Page 2 of The Bourne Retribution (Jason Bourne 11)

  “Eden’s death is proof I’m not ready.”

  “No one could have saved Eden, not from a betrayal by Carlos. Recall, if you will, Eden had his handpicked bodyguards with him. They were killed instantly. You did your best.”

  “I should have done better. In other times—”

  “This isn’t other times,” the Director said. “And the past is the past. You and I have to deal with the now.”

  Bourne’s eye was caught by two of the Director’s grim-faced men coming down the beach. They bracketed the man who had been taking pictures and hustled him away.

  “It didn’t take me that long to find you,” the Director said. “It hasn’t taken Ouyang Jidan long, either.”

  Bourne squinted through the harsh sunlight. Was the photographer in custody Chinese?

  The Director produced a cigar but made no move to light it, simply rolled it back and forth between his fingers like a magician’s wand. “Don’t for a moment imagine Ouyang hasn’t been monitoring the entire situation, Jason.” The Director’s face held a measure of solace for Bourne. “You embarrassed him, caused him to lose face. He’s going to strike while you’re most vulnerable.”

  Bourne swung his head around. “Did Rebeka know about Ouyang?”

  “What? No.”

  “Who did, besides you?”

  The Director heaved another sigh. “My head of Metsada. Amir Ophir.”

  “Then why did Ouyang order her killed?”

  For a moment the Director stood stock-still. A pulse beat in his right temple. “Encarnación gave the order.”

  “No,” Bourne said. “He didn’t.”

  2

  Good.” Quan, the wushun master, almost casually tossed a jian, a slender double-edged sword, traditionally used by gentlemen and scholars. As Ouyang Jidan caught it deftly by the hilt, Quan said, “White Snake Form.”

  Ouyang stood perfectly still in the center of the training facility. The three men against whom he had been fighting for the past twenty minutes, using the Red Phoenix open-hand style, now picked up their own swords. Unlike Ouyang’s, theirs were dao, short, single-edged broadswords. All the weapons were carbon steel, rather than the traditional wooden training swords. Ouyang had moved beyond those years ago. There were twenty-nine levels in his chosen wushun discipline; he was fifteenth level.

  Quan, a tiny man, looking no more than a wisp, was old in the manner of all great wushun masters. That is to say old in years only. He moved like a thirty-year-old, but his mind was filled with the wisdom only long decades of experience could produce. He was twenty-ninth level.

  “Now,” Quan said to the three men, “attack.”

  Ouyang moved not a muscle as the others advanced, an oasis of utter calm in the eye of the approaching whirlwind. The three men—tall, medium, and small in stature—came at him one by one, in the gliding, stretched movements of the Chinese straight sword form.

  The small one struck first, an overhead blow meant to split the skull. Ouyang countered without moving his legs or torso in the slightest. Just his arms blurred, steel struck on steel, a lightning flash of sparks, and then the short man, shaken, stepped back at the precise moment the tall man lunged in with a strike meant to penetrate all the way to the spine. With a flick of his wrists that was neither disdainful nor flamboyant, Ouyang guided his opponent’s dao aside.

  The medium man’s approach was entirely different. He was an expert in Sacred Stone, the same form Ouyang was using. For almost five minutes the two men stood toe-to-toe, with only their arms and weapons moving, until Ouyang, employing an unorthodox strike, swept his opponent’s legs out from under him.

  The three men now spread out and simultaneously attacked Ouyang from different directions, the medium man switching from the immobile Sacred Stone to the fluid Fire Dance. For long moments, the endless clang of steel on steel, sparks like lightning, blurs like a mist clouding the interior of the building. Again and again the men tried to defeat Ouyang. Again and again, they were deflected, and then, in a breathtaking flurry, disarmed, defeated.

  Well,” Colonel Sun said, when it was over, after Ouyang had been elevated to sixteenth level in a brief ceremony, “even I am impressed.”

  Ouyang looked at him, sword blade lying against his hairless forearm. “Perhaps you wish to take me on.”

  Colonel Sun chuckled, shaking his head. “You are old school, Minister. I never studied the straight sword forms.”

