Page 26 of The Bourne Retribution (Jason Bourne 11)

  “Are you saying Bourne is not among them?”

  “Bourne can’t have a long memory, and as far as his sense of outrage is concerned, so far as I can tell, it’s reserved for those imperiling the ones he loves.”

  Reuben looked at his son as he transferred the merguez to the couscous, and in doing so burned his hand. “Dammit!” He sucked on two fingertips.

  “Butter,” the Director said.

  “No butter aboard.”

  Eli rose and went to the refrigerated larder, gabbed some ice cubes, wrapped them in a cloth, and handed it to his father. He brought the pot over to the table while his father nursed his burn.

  “Bourne’s particular sense of outrage is the crux of your plan.” Reuben sat at the table while his son dished out the couscous.

  “You know, Pop, this is just like when I was a boy. You used to make me this couscous every week.”

  “Scandalizing your mother. ‘You boys,’ she’d say. ‘How can you eat meat?’”

  “The first time, she ran out of the house.”

  Reuben nodded. “That she did.”

  The Director’s mood sobered. “Ophir’s run out of our house, abi. My old friend, working for the enemy.”

  “Well, you’ve done the right thing, keeping him close.”

  “But now he’s gone after Bourne himself.”

  “And you don’t think that will be the end of him?”

  Eli looked out into the darkness of the sea, which was different from any other form of darkness, rolling and thick, oversprayed with starlight, like sparks from a cold fire. He thought about the confidence he’d expressed in this afternoon’s conversation with Dani Amit.

  “I don’t know what to think anymore.”

  The father put his gnarled hand briefly over his son’s. “Don’t lose your resolve now, Eli. The worst thing a Director can do is not fully commit to the plan he’s authorized. Disaster awaits such an indecisive man.”

  Reuben cut a sausage in thirds with the edge of his fork, then speared a section. “Trust Bourne in the same way you trust yourself.”

  “I have deceived him.”

  “Your job, Eli, is to deceive people.”

  “This is different.”

  “Is it?” Reuben popped the merguez into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. “All right, if that’s your determination, then when this is all over you’ll admit to him what you’ve done. That will be your aliyah.”

  The Director nodded. “Thank you, abi.”

  “I haven’t told you anything you yourself didn’t already know.” He shoveled couscous onto the tines of his fork. “Your real worry is Dani Amit—most particularly what you’ve told him.”

  “I don’t suspect him.”

  “You didn’t suspect Ophir until he proved himself worthy of it.”

  “Well, I gave Dani the test.”

  Reuben nodded as he chewed. “You’ve done the right thing.”

  “We’ll see soon enough.”

  “Moles are often like roaches—where there’s one…”

  The old man didn’t have to finish the sentence, but the implications stayed with both of them all through the night, causing them troubled sleep, when they slept at all.

  The dry click startled Maricruz.

  “I took the liberty of emptying the gun,” Bourne said. “I didn’t think you’d learned your lesson.”

  With a disgusted sound in the back of her throat, Maricruz threw the weapon into the foot well of the truck.

  “Useless piece of shit.” Her eyes cut toward him. “I pulled the trigger for my father.”

  “An empty gesture.”

  “As it turned out.”

  “It always was, Maricruz. You didn’t want to kill me. In fact, somewhere in your subconscious you knew the gun wasn’t loaded.”

  Her eyes sparked, her lips firmly set. “What if I did?”

  “A grand gesture, signifying nothing.”

  “I suppose you know what he did to Lolita.”

  “I do.”

  “There’s no excuse.” She shook her head. “My fucking father.”

  In silence, he kept driving. After a while, he said, “How did you get along with your sister?”

  “How is it you know more about my family than I do?”

  “That’s the way it goes sometimes.”

  She gave him a penetrating look. “Do you know who my mother is?”

  “I met her last year when I was here.”

  Maricruz stared at him, dumbfounded. “I never knew who she was. I assumed she was dead, don’t ask me why—maybe because everything would be easier that way. I wouldn’t have to think why she abandoned me.”

