The Bourne Retribution (31 page)

W
hen Maricruz saw Colonel Sun walk into her room, her heart turned black and seemed to sink into her belly.

“What are you doing here?” she said in Mandarin. “You know the ground rules Jidan and I laid out. No contact whatsoever.”

“That was before you landed in the hospital. He became concerned. What happened?” Though Colonel Sun said this to her, he was looking directly at Angél, who seemed to shrivel up like a matchbook on fire as she crawled into the crook of Maricruz’s arm. “And what’s this?”

“I fell in San Luis Potosí—a sinkhole—and I injured my shoulder.”

Colonel Sun frowned. “It looks like you injured more than your shoulder. Were you beaten?” He took out the phone.

“What are you doing?” Maricruz said, alarmed.

“I’m going to take photos of you.”

“The hell you are,” Maricruz snapped. She lunged for the phone, but Sun kept it away from her.

“Give that to me.”

“Not a chance.”

“Don’t talk to me in that insolent tone of voice.”

Beside her, Angél bared her little teeth, snapped her jaws together.

Sun put the phone up to his face. “Get that monkey out of the way. I don’t want her in the photos.”

The statement was not only highly insulting, Maricruz thought, but a clear indication that, despite his claim, he had no real interest in her physical condition.

“Get out,” she said. “The longer you stay, the better chance you have of fucking things up.”

“From what I can see, you’ve already fucked things up.”

“How dare you speak to me that way! I said, get out!”

Colonel Sun grinned like a jackal. He seemed to be enjoying himself immensely. “Listen to me. You have no idea how protected you are in Beijing—how completely Ouyang coddles you. But you’re here now—a long way from the Middle Kingdom, so I’m going to give you some advice I otherwise wouldn’t. In Beijing, you are despised. The other Ministers smile to your face, but behind your back they call you
chùsheng
—an animal. They say you’re
bùyàoliăn de dōngx
—a thing without shame, completely without face.

“In China you’re nothing without Ouyang’s chop; you are what he made you, nothing more. But I know the truth: You’re a liability to him. He’s constantly preoccupied with protecting you while he should be advancing his position within the Party. But how can he with you around his neck?” He leered at the child. “And now you harbor
this
—a
Mexican
child? What, you think you’ll take it back to the Middle Kingdom with you, this stinking piece of shit?” He lunged at Angél. “I’ll kill it first, do you hear me? I’ll fucking slit its throat.”

W
ho’s in there with my patient?” Bourne said to Tigger as he came down the corridor. “Señor Carlos?”

“No, Doctor.” Tigger was already on his feet, agitated. “A man from the Chinese embassy. He claims he came all the way from Beijing to find out the señora’s health. I told him he had five minutes, that’s all.”

“Stay out here,” Bourne said as he pushed the door open.

Tigger shook his head emphatically. “It sounds like they’re already arguing. This is my job, Doc. I want you out of harm’s way.”

He brushed by Bourne, his right hand already on the grips of his handgun, ready to pull it, should the need arise. Colonel Sun turned, saw Tigger, who blocked his view of Bourne. Maricruz had put herself between Sun and the child.

“Get back to your station,” Colonel Sun warned. “This is official diplomatic business. Get out or I’ll report you to the ambassador.”

“I don’t think so,” Tigger said. His voice was quiet, almost like velvet. “If this was an official visit it would have been set up by the ambassador and I’d know about it.” He indicated Maricruz with his head. “My orders are to protect the señora—and the girl.”

“This woman and I still have matters to discuss.” Colonel Sun’s voice was every bit as velvety, but beneath cords of steel were rapidly forming.

“Get away from her,” Tigger said, with a bit more force.

“Not until I’m finished.”

“Your five minutes are up.”

“They’ll be up when I say they’re up,
shăbī
.”

Tigger’s eyes narrowed and his body tensed. “What did you call me?” He turned slightly to Maricruz. “What did this
maricón
call me?”