  “Too low-tech, I imagine.” Ouyang sheathed his jian with a reverence the younger man would never grasp. “So there is a gap in your expertise.”

  Colonel Sun chuckled again, but there was an undertone of uneasiness, an unanswered question of failure. He was young to be such a highly ranked officer—in his midthirties, a handsome man, with a slight Manchu cast to his eyes and cheekbones. Ouyang had mentored him, brought him along, overseeing his swift rise through the military ranks. Sun was intelligent, inquisitive, like Ouyang, a visionary—one of the young upstarts that, Ouyang hoped, would help bring the Middle Kingdom the world hegemony it so richly deserved.

  “I have altered my mind-set,” Colonel Sun said, “of Ministers who sit in offices and shuffle papers as they make decisions.”

  “Only me,” Ouyang said with an impish smile. “Only me.”

  Later, the two men sat in the private dining suite at the Hyatt on the Bund reserved exclusively for Ouyang. They drank Starbucks coffee and ate the American breakfast Ouyang insisted they tolerate, if not enjoy, as part of their preparation for world hegemony. Outside the windows stretched Pudong and the glittering arc of the Bund, for centuries one of the world’s most famous waterfronts.

  Colonel Sun, having had enough of the foreign substances, put aside his fork and said, “One of our people has been taken into custody at Caesarea.”

  Ouyang scowled. “That is most unfortunate.”

  Colonel Sun, clearing the tastes out of his mouth with a gulp of water, nodded. “Jason Bourne was with Director Yadin.”

  “He’s like a fucking cockroach,” Ouyang said. “Impossible to kill, as you yourself found out in the catacombs of Rome. You tried twice and failed both times.”

  Colonel Sun winced. “Everyone has failed. That does not mean I’ll fail again.”

  Ouyang nodded. “An outcome that would please me, Sun. And also, I might add, lead to another promotion.” He wiped his lips. “Now, about the Mexican operation.”

  “A mistake was made at Las Peñas.” Colonel Sun spat. “Mexicans! They can’t be trusted to think for themselves. Though, in the past that has worked in our favor.” He hesitated a moment, as if unsure whether to voice his next thought. “And then there is Maricruz.”

  Ouyang stiffened visibly. “Maceo Encarnación’s daughter is an exception to the rule.”

  “And yet,” Colonel Sun said, “she is the one who brought us into contact with the Mexicans.”

  “In the past that has worked in our favor,” Ouyang said, deliberately parroting his protégé.

  “The failure at Dahr El Ahmar to obtain the Israeli laser process for enriching uranium has not only set back our plans in Africa, but also given Cho Xilan the ammunition he needs against our long-range path for China.”

  Cho was the secretary of the powerful Chongqing Party, Ouyang’s chief rival in the Central Committee. The Chongqing was also known as the Pure Heaven party for its conservative view of continuing the Middle Kingdom’s long-standing policy of isolation and non-?engagement with the West. The rift between conservative and liberal factions of the government had been blown open by the very public purging of Bo Xilai and the subsequent arrest of his wife for allegedly murdering a Westerner.

  “Listen to me, Sun. Now that the president has decided to convene the Party Congress, everything has changed,” Ouyang said. “In two weeks we will finalize plans to hand power to a new generation of leaders.

  “I am determined to be one of those leaders. I am just as determined to ensure that Cho Xilan is not one of them. He was elevate

d when Bo Xilai was purged. We must find a way to implicate him in conspiring with the former head of the Chongqing Party.”

  Colonel Sun considered. “That will not be easy. Cho has many powerful friends.”

  “Nothing we do is easy, Sun.” Ouyang’s fork paused on the way to his mouth, hanging in midair. “Listen to me now. The Mexicans could not be expected to deal with Jason Bourne, a man they know nothing about. Carlos did what he was ordered to do, and, as a result, Mossad has been dealt another blow. First the powerful agent Rebeka, and now Eden Mazar.”

  “Well then, it’s no wonder Yadin is talking with Bourne.”

