The Bourne Retribution (23 page)

Bourne smiled.

23

D
eng Tsu lived in the clouds—literally and figuratively. His palatial residence sprawled across the top floor—eight hundred feet above street level—of the Fortune Plaza Office Building. The offices of his many interconnected businesses resided ten floors below this residence, making it possible for him to shuttle between the two without ever having to walk outside into Beijing’s often near-toxic atmosphere.

Approaching his eighty-seventh year of existence, Deng Tsu, Patriarch of the most influential revolutionary family in a constellation that had never lacked for influence, was still as vital as he had been in his fifty-fifth year. He swam daily in his private saltwater pool, practiced both tai chi and aikido with handpicked masters, and meditated for an hour each morning and evening without fail. He was never ill, an exalted state he attributed to his rigorous routine, his staying current on every nuance of his businesses as well as the business of China itself, and taking to bed a different woman three times a week.

Of course, diet was important—he was religious about what he ingested—but where would he be without his ground rhino horn and freeze-dried tiger paw to keep him as virile as a teenager?

Deng Tsu received Minister Ouyang in traditional Mandarin dress, which he always wore when he was home. Ten floors down he was never seen without a smart Huntsman bespoke suit, John Lobb brogues, and a Hilditch & Key Sea Island cotton shirt.

“Tea and cakes have been prepared,” Deng said without preamble as he led Ouyang to what was commonly known as the sunroom—a glass-enclosed solarium in which were planted a profusion of prizewinning roses and orchids in beds set all around the sides.

In the center of the room were cushions on either side of an antique paulownia-wood scholar’s table meticulously set with a lacquer tea service and small plates of what Deng had termed
cakes
but were actually rounds of baked seaweed. Deng ingested no sugar.

The two men sat. Deng poured tea in the ritualistic manner of the old Mandarins. They shared the first cup in companionable silence. Amid the soft, humid air, perfumed by the roses, their velvet petals outstretched like welcoming arms, the cacophony, sandy grit, and pollution of the teeming city seemed a thousand miles away.

“Now, younger brother,” Deng said as he refilled their cups, “what brings you to my eyrie?” In Deng’s world, the second cup of tea was for questions, the third cup for discussion, the fourth for answers.

“I imagine you think it’s Cho and his conservatives,” Ouyang said, “but they’re only part of the problem.”

“Explain.”

“I am speaking now of Ling’s son’s death.”

“Yes, a terrible tragedy—but those Italian cars—a Ferrari, wasn’t it?—are notoriously difficult to control.”

“Especially when the driver had consumed a great quantity of alcohol. Especially when the driver is partying with two girls in the car with him.”

“Your point, Ouyang?”

“Those girls are still in critical condition.”

“They’re not my concern.”

“Oh, but they are, Patriarch. Just as the horribly botched cover-up of the crash is your concern.”

Deng turned away, stared out the window at the tops of buildings, lost in a mist as dense as a Gobi sandstorm.

Ouyang sipped at his tea, which was so exquisitely delicious that in other circumstances it might have been distracting. “The stain of this incident, pointing up the profligacy of the elite, has traveled all the way up to the president.”

Deng drew his liver-colored lips together. “It’s true that Ling is the president’s protégé and political fixer.”

“This incident has already begun to weaken the president’s position. It has made him look corrupt, if not outright foolish.”

Deng turned back, his face livid. “You have no right to make these outrageous accusations!”

“I am only echoing the news,” Ouyang said.

“You are not the first one to bring it to my attention.”

“Ignore it at your peril, Patriarch.”

Deng stared at Ouyang, blinking slowly as an owl. At length, he sighed. “I suppose you have an answer to the problem.”

“Your forebear made a compact with the people.”

Deng inclined his head. “What has come to be known as the Grand Bargain.”

“That’s right. He—and now we—promised to raise the people’s standard of living, to modernize the economy, in exchange for keeping us in power, no questions asked.”

“It was a good bargain,” Deng said. “It was the right one—the only one—to make.”

“It’s impossible to disagree, of course it is.” Ouyang put down his empty cup, which Deng immediately refilled. “However, current events are leading me to the conclusion that the Grand Bargain is unraveling. The old ways that have served us well for decades are now making us the enemy in the eyes of the people. Today they are wealthier, better educated, more aware of the world outside the Middle Kingdom than ever before. More important, their exposure to the Internet has made them politically savvy. It has given them a belief in their individual rights we are powerless to fight.”

Deng poured himself more tea. “Why is that?”

“Because once the cat is out of the bag the only way to stuff it back in is to kill it.”

Deng stared out the window at the non-weather, sipping his tea contemplatively. At length, he turned back to Ouyang.

“So, younger brother, what do you suggest?”

“You’re not going to like it.”

“I already don’t like what’s happening outside my residence, younger brother. Please continue.”

Time for their fourth cup of tea.

“Your forebear’s Grand Bargain was, as you rightly say, the right one at the right time. But times have changed. I no longer believe that turning the economy toward capitalism while keeping the old political system intact is working. There is growing unrest among the populace. We have had an alarming rise in the number of scandals among the elite, which have caused the governed’s anger to escalate.”

“All this is known,” Deng said. “Again, I ask you for your solution.”

“We have to get out in front of this. We have to make moves that will not only forestall the anger before it spills over and completely engulfs us, we have to extinguish it once and for all. In my opinion, the only way to do this is to come out of next week’s Party Congress with sweeping changes. We must present a government that is transparent, that openly works for the populace.”

