The Bourne Retribution (51 page)

Just then he thought he spotted a pair of headlights paralleling him on a narrow cut through the trees on the ridge above the road. He put on speed, and was soon within sight of the airfield. Its lights cut through the thickening darkness like diamonds, smeared by the rain.

He was nearing the gates when a shot plowed into the side of his vehicle. A moment later a second shot shattered the window on the passenger’s side. Bourne swerved off the road, threw the vehicle into neutral as it rumbled down a rocky embankment, coming to rest on sandy soil.

Bourne was out of the jeep in an instant. Keeping the vehicle between him and the origin of the shots, he moved to the rear of the jeep and, crouching down, vectored the immediate area in an attempt to ferret out the marksman’s place of concealment.

He was close enough to the airfield to hear the jet’s engines whining to life as it prepared to lift off. Scrambling obliquely up the embankment, he reached the lip of the road, hanging there for a moment, waiting to see if his presence would draw another shot. The jet’s engines roared louder, and he launched himself up onto the road. The gate was only a hundred yards away. He sprinted toward it.

L
eonid, confined within the metal tube of the plane, was slowly going crazy. If it wasn’t for the prospect of having an intelligent companion on the way to Moscow, one who, furthermore, could put in a good word for him with General Boris Karpov, already a legend in the FSB as well as in the hallowed offices of the Kremlin itself, he would have roused the flight crew to get him the hell out of here well before this.

But now his friend was coming, just as he said he would, and now all would be well. He stared out the Perspex window on the stair side of the plane, and within moments saw the twin headlights of a vehicle run along the tarmac, pull up just before the folding stairs.

A man jumped out and headed straight for the stairs. Leonid, his mood lightening with every step the man took toward the doorway, went to greet his friend.

The figure mounted the stairs, taking them two at a time, but as soon as he was swept up in the plane’s interior lights, Leonid took a step back. It wasn’t his friend who was coming on board; it was someone he’d never seen before—a Chinese national who nevertheless possessed all the hallmarks of Manchu blood.

“Who are you?” Leonid said, frowning.

“
Cào nĭ zŭ zōng shíbā dài.
” Fuck your ancestors to the eighteenth generation. “You were expecting Bourne.” Kai drew an S&W Bodyguard 380 ACP and shot Leonid twice in the chest. As Leonid lay in the aisle, Kai shot him a third time between the eyes.

As he stepped over him, he took the time to kick him in the face. “
Pìyăn!
” he spat. Asshole!

Having heard the shots, the navigator emerged from the cockpit, a standard-issue 9 mm Glock in his hand. “What the hell—!”

Kai shot him in the chest, and he fell back into the cockpit, where the screaming started.

“We’re taking off now,” Kai said, aiming his S&W at the pilot’s head.

“We were told to wait for another passenger.”

“And here I am.” Kai waved the S&W. “Take us up now.”

The flight attendant, crouched in the corner farthest away from the blood and mayhem, whimpered. His arms were clutched around his drawn-up knees.

“This is a direct order from Minister Ouyang.”

“I can’t, sir. The folding stairs are still deployed,” the pilot said.

Kai moved the handgun toward the flight attendant, and he made an involuntary animal sound deep in his throat. “Go back up the aisle and pull up the folding stairs.” He waggled the barrel threateningly. “Do it now!”

At the sound of his raised voice, the attendant jumped up and, with a strangled cry, forced himself to step over the body of the navigator. He went down the aisle to the doorway, but when he encountered Leonid’s corpse he almost turned back.

Kai, keeping one eye on the attendant’s progress, shouted at him to get the damn stairs folded back into the fuselage. Trembling, he picked his way over Leonid’s bloody body and, at last, reached the open doorway. As he was about to haul the stairs up, Kai forced the pilot to take off the brakes. The plane began to roll forward, picking up speed as the jet engines built revs.

The attendant had just begun to haul the stairs up when he saw someone running alongside the plane. He recognized him as one of the passengers they had picked up in Mexico City—Ambassador Liu’s bodyguard and Leonid’s friend. He ran toward the stairs. Clearly, this was the passenger they had been waiting for.

