The Bourne Retribution (37 page)

“Because more than likely they’d fuck up the operation.”

“Just like you did,” Maricruz said. She was standing behind him, both guns pressed through the rattan of the chair back.

Bourne contemplated the Mossad chief. “You’ve lost a great deal of your field tradecraft since Damascus. Time to retire, Amir.”

Ophir grinned through gritted teeth. “Dream on, fucker.”

At that moment Bourne cocked his head, heard the first faint sounds of police sirens. “You’re right, Amir. They did fuck it up.”

Grabbing Hale, he backed away from the table, jerked his head for Maricruz to follow him.

“See you around,” Ophir said. “Count on it.”

S
queezed into the front seat of the truck three-abreast, Bourne said to Hale, “You’re taking us to your warehouse.” When the armorer made no reply, he added, “We can also do this the hard way.”

“Makes no difference to me,” Hale said.

Without seeming to move a muscle, Bourne slammed the edge of his right hand into Hale’s throat. The man made a croaking sound, bent as far double as he was able, and began to gasp for air.

Bourne, glancing over him to Maricruz, said, “Sometimes there’s really no need for a gun.”

Maricruz pulled the armorer’s head up by his damp hair. “How are you feeling, señor? Enjoying the ride?”

He stared straight ahead, tears streaming out of his eyes. Nevertheless, he gave Bourne an address.

A pair of police cruisers, blue roof lights revolving, sped past the truck, heading for the café they had just vacated. Bourne turned right at the next intersection, handed Maricruz his mobile.

She nodded, pulled up Google Maps, entered the address Hale had recited. “Two blocks,” she said, “then make a left.”

Between them, Hale was still gasping for air. He winced when he tried to massage his Adam’s apple. The area was red, already swollen.

“This is no line of work for you, armorer,” Bourne said. “You’ve made the wrong friends.”

H
ale’s warehouse was an enormous self-storage facility on the outskirts of the city. Row upon row of identical concrete structures confronted them, their enormous corrugated iron doors rolled down and securely locked. The place reminded Bourne of a cemetery.

The armorer directed the truck down the eighth aisle from the entrance. Halfway down he told Bourne to stop. Bourne took him out of the truck’s cab, Maricruz following. Hale fished a key out of his pocket and, squatting, opened the lock, unhooked it, then rolled the door up.

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

W
hen 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, señor. 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?”