“I know your heart is in the right place, younger brother, but what you’re asking is simply impossible. The Congress would never agree to so sweeping a change. There are too many who treasure their elite status above the law. Old habits die hard—or not at all.”

“The economic changes instituted by your forebear have borne fruit,” Ouyang said. “We must embrace the fruit, both the bitter and the sweet.”

“Speak plainly, younger brother.”

“There have been consequences, perhaps unforeseen, from the institution of capitalism. We cannot go back; nor can we turn a blind eye to what is happening to both the increasingly restless populace and the members of our own political elite, many of whom live well beyond their means and take what they want whenever they want it. This practice can no longer be tolerated.”

“No one will listen. The twin forces of entitlement and inertia will defeat you.”

“Then the people themselves will take it away. Listen, Patriarch, whether we like it or not, the Grand Bargain with the people is about to expire. Either we find our way to a new bargain that will satisfy the populace or we will face open rebellion. This I can guarantee.”

Deng put down his cup. “Your endgame?”

“First, Cho and his Chongqing Party must be defanged. Second, I must be installed as president at the Congress. With your help, I will forge an unshakable coalition that can withstand the tremors of the changes that need to be made in order to ensure our continuing rule of China.”

Deng shook his head. His eyes held an infinite sadness. “It will never happen that way. It can’t. We’re like a train; our tracks run straight ahead.”

Ouyang rose. “Listen to me, Patriarch. In the nineteen seventies the Soviet Union was the Evil Empire.” He was shaking. He had never spoken to Deng this way. “If we do not change course, soon it will be our turn.”

“But don’t you see, younger brother, that is just what Cho and the Chongqing fervently hope for. They want us isolated from the world. They see it as contagion, a spreading stain upon the face of the Middle Kingdom. They want to wash China clean, to make it as it once was.”

“Nothing can be as it once was, Patriarch. You, of all people, know that. And just look at where the Party Congress is being held this year—the seaside town of Beidaihe. Up until now, it’s always been held in Beijing. The story goes that the Congress hall’s renovations have not been completed, but you and I know that the story’s bullshit. We’re all afraid of demonstrations filling the streets of the capital. Five years ago such a concern would not have even existed.”

“Jidan, Jidan,” the old man said, “we are but two leaves blown by the wind.”

Ouyang stared down at Deng, for the first time seeing him for what he was, not what Ouyang wanted him to be.
If Deng is too old
, Ouyang thought,
if he no longer has the will, I must be it for him
. He marshaled his thoughts for one last stand.

“All our lives,” he said, “we have made history, just as our fathers did before us. That’s an extraordinary—a singular—power. We still can, but the ability is fast slipping through our hands. If we do not alter our course now, that singular ability to make history will be stripped from us; it will be given to the people of China. Then we are finished.

“So this is what we must do, Patriarch. We must harness the wind.”

B
ourne found Amir Ophir in his office, partially shielded by three computer screens. He did not look up when Bourne walked in, but Bourne could see his shoulders tense as if he were bracing for a street brawl.

“You killed him.” There was no emotion in Ophir’s voice, only bitter accusation.

“You sent him to kill me.”

“That’s a lie. He was sent—with the approval of Director Yadin—to keep tabs on you after you broke your promise to the Director and went off the grid.”

“I don’t do well with leashes,” Bourne said. “And you would have no knowledge whether or not I made such a promise. Here’s what really matters: I find it suspect sending a Kidon operative to do surveillance work.”

“First, Kidon is not an assembly of assassins. We do surveillance and rescue work all the time. In fact, my department is in the process of acting on a complex and highly sensitive rescue of three Israeli citizens held in the Sinai.”

“Citizens?” Bourne said. “Or your agents?”

Ophir pointedly ignored him. “Second, the man I sent in was both close to hand and possessed a comprehensive knowledge of China, Shanghai in particular.”

“First, his code name means ‘murder,’” Bourne said. “Second, he attacked me and Yue, the young woman with me. His intent was clear.”

“Then he exceeded his mandate. Why would he do that?” Ophir said without taking his eyes off his pixeled screens.

“Because you ordered him to kill me.”

At last, Ophir raised his eyes to Bourne’s. “You have no proof—”

Bourne produced Retzach’s mobile. “Retzach called you minutes before he entered the tunnel to track me down and kill me.”

“That’s not—”

Bourne tossed Retzach’s knife onto Ophir’s desk.

“Here’s how he tried to kill me.”

Ophir, staring at the knife as if it were a viper suddenly come alive, licked his lips.

Bourne scooped up the knife, held it up with Retzach’s mobile. “Shall I give these to Director Yadin or will you invite me to sit down?”

With a wave of his hand and a poisonous look, Ophir said, “Be my guest.”

Bourne gave a steely laugh as he sat down opposite Ophir. “I need an armorer.”

Ophir looked relieved, as if he was thinking,
Is that all?
“No problem. We have several excellent ones in the basement labs.”

“I don’t need one here,” Bourne said. “I’m speaking of Mexico City.”

For a moment there was only silence between them. The soft chatter of assistants and secretaries somewhere beyond the four walls rose and fell like ocean waves. Someone dropped a glass, which shattered against the floor tiles. A brief string of curses, then silence.

At length, Ophir cleared his throat and said, “Director Yadin will never sanction it.”

“Which is why I’ve come to you with my request.”

“It’s not a request.”

Bourne stared at him, unblinking.

Ophir shook himself like a dog trying to shed muddy water. “I assume you require a handgun.”

“Everything from a handgun to a grenade launcher, plus ammunition for them all.”

“I don’t—”