The Bourne Imperative

by Robert Ludlum

  Anderson, trying his damnedest to ignore the broadside, said, “In any event, Mr. Brick, we need to talk. Now.”

  “No talk,” Bill Pelham said, rising from his seat on the sofa. “No talk now, not ever.”

  Three things I can’t abide,” Ann Ring said. “Confusion, complication, and dissembling.” Around them, in the postmodern spaciousness of the restaurant Li Wan had chosen, silverware clinked and glasses chimed. Voices were raised in small talk. People deep in conversations on their mobile phones ignored everyone around them. She stared deep into Li’s obsidian eyes. “Unfortunately, life is full of confusion, complication, and dissembling.” She smiled with crimson lips. “I like neatness—clean beginnings, at least.”

  Li inclined his narrow head. “As do I, Senator Ring.”

  “And yet, here we both are in Washington, DC.” Her laugh was easy to like, meant to put the listener at ease. Li was not as easy a mark as that.

  “Being at a center of power is like being in a magnetic storm.” He took a sip of white wine. “At once exhilarating and disorienting.”

  Ann tipped her head. “Is it the same in Beijing?” The change in Li’s expression caused her to curse herself.

  “I wouldn’t know.” He put down his glass with exaggerated care. “I myself have never been to Beijing. Did you just assume—?”

  “A thousand pardons, Mr. Li. I meant nothing—”

  “Oh, I’m most certain.” He waved away her words with the flat of his hand. “Actually, Beijing seems as foreign to me as I imagine it does to you.”

  She allowed a small laugh to escape her lips. “Another thing we have in common.”

  His depthless eyes sought hers. “Commonalities are rare, I find, especially in a magnetic storm.”

  “I couldn’t agree more, Mr. Li.” She picked up her menu, a large, stiff thing with the offerings printed in a typeface simulating handwritten script. With her face shielded from his, she said, “What shall we eat?”

  “Steak, I think,” he said without consulting his menu. “And a Caesar salad to start.”

  “Creamed spinach and onion rings?”

  “Why not?”

  When she set aside her menu, she saw the depth of his scrutiny of her. “Remember,” Hendricks had told her at the very start, “this is a very dangerous man. He seems unassuming; however, he’s anything but.”

  Li called the waiter over and ordered for them. The waiter gathered up the menus and departed.

  “This evening reminds me of a story,” Li said when they were alone again. “There was once a businessman in Chicago. He married a woman with a good head on her shoulders. So good, in fact, that following her suggestions caused his business to grow to two, then three times its original size. As you can imagine, the businessman was very happy. A flourishing business caused his standing in the community to grow by leaps and bounds. He was sought out for company mergers as well as for advice. In each instance, he consulted his wife, and in each instance, following her advice brought him more fame and riches.”

  Li paused to refill their glasses. “Now, you might think the businessman’s life was perfect. Everyone who knew him, as well as everyone who knew of him, envied him his position and wealth. But no. In fact, he was miserable. His wife never warmed his bed, only others’.”

  Li stared into his raised glass. “One day, the businessman’s wife died. It was very sudden and completely unexpected. Of course, the businessman mourned her, but more for the loss of her business acumen than for the woman herself.

  “Several weeks later, his brother said to him, ‘What will you do now?’ And the businessman, after several moments of contemplation, said, ‘I will do what I’ve always done and hope for the best.’”

  Ann Ring smiled in the most neutral way. This was not simply a story Li had once heard. In fact, he might have made it up on the spot. Either way, it was illustrative. The question the businessman’s brother had posed to him was the same one Li was asking her.

  Whether by design or not, his timing was impeccable. The Caesar salads arrived, set down in front of each of them in white ceramic bowls. Ann spent some time tasting the salad, asking for fresh-ground pepper, and thanking the waiter.

  “I like the first part of the businessman’s answer,” she said carefully, “but not the second. It’s never wise to sit back and hope for the best.”

  “The story makes me wonder who really makes the decisions in families. It seems the answer is never what it appears to be on the surface.”

