him in his typical officious manner.

“I am meant to guard you, Ambassador.”

“I have my own security in place here. Return to the plane, which is your transport. I, myself, will be going on to Beijing after the Congress to meet with the new leaders and map out any changes in foreign policy before I return to Mexico City.”

Dismissed, Bourne was freed from any duties associated with the ambassador, and he immediately exited the villa to begin work on his own agenda, which was focused solely on Ouyang Jidan.

Sit down,” Minister Ouyang said. “Make yourself comfortable while I brew the tea. I have some beautiful Long Jing I brought with me.”

Cho Xilan stood in the living area of the villa assigned to Ouyang, watching Ouyang’s back as he prepared the tea at a sideboard. The space was studded with six thick columns of highly polished cedar, each one containing carvings of two animals of the Chinese zodiac. Low divans, tables, and chairs were placed in precise places and at precise angles in accordance with the feng shui master who had been in charge of situating the villas and aligning the furnishings in their interior.

“The Dragon Well would be much appreciated,” Cho said in an uncertain voice.

Noting his tone, Ouyang turned and, smiling, said, “There’s no point to us being formal with each other, Xilan.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know how else to act.”

Ouyang nodded knowingly. “That comes from being at each other’s throats for too long.”

“It comes from wanting different paths for the future of China.”

Again his tone, now steely, gave Ouyang pause. “The Patriarch has given us a directive. Now neither of our envisioned paths for China is relevant. Together we must forge a third path, a middle ground, and we must accomplish this before the Congress opens tomorrow morning.”

Cho Xilan pursed his lips. Even, as now, when in Western attire, he seemed to be dressed in traditional Chinese robes. “Do you find this a realistic goal?”

“Anything is possible,” Ouyang said, “between us.”

“Then let me be frank, Minister Ouyang. I doubt that we can.”

“We certainly can’t, Xilan, if we don’t try.”

Ouyang turned back and, careful as a handler of mercury, poured the polonium into one of the two cups he had laid out on the sideboard. Just a couple of drops, the courier had said, but Ouyang had other ideas. The polonium dribbled out like liquor.

“If we don’t try, Xilan, what will we tell the Patriarch tonight at the banquet?”

The water, just under boiling, was at the right temperature. Ouyang poured it into the teapot into which he had spooned the Dragon Well tea leaves. Now to let it brew for three minutes, no more, no less. Maricruz used to brew his tea. It never ceased to amaze him how a Westerner had learned to brew each kind of tea separately. It was as if she were born with the understanding. This talent, among many others, he missed with a terrifying fire that branded itself across his mind’s eye. Never to hold her again, never to feel her lips searching his body for all the secret places she knew gave him pleasure. Never to hear her salacious whispers in his ear as she lifted her dress around her sleek, powerful thighs to straddle him. Never to plunge into her secret grotto, never to feel the exquisite ecstasy only she could bring him. As if of their own volition, his fingers curled into fists. How he despised everyone around him, none more than this piece of shit polluting the very air he breathed!

“I’ll inform the Patriarch that we tried and failed.”

“You propose we lie to Deng Tsu?”

Cho barked an unpleasant laugh. “As if you’ve never done that before.”

Ouyang turned back to him. “You’re making this exceedingly difficult.”

“Minister, I am making it as difficult as it needs to be.” He spread his hands. “On the matter of China’s future, I simply refuse to compromise.”

Ouyang frowned. “Do you understand the gravity of your position, the gravity of the cracks in the system? Do you want to be plowed under?”

“By whom? The masses? Don’t be absurd.”

“They wield power now.”

“That so-called power is an illusion.”

“Ah.” Ouyang brightened. “Then this discussion is about self-interest.”

“Feel better now that we’re on your home turf, Minister?”

Ouyang grasped for a semblance of tranquillity, but Maricruz was gone—lost to him on the other side of the world. He felt like an entrained oxen suddenly woken up to the misery of his imprisoned life. His position was intolerable.

“Time for tea,” he said in as steady a voice as he could manage.

He poured the Dragon Well into the two cups, careful not to spill a drop. Then he brought them over to Cho Xilan. He held out the one laced with the polonium, and his implacable adversary took it.

Ouyang raised his cup. “To self-interest.”

“To stability for the Middle Kingdom.”

He watched over the lip of his cup as Cho sipped the poisoned tea. A tiny circle of calmness, if not serenity, in the maelstrom of his emotions lapped at him at the thought of the horrible death awaiting his rival.

“Can we at least sit down and be civil to each other,” he said, “if nothing else?”

“I prefer to remain standing,” Cho Xilan said, reflecting his inflexible stance, “but by all means sit if you’re weary.”

