The Bourne Retribution (5 page)

“Ah.” Ben Asher swiveled back to Bourne. “So you want a new name and electronic code for this.”

“No,” Bourne said, taking back the passport. “I want a new one.”

“In other words, an entirely different identity.”

“That’s right. It needs to look used—immigration stamps and so forth.”

“Naturally.”

“Including one for Shanghai that’s dated tomorrow.”

Ben Asher stared at him for a moment. “What time is your flight?”

“Eight thirty this evening.”

“Doable, certainly.” Asher tapped his forefinger against his lower lip. “Now, what nationality should you be? Too bad you don’t have any Asian blood in you; a Malaysian businessman would pass unnoticed in Shanghai.” He studied Bourne’s face. “I could make you Syrian, but that would only stir up trouble.”

“How about Canadian?”

“Perfect! Bland as consommé. Do you want to choose the name, as well?”

“Let’s make it Carl Halliday,” Bourne said. “How much?”

“Now you offend me.”

“All artists should be paid for their expertise.”

Ben Asher smiled and shrugged. “Yes, but you see, you are the man Rebeka loved.”

5

I
t was a sad homecoming for Maricruz. She could not help thinking that the traffic-choked crawl from the airport to smog-shrouded Mexico City—slow, tedious, never ending—was like a funeral procession.

The mansion on Castelar Street, in Colonia Polanco, overlooked Lincoln Park, where, she had been told, Jason Bourne had dragged the Mossad agent, whom her brother had knifed, after escaping from the house. She had never set eyes on Bourne, didn’t know what he looked like, though she had a clear picture of him in her mind’s eye. Bourne had killed her brother and her father, that much she knew—that much and no more. Her brother’s demise was no great loss, but her father—well, that was another matter entirely.

She had expected the house of her childhood to look old and worn, cracks showing where it was in need of restuccoing, but the building that lay in front of her, surrounded by sparkling flower beds and riotous sprays of bougainvillea, gleamed in the wan sunlight as if just polished. The stone had been repointed and the stucco recently painted.

Inside lay bigger surprises still. She was met at the front door by Wendell Marsh, SteelTrap’s lawyer, who had been handpicked by her father. More than that, Maceo Encarnación had put Marsh through school, sponsoring, then mentoring the orphan. He was now a de facto member of the family, though that would never occur to him.

“Maricruz.” He embraced her. “So good to see you. It’s been, what—?”

“Too long.” Maricruz stepped back to look at Marsh. He was a broad-shouldered man with stark features, thick, swept-back hair that was almost entirely white. Marsh had been born a pessimist, a quality he had never been able to shake.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Marsh said now as he led her through the foyer and into the densely furnished living room. “I expect you’d like to have a look around. Take your time. When you’re ready there are papers to sign.”

She nodded absently, barely aware of him fading away. She had always read that when you returned to your childhood home it looked far smaller than you remembered, possibly more shabby. She was, therefore, somewhat taken aback at how huge the rooms appeared, how dripping in expensive artwork, rugs, crystal chandeliers, and silver- and gold-worked pieces that, to her eye, belonged in a museum. Money was everywhere to be seen, but her father was not. Jason Bourne had erased him from the scene with the thoroughness of a professional. And yet so much of her father remained, calling to her as she went from room to room, then up the stairs to the second floor, down the hall to the right, at the far end of which was her father’s bedroom suite.

Standing on the threshold, she pushed the door open but did not walk in. Staring at the round bed, she wondered how many women her father had fucked since the morning she had walked in to see him on top of some woman. A great many, she would imagine. As for her mother’s identity, Ouyang had gathered conclusive proof only several months ago. She was certain that, on the other side of the world, he was wondering if she was going to see Constanza Camargo. After all, her house was just on the other side of the park, at the corner of Alejandro Dumas and Luis G Urbina.