  Ann understood that he was asking about her and Charles, which is why she chose to ignore the implied question, preferring to stick to her own agenda. She ate more salad, crunching through the garlic croutons as if they were bones.

  “What surprises me, Mr. Li, is your knowledge of my intimate life with Charles.”

  He laid down his fork. “There is no easy way to say this, Senator. Your husband was not a happy man.”

  Ann watched Li with an enigmatic expression. “You mean he wasn’t content.” She bared her teeth just slightly. “The two aren’t synonymous.”

  For the first time all evening Li appeared flustered. “I beg your pardon,” he said.

  Looking out the window of the Mercedes, Bourne could see that Nicodemo was taking them across the river to the Left Bank. The magnificent gilded light globes spanning the Pont Alexandre III spun by like miniature suns. Doubtless, Nicodemo was taking them to the killing ground he had chosen. Bourne had no intention of letting him get there.

  Edging himself down on the seat until he was directly behind Nicodemo, Bourne arched his back, pressed it hard against the rear seatback. He extended his legs over the top of the front seat on either side of Nicodemo’s neck, and, bringing them together, locked his ankles at Nicodemo’s throat.

  Predictably, Nicodemo arched backward, his body in reflex action to get away from the choke hold. Don Fernando kicked him hard on the right ear with his heel. Nicodemo’s head trembled on his neck, and Bourne squeezed tighter, muscles like iron bands.

  Blindly, Nicodemo scrabbled on the seat for the Sig. Bourne, exerting all his strength, lurched him away, to the left, his shoulder impacting so hard against the unlocked door that it popped open.

  The Mercedes began to swerve in wider and wider arcs, and the Sig fell to the floor well, out of his reach. Horns blared, brakes squealed, abruptly halted tires left scorch marks on the bridge bed. Wide-eyed, Nicodemo was forced to try to free himself while attempting to keep control of the car. Blind instinct took over. In trying to pry Bourne’s legs away from him, he removed his hands from the wheel. But as he arched back again, his right foot inadvertently stabbed down on the accelerator. The Mercedes shot forward just as it was aimed at the side of the bridge. The combination of its speed and weight lifted it onto the pedestrian walkway, slammed it into the ancient stone, crumbling in places, of the bridge’s decorative balustrade.

  The impact jerked everyone forward, momentarily loosening Bourne’s grip, but at that moment, a light truck, attempting to circumnavigate the traffic tie-up, sideswiped the Mercedes, smashing it through the already crumbling balustrade.

  The massive impact hurled the Mercedes out over the river, the driver’s door swinging wide with the momentum, and the car plummeted straight down. It hit the water, which instantly rushed in on a merciless tidal wave, swamping the interior, threatening to drown the three men inside.

  Ann made a sound much like that of a cat purring. She set aside her salad. “You know, Mr. Li, it occurs to me now that I know nothing about Natasha Illion—apart, that is, from what I read in W, Vogue, and Vanity Fair, but that’s all image, publicity spin.”

  Mr. Li smiled. They were back on familiar ground. “Tasha and I lead very different lives,” he said with a shrug of his shoulders.

  “But when you come together…” The slightest hint of a smile. “I beg your pardon.”

  “Tasha isn’t someone easy to know,” Li said as if he had not heard her. “Israelis are gruff, direct, often di
sconcertingly so. Like all of them, she spent time in the army. That changes them, in my opinion.”

  “Is that so?” Ann cupped her chin in one hand. “How do you mean?”

  The salad bowls were cleared away, the oversized steak knives presented and, with a brief flourish, laid out.

  “In Tasha’s case, it’s made her wary, distrustful. She considers her entire life a secret.”

  “And, of course, you find this intriguing, fascinating.”

  He sat back as the entrées and side dishes were set before them. Several twists of black pepper later, he took up fork and steak knife and sliced. The meat was bloody, exactly as ordered. “I’m a self-professed xenophile. I’m fascinated, as you put it, by the different, the exotic, the unknowable.”

  “I imagine there’s nothing more exotic than an Israeli supermodel.”