  “Maybe she didn’t have a choice.”

  “People always have a choice.”

  “Even with your fucking father?”

  She let out a sound somewhere between a cough and a dry laugh. “Several months ago, Jidan handed me a slip of paper with her name and address on it. I saw that she was living here in Mexico City.”

  “But you haven’t gone to see her.”

  She shook her head. “I can’t decide.”

  “I have no idea who my parents were, if I have brothers or sisters. My past is a blank.”

  Bourne wondered if there was a person in the world who knew about his family. Anyone would know more about them than he did, he thought bitterly. The anger burned in the core of him, a white-hot flame that chilled, rather than warmed. He saw the world—his life—through the lens of eternal loss, the endless wasteland of not knowing who he was or where he came from. An eternal nomad, he spent his days searching for the unfindable; his nights spent in the dark war when all debts must be repaid, when all obligations will be settled.

  Retribution.

  Thank you,” she said at last, “for bringing me and my sister together.” When Bourne made no reply, she said, “What’s her real name?”

  “That’s for her to tell you.”

  “Javvy.” She cocked her head. “Dr. Javvy, that’s how Angél knows you.”

  “Does it matter?”

  Maricruz rested her head against the side window. “I suppose not. But still…she is my sister.”

  “Almost there,” Bourne said.

  Maricruz sat up straight. “And where might that be?”

  “A café. I’m supposed to meet an armorer.”

  “An armorer? What the hell do you need an armorer for?”

  “I was prepared to go after Matamoros to get to you. Now, with what’s happened, I have no doubt that Matamoros is going to come after you.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t understand. What do you want with me?”

  “I have a debt to settle with your husband.”

  “And you think I’m going to lead you to him?”

  “I think you already know he’s not the man you thought he was.”

  “I never thought he was anything,” Maricruz said, “besides a means to an end.”

  “A way to outdo your father.”

  “Now Maceo is dead, I control all of his businesses.”

  “What surprises me is how much energy you’re putting into this—his drug trade.”

  “It’s lucrative.”

  “So is everything else he owned.” Bourne sped up to overtake a lumbering semi. “You’ve been hiding out in Beijing in order to get as far away from him as possible. Now you don’t have to, but Mexico isn’t the place for you.”

  “I never said it was.”

  “And yet here you are, dealing with the underbelly of your father’s business, the link between him and your husband.” He gave her a quick look. “You see the irony, Maricruz. You fled halfway around the world to escape your father, only to meet him again in the form of Ouyang Jidan.”

  “Is that how you see it?”

  “The way you’re going, you’ll never be free of either of them.” He slowed for a light, then stopped. “Am I wrong in thinking you want to be your own person?”

  When they passed through the intersec

tion, she said, “Is there another way?”

  “Help me do what has to be done.”

  Her eyes raked his face. “What do I get out of it?”

  “The satisfaction of knowing you helped give a young woman her vengeance for being murdered.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “Think of Angél, of someone causing her to bleed out in the back of a Mexico City taxi.”

  They drove in silence for some time.

  At last, she said, “Was your wife really knifed to death or was that a lie, part of your cover?”

  “Not my wife, but it happened. Last year.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He made a turn. “When it’s done, Maricruz, you will be free. You have the means to do and be whatever you want.”

  She stared out the window, her hair blowing lightly, obscuring her cheek and her expression. “This trip to the armorer is really necessary?”

  “I have no intention of meeting with Felipe Matamoros with just a 9 mm in my hand.”

  She laughed harshly.

  Bourne slowed the truck and pulled into a parking space. He pointed down the block and across the street. “That café’s the meeting place.”

  Maricruz looked dubious. “Do you think it’s safe?”

  Bourne stared at the target area through the windshield speckled with mud and bird droppings. “I don’t for a minute trust the man who set this in motion.”

  “Then why are we here?”

