“Not Russian Caravan,” Bourne said, “but at least it’s brewed strong.”
The two men sat in companionable silence for a time, until Bourne set aside his cup. Pressing a button on the side of his seat, he lowered the back, crossed his arms over his chest, and closed his eyes. His breathing soon slowed.
Beside him, Leonid’s eyelids began to droop, his eyes losing focus. He set his cup and saucer on the seat tray and, as Bourne had done, lowered the seat back. His lids flickered closed and he was out.
Bourne counted to one hundred to be certain Leonid had succumbed, then checked the lock on the case affixed to his wrist. It was one of those that could be opened only by a key that could not be duplicated. He set about searching Leonid for the key.
It took him some moments, but at length he found it in a thin leather case strapped to the inside of Leonid’s left ankle. He was reaching for it when Leonid stirred. Bourne waited, patient, until he was certain Leonid was still deeply asleep.
Extricating the key, he fit it into the lock, turned it to the right. There was an odd sound, not of lock tumblers opening but of a mechanism arming. Bourne froze. He had encountered locks like this before. They were triggers for a booby trap set inside the case—a fail-safe mechanism to destroy the contents before it could fall into unfriendly hands.
In his experience, there were two ways to disarm the mechanism. The first was to pull out the key and reinsert it; the other was to turn the key to the left. The problem was if it was the latter, removing the key would detonate the fail-safe. Crouching down, Bourne peered more closely at the lock. He had seen one of these before—in fact, Boris had showed it to him. It was a favorite of the FSB.
He had to be right; there would be no second chance. Holding his breath, he turned the key to the left. He heard the tumblers click into place, at once disarming the fail-safe and releasing the lock. Gingerly, Bourne opened the case.
The interior was entirely made up of a thick pad of dense gray foam interspersed with lines of dull metal. In the precise center a cutout, approximately four inches by two inches, had been made. Resting in this cutout was a small rectangular object. Its metal top gleamed dully in the airplane light.
The object was made of solid lead, which could mean only one thing: It was a protective shell that contained a radioactive substance. It was far too small to be a nuclear warhead, and this tiny a bit of uranium, even if it were weapons-grade, would be useless. What then did the lead shell contain?
Bourne’s mind raced back to the locking mechanism Boris had shown him. It was guarding a case not unlike this one, containing a lead shell in which resided a tiny vial of polonium-210, “our new silent weapon of choice for assassinations,” Boris had said. Bourne remembered the death of former FSB agent Alexander Litvinenko, who died in London of polonium poisoning after having leaked secrets to MI6. The radioactive substance had been put into his tea.
Was that what Leonid was bringing into the Party Congress? Why? On whose orders? Bourne relocked the case with the same care with which he had opened it, returned the key to its miniature “holster,” and, lying back in his seat, closed his eyes.
Behind lowered lids he considered the possibilities. This plane belonged to Minister Ouyang, so there was a high probability that it was Ouyang who had ordered the polonium-210. Who was it for? The obvious choice was Cho Xilan, his nemesis, but Bourne knew that choices like these weren’t often obvious.
With an iron will, he cleared his mind of questions he could not as yet answer. He detached it from the moorings of consciousness, and, soon enough, drifted off to sleep.
The first time I met Rebeka, she was curious as well as courteous,” Ouyang said as he slipped on his shirt and began to button it up. “The second time, we had dinner, and a more charming companion could not be imagined.” He wrapped his tie around his neck and slipped it underneath his collar. “The third time, she almost killed me.”
Having neatly knotted the tie, he put on his suit jacket, and sat. “That she didn’t succeed was a simple matter of happenstance.”
“Blind luck,” Cho said sourly.
“If you wish.” Ouyang sat back, shot his cuffs, resettling himself. “There is no easy way to describe this creature. She was far too complex a personality for that. And perplexing.”
“She caught you off guard,” the Patriarch said.
“This was before I understood what she was.”
