Page 27 of The Bourne Retribution (Jason Bourne 11)

  Flicking on a light switch, he led them into the cavernous interior, which was filled with crates of varying sizes and shapes that rose on three sides.

  “Look at this,” Bourne said, pointing out some crates to Maricruz, “Chinese manufacture. I wonder who you bought these weapons from, Hale. Could it have been Minister Ouyang?”

  The armorer coughed. “What was it you need again?”

  “I gave you a list.”

  “It’s gone right out of my head.” He was sweating profusely. “After what…” His hand went to his swollen throat. “After what happened I can’t put two thoughts together.”

  Bourne told him, and he nodded dully, went from place to place bringing out the items Bourne asked for, plus the various forms of ammo to go with the weapons.

  “Don’t forget the flamethrower,” Bourne said, taking up the grenade launcher, feeling its weight on his right shoulder. When Hale brought out the flamethrower, Bourne added, “So much for the twenty-four-hour wait.”

  Hale helped him load the truck with the four hard cases that contained the weapons. Bourne told Maricruz to get back in the cab. After she had done so, Bourne turned to Hale and said in a low voice, “I don’t trust that woman. I need an easily concealed handgun.”

  “Then we’re through?” the armorer asked.

  “Then we’re through.”

  A wave of relief passed over Hale’s face, and he turned back inside the storage space. “I’ve got just the thing.”

  “I’m sure you do,” Bourne said, as he slid the corrugated iron door down, stooped, and affixed the lock, snapping it shut.

  He thought he heard the tiny echo of Hale’s voice from inside, but he couldn’t be sure. He turned away, swung up behind the wheel, and put the truck in gear.

  “Do you know how to get in touch with Matamoros?” Bourne said as he drove out of the storage facility.

  “Of course.”

  “Use my mobile. Find out where he is. Set up a meet.”

  Maricruz nodded. She punched in a number, put the phone to her ear.

  “Felipe. Yes, it’s me…It’s a long story, but I’m fine, which is more than I can say for Carlos. Sí, sí, he’s done…Where are you, San Luis Potosí?…No?…Here in Mexico City. We need to—”

  At that moment, a black Chevy, running a red light, slammed into the truck’s side with the force of a battering ram.

  39

  When Carlos Danda Carlos was transported from the courthouse where the judge had remanded him to prison awaiting his trial, he had been stripped of his uniform. With it went his dignity, not to mention the major part of his identity.

  The judge who had remanded him was one of the many formerly on Carlos’s payroll. He had been to Carlos’s villa for dinner numerous times, had partaken of Carlos’s stock of vintage wines and cigars, had had his pick of the girls who had been bused in for the after-dinner festivities. But on this day, his voice had been as cold as his eyes. He might never have laid eyes on Carlos before. And who could blame him? Such was the pressure exerted by el presidente, he’d had no choice. Neither had el presidente. The worldwide press had descended on the courthouse, roosting in its eaves while feasting on the sight of the former chief of Mexico’s anti-drug enforcement agency being led away in handcuffs. The judge had thrown Carlos to the wolves, just as any loyal civil servant would have done.

  Carlos inside prison was not a pretty picture. All his bravado washed down the drain as he scrubbed the harsh lye-based soap over his naked body under the jaundiced eye of a smirking prison guard. He had heard the stories, read the reports of grisly murders taking place in prison showers, a favorite haunt of psychopaths and those seeking revenge for insults real and imagined. He had read these reports with a glacial indifference, secure in the knowledge that they belonged to another world entirely. Now, incredibly, he was part of that world. How quickly life turns upside down! he thought, almost reduced to tears.

  As he was rinsing off, a pair of inmates entered the tiled area, taking possession of the showerheads on either side of him. Their bare bodies were thick, muscled, brutish, covered with more tattoos than hair. To Carlos, they appeared to be part of another species altogether, one that, unlike himself, belonged behind bars.

