“You’ll confess,” Maricruz said, her flinty edge reappearing with renewed vigor. “You’ll tell us everything or I will end your treacherous life right here.”
Bourne, who had been inclined to intervene should Bernarda try to escape, decided it would be far more informative to watch Maricruz at work. He had already witnessed the soft side of her, now it was time to further study the courageous, iron-willed woman who had crossed continents, isolating herself, to defeat the will of her father.
Manny stepped forward. “Señor, perhaps the police should be called. This isn’t right.”
Bourne held him back. “You know better, Manny. The police have no place here.”
“That was Maceo’s way,” Manny said stiffly.
“In the end, it’s my way, too,” Constanza told him.
The two men watched as Maricruz’s grip on Bernarda turned vicious. Her nails, digging into the sides of the cook’s neck, drew blood. Constanza seemed mesmerized; she crawled to the foot of the bed, where her daughter had the cook pinned to her knees.
“I brought you into this house at your cousin’s request,” Constanza said. Despite her unnatural pallor, her eyes blazed as in the old days when she was a young woman in full flower. The presence of the beloved daughter she had been convinced she’d never see again had reinvigorated her, for the time being rallying her against the pernicious effects of the small amounts of arsenic Bernarda had been stirring into her hot chocolate. “She told me that you had been mistreated, that your stepfather beat you, that he even turned you out of the house when he was sufficiently drunk.”
“All this is true, señora.” Bernarda’s words came out thin and half strangled. “This I swear.”
“It is not possible to believe you now.” Constanza crept closer to her. “Did I mistreat you in some way—any way?”
“No, señora.”
“Did I not take you in, pay you a fair wage, give you presents for Christmas and your birthday?”
“You did, señora.”
“Did I not carefully listen to your woes and help you to the best of my abilities?”
“You did, señora.”
At last, Constanza sat on the foot of the bed. Without warning, she slapped Bernarda hard across one cheek, then the other, causing the woman to whimper and weep again.
“Then what the fuck is your explanation for poisoning me?”
Bernarda hung her head, and when she spoke her voice was just above a whisper. “Blood is thicker than water, señora.”
Constanza’s eyes opened wide in a combination of shock and horror. “That’s it? ‘Blood is thicker than water’? That’s your explanation?”
“I was ordered to do—Maceo’s family still holds power,” Bernarda murmured. “People have long memories, especially in our family, where bitterness and hate are taken in with mother’s milk.”
With a guttural sound in the back of her throat, Maricruz switched her grip on the cook and with one swift movement broke her neck. She slumped as Bernarda fell to the floor.
In pain, Maricruz turned to her mother. “Now we take you to the hospital, Mama.”
42
Ophir is dead,” Dani Amit said as he strode into the Director’s office. “Shot to death at the scene of a collision in Mexico City.”
“That would be Bourne,” Director Yadin said with no little relief. “Magniv!” Great!
“So now he’s done your dirty work for you, you should drop him like a hot stone.”
Yadin looked up at his head of Collections. “Why would I do that, Dani?”
“Bourne is dangerous. He’s too dangerous to fool around with. Even this—if he found out how you manipulated him—could cause a blowback of epic proportions.”
The Director swiveled around to stare out across the rooftops of Tel Aviv. “His work isn’t finished, and it’s too important to have him stop now.” Yadin passed a hand across his face. “And to be perfectly honest, even if I wanted to stop him, I very much doubt I could.” He turned back to face Amit. “Ophir tried, and look how he ended up.”
“There are others who—”
“Dammit, stay out of this, Dani!” The Director’s voice was as sharp and direct as a knife blade. “That’s a direct order.”
Minister Ouyang arrived at Beijing Capital International Airport fifteen minutes before his plane was scheduled to take off. But when his driver opened the door to his white SUV and he stepped out, he found himself facing Kai.
“What are you doing here?” Ouyang said. “This trip is need-to-know.”
There was something odd in Kai’s manner, a nervousness that bordered on anxiety.
An alarm bell went off in Ouyang’s head. “What’s the matter?”
“Let’s get a drink.”
“I don’t have time for a drink. My flight is minutes away from leaving.”
When Ouyang made to step around Kai, his friend kept himself between Ouyang and the doors to the departures hall.
“There will be another flight,” Kai said.
“Kai, you know that Maricruz has been injured. I sent Colonel Sun to find out what happened.”
“You should not have done that, Jidan. Now comes word that Sun is dead.”
“Why do you think I’m on my way to Mexico City?”
“To compound your mistake? You never should have allowed your wife to leave your side.”
“It was a business decision,” Ouyang said, somewhat stiffly.
Kai took a step toward him. “There will be no next flight, Jidan.”
Ouyang bristled. “Who are you to give me ultimatums?”
“This isn’t an ultimatum.” Kai looked sad. “It’s an order.”
“What? This is my wife we’re talking about. Who would dare—?”
“He’s waiting for you.” Kai pointed to an enormous armored limousine. “There.”
“I don’t have time for this, Kai.”
“Make time, Jidan.”
