The Bourne Retribution (12 page)

“Nevertheless, it’s for you to decide.”

“Allow me to make some calls.” He gestured. “Help yourself to some coffee—anything you want.”

“You know what I want.”

He smiled and left the room, an aroma of Cuban tobacco trailing after him. Maricruz thought of calling Jidan, but her acute sense that nothing was secure here gave her pause. There was nowhere in this vast villa or even on its grounds where she could be certain of not being overheard. Instead she amused herself with imagining outrageous erotic scenarios.

Twenty minutes later, Matamoros returned. He said nothing, only nodded to her.

Maricruz felt relief and also excitement surging through her. This was why she had come; this was what she was born to do: forging new ties, new alliances that would outstrip anything her father had ever dared attempt.

“We’ll go forward, Felipe.” Reaching across the table, she took his hard, callused hand in hers. “The future will be ours.”

Y
ue led Bourne through the narrow, impossibly teeming streets of Huangpu, limping less and less heavily, batting away his offers of help. They had been traveling for nearly half an hour, but she hadn’t paused for even a moment.

Taking him beneath the sign announcing
THE
CHINA
SEAS
PEARL
, she entered the small but elegant store that seemed more suited to the upscale Pudong district across the river. But perhaps that was its secret, for it was packed with tourists eager to pay less for first-rate pearls than at the sky-high–priced shops along the Bund. The shop was the brainchild of Sam Zhang, who, when he heaved his bulk through the front door shortly after Yue asked for him, was slightly out of breath from his walk from Dongbei Ren, where he had left Retzach eating his steamed dumplings.

Zhang led a complicated life, one that was, at times, enervatingly difficult. He had stolen the idea of playing both sides against the other when, in a darkened movie theater, he had watched Clint Eastwood rid a town of its two warring bandit clans by doing just that. After that, he watched
A Fistful of Dollars
almost every week until he knew each scene by heart and could quote every line of dialogue.

The lessons of the film’s plot had stood him in good stead for close to two decades. While treading a path as narrow as a balance beam, and far more perilous, would have made most men quail, Zhang thrived on the adrenaline rush. Or at least he had. Lately, sleep deserting him, he found himself dreaming of a less complicated existence, somewhere far from jam-packed China.

By its very capitalist nature, Shanghai had become the nexus point for the clandestine affairs of both East and West. Zhang was simply taking advantage of the benefits derived from both the business and geography of the city of his birth.

Zhang greeted Yue warmly; he had a genuine affection for her, unusual for him. In his line of duplicity, it was often fatal to get emotionally involved with his clients; however, her history as she had related it to him had affected him deeply. He had been a child of the streets, like her, and like her he was an orphan, dependent on his own wits as well as the occasional kindness of strangers for his survival. This years-long trial by fire had made him tougher, smarter, more self-reliant—all qualities he recognized in Yue. If not by blood, then spiritually, she was like the daughter he’d never had.

He was doubly dismayed, however, when he became aware of her injury, and how she had gotten hurt. Then he spotted the man with her. Having been shown Bourne’s photo by Retzach, Zhang, of course, recognized him instantly. When she told him that this man had saved her life, he knew he had erred in agreeing to help Retzach find him. Wondering how he could call off the man who even now was heading toward his rendezvous at Dongbei Ren without causing Retzach to become suspicious, he led the two into his office at the rear of the shop.

The walls, painted a pale green, were covered with black-and-white photos of slim pearl divers swimming powerfully underwater, surfacing in glittering stop-motion sprays of water, grinning as they displayed their finds, as they dug pearls out of the tender, meaty flesh. Behind his simple desk was a wall safe and a filing cabinet. His swivel chair groaned as he lowered himself.

He waved them to jute-seated chairs and, smiling, though his racing heart was increasingly troubled, said, “How can I help you, little sister?”

“This afternoon Wei-Wei was killed, but I imagine you know this because you know everything that goes on in Shanghai.”