“You were never able to understand her.”
“No one did. She’s inscrutable.” Ouyang picked a piece of lint off the sleeve of his jacket. “As to her being a field courier, I allowed myself to be swayed by her gender. I didn’t credit her enough. I treated her with disdain.”
“She made you pay for your arrogance.” Deng Tsu slid the onionskin back into its file, stowed it away in his briefcase. “You couldn’t leave well enough alone. You had to have your revenge. You had her killed in Mexico City when she was with Jason Bourne. You had her knifed in the side, as she had knifed you.” Deng shook his head. “So began Mossad’s personal feud with you. And all for a courier, Jidan.” He sighed. “You have put us in a perilous situation.”
“With respect, Patriarch, I have done nothing of the kind,” Ouyang said. “Eli Yadin’s increasing desperation to get to me has finally led him to make a mistake. He has enlisted Jason Bourne to be his proxy.”
“How has he managed that?” the Patriarch said. “Ever since he was manipulated by the American Central Intelligence Agency, Bourne notoriously hates the clandestine services.”
“Eli Yadin is smarter than the CIA. He never would have been able to persuade Bourne to do his bidding if Rebeka hadn’t been murdered. Eli is canny enough to know that Bourne will only respond to personal loss. Rest assured, it will be Bourne who comes after me.”
Cho Xilan shook his head. “How is this good news?”
“The devil you know.” Ouyang crossed one leg over the other. “Instead of being faced with the daunting task of monitoring every member of Mossad’s Kidon section, I can concentrate on Bourne. Best of all, I don’t have to lift a finger because I know he’ll come to me.”
“What? In Beidaihe?” Cho laughed uneasily. “Surely you’re joking.”
“He isn’t,” Deng Tsu said.
“But Bourne is a Westerner,” Cho protested. “No Westerner will be allowed within fifty miles of Beidaihe.”
“Clearly, Jidan knows Bourne better than you do, Cho Xilan. Have a care.”
“Bourne is a master of infiltration and assassination.” Ouyang put his hands together, much in the manner of a priest at prayer. “But I am forewarned—and I am prepared.”
52
The seat belt light came on as the plane headed into the old military airport outside of Beidaihe. The new, ultramodern civilian airport was still a year away from completion. Bourne could see its skeleton as they overflew it, continuing their descent.
Leonid awoke when the attendant touched him on the shoulder and indicated that he needed to fasten his seat belt and put his seat back in the upright position. Some time ago, he had come along and taken away their cups and saucers.
The first thing Leonid did, even before locking himself in, was to check the integrity of his case. Confirming that all was as he had left it, he buckled up and looked out the window.
“Been to China before?” Bourne asked.
“Who would want to come here?” Leonid said. “The women…” He shuddered.
“Stick with me. I know where all the best spots are.”
“I’m not getting off the plane, thank fuck. My meeting’s here on board. Then, the moment the crew gets some sleep and the plane’s refueled, it’s back to Moscow for me.”
The shadowy outlines of the inland side of Beidaihe became clearer as the plane came in for a landing. Leonid’s gaze seemed pinned to the view, though Bourne felt certain it was something else he was looking at.
At length, Leonid said, “There comes a time when you have traveled so far from
your beginning it seems to belong to another person. Then you travel farther, and that beginning fades completely from memory, and there you are, left stranded on a farther shore.”
“I expect all the passengers on this plane are on a farther shore.”
Leonid turned to Bourne, studying him. “If circumstances change and you want to join me on the return flight—” He held out a slip of paper with a number on it. “I’ll hold departure for you.” He smiled—the first physical sign of a normal human emotion he had shown.
When Ouyang arrived in Beidaihe, he and his traveling companions were immediately transported via limousine to the compound Mao had had built for his summer sojourns. The Patriarch and the president installed themselves in opposite wings of the sprawling main villa. There were six villas in the compound, the main compound’s inner sanctum, all built on the model of Russian seaside dachas.