  He chewed slowly and fastidiously. “I could think of several, but I’m quite content with what I have.”

  “Unlike my late husband.” She dragged several onion rings onto the crusty top of her steak. She looked up suddenly, her gaze like the thrust of a knife. “Charlie confided in you about his affairs.”

  It wasn’t a question, and Li didn’t take it as such. “It seemed that Charles had very few friends and no confidants,” he said.

  “Apart from you.” Her eyes held steady on him. “That should have been me.”

  “We can’t always get what we want, Senator.” He took a slice of meat between his teeth, chewed in his dainty way, then swallowed. “But we can try.”

  “I’m wondering why Charlie felt he could confide in you.”

  “The answer is simple enough,” Li said. “It’s easier to talk of intimate matters to a stranger.”

  But that wasn’t it at all, and they both knew it. Ann was growing weary of the conversational circumlocutions required by Chinese custom. Though Li was American born, in this he was very traditional. Maybe the Chinese insisted on these long, circular verbal paths, she thought, to wear you out, soften you up for the moment when negotiation began.

  “Come on, Mr. Li. You and Charlie shared secrets.”

  “Yes,” he said. “We did.”

  Ann was so surprised by this bald admission that she briefly lost her breath.

  “Your husband and I had an arrangement, Senator. An arrangement that benefitted both of us in equal measure.”

  Ann didn’t bat an eye. “I’m listening.”

  “It seems to me,” Li said, “that you have been listening all evening.”

  She laughed then, dry as wood. “Then we understand each other.”

  He inclined his head fractionally. “However, we do not know one another.” The emphasis was subtle, but clear.

  “This shortcoming has not been lost on me.” She smiled without, she hoped, a trace of guile. “Which is why I would like to present you with a gift.”

  Li sat perfectly still across from her, his body neither tense nor relaxed. Simply waiting.

  “Something precious that will correct the deficiency between us.”

  From her handbag, she took out a small manila envelope, which she passed across the table. Li spent several moments engaging her eyes with his own. Only then did he allow his gaze to fall to the envelope.

  His hands moved, took up the envelope, and unsealed it. He shook out its contents, which consisted of a single sheet of paper, a photocopy of an official document. As if magnetized, his eyes were drawn to the seal at the top of the page.

  “This is…monstrous, insane,” he murmured, almost to himself.

  As he scanned the information, a bead of sweat appeared at his meticulous hairline. Then he looked up into Ann’s face.

  “Your beloved Tasha is not just a beauty, Mr. Li, she’s also a beast,” Ann said. “She’s a Mossad agent.”

  Jackknifing his body, Bourne followed Nicodemo out the open driver’s door, but immediately had to turn back to fetch Don Fernando, who was floundering over into the front. With his hands bound behind him, Bourne used his teeth to grab at Don Fernando’s shirt. Grateful for the help, Don Fernando scissored his legs, propelling himself through the door.

  It was dark under the water, and the two men positioned themselves back-to-back, their hands together so they would not lose each other. Breaching the surface, they heard screams emanating from pedestrians on the bridge, and, in the far distance, sirens. Bourne directed them to one of the bridge’s immense piers, thick with encrusted green-black weed. Beneath the weeds were barnacles, sharp as razor blades. Shoving himself back first against the pier, Bourne scraped the plastic tie against the barnacles, sawing through his bonds.

  Don Fernando was beside him, treading water calmly.

  “Almost out of it,” Bourne said.

  Don Fernando nodded. But just as Bourne reached for him, he was pulled under the water.

  Nicodemo!

  Bourne swiped at the pier, then kicked out powerfully as he dove beneath the water. Like a shark, he could feel Don Fernando’s thrashing, along with the kicking movement that was part of Nicodemo’s attack. Finding Don Fernando in the blackness, he used one of the barnacles he had grabbed to slice through the plastic tie, then propelled Don Fernando toward the surface.