“
Te llamó una chucha estúpida
,” Maricruz said. He called you a stupid cunt.

Now everything happened very fast: Tigger pulled his handgun as he took a threatening step toward Sun. In a blur Sun’s left hand dipped, drawing Tigger’s attention while his right hand went to his waist, then suddenly flicked upward. The tactical knife buried itself to the hilt in Tigger’s chest.

Tigger’s eyes opened wide in shock, then he keeled over, his head at Colonel Sun’s feet. Maricruz turned the girl’s head away, placing her body between Angél and the violence.

Bourne was already on the move.

“Javvy,” Maricruz cried. “Call security!”

Ignoring her, Bourne kept coming, not too fast for Sun to be able to draw one of his guns, but, looking up, he recognized the face of the man about to run into him, and for a split second shock paralyzed him.

Then Bourne’s forearm slammed into his throat, and he reeled back against the wide windowsill. Bourne fought the gun out of his hand, and it went skittering under the bed. Sun clamped his fingers onto the nerve bundle in the hollow between Bourne’s right shoulder and neck. Bourne’s right side went slack, numbness racing from shoulder to fingertips. Sun, seeing his advantage, hammered Bourne’s rib cage, staggering him.

“I
will
get my revenge,” Sun said.

But Bourne kept on coming, used the edge of his left hand in three quick, vicious kites. A heel thrust to Sun’s mouth brought out a violent burst of blood. Bourne vaguely heard Angél give a tiny scream, half muffled in the meat of Maricruz’s shoulder.

Grinning, Sun drove his fist toward Bourne’s heart to deliver a killing blow. Bourne slashed down against the outmost carpal bone in Sun’s wrist, shattering it. Now they were both one-handed, but just as feeling in Bourne’s right hand and arm was returning, Sun tripped him.

Bourne went down, Sun on top of him, banging on him with his good hand. Bourne caught movement out of the corner of his eye—Maricruz sliding off the bed, the girl scrambling after her, over her, getting ahead of her. Angél was on all fours, disappearing, hiding within the mechanism under the bed.

Sun slammed Bourne’s head against the floor, then drove his fist into Bourne’s throat. Bourne gagged, then retched. He grabbed Sun’s crotch, squeezed so hard Sun’s eyes watered, seeming ready to pop out of his head. He began to choke on his own blood.

In Bourne’s peripheral vision Angél reappeared. She was holding Sun’s gun in both hands. Her arms were outstretched as she braced her back against the side of the bed.

“Maricruz!” he cried, “stop her!”

But Maricruz did nothing of the sort. Instead she rose slowly, almost magisterially. Even in her bare feet, she took on the appearance of an empress. She was staring fixedly at Colonel Sun, as if her eyes contained the bullet that would be fired, that would kill him.

In Angél’s expression could be seen many things: She knew what she held was not a toy; she knew the serious consequences of pulling the trigger; she knew there was no retreating from the decision to fire; and there was no doubt that she knew firsthand the power inherent in the gun.

Who was she aiming at, Sun, Bourne, both of the men? It was impossible to tell.

Closing one eye, she squeezed the trigger as slowly and steadily as Maricruz had risen, just as, time and again, she must have seen her father and her brothers do. The gun went off, the recoil slammed her backward.

All hell broke loose.

32

O
phir has left Israel,” Dani Amit, head of Collections Directorate, said.

Director Yadin nodded. “I know.”

“You know everything, Memune.”

“Don’t flatter me, Dani. It’s as cheap as a paste diamond.”

The two men sat opposite each other at a café along Tel Aviv’s harbor. They were in sight of the Director’s sailboat. Someone on board was putting in stores, moving in that slow, calm, considered way of all boaters, whether amateur or professional. The two men, dressed similarly in white cotton short-sleeved shirts, lightweight slacks, and colored espadrilles, looked like family. Father and son, perhaps. And, as members of Mossad, they were family, a close-knit group, one relying on the brain power and expertise of the other.