Ouyang turned to his driver, who had made no attempt to remove his luggage from the back of the SUV. Instead he stood facing away from the two men, smoking a cigarette as if he had not a care in the world. Was he in on this also? Ouyang asked himself.
Kai held out an arm. “This way, Minister.”
Kai hadn’t called him Minister in many years; they were too close for formalities.
Ouyang walked ahead of Kai to where the limousine sat waiting, engine purring like a great jungle cat. The rear door opened as he approached and, ducking his head, he stepped inside.
“Hello, Jidan.”
Deng Tsu, dark eyes watchful, greeted him. What with the windows blacked out and the interior lights dimmed to a minimum, it was difficult to make out his expression, or to identify the second man sitting across from Deng and Ouyang.
“Patriarch,” Ouyang began, “this is something of a surprise.”
“Well, you see, that’s part of the problem.” Deng shifted slightly, his right hip clearly paining him. “By all rights, Jidan, this meeting should not be taking place.”
“There would have been no need for it, if you had kept your wife—I’m sorry, your greed—in check.”
Ouyang stiffened. He recognized that high, phlegmy voice, but he switched on a sidelight to make certain. His stomach contracted as he saw his nemesis, Cho Xilan, confronting him, the hint of a Cheshire Cat grin on his face.
“What’s he doing here?” Ouyang could not keep the hostility out of his voice.
“We are all here,” Deng said, “to save a situation that is about to spiral out of control.”
“And it will spiral out of control,” Cho Xilan said, “unless we work together to make it go away.”
Ouyang did not for a moment believe Cho Xilan wanted to work with him to get anything done. “I was hoping to do that with this trip,” he said to Deng.
The Patriarch shook his head. “Your appearance in Mexico City will make things far worse. It cannot be countenanced.”
“But my wife is there—somewhere
. She’s hurt and she must be found.”
Cho Xilan leaned forward, his cat-like face, with its long eyes and tiny ears set close to his skin, shiny as if with wax. “You see, Ouyang, this is just the attitude that has generated this mess.” He shook his head. “Our comrades on the Politburo are understandably upset.”
“Silence, Cho,” the Patriarch said sharply. “I told you, there will be no talk of the Politburo.”
“There will be plenty of talk three days from now—all of it potentially bad news for us—when we convene in Beidaihe, unless—”
Deng impatiently waved away his words. “Don’t make me regret reading you in on this meeting, Cho. You and Ouyang are passengers here; I am the driver.”
The Patriarch sat back, looking from one to the other. “From this moment on, you must strive to put aside your enmity and work together for the common cause. This will be our private great leap forward.
“Jidan, there is too much discord among the elite. This Party Congress has all the earmarks of being the most contentious in recent history. Your epic battle with Cho Xilan is at the core of this strife. I cannot have it. This country is at a major crossroads—you yourself took great pains to elucidate the growing dangers of continuing to ignore our populace.
“For us—all of us—to maintain our exalted status within the Middle Kingdom, sacrifices must be made on all sides.” Again, he looked from one to the other. “Am I making myself clear?”
After some hesitation, both men nodded, though reluctantly.
“The two of you, honestly. Like two schoolboys trying to dominate the school yard!” Deng shook his head. “First: Cho, you must soften your hard-line stance.”
“The Chongqing are adamant. They will never go along with that.”
“Then I must find another to lead the party.” The Patriarch took out his mobile. “Shall I make some calls, Cho? I have taken the precaution of drawing up a short list—”
“That won’t be necessary, Patriarch. I’ll make the party elders toe the line.”
“Excellent. Because there must be reform now in order for us to survive and prosper. In this matter, Jidan’s ideas are good ones. Gentlemen, the entire world will be watching. We are not so secretive as we’d like to believe we are. This Party Congress will be scrutinized by every civilized country. If we wish to emerge into the world at large we cannot be found wanting.”
He turned to Ouyang. “Second: Because of the delicate tightrope along which we must now walk, your trip to Mexico City will send all the wrong messages.”
“Especially your involvement in the drug trade,” Cho said with no little bitterness.
“Cho,” Deng cautioned.
“Your greed will be the death of us,” Cho Xilan nonetheless continued.
“It is far more likely,” Ouyang countered, “your hidebound notion of sticking our heads in the sands of the Gobi and going about our business as we have for centuries will cause our fall from grace and our demise.”
“Let them judge us,” Cho sneered. “It is they who need our raw materials, it is they who must come to us on bended knee to buy what they need.”
“This is nineteenth-century thinking,” Ouyang shot back. “Everything is interconnected now. We cannot return to the complete isolation of the past. This is why I’ve directed us to buy energy companies and fields in Australia, Canada, and Africa. That is our future.”
“Listen to the two of you.” Deng clucked his tongue like a professor addressing two malcontent students. “This argument gets buried right here, right now. From now on you will work together.” He lifted a forefinger. “But before we go any farther I must make the matter of reform perfectly clear: The state will collapse if the Party does not attack corruption, but the Party will collapse if that attack is too aggressive or goes too deep.”
The two men he addressed remained in sullen silence for some time, making it all too evident that neither cared for the compromise Deng had ordered.
“What about the woman?” Cho said at length.