Ouyang then experienced a moment when he imagined himself leaping at Cho, digging his thumbs into his eyes until they turned to jelly. How satisfying that would be! How utterly delicious! Then the crest of the rage passed, leaving him certain that sticking to his plan was the best course of action.

“The only thing I’m weary of, Xilan, is your intransigence.”

“Intransigence is the only way to turn one’s beliefs into reality. No matter the people left in its wake, the sword must be wielded.”

“And this sword of yours will be wielded—”

“Tomorrow at the start of the Congress.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because

it pleases me. Because those who wish to destabilize China through change will be not only defeated but annihilated. Because you can’t stop it,” Cho said. “The train has already left the station.”

Something in his tone made the hairs at the back of Ouyang’s neck stir, but he showed none of his uneasiness. “Well, here’s to ambition.” He tipped his cup. “Let us finish our tea and go our separate ways.”

Cho nodded, drained his cup, and set it down. “The next time we see each other my victory will be complete.”

By the time Bourne saw Cho Xilan exit Ouyang’s villa he was dressed in the uniform of the patrolling guard he had overpowered. Creeping up behind him, he had jammed the crook of his right arm against the guard’s throat, thus preventing him from uttering a sound. A moment later, the guard was unconscious. Bourne had dragged his body into a clump of evergreen bushes, stripped him of not only his uniform, but his weapons and his identification.

He then crossed the road to Ouyang’s villa. Outside two guards stood, automatic weapons slung across their chests. Bourne trotted up the steps and, as they closed ranks in front of him, drew out a slip of paper.

“Message from Deng Tsu,” he said in idiomatic Mandarin, “for Minister Ouyang.”

“I’ll take it,” the guard on the left said, holding out his hand.

Bourne shook his head. “My orders are to deliver it to Minister Ouyang in person.”

“Have you met the Minister?” the left-hand guard said. “Do you know what he looks like?”

“I do.”

“We wouldn’t want you to deliver your message to the wrong individual.”

“I told you—”

A pinprick on the side of his neck caused Bourne to turn. It was a slow-motion turn, taking all his effort. He stared into a face unknown to him. He opened his mouth, but his blood seemed to have congealed into ice. He tried to gesture, but this seemed to overbalance him, and he fell into a sunless void.

54

A jade dragon, translucent green, pale as shallow water, stared at him with a baleful eye that seemed nevertheless curious. It was curious as to where he was and what he would do next. The dragon spoke to him, but its voice never seemed to penetrate the fog swirling around him. It was the mist of dreams that had followed him out of unconsciousness into this place of talking dragons and Ming vases shot with blue chrysanthemums and more dragons, ethereally floating between clouds that looked like sticky buns. He could smell incense, but it couldn’t quite mask the stench of alcohol and medication. His head hung on his chest and he half coughed, half gagged.

“He’s awake, Minister,” someone above him said.

“Leave us.” Even through the fog, he recognized Ouyang Jidan’s voice.

“But, Minister—”

“I said leave us!”

The military tramp of booted feet over the floor, then the sounds of a door opening and closing.

Apart from the call of the birds from outside, silence.

Then, abruptly, a hand was placed under his chin, and Bourne found himself looking into the eyes of Ouyang Jidan.

A bitter smile split Ouyang’s face. “I’ve been anticipating this meeting ever since Rebeka died in the back of the taxi you were desperately driving around in Mexico City.” The smile widened. “She bled out, Bourne, while you watched, helpless as a baby. My only regret is that I wasn’t there to see it.”

Bourne’s eyes lost focus for a moment, and Ouyang slapped him hard across the cheek.

“That woman caused me an endless amount of grief. She was always one step ahead of me. How did she do that? Tell me.”

Bourne looked at him. Ouyang seemed to be wavering through a candle flame, going in and out of focus. What did they inject me with? he asked himself. He felt the sluggishness of his pulse, the slow thoughtless beat of his heart, and he began to work on overcoming them. That would require adrenaline and lots of water to flush the drugs from his system. He licked his dry lips.

“Ah, yes, what a poor host I have become.” Ouyang moved away from him toward a sideboard. “I have just the thing to return you to health. The best Dragon Well tea. It’s your good fortune that I already have brewed a pot.”

He returned to Bourne, who now realized he was strapped to a chair, hands tied behind his back. Just in front of him was a low lacquer table on which Ouyang set down the two translucent cups of tea. Ouyang sat to Bourne’s left, hands clasped together like a priest.

“We have a long history, you and I. We’re bound together with the agent named Rebeka. One of you is dead; soon the other will be.” He cocked his head. “The only reason you aren’t dead now is that I want something from you.”

Bourne looked at the tea in its cup. He remembered the polonium. His interior processes were slowly breaking free of the drug’s shackles.

“I want you to tell me about Rebeka. I want to know what I missed. I want to know what made her so dangerous.”