Ouyang and Cho Xilan had their own satellite villas. Kai stayed with the Patriarch, as if they were old friends, increasing Ouyang’s suspicions. Kai had asked several days ago how the Patriarch was doing, as if he had had no recent contact with him. Now Ouyang knew the truth, and he felt the bitter gall of betrayal. Kai lied as a way of life, but why had Kai lied to him, the man whom he presumably worked for, the man whose wet work he did? Which led him to the billion-yuan question:
Why was Kai here?
Unfortunately, Ouyang hadn’t the time to contemplate Deng’s internecine agenda. He had prearranged to have a car pick him up outside his villa; he didn’t want to use one of the military jeeps at his disposal. The car was waiting for him when he arrived, and after he had set down his luggage in the entryway for his people to put away as instructed, he went back out, down the steps, and ducked into the backseat.
It took off the moment he was seated. As they drove through the outer compound, Ouyang saw how well the small army of architects and builders had re-created the Great Hall of the People in Beijing where the Congress was normally held. No one would miss the Congress in Beijing this year, especially not with the very real specter of protests.
For the past fifteen months, he, as well as the other Politburo members and their staffs, had been closely monitoring Weibo, the leading Chinese microblogging website. The traffic, repeatedly calling for multiple protests both outside the Great Hall of the People and along the major thoroughfares leading to the hall, had reached a pitch that had alarmed the elite.
The decision to move the Congress to Beidaihe had not been difficult. It was November—deep into the off season for the resort. And it would hardly be difficult to block access to the compound, whereas managing such a feat in Beijing would mean calling out the army. With the entire world watching, that would lose the ruling party immeasurable face.
Within fifteen minutes Ouyang’s car had reached the military airport, which was, not to put too fine a point on it, somewhat of a shambles. All the effort in the area was on the new civilian airport, leaving this one to slowly rust away in the shadow of its past.
The car slowed, came to a stop parallel to his airplane. He got out, hurried across the tarmac and up the folding stairway, into the interior.
He found Leonid intent on his meal. Without preamble, Ouyang sat on the seat across from him.
“Enjoying yourself, I see.”
“I might as well,” the courier replied. “There isn’t much else to do around here.” He looked around. “The crew are sacked out for the next four or five hours, the plane is being refueled, and I’m waiting for Minister Ouyang.”
“I’m Minister Ouyang.”
“Prove it.”
The tone was so peremptory and lacking in respect, Ouyang stiffened. But then, he reasoned, this is a Russian. Moreover, he’s FSB, where you get reprimanded for displaying good manners.
When Ouyang made no reply, Leonid looked up from his rapidly disappearing food and rattled the chain locked onto his wrist. “With what I’ve got, I’m not about to hand it over to just anyone claiming to be Minister Ouyang.”
“They didn’t give you a code phrase?”
“They did not.”
“But they must have showed you a photo of me.”
The courier smirked. “They sure did. You look like the fellow, but…”
Ouyang made a sound in the back of his throat, produced his Party card, and handed it over.
Leonid studied it as if it were an abstract painting he was trying to decode. At length, he looked at Ouyang. But instead of handing back the card, he held it up, flicking it back and forth. “Minister Ouyang,” he said, “what are you without this card?”
Ouyang stared at him, barely restraining himself from launching out of his seat.
Leonid shrugged. “It’s just a question.” He handed back the card.
Ouyang reached out for it, but let it go the moment the courier did. The card fluttered to the floor of the plane.
“Pick it up,” Ouyang said.
“Is there a problem?”
“You dropped it. Now pick it up.”
Leonid appeared about to reply, then thought better of it. He smiled thinly, bent down, and retrieved the card. When he held it out, Ouyang took it, slowly and deliberately.
“Now,” he said, “the item.”
Leonid never took his eyes off Ouyang as he unlocked the bracelet around his wrist. He pushed the case across the floor to a place between the Minister’s knees.
