The Bourne Retribution

by Eric Van Lustbader

  “We were told to wait for another passenger.”

  “And here I am.” Kai waved the S&W. “Take us up now.”

  The flight attendant, crouched in the corner farthest away from the blood and mayhem, whimpered. His arms were clutched around his drawn-up knees.

  “This is a direct order from Minister Ouyang.”

  “I can’t, sir. The folding stairs are still deployed,” the pilot said.

  Kai moved the handgun toward the flight attendant, and he made an involuntary animal sound deep in his throat. “Go back up the aisle and pull up the folding stairs.” He waggled the barrel threateningly. “Do it now!”

  At the sound of his raised voice, the attendant jumped up and, with a strangled cry, forced himself to step over the body of the navigator. He went down the aisle to the doorway, but when he encountered Leonid’s corpse he almost turned back.

  Kai, keeping one eye on the attendant’s progress, shouted at him to get the damn stairs folded back into the fuselage. Trembling, he picked his way over Leonid’s bloody body and, at last, reached the open doorway. As he was about to haul the stairs up, Kai forced the pilot to take off the brakes. The plane began to roll forward, picking up speed as the jet engines built revs.

  The attendant had just begun to haul the stairs up when he saw someone running alongside the plane. He recognized him as one of the passengers they had picked up in Mexico City—Ambassador Liu’s bodyguard and Leonid’s friend. He ran toward the stairs. Clearly, this was the passenger they had been waiting for.

  The attendant could see by the gathering speed of the aircraft he was never going to make it. Gingerly, he stepped down onto the stairs, descending each step with the utmost care, lest he slip and go hurtling off onto the tarmac.

  The running man was close now—as close as he was ever going to get. His upper body was fully extended, his right arm outstretched. The attendant descended to the lowest step and, leaning over, offered him his extended hand.

  They missed the first time, their fingertips just grazing. Then the man grabbed onto the attendant the second time; his weight almost dislocated the attendant’s shoulder. His body was whirled around and, had it not been for the solid aluminum side of the steps, the attendant would have been spun off with him.

  Instead, the attendant held on, pulling hard in stages, his muscles straining, his breath coming in ragged gasps, until Bourne’s other hand grabbed hold of the top of the stairs. He swung his legs, vaulted up onto the stairs, then, taking the attendant’s hand, ascended into the plane.

  “There’s a Chinese man with a gun,” he gasped in Bourne’s ear. “He looks like a Manchu—acts like one, too. He shot Leonid and the navigator.”

  Where is he now?” Bourne said.

  “In the cockpit with the pilot.”

  Bourne saw Leonid’s body, sprawled and bloody, where he had fallen near the doorway. Keeping the flight attendant’s body between himself and the cockpit, Bourne helped him pull the folding stairs up into the fuselage. The attendant was about to lock it in place when Bourne stopped him.

  “Not now,” he whispered, and the attendant shivered, understanding what he had in mind.

  “Go lock yourself in the toilet,” Bourne said softly, “and don’t come out until you hear my voice.”

  The attendant’s alarm escalated. “What if I don’t hear your voice?”

  “Go on now,” Bourne said. “Hurry!”

  Up in the cockpit, Kai was arguing with the pilot. The rain had increased in intensity and now a low fog had come in off the sea, rising up the cliffside. The pilot was reluctant to take off; Kai wasn’t interested in what the pilot wanted.

  The instant he saw the flight attendant slip into the toilet and lock the door, Bourne wiped down the rain-slick floor to cover his tracks, then stepped to the galley, quickly foraged through cabinets until he found a full-size bottle of wine and a warm can of beer. Then he went back to the last row of seats forward of the door and crouched down, hidden by the seat backs.

  Kai must have won the argument. With a lurch, the jet sprang forward, rolling down the runway at speed. A moment later he heard the Manchu’s voice raised as he stuck his head out the cockpit doorway.

  Bourne knew Kai could see that the stairs had been drawn up, the door closed, but there was no sign of the attendant. All at once the plane’s pitch steepened as it rose into the nighttime sky. With a rumble, the wheels retracted into the belly of the fuselage.

  Bent forward as if battling a stiff wind, Kai came down the aisle toward the aft area to find the attendant. Bourne shook the can of beer. Just before Kai reached the open area in front of the door, Bourne raised himself, swung the bottle of wine into Kai’s leading knee. Kai grunted, the leg crumpled, and as he was about to pitch over against the last row of seats, Bourne shoved the can of beer into Kai’s face, popped the top.