A small smile came to Bourne’s parched lips.

Ouyang frowned. “I find nothing funny in your situation.”

“I think I know something you don’t,” Bourne said. “Especially about Rebeka.”

Ouyang leaned in. “And that’s another thing. I’m interested in why you still call her by her field name. Surely she must have confided her real name.”

Bourne said nothing.

“So as it turns out, we both know something about Rebeka the other does not. Would you agree to an exchange of information?”

“Why should I? Either way, you’re going to kill me.”

“On the other hand, you’ll go to your grave knowing Rebeka’s real identity. I know that must have meaning for you, Bourne. Even a man like you.”

“A man like me?”

“A man without human connection, a man who has risen above day-to-day concerns, a man at home in the shadows at the margins of the world.” He tapped his fingertips together. “Like me.”

Picking up one of the teacups, he held it beneath Bourne’s mouth. “Now a drink of tea, and then the exchange will begin.” The edge of the cup was about to touch Bourne’s lower lip. “What d’you say?”

“You don’t want to know about Rebeka; it’s Maricruz you want to know about—what happened to her, how badly she’s hurt.”

Despite his best effort, a tremor of intent passed through Ouyang, and for the space of a heartbeat his eyes flickered closed. Then he recovered. “She’s dead to me.”

“Just as well,” Bourne said. “She’s dead for real. She got caught in a crossfire between Los Zetas and the Sinaloa.”

Ouyang put down the teacup. “You’re lying.”

“What d’you care? She’s dead to you.”

The two men glared at each other without another word being said.

At length, an evil spark flickered in Ouyang’s eyes. “Well then, we have something else in common. The women we loved are dead.” The corners of his mouth turned up, but there was only a perverted hint of a smile. “Yes, I know you loved Rebeka. That provided me with added incentive to have her killed.” He leaned forward. “My only regret is that I didn’t have the chance to torture her before she died.”

Bourne, who had been calculating the vectors ever since his mind had begun to clear, now closed his eyes, conjuring the dimensions of the room, the table in front of him, the angle of Ouyang’s chair in relation to his.

In the next blink of an eye three things happened simultaneously: Bourne moved his head back, his eyes flew open, and his left leg upended the table, so that the pot, tea, the table itself flipped up and over onto Minister Ouyang.

The edge of the table caught Ouyang on the point of his chin. He toppled over backward and lay unmoving. Unlocking his arms from the chair back, Bourne picked his way into the kitchen. Grabbing a carving knife out of a wooden rack, he reversed it in his right hand, began to methodically saw through the ropes that bound his hands together. The instant they were free, he sprinted back into the living room. Everything was where he had left it, exce

pt Ouyang, who was nowhere to be seen.

Cho Xilan, looking out at the sea, stood on the deck of his villa. At either end of the deck was an armed soldier, the presence of whom made him feel queasy in the pit of his stomach. The soldiers took their orders from Deng Tsu, who had pledged to personally protect both him and Minister Ouyang. Cho, who longed for his vision of the old China, the real Middle Kingdom, chafed at the inexorable march of time. He imagined Deng Tsu wished to engender this very unease in him as a reminder of who held all the cards. But Cho had amassed an unshakable coalition of like-minded Politburo members that, he was certain, even the Patriarch and his coalition of ancients and younger members could not stand against.

Still, he had felt a chill enter his body the moment he had stepped off the special train and been whisked into the compound at Beidaihe. That chill had now entered his bones, and would not be dislodged despite his best efforts. He thought of Wan, his son of seven years. Wan was a great birder. He and Xilan would go birding every other Sunday, starting out before sunrise, light packs on their backs, treading their way through forests, across streams, up hillocks, and into swales thick with marshy undergrowth.

Wan had been most excited when he had learned his father was going to Beidaihe, and had begged him to take him along. Beidaihe was a birder’s paradise, even at this bleak time of year. Shorebirds, terns, and gulls abounded. Inland, he might come across Siberian rubythroats, Siberian blue robins, and others. But he most fervently wished to capture the images of the Chinese grosbeak and the large hawk-cuckoo, photos of which Wan would prize most highly.

That was why Cho had brought a fine digital camera, having promised his son he’d take time out from work to digitally capture as many birds as he could. Even though he was tired, even though it was late in the afternoon, he determined to make good on that promise. To him, his promise to Wan was no less important than the promise he’d made himself to be the guardian of the Middle Kingdom’s new path going forward. If no one else would speak for the people of China, it would be him. He wasn’t afraid of standing up and speaking within the Congress’s conclave. He had the votes, he had the backing. He had made himself invulnerable to Deng Tsu’s disgustingly cynical machinations that would inevitably lead to the demise of the Middle Kingdom. He wanted a stable future for Wan and Wan’s children still to come.