The Bourne Retribution (48 page)

“That’s it?”

“That’s it,” Leonid affirmed.

“It’s very small.”

“You wouldn’t want to have possession of any more of it, believe me.”

Ouyang nodded. “On that point, at least, we can agree.”

A
moment.”

Kai, a step from walking out the door of the lavish villa, turned back to Deng Tsu.

“Close the door,” the Patriarch said.

Kai complied, then picked his way across the exquisite Isfahan carpet to where the Patriarch stood.

Deng Tsu gestured, and the two men sat on facing wooden, highly lacquered Mandarin chairs. Kai was acutely aware that the room was devoid of the Patriarch’s ubiquitous bodyguards. No tea being brewed and served: another oddity. Light spun off Deng Tsu’s black-dyed hair as if it were made of acrylic.

“What are Minister Ouyang’s plans regarding Jason Bourne?”

Kai was a little taken aback. “Do you credit his contention that Bourne will seek to infiltrate our compound?”

“Please answer the question.”

“I don’t know.”

Deng Tsu’s eyes narrowed. “That hardly seems possible, given your relationship with him.”

“I think today that relationship has been ruptured.”

“I sincerely hope so.” The Patriarch looked searchingly at Kai. “If Minister Ouyang has any hope of rising out of the Standing Committee into a true leadership position he cannot have any contact with you. He cannot use you as he has done in the past—the danger is too great for all of us, including you.” He laced his fingers together. “You understand.”

Kai felt the strong beating of his heart. It seemed to echo in his throat, like a fluttering bird he had swallowed whole. “Perfectly.”

“Good. As for Minister Ouyang’s plans…”

“I am not privy to them.”

“That is troubling. You were my only window.”

Kai took a breath, wondering which way Deng wanted him to go. “I would have no trouble monitoring the situation.”

“Well,” Deng Tsu said, “that would put my mind at ease.”

Kai smiled.

W
hen he was alone, Deng drew his briefcase onto his lap and opened it. Inside was a locked compartment, which he opened by pressing his thumb onto the pad of a fingerprint reader. The interior of the compartment consisted of six pockets, each holding a phone—three mobiles, three satellite. Deng plucked the one from the sixth pocket—a satphone—and turned it on. Each phone had only one number stored in its memory.

When it had booted up, he tapped in the code that unlocked the phone, then pressed the numeral 5. Placing the phone against his ear, he listened to the hollow electronic clicks—a kind of music—as the scrambler kicked in. A moment later the line connected, ringing distantly, as if through water.

“Pasha,” he said, “has the package been delivered?”

Pavel Mikhailevich Zhukov, colonel in the FSB, said, “My good friend, I sent my best man. Leonid has never let me down.”

“Nevertheless,” Deng said, relentless, “you have heard from him.”

“I have. Minister Ouyang has the case containing the payload.”

“And this payload is as we discussed?”

“Yes. A special isotope of polonium, one that is fast acting. The victim will begin to experience the deleterious effects within hours after ingestion; most likely he’ll be dead by tomorrow morning or, at the very least, incapacitated.”

“Meaning he won’t under any circumstances be able to attend the Congress.”

“If the payload is delivered accurately.” A slight pause. “Tsu, you sound anxious.”

Deng Tsu looked out the villa window, at the broad back of one of his bodyguards. “Minister Ouyang must never know my hand in guiding his plan.”

“This was agreed upon at the outset,” Pasha said. “You
are
jumpy.”

“The course for the next ten years is to be decided over the next several days,” Deng said snappishly. “There is a degree of tension to every move made now, no matter how seemingly inconsequential.”

“This particular move is anything but inconsequential.”

Deng tilted his head back as if he could see the stars of a velvety night sky, and closed his eyes. “It will cement my legacy for the next decade.”

“It will clamp down on your restless populace, which has become decadent and a nuisance due to the Western plague of social media.”

“A week after the new general secretary is anointed, he will announce reforms that will resonate with the populace—cutting down on meetings, the length of those meetings, feasts, flower arrangements, expensive cars and homes, frivolous or showy spending—but for us will mean nothing. Nothing substantive will change.”

“Except cementing the link between China and elements within Russia that has for decades been crumbling into disuse,” Pasha said.

Deng Tsu thought briefly of Jason Bourne, but knew that even if Ouyang’s fixation on the rogue agent had a basis in fact, if against all logic Bourne were to somehow infiltrate the compound, Kai would put an end to him once and for all.

53

P
rotected by tiers of diplomatic protocol, Bourne accompanied Ambassador Liu through the massive gates of the Party compound, entering the movable inner sanctum of the modern-day Middle Kingdom. The sight of the opulent villas set on cliffs overlooking Beidaihe’s beaches and the Bohai Sea was so transporting it seemed to exist in some other, less politically oppressive country.

The streets between villas were alive with soldiers, both on foot and in jeeps, some with dogs, others with machine pistols, but despite the manpower and armament there was no discernible tension, which seemed to have been left behind in Beijing.

Ambassador Liu had been assigned a relatively modest villa only steps away, the ambassador informed Bourne with ill-concealed pride, from the far larger one housing Minister Ouyang and his staff.

Bourne carried the ambassador’s luggage up the steps and into the villa.

“I won’t be needing you from now on,” Liu informed him in his typical officious manner.

“I am meant to guard you, Ambassador.”

“I have my own security in place here. Return to the plane, which is your transport. I, myself, will be going on to Beijing after the Congress to meet with the new leaders and map out any changes in foreign policy before I return to Mexico City.”

Dismissed, Bourne was freed from any duties associated with the ambassador, and he immediately exited the villa to begin work on his own agenda, which was focused solely on Ouyang Jidan.