Ouyang did not move a muscle. “Open it.”
Leonid held out the key. “Not in my job description.”
“Humor me.”
Several moments of silence were followed by a shrug from Leonid. He hoisted the case flat on his lap. Inserting the key in the lock, he said, “Watch.”
He turned the key first to the right, then to the left. The top sprang open, and Ouyang peered inside.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it,” Leonid affirmed.
“It’s very small.”
“You wouldn’t want to have possession of any more of it, believe me.”
Ouyang nodded. “On that point, at least, we can agree.”
A moment.”
Kai, a step from walking out the door of the lavish villa, turned back to Deng Tsu.
“Close the door,” the Patriarch said.
Kai complied, then picked his way across the exquisite Isfahan carpet to where the Patriarch stood.
Deng Tsu gestured, and the two men sat on facing wooden, highly lacquered Mandarin chairs. Kai was acutely aware that the room was devoid of the Patriarch’s ubiquitous bodyguards. No tea being brewed and served: another oddity. Light spun off Deng Tsu’s black-dyed hair as if it were made of acrylic.
“What are Minister Ouyang’s plans regarding Jason Bourne?”
Kai was a little taken aback. “Do you credit his contention that Bourne will seek to infiltrate our compound?”
“Please answer the question.”
“I don’t know.”
Deng Tsu’s eyes narrowed. “That hardly seems possible, given your relationship with him.”
“I think today that relationship has been ruptured.”
“I sincerely hope so.” The Patriarch looked searchingly at Kai. “If Minister Ouyang has any hope of rising out of the Standing Committee into a true leadership position he cannot have any contact with you. He cannot use you as he has done in the past—the danger is too great for all of us, including you.” He laced his fingers together. “You understand.”
Kai felt the strong beating of his heart. It seemed to echo in his throat, like a fluttering bird he had swallowed whole. “Perfectly.”
“Good. As for Minister Ouyang’s plans…”
“I am not privy to them.”
“That is troubling. You were my only window.”
Kai took a breath, wondering which way Deng wanted him to go. “I would have no trouble monitoring the situation.”
“Well,” Deng Tsu said, “that would put my mind at ease.”
Kai smiled.
When he w
as alone, Deng drew his briefcase onto his lap and opened it. Inside was a locked compartment, which he opened by pressing his thumb onto the pad of a fingerprint reader. The interior of the compartment consisted of six pockets, each holding a phone—three mobiles, three satellite. Deng plucked the one from the sixth pocket—a satphone—and turned it on. Each phone had only one number stored in its memory.
When it had booted up, he tapped in the code that unlocked the phone, then pressed the numeral 5. Placing the phone against his ear, he listened to the hollow electronic clicks—a kind of music—as the scrambler kicked in. A moment later the line connected, ringing distantly, as if through water.
“Pasha,” he said, “has the package been delivered?”
Pavel Mikhailevich Zhukov, colonel in the FSB, said, “My good friend, I sent my best man. Leonid has never let me down.”
“Nevertheless,” Deng said, relentless, “you have heard from him.”
“I have. Minister Ouyang has the case containing the payload.”
“And this payload is as we discussed?”
“Yes. A special isotope of polonium, one that is fast acting. The victim will begin to experience the deleterious effects within hours after ingestion; most likely he’ll be dead by tomorrow morning or, at the very least, incapacitated.”
“Meaning he won’t under any circumstances be able to attend the Congress.”
“If the payload is delivered accurately.” A slight pause. “Tsu, you sound anxious.”
Deng Tsu looked out the villa window, at the broad back of one of his bodyguards. “Minister Ouyang must never know my hand in guiding his plan.”
“This was agreed upon at the outset,” Pasha said. “You are jumpy.”
“The course for the next ten years is to be decided over the next several days,” Deng said snappishly. “There is a degree of tension to every move made now, no matter how seemingly inconsequential.”
“This particular move is anything but inconsequential.”