  “The question is, why is Bourne listening?” Ouyang chewed meditatively on a bite of egg and bacon. “Why was Bourne in Las Peñas protecting Mazar? Bourne is a loner. He loathes and distrusts government agencies.” He shook his head, staring out at the glimmering high-rise skyline of Shanghai. “Something vital has changed. We need to find out, Sun.”

  The colonel shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

  Ouyang pursed his lips. “Bourne is a wild card, Sun, he always has been. We cannot afford to let him or Mossad interfere with us.”

  “I don’t understand why you’re still worried about Mossad. Their agent Rebeka is dead.”

  “Given what we know, Sun, there is every possibility that Mossad’s Director has talked Bourne into following in Rebeka’s footsteps.”

  “I still don’t—”

  “You know as much as you need to know, Sun.” Ouyang turned away. “Focus on Bourne. He’s your target now.”

  Bourne had booked himself into an anonymous motel on the seedier side of Caesarea, away from the posh tourist center where the rich came to play. Its whitewashed stone looked abused, as if the past had beaten it up. It was, however, not so anonymous that a man dressed as a tourist, carrying an overnight bag, wasn’t able to find it and book himself a room, paying cash for a one-night stay. While the clerk turned his back to fetch his room key, the tourist checked the computer terminal for Bourne’s room number.

  The tourist had an entirely unremarkable face. In fact, minutes after he had checked in, the clerk had forgotten what he looked like. Meanwhile, on the third floor, the tourist stopped outside Bourne’s room.

  He set down his overnight bag, unzipped it, and removed a vinyl sheet that, when shaken out, deployed as a suit, into which he stepped. When he zipped up the front, his body seemed to disappear. He slipped plastic booties over his shoes, then snapped on latex gloves.

  Inside Bourne’s room, he observed everything with a cold cli­ni­cian’s eye. He went methodically through every drawer, shelf, checked behind every picture, underneath the bed—making certain to replace everything in the precise spot and angle in which he’d found it. Finding nothing of interest, he stepped into the bathroom. He felt behind the toilet’s water tank, lifted the porcelain lid to peer inside. From the side of the sink, he picked up a water glass. Holding it at rim and bottom, he sprayed a fine white powder on the curved side. Immediately several fingerprints were revealed. He placed a short length of a specially formulated tape over the fingerprints, then carefully peeled it off. The prints were perfectly preserved on the tape.

  A moment later, silent and ghost-like, he slipped from the room. Stripping off the vinyl suit and booties, he stowed them in his bag. He kept the latex gloves on. Descending two flights of metal stairs, he exited unnoticed through the rear door, vanishing into the white noonday glare.

  3

  My world,” Director Yadin said as he stared out at the cerulean water breaking onto the beach, “is made up of black and white. I leave the shades of gray to other people. I am compelled by my job to see the world in two camps: heroes and villains—those who will help me and those who plot my downfall. Here, we do not have the luxury of being undecided, we do not have the luxury of hesitating, because destruction is always waiting on the other side of night.”

  The young men and women, finished with their sexual horseplay in the surf, came running back up the beach, bronzed bodies both hard and lush.

  “You know,” Yadin observed, “it’s only when you reach a certain age that you can fully appreciate the bodies of the young.” He turned to Bourne. “It’s part of my job to put those beautiful bodies at risk, and I don’t even have time to consider what a pity it is. My only mistress is necessity.”

  Bourne, chin resting on his folded forearms, said, “How does this relate to my history with Ouyang Jidan?”

  The Director grunted. “Despite what I’ve just said, for every generation there comes a person whose skills, ingenuity, and danger fall outside the parameters of my universe. You are such a man. And so is Ouyang Jidan. So I suppose it’s not at all surprising that the two of you have a shared history. Somehow, in some mysterious way, you sought each other out, if only because opposites attract.”

  The Director stopped rolling his cigar between his fingers, poked one end into his mouth, and took his time lighting up. His eyes glittered eerily in the brief flare-up, then the two men were briefly engulfed in a bluish cloud before the sea breeze blew the aromatic smoke away.

  “Ten years ago Ophir and I were running an operation in Syria,” the Director said. “In those days, we were both Kidon. This op was top secret, very perilous not only for us, but for the state itself.” He laughed unexpectedly. “We called ourselves the Assassination Bureau. What a pair of idiots we were!”

