The Bourne Retribution

  “The same man who owned Wei-Wei,” Zhang said. “Ouyang Jidan.”

  “You’re saying Wei-Wei was working for Ouyang at the same time he was working for us.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Then why did Ouyang have his own asset murdered?”

  “He’d become a liability,” Zhang said with a sigh. “Cho had men nosing around Shanghai. Given the chance, he could have used Wei-Wei’s contact with the Mossad against Ouyang.”

  “With any luck,” the Director said, “Ouyang and Cho will eat each other alive.”

  “Not much chance of that.”

  This from Yue, small, wounded creature that she was. Even had he not been briefed by Bourne, Eli would have quickly cottoned on to the young woman’s innate intelligence. Combine this with her street smarts and obvious expertise in tradecraft, and he knew he was looking at someone who could easily become a top-notch field agent, should she choose to, which, by her own admission, was highly unlikely. But then in this business you learned never to take anything for granted—especially human motivations, which were often as changeable as the weather.

  “Explain,” he said now.

  “There are too many factions involved, too many powerful people—more powerful than either Ouyang or Cho—for that to happen. Though they hate each other, and profess to want to destroy each other, that will never happen. Each man has too much power aligned with him. It’s a matter of checks and balances. Besides, with the Party Congress days away, the Politburo would never allow that level of dissension—these days it would inevitably be picked up by the social media, then spread to the press, even against the Politburo’s wishes. The Party could hardly recover from such a loss of face.”

  Eli considered this for some time. “Tell me, Yue, how would you disrupt the Party Congress?”

  “We’re kinda hungry.”

  She tapped her fingertips together while Eli signaled for two of their guards to bring the bags to the table and take out the food—vegetables, couscous, stewed chicken, and pots of freshly brewed tea.

  They sat in silence while the food was doled out and Yue and Zhang began to eat. After a while, Eli said, “Please answer my question.”

  “I don’t know if I can.” Yue laid aside the chopsticks they had brought along with the food. She rinsed her mouth out with a swig of tea. “What I mean is, I don’t know if it’s possible. I mean, first you’d have to have someone who could get past all the safeguards put in place around the area, then he’d have to somehow infiltrate the venue itself.” She shook her head. “It’s flat-out impossible.”

  “You see,” Reuben said softly in his son’s ear, “I told you.”

  Christ Jesus,” Maricruz breathed as she surveyed the battle site. “Now I know why you needed the services of that armorer.”

  Picking her way across the field strewn with blackened bodies, twisted shards of metal, and half-melted blobs of plastic, she came at length to the crisped corpse of Felipe Matamoros, left in its final grotesque pose, clawed hands raised in front of him, as if to ward off the inevitable; clothes and skin incinerated by the flames; bones protruding rudely from the blackened muscle. The fat had burned away first, leaving a nauseating stench, horribly like that of a large-scale barbecue. His nose and eyeballs had been burned away, leaving only the deep hollows seen in horror films featuring zombies. But for all that, it was clearly Matamoros, clearly the man who would be king, the man who had been reduced to the aftermath of a fire.

  At length, Bourne took her elbow and gently led her away from the carnage. “This chapter of your life is over, Maricruz,” he said. “Time to concentrate on the future.”

  “There’s still Jidan to think of. I’d better call him.”

  Bourne handed Maricruz his mobile. “What will you tell him?”

  “I have no idea.” She punched in the number. “One thing’s for sure, he’s going to want me back right away.”

  “Do you think that’s wise?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know, but there’s a life there. I can’t just jettison it.” Finished dialing, she listened for him to pick up. After a moment, she frowned. “His mobile number has been disconnected. Maybe I misdialed.” But when she punched in the number again and got the same result, she dialed the number of the Chinese embassy in Mexico City.

  “I’d like to speak to Ambassador Liu, please…I don’t care if he’s in a meeting, tell him it’s Maricruz Ouyang…yes, I’ll hold.” She closed her eyes for a moment. “Yes, I’m still here…what?…did you tell him—? Minister Ouyang Jidan’s wife…what?…All right, yes, I…”

  She took the phone from her ear; she looked stunned.

