The Bourne Retribution (38 page)

“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.

G
lass 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.”

Y
ou’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

M
anny 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?”

She nodded, then winced.

“Where is the pain?”

“Behind my eyes, at the back of my head.”

Bourne slipped his hand under her head, felt the lump under her hair. The truck’s bench seat lacked headrests. “You hit your head. You’ll be okay, just keep awake.”

She reached out for him. “Help me sit up.”

He moved her slowly and evenly.

“That’s better,” she said with a sigh.

“Manny, we need water and some food. Also a painkiller for Maricruz.”

“I don’t know whether my stomach can take anything,” Maricruz said.

“Try anyway.” Bourne turned. “Manny!”

Manny was staring at Maricruz. “I see the señora in her face. I…I don’t know what to say.”

“Get us what we need instead of talking,” Bourne said. “And let Constanza know we’re here.”

“I…” Manny stood frozen.

“What is it?” Bourne said, impatient. He stood. “If you won’t tell her I will.”

“Listen, listen…” Manny licked his lips, as nervous now as a cat in the rain. “The señora is ill. Very ill. She has not been out of bed for weeks now. To be honest, she should be in the hospital, but she refuses to leave here. She says the only way she’ll be taken out of her home is feet-first.”

“What’s the matter with her?”

“No one knows.” Manny shrugged. “A virus, maybe. Whatever it is, it seems to be slowly killing her.”

“Let me see her.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, señor. She’s very weak.”

“I want to see her.”

Both men turned to see Maricruz struggling to get to her feet. Bourne helped her up.

“I heard what you said,” Maricruz said. “I want to see her.” She turned to Bourne. “No, don’t carry me. I want to be on my feet when I see her. I feel enough like a child right now as it is.”

Manny nodded, relenting. He was about to lead them up the stairs when Bourne said, “I’ll meet you upstairs.”

Bourne went swiftly back to the entry and out the front door. He got the cases out of the Chevy and brought them back inside, leaving them in the entry. Hearing a car pull up outside, he peered out one of the door’s sidelights. A police cruiser had stopped beside the battered Chevy. A pair of uniforms emerged. They seemed inordinately interested in the crumpled front, which no doubt had chips of paint from the truck it had plowed into. The police here might be incompetent, Bourne thought, but they could also be relentless.

Taking out the badge he’d pulled off the detective, Bourne opened the door, trotted down the steps and across the sidewalk.

Holding up the badge, he said with a great deal of officiousness, “Can I help you fellows?”

One of the cops, a whip-thin, swarthy man with the nose of an Olmec, said, “We’ve been looking for a vehicle involved in a collision and shooting in Taxqueña.”

“You’re a long way from there. What are you doing in Polanco?”

“We go where we’re needed.”

This from Whip-thin’s partner, rising up like a wild boar from where he had been examining the Chevy’s crushed front grille. He had a wide face the color of suet, punctuated by little piggy eyes and a bow of a mouth that was almost feminine. He was older than Whip-thin and obviously the senior in rank.

“Doesn’t matter,” Bourne said. “This is my investigation.”

Piggy came around the front of the Chevy, squinted at Bourne’s badge. “
What’s
your investigation?”

“The homicide.”

Piggy was full of bluster and belligerence. “What d’you know about it?” He’d obviously been fucked over by suits many times before. There was only one way to handle people like him.

Bourne stepped toward him. “I know the victim’s a foreign national. After the mess over the dead Chinese we’re still trying to clean up, this latest shooting has been elevated to the highest level.”

“Which means you, does it, suit?”

“It sure as hell doesn’t mean you, Sergeant. Why don’t you and your
niño
get the hell out of here before I radio in a report about you.”

“Fuck you, suit.” But Piggy signaled to his partner and the two of them retreated to the cruiser. “We’ve got bigger tacos to fry than this shit.” Piggy slid behind the wheel, his partner got in beside him, and the cruiser took off.

When Bourne was certain they had gone for good, he went back out to get rid of the Chevy.

M
anny led Maricruz down the richly patterned, second-floor hallway. The mahogany floorboards gleamed beneath their feet, the walls were hung with expensive artwork by Diego Rivera, Frida Kahlo, and Gabriel Orozco.

Once, when she faltered, Manny turned back, held out a steadying hand. “Are you sure you’re up to this, señorita?”

Maricruz smiled through her acute trepidation. “I’m a married woman, Manny.”

“
Perdóneme
, señora.”

“It’s all right, Manny. Let’s go.”

He nodded, leading her to a wide olivewood door, the center of which was carved into the shapes of birds sitting in the gently curving branches of a tree. He knocked on the door and called out, “Señora, you have a visitor.”

He opened the door, though Maricruz could not discern whether or not he had received a reply. The master bedroom suite was spacious, though not as large as she had imagined during her early childhood spent in her father’s extravagant villa just across the park. Also, there were no religious icons, no portraits of Jesus. The papered walls were unadorned save for a Mary Cassatt painting of a mother smiling down at an angelic child cradled in her arms, which faced the bed.