Zhang did not contradict her with false modesty. He
did
know everything that went on in his city—everything of import. Instead he said, “Go on.”

“Three days ago, Wei-Wei hired me to keep him safe.”

Zhang nodded, studying her carefully.

“I failed,” Yue said miserably. “He was killed by Amma. You know Amma.”

“I do.” There was no point in denying the obvious.

“You knew him,” Bourne corrected. “Yue shot him with a dart dipped in a cyanide derivative.”

Zhang pressed his thumb and forefinger into his eyes, massaging a headache that was forming behind them.

“Why did Colonel Sun send Amma to kill Wei-Wei?” Bourne asked.

Zhang hesitated a moment. “You know who Sun works for?” he asked Bourne.

“Ouyang Jidan.”

Zhang nodded appreciatively. “So you know the players.”

“Not all, I think.”

“Allow me, then, to describe them to you.” The big man shifted his bulk. “Ouyang is in a battle to the death with his nemesis, Cho Xilan. Both men are in the Politburo, but that’s where any similarity ends. Cho is the secretary of the powerful Chongqing Party—stocked with reactionaries ready to set China back three decades or more. On the other hand, Ouyang is a progressive.”

“He’s also up to his eyeballs in the drug trade out of Mexico,” Bourne said.

Zhang raised a porky forefinger. “And therein lies the rub. For years now, Cho has been trying to catch Ouyang in this game, but Ouyang has always succeeded in outsmarting him. Now, however, because of the imminent Party Congress that will set new leaders in the Politburo and determine the direction of the country for the next decade, their feud is coming to a head.

“Cho will do anything to uncover Ouyang’s illegitimate dealings with the Mexican cartels, and now, perhaps, he’s found the crack in Ouyang’s armor. Maceo Encarnación’s recent death has changed everything. Up until that point, Encarnación was acting as Ouyang’s shield; he made Ouyang invulnerable. Now he’s gone and, sensing victory, Cho is closing in for the kill. On the other hand, Cho is so desperate to get Ouyang he may have left himself open to an attack.”

Yue shook her head. “How does this have anything to do with Wei-Wei’s murder?”

“Ah, well,” Zhang said, “the largest of battles always begins at the margins, out of sight of the principals. It’s the way the principals want it.”

He took out a bottle of whiskey and three glasses, pouring out dollops and handing over the glasses. He downed his drink in one gulp, then poured himself a double. “Wei-Wei is Ouyang’s creature.”

“Wait a minute,” Bourne said. “He’s a Mossad asset.”

Zhang smiled. “Welcome to Shanghai, dear sir.” He swallowed more whiskey, smacking his lips. “So now we have the first foray in the war’s endgame: Amma is controlled by Captain Lim, who reports to Colonel Sun. And you know who Colonel Sun reports to.”

“Ouyang,” Bourne said. “But if what you say is correct, Ouyang ordered his own asset killed. Which means that Wei-Wei had become a liability.”

At that moment the woman they had seen in the front of the shop entered the office, so clearly shaken that she did not even knock first. Hurrying around the side of the desk, she bent to whisper in Zhang’s ear.

His eyes widened before he dismissed her. When they were alone again, he rolled his chair to one side and beckoned them. “Speaking of Captain Lim has summoned him from the precincts of hell.”

“He’s here?” Bourne said.

Zhang nodded. “With enough men to surround the shop.” He beckoned again. “Come, come! There’s no time to waste.”

He pointed down to the small rug on which his chair had sat. Pulling it back on itself, Bourne discovered a cunningly fitted trapdoor.

“It leads to the basement,” Zhang said as Bourne opened the door by pulling on a brass ring. “You’ll find a kerosene lamp and a box of wooden matches in a niche on the wall as you go down the ladder. An exit from the basement will lead you through a tunnel with many branchings. Keep always to the left. Just beyond the fourth branching you’ll find your way out.” He lifted a forefinger. “But have a care, the tunnels are old and crumbling.”