  His expression sobered quickly enough. “So, then. We had been sent in to infiltrate and to kill. Your specialties, Jason. As it turned out, we weren’t the only ones.”

  He paused for a moment to contemplate the end of his cigar, which glowed with what seemed to be an infernal heat. “You remember Brigadier General Wadi Khalid? He was the head of Syrian military intelligence or, as we dubbed him, the Minister of Shitholes.”

  The Director puffed on his cigar, then pursed his lips to expel the smoke. Instead he abruptly turned away and began to cough. Released smoke wreathed his head before wafting away.

  “Khalid, you may recall, was the architect of the so-called Torture Archipelago, the network of underground torture chambers spread around the country,” the Director continued when he had recovered. “They had to be destroyed, of course, but for obvious reasons, not the least of which was an abrupt reversal of morale among the Syrian military, Khalid had to be exterminated first.”

  Yadin coughed again, less violently this time, and cleared his throat. “As I said, in those days Ophir and I were hotshots. We made mistakes—small ones, but they were enough.”

  Far out, beyond the shore, a dark blue sailboat, its mainsail ballooned outward, tacked before the wind. Down the beach, a baby started crying. The young women were spreading out a picnic while their boyfriends played cards or sunned themselves.

  “So you didn’t get Khalid,” Bourne said, after a time.

  “Ophir and I were lucky to escape Damascus with our lives.” The Director stared at his cigar. He no longer seemed interested in smoking it. “But we did return with a startling bit of information. The Syrian military was being taught their interrogation techniques by the Chinese.”

  This got Bourne’s attention, as the Director must certainly have known it would. “The Chinese…”

  “Ouyang has been whittling away at us for some time.” The Director’s eyes met Bourne’s. “Now it’s cyber warfare, trying to steal our secrets through viruses and Trojans, but it amounts to the same thing. He wants the advanced technology we have.”

  “So Ouyang is coordinating all the attacks against you.”

  It was Yadin’s turn to look out to sea. “Ouyang’s hatred and fear of us started decades ago. He had been sent to Damascus by his then masters. He was the one mentoring the military intelligence in esoteric torture techniques.”

  “Wait a minute, when was this?” Bourne said.

  “Eleven years ago. We got out on November fifth.”

  Bourne shook his head. “I remember Khalid was killed on November fourth o

f that year.”

  “Two bullets from a long-range rifle—one to the chest, a second to the head.”

  “If you didn’t do it—”

  “I suppose,” Yadin said wryly, “you don’t recall pulling the trigger.”

  “I killed Khalid?”

  “Indeed you did.” The Director nodded. “And Brigadier General Wadi Khalid was our friend Ouyang’s premier asset in Syria, one he’d carefully cultivated for years. You blew that operation up. Imagine his loss of face.”

  Maricruz Encarnación had the face of Mexico’s conquerors—the high Castilian cheekbones and the imperious air—but with her huge coffee-colored eyes and long waterfall of hair she also might have been an Aztec princess. In either case, she radiated power like the sun.

  Minister Ouyang Jidan, sitting next to her in the limo on its way to Shanghai Pudong International Airport, smirked without letting her see his expression. It amused him no end that she infuriated and terrified both his friends and his enemies. She was an outsider—a Westerner; no one understood her, they couldn’t read her and, therefore, had no way of predicting either her requests or her desires. Lao mò was what they called her behind his back, a Mandarin ethnic slur against Mexicans so stupid he refused to acknowledge it, let alone confront the perpetrators. Yet inside him, a cold fury mounted, multiplying like rats. He never told her, however. He was well aware of her murderous temperament; it was one of the things he found wondrous in her. She was as fierce as a Royal Bengal tiger, as independent as any man he had met.

  “Do you think this is wise?” he said now. Though he knew her answer, he felt it incumbent upon him to ask her one last time.

  “My father and brother are both dead,” Maricruz said in her musical alto. “If I don’t go, the business will be balkanized. Worse, the executives of the legitimate side of his business will come under increasing pressure from the drug lords my father’s power and influence kept under control.”