  “I need what the armorer is selling.” Bourne saw Hale, sitting at a table in the open, sipping espresso and reading on a tablet. “Under certain circumstances he’ll give me what I want.”

  “What circumstances?”

  “At the point of death.”

  38

  I don’t like this,” Maricruz said. “It feels like a trap.”

  “It feels exactly like a trap,” Bourne acknowledged.

  “Let’s get out of here.”

  “When I’ve finished my business.”

  “How can you remain so cocksure?”

  “I have a plan.” Bending down, Bourne picked up the gun she had thrown into the foot well, and loaded it. Then he handed it to her. “My plan involves you. Think you’re up to it?”

  Bourne gave the verbal passcode to J. J. Hale as he sat down across from him. Hale, glancing up from his tablet, spoke the countersign.

  “Now that the formalities are behind us,” he said, “we can relax. Something to eat? How about a drink? The espresso is fantastic.”

  “Just weapons,” Bourne said.

  “A man of few words, eh?” Hale nodded. “I can appreciate that. I’ve been instructed to supply you with anything you need.”

  Bourne produced a list he had written up, passed it across the table to the armorer. Hale took it, glanced down at it, and whistled.

  “Planning to start your own little war?”

  “Do you really want to know?”

  He raised his hands, palms outward. “God, no. I was just making small talk. But I forget, you’re not one for small talk.”

  He tried to remain relaxed, but knowing that Ophir was behind him with a silenced gun caused his spine to stiffen, so that he sat as erect and still as a soldier on the parade ground.

  Giving the list another look, he said, “Most of this stuff I can get you right away, no problem. I can even get my hands on the grenade launcher, but the flamethrower is military issue. That’s another matter altogether.”

  “Meaning?”

  “It’ll take time.”

  “No,” Bourne said, “it won’t.”

  Hale looked up, his eyebrows raised. “D’you know something I don’t?”

  “I know what I need and when I need it.”

  “Give me twenty-four—”

  “You have an hour to get everything together.” Bourne’s eyes held Hale’s. “Everything.”

  Hale laughed uneasily. “Or what?”

  “Or I blow your brains out.”

  Hale failed to keep his laugh going.

  “Take a peek under the table,” Bourne said. “Go on.”

  Hale took a breath, which, despite his best effort, shuddered out of him. He shifted slightly, bent enough to glance under the table, saw the 9 mm pointed at his groin.

  “That’s a sick joke,” he said, returning to his former position.

  “I don’t make jokes.”

  Hale blinked. “Clearly.”

  “An hour, then.”

  Hale cursed silently. Why the hell hadn’t Ophir shot this son­of­a­bitch yet?

  Amir Ophir was a man with multiple masters. This seeming contradiction had never bothered him. He was an Israeli whose views had always differed from those of the people around him. Early on in life he had learned to keep his opinions to himself. As a boy, he had been exposed to any number of terrorist incursions, one of which took his brother in a fusillade of friendly fire. Perhaps it was the circumstances of his brother’s death that had made him ripe for being seduced, in the strictest sense.

  In any event, the money, laundered by Minister Ouyang from a bank in the Cayman Islands and amassing quietly in a Swiss bank account, did not hurt. His treason was an unholy amalgam of payback and greed, the perfect stew for a secret turncoat.

  All this passed through his mind as quickly as a flash of sunlight on water as he watched Bourne sitting opposite Hale not fifty feet from him. Without taking his eyes off Bourne, he reached into his carry-bag, brought out the silencer, which he attached to the .22. The pistol was a smaller caliber than he usually fired, but in this public setting and at this distance it was the weapon of choice.

  He double-checked that the Ruger was loaded, the chamber load indicator was on, the safety off. Then, covered by his napkin, he brought it up over the table. He was sighting in on Bourne’s head when he felt a cold steel gun muzzle pressed to the back of his head.

  “Hey, haven’t seen you in a while!”

  A female voice! He could scarcely believe it.