They could hear a commotion from the front of the store—the insistent snap of Captain Lim’s voice and the answering wail of the woman who had delivered the news of his imminent arrival.

“Quickly, now,” Zhang said. “Go, go! I’ll take care of our army friend.”

Bourne went down a vertical wooden ladder, then, reaching up, took Yue in his arms. As they slowly descended, she pulled a cord that closed the door after them. A moment later they heard Captain Lim’s voice raised in anger and frustration seeping through the floorboards directly over their heads, then the sharp report of a handgun’s discharge.

12

S
am Zhang did not know that Retzach was Israeli, let alone a Kidon operative. He knew him as Jesse Long, and although he assumed that was a legend name he was not interested in his real one. He was not in the habit of digging into his clients’ private lives; any hint to them that he was snooping around would have caused his business to tank overnight.

As a result, Captain Lim knew less about Retzach than Zhang did. Zhang did, however, know that Sun, through Lim, was looking for Bourne, which is why Zhang had contacted Lim and told him to meet “Jesse Long” at Dongbei Ren. There was a level of instant mutual dislike between the men, which only deepened for Lim when he discovered that Long was after the same man he had been tasked to capture.

Long was properly vague when Lim asked him why he was trying to find Bourne, which led the captain to make the assumption—false though it was—that the Western operative was from the American Central Intelligence Agency.

Lim, who had his men tracking Bourne since the incident in the Huangpu tunnel, had no intention of divulging to Long anything pertaining to Bourne. He feigned ignorance, but he was unsure whether or not Long believed him. His skepticism proved well founded when he discovered Long was shadowing him. Unluckily for him, he didn’t find this out until he had deployed his men around Sam Zhang’s pearl shop.

Lim caught a glimpse of him in the crowd that was forming in the street along which The China Seas Pearl was located. Briefly, he thought about dispatching one of his men to detain Long, but decided that any hesitation on his part would give Bourne the chance he needed to escape.

Striding into the shop, he ordered his men to clear out the customers in an orderly fashion, which proved more difficult than he had foreseen. The Western women who bought pearls from Zhang were all wealthy, their husbands powerful in business and politics. They weren’t used to being rounded up by cops—and Chinese ones, at that—and frog-marched out onto the street, there to be ogled like apes in a cage.

Shouting matches arose. Then one woman shoved a cop who had gotten too close, and began to beat on him. A cry rose up from the surrounding crowd. As they began to surge forward, Lim knew the trouble was about to escalate. He sent his trusted lieutenant out the front door to deal with the crisis while he rushed through the now nearly deserted shop, pulled open the door to Zhang’s office, and roughly pushed his way through the opening.

What he saw was this: Sam Zhang, massive as a whale, sitting behind his desk, drinking whiskey from a glass. A second glass sat beside the bottle, and when Lim rushed in, Zhang leaned his bulk forward, chair loudly creaking in protest, filled a third of the glass, and pushed it across the desktop.

“Welcome, Captain. This is a surprise.”

“I’ll bet it is,” Lim said caustically.

Zhang smiled. “Sit down. Have a drink. You look like you need to calm your nerves.”

“Where is he?” Lim said, hands on hips.

“Where’s who?”

Lim stepped forward menacingly. “Don’t give me that.” He reached for his holstered sidearm. “Jason Bourne.”

“That name is unfamiliar to me,” Zhang said truthfully.

“He was seen going in here.”

Zhang shrugged. “Then he left. I’ve only been visited by my little sister, Yue.”

“Listen, now—”

“She was hurt, you know. She—”

Lim raised his pistol and fired at the ceiling. Plaster rained down across Sam Zhang’s desk. He was just able to save his glass of whiskey, but the one he’d poured for Lim was now filled with shards and dust.

“You’ve wasted a glass of fine whiskey, Captain.” Zhang shook his head. “Unforgivable behavior.”

Lim lowered his pistol. “The next one will go through your heart.”

“And where will that get you, Captain? I’m telling the truth. The man you’re seeking isn’t here.”