  “What’s happened?” Bourne said.

  “Apparently I’ve become persona non grata in China,” she said in a voice that seemed to come from her chest. “I’ve been exiled.” She turned to him. “Jidan loved me; he wouldn’t do this to me. He couldn’t.”

  He said nothing, knowing she was working the situation through herself.

  “He must be under orders, some form of extreme duress.”

  She looked to Bourne, but he deliberately kept his expression neutral.

  “You don’t believe that, do you?” She put her head back, stared at the blackened sky. “Christ, the bastard. He didn’t even have the guts to tell me himself.”

  “His attention is elsewhere.”

  She was shaking. “The Party Congress. That’s all that’s on his mind now.”

  “It’s his future—his everything. Without maintaining his membership in the Politburo, he’s finished in China, a nobody. His name will be expunged from every document he ever signed, every law he put forward. His power will evaporate as if it had never existed.”

  “Gone,” she said. “Like I am now. From visible to invisible with the snap of two fingers.”

  “His use for you is over, Maricruz.”

  “But he loved me!” she cried to the stars gathering overhead.

  Bourne led her out of the field, into the woods, where they would be safe for the time being.

  She put her head down. “Now I see no one ever loved me.”

  “Why would you discount the people here, Maricruz? Angél, Lolita, Constanza. Their love is real; you can’t buy it, which is what you’ve been trying to do ever since you left home. You have family now—a family that cares about you, people who want nothing more from you except to know that you love them.”

  She turned to him. “What about you?”

  “I want something from you. I don’t count.”

  “No, no, that’s your problem. You made yourself invisible so you could slip through the cracks between emotions. Massively great trick, but what are you left with? Nothing. What kind of life is that?”

  “The only one I know.”

  “Then find another.” She leaned across, kissed him on the lips. She drew back, a small, wry smile on her face. “You see? You won’t give yourself to anyone.”

  “I made that mistake once,” Bourne said.

  “Ah.” Maricruz nodded. “At last, a clue to who you really are. Well, the next time you encounter someone—and there will come a time—someone you don’t want to be without, maybe you’ll leave the past behind.”

  “I have no past.”

  “Oh, but you do, Bourne. And it’s a fucking heavy weight to bear. What, ten, fifteen years expanded out into a lifetime of memories anyone else would have? It’s too much—too much for anyone, even a warrior like you.”

  “Let’s get back to what I want.”

  “Ouyang.” She’d stopped using his given name. “You can have him.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Political expediency.” The bitterness in her voice was unmistakable. “The Party Congress meets in three days. It was moved from Beijing because the Politburo is afraid of demonstrations and riots. Another cultural revolution is about to happen, but this time it’s coming from the bottom instead of the top.”

  “Do you know where the Congress is being
held?”

  “Beidaihe—a small seaside city in Hebei.” She looked at him. “That’s where Jidan will be.”

  “Then that’s where I’m headed.”

  “I’m going with you.”

  “No, Maricruz. Your path lies elsewhere. You have your family to think of now, and the freedom for all of you only the future can bring.”

  “But I want to help you.”

  “And you will. On the way back to the city, you’ll tell me everything about Ouyang Jidan—his likes, dislikes, his predilections, his fears and expertise, his friends, his enemies, and his allies.”

  She nodded as they began to retrace their route to the car Bourne had hijacked. “It will be my fucking pleasure.” She reached into her handbag and brought out a bit of colored cardboard, handed it to Bourne. “And here’s where we can start.”

  As Bourne took it from her, he said, “What is this?”

  “Colonel Sun’s diplomatic documentation. I grabbed it before I slipped out the hospital window. I think a man of your abilities will find a good use for it.” She smiled. “Although it won’t be any good until we find you a new face.”

  48

  Everything is packed and ready to go, sir,” the adjutant said.

