Page 22 of The Bourne Retribution (Jason Bourne 11)

“Stop!”

  “Okay, okay. How are things going with Maricruz?”

  “She’s not what I had imagined.”

  “I know she hasn’t gotten under your skin. In your current state, you won’t allow it.”

  Bourne knew she was speaking of his rejection of her physical advances. “She isn’t flirting,” he said. “She’s too busy plotting Carlos’s murder.”

  “That sounds like her.”

  “Does she know she has a half sister?” Bourne asked.

  “Who would’ve told her? Not our father, and certainly not my mother. Apart from you, no one else knows.”

  “There’s something else,” Bourne said.

  “Dígame.”

  He told her about Angél.

  “I wouldn’t have believed it of her,” Anunciata said. “The child really has no family?”

  “No one’s come to claim her, and Maricruz isn’t one to adopt her.”

  There was a slight hesitation before Anunciata said, “You know, when it comes to children you never can tell with women. I had a friend—a hard, fierce girl—who claimed she’d never have kids. ‘I’m just not cut out to be a mother,’ she told me more than once. Then she got pregnant, and when the baby was born she melted like butter in the sun.”

  Bourne knew Anunciata wasn’t talking about either her half sister or her friend; she was talking about herself.

  31

  Colonel Sun arrived in Mexico City, under diplomatic cover. As he exited the arrivals building he was immediately hit with a foul taste in the back of his throat. The embassy limo took him into the city. Forty minutes later he dropped his single small suitcase in the modern hotel room one of Ouyang’s many obedient minions had booked for him high above the city.

  It was Sun’s first time in Mexico, his first time in the Americas altogether. He’d been here less than an hour and already he despised everything about it, especially the alien smells, which made his stomach heave and left the slick remains of acid in his mouth. He could not stop washing his mouth out with bottled water from the mini-fridge. He ran the shower, wishing he could bathe in bottled water instead of the filth that came out of the showerhead. Maybe this trip would prove short enough that he wouldn’t bathe, but he doubted it.

  He was on a private mission for Ouyang—completely dark, off the books. Having heard she was in the hospital and adhering to their strict protocol not to contact each other while she was in Mexico, the Minister was concerned about the state of his wife’s health. This is what I’ve been reduced to, Sun thought sourly, checking up on his wife like a fucking private detective. He’d even been provided with a special mobile with a twelve-megapixel camera to record Maricruz’s physical state. Ouyang’s paranoia surrounding his wife was already legendary among his inner circle. On the other hand, Sun felt for his boss. He could not even call the hospital to inquire after her health. With the Party Congress so close and Cho Xilan eager to pounce on any hint of impropriety, Ouyang needed to sit tight, something he was ill equipped to do when it came to his wife.

  Not that Sun had any love for Maricruz—how could he? She was an alien—but he did not for one moment envy her job here. He shuddered. These people were animals.

  To that end, he took himself to the address of an underground dealer in Iztapalapa whom Ouyang’s ministry had unearthed. The greasy owner stank of badly fried food. Holding his breath as best he could, he bought a tactical knife, a couple of handguns, along with several clips of ammunition for each. Sun was sure the owner sneered at him as he left.

  Back at the hotel, he climbed into the waiting limousine. Once, as he had emerged from the dealer’s filthy den, he was certain he was being followed. Drawing one of the guns he had just purchased, he whirled around. If there had been anyone behind him, they had melted into the storefront shadows.

  Still, he was grateful for the diplomatic protection of the embassy vehicle. Ouyang had traced Maricruz’s whereabouts from Mexico City to San Luis Potosí and back here again. He had remained in the embassy just long enough to fulfill the necessary protocol, a complete waste of time, so far as he was concerned. On the other hand, he had picked up a curious bit of intel: A bomb had been detonated outside the residence of Carlos Danda Carlos, chief of Mexico’s anti-drug enforcement agency. Three of Carlos’s men had died in the blast. The city was on high alert. They passed a number of army jeeps crammed with heavily armed soldiers.

  “Even though you are officially part of the ambassador’s diplomatic staff,” the ambassador had told him, “keep your head down. These people are trigger-happy in the best of circumstances, and today is far from the best of anything.”

  Now, well armed, Colonel Sun was heading straight for Hospital Ángeles Pedregal, where he would see for himself what had happened to Maricruz and what shape she was in. The problem here, Sun brooded, was he was on alien ground. Apart from what mileage he could get from being on the ambassadorial staff, he had no leverage at all. Plus, he stood out like a sore thumb, though some of the Mexicans he saw with Indian blood had nearly the same epicanthic folds to their eyelids as he did. Much as he hated to admit it, the adjutant was right: He needed to step carefully and keep his head down. In a state of high alert the last thing Ouyang would need was for him to get into trouble with the Federales.