“Thank you, Cho. This question must be addressed.” The Patriarch turned to Ouyang. “This wife of yours, Ouyang, was a mistake—a terrible mistake. Merely by her presence she has put you in jeopardy. As long as she is your wife, your chances of promotion are nil.”
“Patriarch—”
Deng held up a hand. “This is not open for discussion, Ouyang. Nothing I say here is. I am the law and this is the law. You say she is lost in Mexico. Good riddance! Let her stay in Mexico. If she tries to return to China, she will be denied. You will cut off all ties with her. All evidence of her will be purged. It will be as if she never existed. This includes your trade with the cartels. This will cease immediately. All this must be done if you and Cho Xilan are to reach an agreement on the amount and the scope of your reforms.”
Deng’s eyes were hard and bright. “This is your compromise, your sacrifice. There is no recourse. It will be done, Ouyang. From this moment on, it is done.”
The good news is it isn’t the Chinese.”
“Who did Amit go running to?” the Director asked his father.
“The Americans.”
The Director had met his father for dinner at an out-of-the-way restaurant where Reuben had been known for many years. The owners had happily welcomed him as a silent partner upon his retirement from Mossad.
“Another bit of good news,” Director Yadin said. “The Americans will be running themselves ragged in the Sinai, far from the theater of real operations.”
“On the other hand,” Reuben Yadin said, “we’ve unearthed yet another mole, as high up as Ophir.”
Eli speared a chunk of cheese with the tines of his fork, chewed on it meditatively. “Ophir is dead. We no longer have anything to fear from him.”
“You have been proved right about Bourne.”
The Director nodded.
“And Amit?”
“A found mole is a useful mole.”
“Those Americans,” his father said.
“They haven’t tumbled to our mole inside CIA, so why alert them that we’ve discovered theirs?” The Director searched around his salad for another cube of cheese. “I’ll send Amit to the Sinai to ensure the Americans don’t lose their focus.”
“He won’t find Bourne.”
“But he’ll waste time trying—and time is all I need.”
There was a silence between father and son. Eli looked at the lights of Tel Aviv flickering through the drizzle that had obscured the sunset, letting his thoughts wander in order to come to a conclusion. At length, he turned back.
“Speaking of which, it’s time for you to come to the hospital with me.”
Reuben looked somewhat taken aback. “Already?”
“I think it’s necessary.”
Reuben looked down at his plate of chicken, for which he suddenly had little appetite. The thought of accompanying his son to the hospital filled him with dread.
“The time has come so quickly.”
“For you; no one else.”
“Maybe not now,” Reuben said softly.
“Of course now.” Eli regarded his father with curiosity. “Pop, what’s gotten into you?”
“Stop with this ‘Pop’ business,” Reuben said, clearly in a bad humor.
“Whatever you say.”
His father grunted. “That’ll be the day. From the moment you were born it was never whatever I said.”
“I’ll try to remember that.”
Reuben brushed his son’s apology away. “Forget it. I’m just…” He gave Eli a bleak look from across the small table. “We never took such an enormous risk when I was Director.”
“Got to move with the times, abi.”
“But such a risk. If it blows up in your face…”
The Director glanced briefly over his shoulder, but there was no use calling for the check. His father never paid here, even before he became a partner. “So what d’you say? It would mean a lot to me.”
Something unspoken pas
sed between father and son.
Eli leaned across the table. “Abi, I know you’re worried about me.”
“Can you blame me?”
He took his father’s hand. “It’s going to be all right.”
Reuben’s bleak expression had never left his face. “Fuck if you can tell me that.”
43
Dimercaprol.” Dr. Hernandez, a slim, dapper man with prematurely graying hair, had about him the air of a country gentleman. “It’s a heavy metal antagonist. Your mother is responding very well to the treatment.”
“Thank God,” Maricruz said.
“Though I must caution she’s not out of the woods just yet, and we need to continue monitoring her for any sign of abnormal cardiovascular function for the duration of her treatment.”
“When can I see her?”
“At the moment, she’s sleeping and I don’t want her disturbed. I’ll instruct a nurse to fetch you when she wakes up.”
“Thank you, Doctor. I’m eternally grateful.”
“It was fortunate you got her here in time. Another week and it would have been too late.”
After he left, Maricruz collapsed onto a chair in the waiting room.
“Javvy,” she said, continuing the fiction Angél preferred. “I feel like I’ve spent these past few days digging myself out of a grave.”
“That’s not so far from the truth.” Bourne sat down beside her. “You have family now, a sense of place. You need to get on with your new life.”
“And leave everything I have in Beijing behind?”
“How difficult will that be?”
She shook her head. “To be honest, I don’t know.”
“Not until you try.”
She gave him a wry smile. “That’s you all over, I’m beginning to see—you move forward, like a shark, ever forward.”
“A man without a past has no choice.”
“It seems to me now that none of us has a choice if we want to continue living.”
“There’s one problem, Maricruz.”
She almost laughed. “Isn’t there always.”
“Matamoros is coming after you. He’s not going to let your change of heart conflict with the continuation of his drug trade. He needs Ouyang’s pipeline, and you’ve made yourself the key to it.”
The Bourne Retribution Page 29