Entering the room, she skirted the bed and stood by the window, gazing out at the trees of Lincoln Park. She thought she could see that house on the corner of Alejandro Dumas and Luis G Urbina, but possibly it was only her imagination. She conjured an image of her father, but almost immediately it vanished like a stone drowned in a lake. Unconsciously, through the shantung silk of her handbag, she touched a small jade box, precious as a Burmese pigeon-blood ruby. A gift from Ouyang, it contained a sheet of paper, folded twice into a small square. Written on the paper was the name and current address of Constanza, Maricruz’s mother, who, Ouyang assured her, was still alive. She carried the box with her, touching it periodically as if it were a talisman.

Turning from the window, she went through her father’s bedroom, opening closets and drawers, peering in, touching nothing, drifting from one intimate item to another like a wraith. And indeed, she felt like a ghost as she descended the stairs, silent as a breeze, returning to the living room where Wendell Marsh sat drinking strong black espresso, waiting patiently for her.

“The house seems odd, doesn’t it,” he said, “without him in it?”

Maricruz did not think so, not really. To her way of thinking, the house was always something of a museum; now it was fulfilling its purpose.

“Sit,” Marsh said, indicating a chair beside the cocktail table. “Would you like an espresso, a beer, something stronger?”

Maricruz declined everything. Perversely, she resented the fact that Marsh was more familiar with the house than she was. It wasn’t his house, she thought. It would never be his house.

“Let’s get on with it, Wendell.”

He inclined his head. “As you wish.” He set out three copies of half a dozen documents and produced a pen from his inside breast pocket.

“You seem pale, Wendell. Are you feeling ill?”

He looked up and smiled wanly, obliged to wipe his forehead and the back of his neck with a linen handkerchief. “You know me, Maricruz. I never was a big fan of Mexico. And especially these days when the gutters are running red with blood and people are being separated from their heads—” He broke off, shuddering. “My apologies. This is your country.”

“Well, it was.” She took up the first set of papers but did not look at it. “Where is my father’s cook, Maria-Elena?”

“Murdered, it would seem. Poisoned.”

These people
, Maricruz thought.
The last vestige of civilization has been ground into Mexico’s bloodstained earth
. “And her daughter?” she said. “She did have a daughter?”

“Yes. The girl seems to have fallen off the face of the earth.”

“No one can do that these days.”

“Nevertheless…” Marsh spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness.

“Have you spent any time or resources in looking for her?”

He gestured at the papers spread out on the table. “I’ve had more important matters to attend to.”

Maricruz nodded absently, at last glanced down at the sheaf she was holding. “Shall we begin?” She shuffled some pages, then paused to look up at Marsh, who waited patiently for, it seemed to her, the objections she was sure to voice.

“Who the hell is Gavin Royce?”

“He’s the new CEO of SteelTrap.”

“Not until I give my approval.”

“He’s your father’s handpicked successor.”

“I don’t know him. I’ve never even met him.”

“For the last eight years, he’s been running SteelTrap’s highly lucrative European operations. He knows the business inside and out, and he’s successful.”

“Even so, he’s been based in London. Europeans do business differently than my father did.”

“As I said, Gavin had your father’s trust.”

“Am I or am I not the executrix of Maceo Encarnación’s estate?”

“Indeed you are,” Marsh acknowledged. “But you’ve been in China for some time. In this, as in many matters of the estate, you must trust me, Maricruz.”

She stared at Marsh—his open face, his thick body, his immaculately tailored suit. “You had my father’s trust,” she said at length. “Now you must earn mine.”

Something hard entered Marsh’s amiable expression; his eyes grew dark. “What would you have me do?” These words seemed forced out of him, as if by a punch to the solar plexus.

“I’ll talk to Royce myself. If I think he’s right for the job, offer him an eighteen-month contract.”

For a moment Marsh seemed bewildered. “Eighteen months? He’ll never go for that.”

“He will,” she said, “if he wants the job.”

“But he’s—For God’s sake, Maricruz, be reasonable, the man is doing mammoth—He’s been working twenty-hour days ever since your father’s death.”

