The Bourne Retribution (49 page)

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, except Ouyang, who was nowhere to be seen.

C
ho 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.

Lacing on hiking boots, donning a light windbreaker, he took Wan’s camera and headed down the wooden stairs to the seashore. An onshore wind ruffled his hair, scrubbed his face clean of the cares of civilization. A bird lifted off from the place where sea met sand, soaring across his vision, and all at once he understood with an immense clarity his son’s fierce love of birds. How free they were! Masters of sea, sky, and land, they went where they wanted, when they wanted.

The slanted light was coming from behind him, and he lifted the camera to his face, staring at reality through the view screen. Over the next hour, he took many photos of myriad birds, all of which, he was sure, would thrill Wan. By that time the light was falling into the sea and shadows lengthened across the shore, distorting its contours.

As he turned to retrace his steps he felt a heaviness in his chest, a difficulty breathing. He slowed his pace so that by the time he reached the wooden stairs that would take him back to his villa, he was walking very slowly, indeed.

He grasped the railing, almost pulling himself up. But a third of the way to the top, his right foot missed a tread, and he slipped backward. Arms pinwheeling, he fell into the sand.

Stunned and somewhat afraid, he lay, staring up into the rapidly darkening sky. He heard the surf rush toward him and then, as if fearful of touching him, retreat, sinking back into the black sand, leaving only a ruffle of dirty white foam speckled with minute sea life. A crab emerged from the damp sand, scuttled to feast on the foam. When it was done, it headed toward where Cho lay.

One leg was still on the lowest tread of the stairs, twisted but not broken. He felt no pain in his legs, but his chest seemed to be seized by a giant fist. All at once his stomach rebelled, he turned his head to the side and vomited.

He tried to pull himself to his feet, but he lacked the strength. In the last of the light, he saw Wan’s camera half buried in the sand where it had fallen. He turned on his side, one hand reaching out to scrabble for it. At that moment something let loose in his bowels and diarrhea spilled out of him, immersing him in a foul stench.

Tears came to his eyes. They were curiously heavy and, though he could not be certain, appeared to have the same consistency as mercury.

O
uyang’s mouth filled with the salty, coppery taste of his own blood. He wiped blood off his lips, as offended as if it were a gobbet of sputum. His head spun and he fought to think clearly. Bourne was free. All he had to do now was call his guards. They would find him, surround him, and shoot him dead. But maybe not. And in any event, that wasn’t what he wanted. The almost mystical victories Bourne had pulled off in the field were still vivid in Ouyang’s mind, not the least of which was the assassination of Brigadier General Wadi Khalid. Khalid had been the perfect mark for Ouyang—he was greedy and corrupt, but he had an insatiable appetite for underage boys, a commodity in short supply in his circles, though not in Ouyang’s. His relationship with Khalid had been a particularly fruitful one until Bourne had cut it short in the full flower of its success. The military secrets Ouyang had obtained from Khalid had, in good measure, been responsible for Ouyang’s election to the Politburo Standing Committee.

And then there was the time in Rome, when Bourne’s interference had not only snatched Rebeka away from him but also murdered three of his men, a loss of face difficult to overcome. Colonel Sun, who had run that mission, was dead, too, at the hands of Jason Bourne.

Now, as he grabbed his shining steel
jian
, he removed his mind from everyday considerations. He sank deeper and deeper into that state he had perfected within the precincts of Kunlun Mountain Fist; slowly, inexorably, he gathered the wushun magic around him until the layers of strength and victory made him invulnerable.