  Ambassador Liu nodded, distractedly. He was gathering up the last-minute items he required for the flight to Beijing, and then to Beidaihe. As he strode out of his office, down the wood-lined corridors of the embassy, he felt a swell of pride puffing up his chest. True, he was first cousin to Deng Tsu, the Patriarch; true, his mother and Deng Tsu’s mother were sisters; true, it was Deng Tsu who had ensured he had received the plum assignment here in Mexico City; true, he had been Deng Tsu’s eyes and ears in the drug trade, sending back detailed reports on the pipeline Ouyang Jidan had negotiated with the late Maceo Encarnación; and, true, it was he who had informed Deng Tsu of Maricruz Ouyang’s arrival, of her involvement in the cartel wars between the Sinaloa and Los Zetas; but the personal invitation to the Party Congress delivered by Liu’s cousin himself was a reward beyond imagining. It surely meant an elevation in rank into the elite levels of the Chinese inner circle, where all decisions were made, the vortex of power.

  He had reached the front door. One of the two armed guards flanking it was about to open it. Nodding his assent, Liu stepped forward, the wide, heavy iron door swung open, and he went down the marble steps onto the sidewalk in front of the embassy’s elaborate entrance.

  His adjutant hurried after him. “Sir,” he said, “there’s been a change of plan. You’ll be making a stop before Beijing.”

  “What?” This news brought Liu up short. “You know I despise last-minute changes.”

  “Minister Ouyang’s orders, sir.”

  “Min—”

  “It is his plane, sir.”

  The ambassador sighed. “All right, all right, as long as it doesn’t make us late to Beidaihe.”

  “Not to worry, sir,” his adjutant said. “You have plenty of time.”

  “Where are we stopping?” Liu inquired.

  “Moscow, sir. You’re to take on a passenger.”

  “He’s going to Beijing, I assume.”

  “Beidaihe, sir. Though technically he’ll be staying on board the plane after it lands.”

  “Why?” the ambassador said. “What’s this all about?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Fine.” Liu made a dismissive gesture with the flat of his hand. “I always do as I’m told.” He regarded the adjutant, and said with an audible trace of sarcasm, “Any other last-minute orders?”

  “No, sir.” The adjutant inclined his head. “Safe travels, sir.”

  “I’ll give Minister Ouyang your regards.” This last was said with a heavier layer of sarcasm.

  “That would be appreciated,” the adjutant said with the hint of a smirk.

  Liu was so light-headed, he almost cracked his forehead on the gleaming side of the waiting SUV. Only the driver’s hand on the top of his head saved him, but he was too self-absorbed to thank the man or even to register his face.

  On the way to the airport, he did not glance up once from the papers Deng Tsu had asked him to bring with him—his final report on Maricruz’s last known movements, whom she had been consorting with, and how a string of murders had been left in her wake, including that of Colonel Sun.

  When Liu finally did glance up, he realized he did not recognize the driver. “Where’s Wen?” he said.

  “Driver Wen fell ill last night,” the driver said. “I’m his replacement.”

  “You’re not even Chinese,” Liu said without thinking.

  “Half Chinese, actually,” the driver said. “My father.” He wove the car expertly through the traffic. “Do you find my Mandarin inadequate, Ambassador?”

  “Not…not at all.” Embarrassed, Liu lowered his gaze to his report. “Carry on.”

  Forty minutes later, the limo pulled into the airport’s VIP area and rolled to a stop. The driver jumped out, opened the door for the ambassador, then busied himself removing the ambassador’s luggage from the gaping rear of the SUV.

  Ambassador Liu was welcomed aboard the diplomatic jet by a flight attendant, who tried to take the luggage from the driver. The driver refused, and the attendant shrugged—he was used to the unusual requests made by diplomats. Besides, it was less work for him. He took one last look around to make certain no one else was coming, then he trotted up the stairs and busied himself with stowing the food carts that had been loaded at the last minute.

  “I’ll be staying on as bodyguard,” the driver said.

  Startled, Liu glanced up from his reading. “I need a bodyguard on board Minister Ouyang’s plane?”