  This maneuver cost him. Nicodemo swerved underwater, caught Bourne a blow to the side of his head. Bourne canted over in the water, bubbles strewn from between his lips. Nicodemo struck him again, along the nerve bundle in the side of his neck. Bourne’s consciousness seemed to drift away from him. He tried to move, but nothing seemed to work. He was aware of Nicodemo maneuvering behind him, and he kicked out, but a slimy rope encircled his neck, a ferocious pressure converged at his throat. His lungs burned and his throat ached. Reaching around, Nicodemo pressed on his cricoid cartilage. If that shattered, he would drown within seconds.

  He felt an increasingly tenuous connection with his consciousness, felt a sharp, circular instrument against his fingertips, but he wondered whether he possessed the strength to use it. The pressure on his throat was unbearable. Any second now Nicodemo’s fingertips would break through, and the black water would cascade down his throat, into his stomach and his lungs, and he would spiral down into the silty bottom of the river.

  With an immense effort, he raised his arm. Everything seemed to be moving at a glacial pace, though another part of his mind was aware that time was running out far too quickly. He drew on this part, using it to arc his arm inward, grip his organic weapon more tightly as he dragged it across first one of Nicodemo’s eyes, then the other.

  Gouts of blood erupted. Nicodemo spasmed, and an inhuman strength gripped him, a long moment that almost did Bourne in. But the barnacle he gripped went to work again, slashing from left to right across Nicodemo’s throat.

  Veils of blood, blacker than the river water, spiraled outward. Nicodemo’s mouth opened and closed, caught for a moment in the lights from the bridge. Then his grip on Bourne fell away, and he passed, arms outstretched in a terrible yearning, out of what light there was, into the filthy depths of the river.

  27

  When the lithe flight attendant lifted her head to emit a soft moan, Maceo Encarnación pushed her head back down between her bare shoulders, exposing the soft nape of her long neck. Her uniform jacket lay puddled on the floor; her thin pearl-white blouse rippled at her narrow waist, giving him access to her swaying breasts. Her pencil skirt was rucked up to her hips, her thong hobbling her ankles.

  As Maceo Encarnación repeatedly pushed into her from behind, his pleasure produced images of the old Aztec gods of Tenochtitlán. Chief among them, Tlazolteotl, the goddess of pleasure and sin. Tlazolteotl was both feared and beloved. Feared because she was associated with human sacrifice; beloved because, when summoned correctly, she would devour your sins, freeing you to continue your life without taint.

  When Maceo Encarnación thought of Tlazolteotl, he saw not the various statues of her in stone and jade residing in the National Museum, but Constanza Camargo. Only Constanza had the ability to devour
his many, many sins, to cleanse him, to make him whole again. And yet, as she had made clear many times, she would not absolve him of his. The sin he had committed against her was too monumental for even Tlazolteotl, ancient and powerful, to consume.

  Maceo Encarnación, thrusting into the flight attendant one last time, fell upon her bare back, trembling and sweating. His heart thundered in his chest, and he felt keenly the pain of dissolution, of a vast emptiness advancing upon him like an army of eternal night, implacable and terrifying. The one thing that frightened Maceo Encarnación was the void—the nothingness that might very well last an eternity. Not for him the constricting Mass, the meaningless platitudes contained in weekly homilies, the treacherous pabulum of “God’s plan.” God had no plan; there was no God. There was only man’s abject terror of the unknown and the unfathomable.

  In these unbearably long, unbearably empty moments after completion, Maceo Encarnación ached for Constanza Camargo as he had ached for no one else in his life. The fact that he was exiled from her was like a pain inside him he could neither reach nor cure. That it was his punishment, that it was deserved, made it no easier to bear. On the contrary, it enraged him. Not all his wealth, his dark influence, or his corrosive power was of any use to him. When it came to Constanza Camargo, he might as well be the lowliest beggar in the shit-strewn dirt of a backwater marketplace, sickly and destitute. He could not cajole her, he could not coerce her, he could not reach her.

  Stepping back, he zipped his trousers. He felt sweaty and oily. His skin reeked of the flight attendant’s nether regions. She had dressed herself while facing the airplane’s richly fabricked bulkhead, and now strode off on long, powerful legs to resume her regularly scheduled duties, without a backward glance.