The attendant could see by the gathering speed of the aircraft he was never going to make it. Gingerly, he stepped down onto the stairs, descending each step with the utmost care, lest he slip and go hurtling off onto the tarmac.

The running man was close now—as close as he was ever going to get. His upper body was fully extended, his right arm outstretched. The attendant descended to the lowest step and, leaning over, offered him his extended hand.

They missed the first time, their fingertips just grazing. Then the man grabbed onto the attendant the second time; his weight almost dislocated the attendant’s shoulder. His body was whirled around and, had it not been for the solid aluminum side of the steps, the attendant would have been spun off with him.

Instead, the attendant held on, pulling hard in stages, his muscles straining, his breath coming in ragged gasps, until Bourne’s other hand grabbed hold of the top of the stairs. He swung his legs, vaulted up onto the stairs, then, taking the attendant’s hand, ascended into the plane.

“There’s a Chinese man with a gun,” he gasped in Bourne’s ear. “He looks like a Manchu—acts like one, too. He shot Leonid and the navigator.”

W
here is he now?” Bourne said.

“In the cockpit with the pilot.”

Bourne saw Leonid’s body, sprawled and bloody, where he had fallen near the doorway. Keeping the flight attendant’s body between himself and the cockpit, Bourne helped him pull the folding stairs up into the fuselage. The attendant was about to lock it in place when Bourne stopped him.

“Not now,” he whispered, and the attendant shivered, understanding what he had in mind.

“Go lock yourself in the toilet,” Bourne said softly, “and don’t come out until you hear my voice.”

The attendant’s alarm escalated. “What if I don’t hear your voice?”

“Go on now,” Bourne said. “Hurry!”

Up in the cockpit, Kai was arguing with the pilot. The rain had increased in intensity and now a low fog had come in off the sea, rising up the cliffside. The pilot was reluctant to take off; Kai wasn’t interested in what the pilot wanted.

The instant he saw the flight attendant slip into the toilet and lock the door, Bourne wiped down the rain-slick floor to cover his tracks, then stepped to the galley, quickly foraged through cabinets until he found a full-size bottle of wine and a warm can of beer. Then he went back to the last row of seats forward of the door and crouched down, hidden by the seat backs.

Kai must have won the argument. With a lurch, the jet sprang forward, rolling down the runway at speed. A moment later he heard the Manchu’s voice raised as he stuck his head out the cockpit doorway.

Bourne knew Kai could see that the stairs had been drawn up, the door closed, but there was no sign of the attendant. All at once the plane’s pitch steepened as it rose into the nighttime sky. With a rumble, the wheels retracted into the belly of the fuselage.

Bent forward as if battling a stiff wind, Kai came down the aisle toward the aft area to find the attendant. Bourne shook the can of beer. Just before Kai reached the open area in front of the door, Bourne raised himself, swung the bottle of wine into Kai’s leading knee. Kai grunted, the leg crumpled, and as he was about to pitch over against the last row of seats, Bourne shoved the can of beer into Kai’s face, popped the top.

The warm beer geysered out, covering Kai’s face, momentarily blinding him. Bourne used a kite on Kai’s clavicle, causing him to lose his grip on the S&W. Kai, on hands and knees, lunged for it.

Bending forward, Bourne drove a fist into his side. Kai reached the butt of the pistol, slammed it back into Bourne with such force that Bourne stumbled across the aisle directly toward the door. At the last instant, he braced his arms on either side of it, stopping himself from plowing into it.

However, this gave Kai time to recover. He struck with the muzzle of the S&W, swiping a long track of ripped fabric and, beneath it, a length of Bourne’s skin. Blood welled up. Bourne maneuvered back across the aisle, as if trying to get away, until he was directly across from the door. Raising both arms, he gripped the edge of the overhead rack, then levered the rest of himself up until his legs scissored around Kai’s neck.

Kai struggled, but his arms could find no leverage to pull Bourne’s legs apart. With a titanic effort, he clawed his way to Bourne’s face, trying to gouge out his eyes. There was blood on Bourne’s face. He tried to turn his head away, but Kai had it locked in the vise-like grip of desperation.