  They soaped up, watching him with the same peculiar concentration as the guard. Carlos, heart pounding in his throat, felt his scrotum contract. There was a roiling in his lower belly, as if it were filled with squirming eels. Finished with his rinse, he turned off the taps, whipped his thin towel off its wooden peg, and wrapped his nether regions, hurrying across the tiles without taking the time to dry off.

  “Late for an appointment, pendejo?” the guard sneered. As Carlos went to pass him, he grabbed him, whispered in his ear, “Te agarró con la mano en la masa, pendejo.” They caught you red-handed, asshole.

  Carlos tensed, but when that only brought a scowl to the guard’s face, he willed his body to go slack, to paste a meek expression on his face.

  “That’s better,” the guard said, letting him go.

  Carlos scurried back to his cell, where his uniform was waiting for him, cleaned, pressed, and neatly folded. For a moment, he could scarcely believe what he was seeing. Then, in something of a daze, he dressed. Was he being released? Had his “pocket judge” come through, after the press had turned its spotlight to the next scandal?

  The moment he finished straightening his tie, a guard appeared outside his cell. Unlocking the door, he beckoned Carlos out.

  “Warden wants a word, señor,” he said, his tone and demeanor the polar opposite of the guards at the showers.

  With each step, Carlos’s heart grew lighter. His head swam with plots to enact his revenge on the people who had so humiliated him. The closer he came to the warden’s office the less forbidding the corridor and the people inhabiting it looked. Carlos became more and more comfortable, feeling with each step that he was closer to being on the other side of the bars, out of this hellhole, back to the life that was his due.

  The guard stopped outside a large mahogany door, engraved with a bas-relief of the eagle with a serpent in its mouth, landing on a nopal cactus—the sigil of Mexico City when it was known by its Aztec name, Tenochtitlán.

  The guard rapped on the door, heard the word, “Come,” and opened the door for Carlos. He stayed outside, closing the door behind the well-dressed prisoner after he had crossed the threshold.

  The warden’s office was square, high-ceilinged, as stately as a barrister’s study. The walls were lined with books on mahogany shelves, the floor covered with an Oriental carpet. The warden himself sat behind a massive, intricately carved oak desk that looked at least a hundred years old. He glanced up at Carlos, smiled, and gestured him to a comfortable-looking oak chair facing him.

  “My personal condolences for the way you have been treated, señor.” He spread his hands. “You better than anyone else understand how delicate this matter is. Why, just an hour ago I received a call from el presidente himself. So you understand…” His smile turned rueful. “Unfortunately, there is only so much even a man in my position can do…without the proper…incentive.”

  “No se puede resistir el cañonazo,” Carlos said. You can’t resist an enormous bribe. “Is that it?”

  “In a nutshell.”

  “That can be arranged.”

  The warden nodded. “You understand that for the moment at least release is out of the question.” He clucked his tongue. “Not to worry. A week or two, you’ll live like a king here. Then, when you’re transferred out for the trial, an unforeseen accident will befall the vehicle transporting you. I personally guarantee you’ll never see the inside of that courtroom again. How does that sound?”

  “And the amount?”

  The warden scribbled on a scratch pad, tore off the sheet, folded it in half, and passed it across the desktop. Carlos picked it up, opened it, and read the figure.

  “This can be managed,” he said.

  “Please enlighten me, seño

r. Your accounts have been frozen.”

  “Only the known ones. If you give me access to your laptop a transfer can be arranged instantaneously.”

  The warden tapped his forefinger against his lips for a moment, thinking the idea through. “I’m reluctant to give you free rein on my computer.”

  “Stay here while I do it. Watch me from where you’re sitting now.”

  “I’ll have to give you my private banking information.”

  “Yes, you will.”

  “I’m extremely reluctant to do that.”

  Carlos thought for a moment. “Change the online passcode the moment I’m done transferring the money.”

  “Hmm, okay. I guess that’ll secure the account.” The warden gave Carlos the information, then swung the laptop around to face him and sat back. “No funny business now.”

  “I’ll tell you what I’m doing as I’m doing it,” Carlos said. “How’s that?”