  At length, they had crossed the city and the limo drew to a stop in front of the busy hospital. Telling the driver to wait for him, Sun emerged onto the sidewalk and went through the front doors. Inside, he went to the information booth and joined the short line. When it came his turn, he produced his false diplomatic credentials and asked the female attendant for Maricruz Ouyang.

  “I’m afraid I have no information on that patient.” She had scarcely looked at his official ID.

  “What do you mean, you have no information?” Sun said in his painfully accented Spanish. “You didn’t even bother looking her up. I know she’s a patient here.”

  The woman shrugged. She was middle-aged, with a face like a lion’s cage, lined and confined. “Absolutely no visitors. Orders from the anti-drug enforcement agency,” she said with no little obstinacy.

  “This is outrageous.”

  She shrugged. “Take your outrage to the ADEA. I can’t help you.” She peered around him. “Next?”

  Colonel Sun retreated. Even though he was unused to being treated like a peon, he knew enough about the Western world to keep his own counsel and bury his sense of outrage and shame. Though he had made several journeys outside the Middle Kingdom, he had yet to catch the harsh and jolting rhythm of Western civilization, which, he thought now, was something of an oxymoron.

  His last trip to the West had been more than a year ago, when he’d traveled to Rome, following the Mossad agent Rebeka, in whom Minister Ouyang was intensely and mysteriously interested. Coming upon her, he had discovered Jason Bourne in her company. Following them down into the catacombs off Rome’s Appian Way had not turned out well for him, and he was not about to forget the humiliating defeat he had suffered at Bourne’s hands.

  Now, standing against a pillar in the hospital lobby, he was at a loss as to how to proceed when he saw a young man stride through the front doors. He was not in uniform, but he might as well have been. Colonel Sun recognized the type immediately—a soldier, like him, in civilian attire. As he passed the two guards in front he smiled and waved at them—a half salute, which they returned in kind.

  Pushing himself away from the column, Colonel Sun followed the man into an elevator, riding up with him to the second floor. He let the soldier exit before following him down the corridor, past door after door, until up ahead he saw another soldier in civilian dress, sitting on a folding chair just to the right of the entrance to a room. The man was reading Contralinea, which he put aside as soon as he saw the man Colonel Sun had been following. They exchanged greetings, then the guard took his newspaper and left, while his replacement—the soldier Colonel Sun had been following—sat down in the chair and began to text someone on his mobile.

  Colonel Sun was certain he was guarding Maricruz’s room. He strode past the nurses’ station. The soldier guarding the door to the room must have seen him out of the corner of his eye, because he immediately stuck his mobile in his pocket and rose, assuming the classic defensive stance as he sought to bar Sun’s way.

  “Back up,” the soldier said in Spanish, then English. “Turn around and leave.”

  “I’m here to see Maricruz Ouyang,” Colonel Sun said in English.

  The soldier shook his head. “You’ve lost your way, señor.” One hand slipped ominously inside his jacket. “You won’t be warned again.”

  “You don’t understand,” Colonel Sun said. “I’m from the Chinese embassy.” He showed the soldier his ID. “Minister Ouyang Jidan, Maricruz’s husband, is concerned about her health.”

  “The señora’s health is fine.”

  “And yet, she’s still in here.” Colonel Sun stitched a smile to his face he did not feel. “Minister Ouyang sent me from Beijing to see her and talk with her.”

  The soldier continued to eye Sun as if he were a scorpion who had just crawled out from beneath a rock. “A moment,” he said as he pulled out his mobile and poked at a SPEED DIAL key. “Boss,” he said into the phone, “there’s someone here who claims Minister Ouyang sent him all the way from Beijing to see the señora.” He listened for a moment, then said, “He showed me his credentials. They look legit…Okay.” He looked at Sun. “My boss is calling the embassy. We’ll see…Yeah, boss, right here…Okay, right, right. I’ll tell him.”

  The soldier disconnected. “You have five minutes.”

  “That’s not even time to—”

  “If what you said is true, that’s all the time you’ll need to assure Minister Ouyang that his wife is on the mend.”

  I’ll take it, Colonel Sun thought. But what can happen in five minutes?

  When 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 bùyàolian de dongx—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.”

  Who’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, shabi.”

  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 on

e-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

  Ophir 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.”