  A hearty clap on the back and an urgent whisper in his ear: “Put the pistol down.”

  For a hallucinatory moment, he thought it was Rebeka behind him, resurrected from the grave into which her coffin had been laid. He heard her voice reverberating in his ear and, heart racing, temples throbbing painfully, he all but cried out, My secret’s safe with you now you’re dead.

  Then a hand curled over his shoulder, took the Ruger, still wrapped in the napkin, out of his right hand and removed it from his sight.

  “Who are you?” he said.

  “You first.” Silence. “No?” She dug the muzzle into the nape of his neck. “Okay, let’s go ask people who know you.”

  When he didn’t move, she gripped his shoulder with surprising strength and whispered fiercely in his ear, “Get the fuck up!”

  Ophir stood, and, recalling Bourne’s admonition, Maricruz stepped back, out of range of his raised fist.

  “I’m ambidextrous,” she said, transferring the Ruger to her left hand.

  “You’re not going to shoot me in here.”

  “No?” She lifted the barrel of the concealed Ruger.

  “A silencer. Nice touch.”

  She walked him out onto the café’s terrace and sat him down between Bourne and the armorer.

  “As promised,” she said to Bourne.

  Bourne eyed Ophir. “Maricruz, I’d like you to meet Amir Ophir, Mossad’s head of assassinations and infiltration.”

  “Oh, Christ!” Hale said, one hand over his eyes.

  “Nothing’s turned out the way you expected,” Bourne said.

  “For you, either,” Ophir said. “The Federales are ready to string you up by your balls.”

  “Really? Why didn’t you simply tell them where I’d be?”

  “Because more than likely they’d fuck up the operation.”

  “Just like you did,” Maricruz said. She was standing behind him, both guns pressed through the rattan of the chair back.

  Bourne contemplated the

Mossad chief. “You’ve lost a great deal of your field tradecraft since Damascus. Time to retire, Amir.”

  Ophir grinned through gritted teeth. “Dream on, fucker.”

  At that moment Bourne cocked his head, heard the first faint sounds of police sirens. “You’re right, Amir. They did fuck it up.”

  Grabbing Hale, he backed away from the table, jerked his head for Maricruz to follow him.

  “See you around,” Ophir said. “Count on it.”

  Squeezed into the front seat of the truck three-abreast, Bourne said to Hale, “You’re taking us to your warehouse.” When the armorer made no reply, he added, “We can also do this the hard way.”

  “Makes no difference to me,” Hale said.

  Without seeming to move a muscle, Bourne slammed the edge of his right hand into Hale’s throat. The man made a croaking sound, bent as far double as he was able, and began to gasp for air.

  Bourne, glancing over him to Maricruz, said, “Sometimes there’s really no need for a gun.”

  Maricruz pulled the armorer’s head up by his damp hair. “How are you feeling, señor? Enjoying the ride?”

  He stared straight ahead, tears streaming out of his eyes. Nevertheless, he gave Bourne an address.

  A pair of police cruisers, blue roof lights revolving, sped past the truck, heading for the café they had just vacated. Bourne turned right at the next intersection, handed Maricruz his mobile.

  She nodded, pulled up Google Maps, entered the address Hale had recited. “Two blocks,” she said, “then make a left.”

  Between them, Hale was still gasping for air. He winced when he tried to massage his Adam’s apple. The area was red, already swollen.

  “This is no line of work for you, armorer,” Bourne said. “You’ve made the wrong friends.”

  Hale’s warehouse was an enormous self-storage facility on the outskirts of the city. Row upon row of identical concrete structures confronted them, their enormous corrugated iron doors rolled down and securely locked. The place reminded Bourne of a cemetery.

  The armorer directed the truck down the eighth aisle from the entrance. Halfway down he told Bourne to stop. Bourne took him out of the truck’s cab, Maricruz following. Hale fished a key out of his pocket and, squatting, opened the lock, unhooked it, then rolled the door up.