Extending his body fully, Bourne kicked the door with his feet. It flew open. Bourne let go of his grip and kicked hard, his shoes striking squarely in the center of Kai’s chest. Kai was launched backward. His left foot went over the lip of the door frame, he lost his balance, and, arms pinwheeling wildly, he was sucked out of the plane, immediately enveloped by the wind, vanishing into the clouds, leaving only a single shriek, like a distant rumble of thunder.

Epilogue

Tel Aviv, Israel

A
pure blue sky, devoid of even a single cloud, greeted Jason Bourne as his commercial flight settled onto the runway at Ben Gurion Airport.

To his surprise, Director Yadin was waiting for him inside the immigration section, leading him around the long lines and, accompanied by an escort of Mossad agents, out onto the arrivals concourse, heading for the front doors.

“My apologies for the delay,” Yadin said as they strode along. “I, myself, was in a bunker until an hour ago. Mortars from Gaza.”

“Have you retaliated?”

“Oh, yes. Pinpoint strikes. Two of the Hamas leaders are dead. Then the missiles came. Don’t be concerned if you hear air raid sirens. They go off all the time now.”

Their escort held the doors open for them and they went out into the blinding sunlight, the baking concrete slabs. An immense, bulletproof SUV was waiting for them by the curb, guarded by soldiers with submachine guns.

“Ouyang is dead,” Bourne said as he followed Yadin into the dim, capacious interior.

“I expected nothing less.” Eli leaned forward to give the driver an address, then settled himself on the backseat. His men piled into the front, and the SUV pulled away from the curb.

“Cho Xilan has vanished,” the Director said. “It’s as if he never existed.”

“Ouyang murdered him,” Bourne said. “Poisoned him with polonium.”

“Polonium?” Eli appeared startled. “That’s a KGB trick.”

Bourne told him how Ouyang’s plane had stopped in Moscow on the way to Beidaihe to pick up Leonid. “The FSB was the source,” Bourne concluded, “but I think Cho’s death was Ouyang’s personal retribution.”

“All to Deng Tsu’s great good fortune.” Yadin rubbed his chin. “With Ouyang dead and Cho’s coalition leaderless, Deng has gained the freedom to handpick the next president. Another reactionary. The reforms he enacts will be entirely cosmetic.”

Bourne stared out the window at the shadowed buildings, the silhouettes of passersby. “The more things change, the more they stay the same, especially in China.”

At that moment, the air raid sirens began to scream.

“Sounds like another war,” Bourne said.

“Short-lived, thank God. Short-lived because of the success of your retribution.” Eli smiled. “Minister Ouyang was funding the Hamas jihad through elements in the Sinai. With that source of funding gone, a cease-fire will be negotiated in a matter of days.” He nodded. “We—I—owe you a debt I’ll never be able to repay.”

Bourne put his head back against the seat and closed his eyes. He felt unutterably tired, as if he were a sprinter who had been compelled to run a marathon.

“You look like shit, by the way.”

“I feel like shit,” Bourne said. “Maybe I’m getting old.”

Director Yadin laughed. “Never, my friend! Never! But you’re bleeding all over my seat cushions. You will have a thorough medical checkup and then some rest.”

The SUV drove on through the thick Tel Aviv traffic.

“Eli, I’m sorry.”

Yadin turned to him.

“I know Rebeka was your daughter. I know what a terrible loss Sara’s death was.”

Yadin made no comment. He stared straight ahead as the SUV turned onto Weizmann Street. Bourne had been here once before, following the Director into Sourasky Medical Center.

As the SUV pulled up to the entrance, Yadin said, “Come now, Jason. You really do look a sight.”

T
wenty minutes later, in a surgery on the third floor, Bourne, stripped naked, lay on a table while a surgeon checked all his wounds. Several of them required stitches. He was given shots of local anesthetic and was duly sewn up. His lesser cuts and contusions were administered to, he was given a prescription for an antibiotic, then was released to get dressed.