“Then offer him incremental overrides tied to the success of the business. Use your powers of persuasion. Incentivize him, Wendell.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“I trust you’ll do better than that.” She frowned. “I assume Royce doesn’t know about the other part of my father’s affairs.”

“God, no. Your father was meticulous in keeping SteelTrap separate.”

“Good enough.” Her eyes flicked down to the next document, scanning the dense paragraphs of legalese. “Now, what about these SteelTrap annual reports? Tell me what they’re really saying.”

6

A
s he crossed the arrivals hall, after passing through immigration as Lawrence Davidoff, Bourne paused at a kiosk to buy a pack of gum. It was a Chinese brand, a mix of obscure herbs that, according to the print on the pack, was guaranteed to clear the liver of impurities. Taking out a stick, Bourne began to chew, the bitter, acrid taste like burnt peat moss. When he threw away the wrapper, he also tossed out Davidoff’s passport.

Outside in the heat and humidity, he joined a queue of people waiting for taxis. As he passed close to one, he dropped his pack of gum. Bending down to retrieve it, he removed the wad of gum from his mouth, pressed the Mossad tracking device into it, then affixed the wad to the undercarriage of the taxi.

Rising, he resumed his spot in the queue and, soon enough, was on his way into the city.

B
ourne remembered Shanghai as if from a dream. Walking its streets, packed and teeming with riotous color and exotic smells, he could feel amnesiac memories shifting like frightening unseen beasts sunk in the depths of his unconscious, as if reacting to a sight or a smell.

The air was densely perfumed with shouted Shanghainese, a language wholly different from either the broader, almost languid Cantonese or the spiky, more formal Mandarin. A dialect of Northern Wu Chinese, it used to be largely unintelligible to inhabitants of Beijing and its surrounds. Nowadays, however, the younger entrepreneurial inhabitants of Shanghai often peppered their speech with Mandarin terms. In this largest of China’s cities, the dialect among its over twenty-three million inhabitants had thus become the lingua franca of commerce, of quick wit, of youthful spirit, of the future.

Once English and Dutch trading houses lined the Bund, the city’s famed harborside. Now beyond the promenade rose architectural marvels that formed the futuristic skyline of a post-modern city straight out of a science-fiction film. Bourne took public transportation to the edge of the old French Concession, then walked to Yu Yuan Road. The restaurant, a beautifully restored three-story villa, had been set for his rendezvous with Wei-Wei, the Director’s agent in place.

Bourne was shown to the table reserved for Wei-Wei. It was on the second-floor veranda, which ran the entire length of the villa. From there he overlooked the tiny, immaculate garden, gently shaded by its central persimmon tree, and could see everyone who entered or exited the restaurant.

While he waited, he ordered smoked carp and slices of pork belly in a Shanghainese sauce that promised to be both pungent and slightly sweet.

He was almost finished with his meal when the hostess arrived, apologized profusely for interrupting his lunch, and with an elegant bow handed him a small, square envelope. Bourne looked around, noted nothing untoward, and slit open the envelope. On a small sheet of paper, folded in half, was a hastily written note.

Detained unavoidably by business. Please come to my apartment
. There followed an address telling Bourne that Wei-Wei lived in an area of the large Huangpu district, a warren of tumbledown buildings, across the river from the Bund, whose shoulders seemed the only thing keeping their neighbors from crumbling into rubble.

Finished with his meal, Bourne threw some bills onto the table and left. On his way down the narrow wooden stairs to the garden entrance, he spotted a sleek-looking Shanghainese man in a gray suit, polished loafers, and an unnatural interest in him. The Shanghainese had been in the garden, a pot of tea on the small octagonal table at which he sat. Bourne had noticed him because he never took a sip of the tea the waitress had poured for him. When he wasn’t looking at Bourne out of the corner of his eye, he was contemplating his nails, which were shining as if lacquered.