  The warden still looked dubious. “Let’s see it in action.”

  Hitching himself forward, Carlos began to work the laptop’s keyboard, giving a running commentary as he moved from step to step.

  “Okay, I’m online…I have navigated to my bank’s website…I’m inputting my security code and answering three security questions…All right, I’m logged onto the site…Now I’m going to access my account…There, I’m in. I’ll begin to transfer the amount you requested as soon as I input your account information.”

  As Carlos talked the warden through the procedure, the warden surreptitiously opened a drawer in his desk, took out a Colt .45 revolver with custom mother-of-pearl grips, a prized possession long coveted, given to him as a gift. He always kept it loaded and at the ready; inside a Mexican prison you never knew who was going to step through your door.

  “I’m about to make the transfer,” Carlos said.

  “Señor Carlos.” As Carlos lifted his head, the warden continued, “Felipe Matamoros sends his felicitations on your final journey.”

  Carlos barely had time to register shock before a red hole bloomed in the center of his forehead. As he rocked backward, the warden leapt deftly from his chair and grabbed his laptop before it slipped out of Carlos’s nerveless fingers.

  The door to the warden’s office swung open, revealing the guard who had brought the prisoner from his cell. He looked at the warden, ignoring the corpse. “Another prisoner trying to escape, boss?”

  “They never learn, Juan,” the warden said, his gaze fixed on the laptop’s screen. “Time to take out the trash.”

  As Juan hoisted the body off the chair and removed it, the warden finished inputting his account information. Then he changed the funds to be transferred to the entire amount in Carlos’s account, which was even more than he had imagined. It was, in fact, a staggering sum. Not to worry. His friend Felipe, who had given him the Colt as a present this past Christmas, had said he could keep whatever was in Carlos’s account. Yes, indeed, the warden thought, as he pressed the ENTER key initiating the electronic transfer, Felipe Matamoros was the best friend a man could have.

  Glass shattered, metal shrieked as it contorted into grotesque shapes. The immense impact caused the truck to rear up on two wheels, roll over onto its side, then come to a quivering rest upside down. Its tires spun uselessly, its engine whined. Steam vented from the cracked and rapidly overheating engine. Then all was still, as if the world were holding its breath.

  The calm was shortly shattered by the sound of footsteps headed directly toward the truck. Amir Ophir trotted up to the upside-down vehicle, Beretta in hand. Peering into the cab on the driver’s side, he saw Bourne and the woman hanging upside down, caught in the frayed webbing of the seat belts like flies in a spiderweb.

  The woman was clearly unconscious, but as he reached inside to take Bourne’s pulse, Bourne’s eyes opened and his right hand slashed out toward Ophir’s face. Ophir knocked it away with a smile.

  “Not this time, Bourne.” He gripped Bourne’s throat in an icy grip. “You have been a thorn in my side long enough.”

  He raised the Beretta, but got it only halfway to the window before Bourne pulled the trigger on the gun in his left hand. The bullet smashed into Ophir’s forehead with such force it blew the back of his head off.

  Ophir’s eyes rolled up as he dropped from Bourne’s sight. Bourne, still groggy from the crash, unsnapped his seat belt, then turned to Maricruz. He saw blood smeared across her face, but quickly determined she had sustained only superficial cuts from flying glass.

  As he maneuvered her out of the harness, he heard police sirens approaching. His door was inoperative, so he clambered out the window. Grasping Maricruz under her arms, he dragged her out after him. Sliding her into his arms, he staggered over to the Chevy that Ophir had drove into them. He almost passed out from the effort, though the distance was less than twenty feet.

  Placing her in the passenger’s seat, he slid behind the wheel, and was gratified to realize that the engine was still running smoothly, though with the crumpled front end he couldn’t be certain how long that would last. Back at the truck, he salvaged the suitcases with the items Hale had reluctantly provided, shoved them into the backseat of the Chevy.

  Putting the car in gear, he drove off, fighting back the darkness at the periphery of his vision. Behind him, the sirens were loud enough for him to estimate the cops were only blocks away.