Amit toyed with the small dish of olives. “Do you know where he’s going?”

“Wherever Bourne is.”

“But do you know?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“You trust Bourne that much?”

The Director took a sip of iced tea. “I trust Bourne with my life.”

“Ophir’s going to kill him,” Amit said in his matter-of-fact manner.

“Well, he’s going to try.” The Director bit into a chicken sandwich and chewed reflectively. “Yes, he’s going to try.”

Amit eyed his boss judiciously. “By which you mean you believe he’s going to fail.”

Yadin sat back, stared up at the blue sky, the white, puffball clouds scudding by on the considerable breeze.

“It’s a good day for a sail. Of course, you always think that when you set out, but how can you really know? An unexpected storm might be lurking just over the horizon, for the moment out of sight, but moving in so quickly it catches you unawares, vigilant though you might be, as accomplished a sailor as you are.”

The Director returned to his sandwich, dredging the corner of it in the shallow bowl of hummus that sat between them. “You’re not eating, Dani. Have you no appetite?”

“I have no appetite for the secrets—”

“Find another occupation, Dani.”

“—for the secrets you withhold from me.”

“We all have secrets that have no business seeing the light of day,” the Director said, “let alone being shared, even among colleagues.”

Amit paused a moment, gathering his thoughts. At last, trying not to make a hash of the conversation, he said, “Everything seemed to change when Rebeka was killed.” He waited a moment, hoping for a reply, even a word of encouragement, but when none was forthcoming he plowed on, thinking,
In for a penny
…“Then everything changed again when Bourne showed up on our doorstep.”

“Can you blame him?” The Director took another swig of iced tea. “He was with Rebeka when she died.”

“I never figured him as a sentimentalist.”

“He’s not—so far as I can tell. But he is human. It was a very human reaction for him to come here, to attend her funeral, to mourn her passing.”

“And then, even while the funeral was in progress, you figured out a way to use him.”

“You make me out to be so cold.”

“Well, how would you characterize your thought process, Director?”

“Is that a rebuke, Dani? Because my job, as I understand it, is to safeguard the State of Israel. That’s the job we’ve all undertaken—it’s why we’ve committed ourselves—our lives—to Mossad. Am I wrong?”

“No, Director.”

“Then let us proceed accordingly.”

“Well, that’s the problem,” Amit said. “In this instance, there is no
we
. There is only
you
.” He spread his hands. “I simply want to help, Memune. We’ve been like brothers.”

Yadin’s gaze drifted to his boat, to the broad, round-shouldered back of the man who was methodically sluicing the deck.

“Ophir and I have been like brothers also, Dani. Should I tell him all my secrets?” His eyes slid back, gripped Amit’s. “Do you think that wise?”

“To be truthful, I’ve never gotten along with Ophir. You know that, Director.”

“Of course. As you say, I know everything.” He sighed, pushing his plate away. “In fact, I did, once upon a time. But the world changes. Every day brings new puzzles to be solved, but now the complications are of such a magnitude that I often feel lost inside the forest of enemies that seek to rip from us their pound of flesh.”

Amit leaned forward. “All the more reason to accept my offer of help, Memune.”

“I made the mistake of confiding in Eden,” the Director mused, “and now he’s dead.”

“I’m not afraid of death, Memune.”

“Nor are any of us.” The Director finished off his tea, then he nodded. “Perhaps you’re right, after all, Dani.”

For the next ten minutes, he spoke in a soft, low voice. Not once did Amit think to stop him or ask a question. He was far too dumbfounded to utter a word.

L
ater, after Amit had left to return to the office, Eli Yadin paid the check. Then, baseball cap on his head, hands in the pockets of his trousers, he strolled down to the harbor and went out onto the dock where his sailboat was berthed. The afternoon had turned hot. Despite the breeze, the sun burned down from the top of the vault of heaven. Clouds seemed to flee from it, as if terrified.