  “For afterward,” the driver said. “In Beidaihe.”

  The ambassador frowned. “What is Ouyang expecting?”

  “I’m simply following orders,” the driver said.

  “Oh, well.” Liu waved a hand. “Take a seat. You might as well make yourself comfortable. It’s a long flight.”

  When the attendant went up and down the aisle, he saw the ambassador, his work spread out around him, and his driver sitting across from him. He approached the doorway and pulled the cord, swinging the stairs up, locking them in place. Then he went up to the cockpit to inform the flight crew that they were all set.

  After fetching the ambassador a glass of sherry, he went to his seat, strapped himself in, leafed through a magazine on shopping in Beijing. Five minutes later the pilot released the brakes, the plane rolled to the head of the runway, turned, and, engines ramping up, raced midway between the tiny blinking lights. They lifted off dead on time, rising above the thick, brown industrial soup of Mexico City, heading for the same thick, brown industrial soup eight thousand miles away, on the other side of the world.

  Bourne sat back in the plane’s plush seat and, with eyes half closed, watched Ambassador Liu’s every move with hawk-like acuity. Maricruz had done an admirable job with the theatrical latex, face paint, and glue he had purchased at the actors’ supply store recommended by Anunciata. There was, of course, no way to make him look Asian, but mixed race was a different story altogether. What was needed was a deft hand and hints and racial cues here and there, especially around the eyes and nose. He himself was excellent with disguises but, as it turned out, Maricruz was a magician. During the process, he could see how much pleasure she was deriving from altering his appearance so that he could slip through the concentric rings of security guarding Beidaihe.

  While she was working on him, she had told him everything she knew about Ouyang, Cho Xilan, and Deng Tsu, known as the Patriarch, the leader of the historic families, who still held so much sway in modern-day China.

  “There is one other man I must tell you about,” she had said. “The trouble is I know next to nothing about him. His name is Kai.”

  “Is that his family name or given name?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve only heard Jidan call him by that name.”

  “Have y
ou seen him?”

  “Once, briefly. He came to the apartment. It was the dead of night. All the lights were off. I was asleep; I thought Jidan was, too, but when I turned over, he was gone. As I lay in bed, I heard voices, muffled and low. I rolled out of bed and, not even bothering to slip on a robe, I padded silently out of the bedroom.

  “A single lamp was on in the entryway. I stood in the darkened living room, willing myself to become just another piece of furniture. By the lamplight, I saw the outline of Jidan’s face in profile. He was speaking to a tall, thin man. From what I could see of his face it looked rich with Manchu blood. He used his hands when he spoke, which is not a typical Chinese trait. Anyway, they were extraordinary, those hands—impossibly narrow palms, long, delicate, spider-like fingers.”

  “What were they talking about?”

  “A man. I couldn’t hear his name. Maybe they never mentioned him by name. Kai said, ‘It’s done, neat and clean as ever.’ That was the only clear sentence I heard.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Nothing that made sense.”

  “What was your takeaway?”

  “That Kai had killed someone, that Jidan had ordered it.”

  During the long flight, Bourne dreamed. He dreamed of swimming in the ocean in Caesarea. The water was as warm as blood and nearly the same color. As he moved farther and farther from shore the water changed, became less murky, turning the color of aquamarine, until it was as clear as glass.

  Sand crabs scuttled across the floor of the ocean, small fish curled and snipped around his bare ankles. Seahorses hung on bits of coral, nibbling and slowly blinking at him. Gradually, he became aware that the blinking held a pattern. It was Morse code.

  Follow on, the seahorses blinked in unison. Follow on.

  What did that mean?

  He struck out, following the flow of the tide. A ribbon of ink passed by below him, like an arrow, its shape distorted beneath the waves.

  He followed on.

  And at length, he saw her. She was lying on the bottom of the sea, arms and legs spread like a starfish. Her eyes were closed, her hair swung about her, pushed and pulled by the tide. Her lips and nails were blue.