  He turned a corner, saw traffic stalled up ahead, backed up, and took another street. The sudden movement jerked Maricruz awake. She groaned, her eyes fluttering open. Turning her head toward Bourne caused her to wince in pain and rub the back of her neck.

  “What the hell happened?”

  “Ophir, the Mossad agent from the café, ran into us with this car.”

  “I hope he broke both his legs.”

  “That would’ve made him lucky,” Bourne said, making another turn. “He’s got a bullet in his brain.” He lifted the gun. “Sometimes a gun is the only way.”

  She laughed, then immediately held her head in her hands. “Oh, wow.”

  “We need a little downtime before we tackle your friend Felipe.”

  “Where the hell are we going to go? Lolita’s?”

  “I don’t want to endanger her any more than I already have,” Bourne said. “And there’s Angél’s safety to consider.”

  “A hotel is out.”

  “Too many questions, especially in the shape we’re in.”

  “Then where?”

  “You’ve already met one member of your family,” he said. “Time to meet the other.”

  You’re nuts if you think I’m setting foot in there,” Maricruz said.

  “I’m afraid you don’t have a choice,” Bourne told her. “Constanza Camargo is our only safe port of call.”

  Bourne had parked the Chevy outside a beautiful mansion inhabiting the corner of Alejandro Dumas and Luis G Urbina, in the swanky Colonia Polanco. Its limestone facade sparkled in the sunlight, but the front steps were already in shadow. The steps had been widened to accommodate a ramp built into their center, running from the sidewalk to the front door.

  Looking around, Maricruz pointed out the window. “That’s Lincoln Park over there.” She shook her head and groaned. “On the other side of it is Castelar Street and my father’s villa.”

  “Your mother spent most of her adult life within spitting distance of the man she had loved.”

  “Love!” Maricruz snorted. “What did my father know of love? He was a satyr. And as for my mother—”

  “Constanza is something of an enigma—even, I think, to herself.”

  “That doesn’t make me want to meet her.”

  “Why not? In that regard, I suspect you’re very much like her.”

  “You can’t make me do it.”

  “I know better than to try to force you into anything.” He turned to her. “But the situation is this: You and I both need food and rest. We can’t stay here in the car. In fact, I need to get rid of it as quickly as possible

. It stands out like a sore thumb here in Polanco. The bottom line, Maricruz, is we need a safe haven.”

  “How do you know you can trust her?”

  “I don’t, but I’m not seeing an alternative.”

  “I can’t.” Maricruz shook her head. “I won’t.”

  Bourne got out of the Chevy, walked around, and opened her slightly crumpled door. Their eyes met for a long moment, then Maricruz said, “Shit,” and slid out. As she hit the sidewalk her legs started to buckle, and Bourne scooped her up.

  “Put me down,” she said, “I can walk on my own.” But her voice was weak and her eyes were going in and out of focus.

  Bourne was now concerned that she might have a concussion. “Look at me. Maricruz, look at me!”

  Hurrying across the sidewalk, he went up the steps to Constanza Camargo’s house, swung Maricruz around so he could press the bell.

  He had to ring twice, but eventually the door opened, revealing a hulking presence.

  “Hola, Manny,” Bourne said, addressing Constanza’s driver-bodyguard-assistant.

  “You’re the last person I ever expected to see again.”

  “What a greeting.” Bourne took a step forward. “Let us in, Manny.”

  The big man blocked their way. “I think not. The señora will not want to see you.”

  “Maybe not,” Bourne said, “but she’ll want to see her daughter.”

  40

  Manny staggered slightly as if he’d had a stroke, and Bourne carried Maricruz into the entryway of the house. Manny, looking white as a sheet, belatedly closed the door, then trotted after Bourne as he lay Maricruz down on one of the plush sofas in the living room.

  As she sank into the downy cushions, Maricruz uttered a tiny moan and her eyes started to close. Bourne pinched her, and when her eyes flew open, he said, “Maricruz, you might have a concussion. You can’t fall asleep. Do you understand?”