S
it down,” Minister Ouyang said. “Make yourself comfortable while I brew the tea. I have some beautiful Long Jing I brought with me.”

Cho Xilan stood in the living area of the villa assigned to Ouyang, watching Ouyang’s back as he prepared the tea at a sideboard. The space was studded with six thick columns of highly polished cedar, each one containing carvings of two animals of the Chinese zodiac. Low divans, tables, and chairs were placed in precise places and at precise angles in accordance with the feng shui master who had been in charge of situating the villas and aligning the furnishings in their interior.

“The Dragon Well would be much appreciated,” Cho said in an uncertain voice.

Noting his tone, Ouyang turned and, smiling, said, “There’s no point to us being formal with each other, Xilan.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know how else to act.”

Ouyang nodded knowingly. “That comes from being at each other’s throats for too long.”

“It comes from wanting different paths for the future of China.”

Again his tone, now steely, gave Ouyang pause. “The Patriarch has given us a directive. Now neither of our envisioned paths for China is relevant. Together we must forge a third path, a middle ground, and we must accomplish this before the Congress opens tomorrow morning.”

Cho Xilan pursed his lips. Even, as now, when in Western attire, he seemed to be dressed in traditional Chinese robes. “Do you find this a realistic goal?”

“Anything is possible,” Ouyang said, “between us.”

“Then let me be frank, Minister Ouyang. I doubt that we can.”

“We certainly can’t, Xilan, if we don’t try.”

Ouyang turned back and, careful as a handler of mercury, poured the polonium into one of the two cups he had laid out on the sideboard. Just a couple of drops, the courier had said, but Ouyang had other ideas. The polonium dribbled out like liquor.

“If we don’t try, Xilan, what will we tell the Patriarch tonight at the banquet?”

The water, just under boiling, was at the right temperature. Ouyang poured it into the teapot into which he had spooned the Dragon Well tea leaves. Now to let it brew for three minutes, no more, no less. Maricruz used to brew his tea. It never ceased to amaze him how a Westerner had learned to brew each kind of tea separately. It was as if she were born with the understanding. This talent, among many others, he missed with a terrifying fire that branded itself across his mind’s eye. Never to hold her again, never to feel her lips searching his body for all the secret places she knew gave him pleasure. Never to hear her salacious whispers in his ear as she lifted her dress around her sleek, powerful thighs to straddle him. Never to plunge into her secret grotto, never to feel the exquisite ecstasy only she could bring him. As if of their own volition, his fingers curled into fists. How he despised everyone around him, none more than this piece of shit polluting the very air he breathed!

“I’ll inform the Patriarch that we tried and failed.”

“You propose we lie to Deng Tsu?”

Cho barked an unpleasant laugh. “As if you’ve never done that before.”

Ouyang turned back to him. “You’re making this exceedingly difficult.”

“Minister, I am making it as difficult as it needs to be.” He spread his hands. “On the matter of China’s future, I simply refuse to compromise.”

Ouyang frowned. “Do you understand the gravity of your position, the gravity of the cracks in the system? Do you want to be plowed under?”

“By whom? The masses? Don’t be absurd.”

“They wield power now.”

“That so-called power is an illusion.”

“Ah.” Ouyang brightened. “Then this discussion
is
about self-interest.”

“Feel better now that we’re on your home turf, Minister?”

Ouyang grasped for a semblance of tranquillity, but Maricruz was gone—lost to him on the other side of the world. He felt like an entrained oxen suddenly woken up to the misery of his imprisoned life. His position was intolerable.

“Time for tea,” he said in as steady a voice as he could manage.

He poured the Dragon Well into the two cups, careful not to spill a drop. Then he brought them over to Cho Xilan. He held out the one laced with the polonium, and his implacable adversary took it.

Ouyang raised his cup. “To self-interest.”

“To stability for the Middle Kingdom.”

He watched over the lip of his cup as Cho sipped the poisoned tea. A tiny circle of calmness, if not serenity, in the maelstrom of his emotions lapped at him at the thought of the horrible death awaiting his rival.

“Can we at least sit down and be civil to each other,” he said, “if nothing else?”

“I prefer to remain standing,” Cho Xilan said, reflecting his inflexible stance, “but by all means sit if you’re weary.”

Ouyang then experienced a moment when he imagined himself leaping at Cho, digging his thumbs into his eyes until they turned to jelly. How satisfying that would be! How utterly delicious! Then the crest of the rage passed, leaving him certain that sticking to his plan was the best course of action.

“The only thing I’m weary of, Xilan, is your intransigence.”

“Intransigence is the only way to turn one’s beliefs into reality. No matter the people left in its wake, the sword must be wielded.”

“And this sword of yours will be wielded—”

“Tomorrow at the start of the Congress.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because it pleases me. Because those who wish to destabilize China through change will be not only defeated but annihilated. Because you can’t stop it,” Cho said. “The train has already left the station.”

Something in his tone made the hairs at the back of Ouyang’s neck stir, but he showed none of his uneasiness. “Well, here’s to ambition.” He tipped his cup. “Let us finish our tea and go our separate ways.”

Cho nodded, drained his cup, and set it down. “The next time we see each other my victory will be complete.”

B
y the time Bourne saw Cho Xilan exit Ouyang’s villa he was dressed in the uniform of the patrolling guard he had overpowered. Creeping up behind him, he had jammed the crook of his right arm against the guard’s throat, thus preventing him from uttering a sound. A moment later, the guard was unconscious. Bourne had dragged his body into a clump of evergreen bushes, stripped him of not only his uniform, but his weapons and his identification.