  The warm beer geysered out, covering Kai’s face, momentarily blinding him. Bourne used a kite on Kai’s clavicle, causing him to lose his grip on the S&W. Kai, on hands and knees, lunged for it.

  Bending forward, Bourne drove a fist into his side. Kai reached the butt of the pistol, slammed it back into Bourne with such force that Bourne stumbled across the aisle directly toward the door. At the last instant, he braced his arms on either side of it, stopping himself from plowing into it.

  However, this gave Kai time to recover. He struck with the muzzle of the S&W, swiping a long track of ripped fabric and, beneath it, a length of Bourne’s skin. Blood welled up. Bourne maneuvered back across the aisle, as if trying to get away, until he was directly across from the door. Raising both arms, he gripped the edge of the overhead rack, then levered the rest of himself up until his legs scissored around Kai’s neck.

  Kai struggled, but his arms could find no leverage to pull Bourne’s legs apart. With a titanic effort, he clawed his way to Bourne’s face, trying to gouge out his eyes. There was blood on Bourne’s face. He tried to turn his head away, but Kai had it locked in the vise-like grip of desperation.

  Extending his body fully, Bourne kicked the door with his feet. It flew open. Bourne let go of his grip and kicked hard, his shoes striking squarely in the center of Kai’s chest. Kai was launched backward. His left foot went over the lip of the door frame, he lost his balance, and, arms pinwheeling wildly, he was sucked out of the plane, immediately enveloped by the wind, vanishing into the clouds, leaving only a single shriek, like a distant rumble of thunder.

  Epilogue

  Tel Aviv, Israel

  A pure blue sky, devoid of even a single cloud, greeted Jason Bourne as his commercial flight settled onto the runway at Ben Gurion Airport.

  To his surprise, Director Yadin was waiting for him inside the immigration section, leading him around the long lines and, accompanied by an escort of Mossad agents, out onto the arrivals concourse, heading for the front doors.

  “My apologies for the delay,” Yadin said as they strode along. “I, myself, was in a bunker until an hour ago. Mortars from Gaza.”

  “Have you retaliated?”

  “Oh, yes. Pinpoint strikes. Two of the Hamas leaders are dead. Then the missiles came. Don’t be concerned if you hear air raid sirens. They go off all the time now.”

  Their escort held the doors open for them and they went out into the blinding sunlight, the baking concrete slabs. An immense, bulletproof SUV was waiting for them by the curb, guarded by soldiers with submachine guns.

  “Ouyang is dead,” Bourne said as he followed Yadin into the dim, capacious interior.

  “I expected nothing less.” Eli leaned forward to give the driver an address, then settled himself on the backseat. His men piled into the front, and the SUV pulled away from the curb.

  “Cho Xilan has vanished,” the Director said. “It’s as if he never existed.”

  “Ouyang murdered him,” Bourne said. “Poisoned him with polonium.”

  “Polonium?” Eli appeared startled. “That’s a KGB trick.”

  Bourne told him how Ouya
ng’s plane had stopped in Moscow on the way to Beidaihe to pick up Leonid. “The FSB was the source,” Bourne concluded, “but I think Cho’s death was Ouyang’s personal retribution.”

  “All to Deng Tsu’s great good fortune.” Yadin rubbed his chin. “With Ouyang dead and Cho’s coalition leaderless, Deng has gained the freedom to handpick the next president. Another reactionary. The reforms he enacts will be entirely cosmetic.”

  Bourne stared out the window at the shadowed buildings, the silhouettes of passersby. “The more things change, the more they stay the same, especially in China.”

  At that moment, the air raid sirens began to scream.

  “Sounds like another war,” Bourne said.

  “Short-lived, thank God. Short-lived because of the success of your retribution.” Eli smiled. “Minister Ouyang was funding the Hamas jihad through elements in the Sinai. With that source of funding gone, a cease-fire will be negotiated in a matter of days.” He nodded. “We—I—owe you a debt I’ll never be able to repay.”

  Bourne put his head back against the seat and closed his eyes. He felt unutterably tired, as if he were a sprinter who had been compelled to run a marathon.

  “You look like shit, by the way.”

  “I feel like shit,” Bourne said. “Maybe I’m getting old.”

  Director Yadin laughed. “Never, my friend! Never! But you’re bleeding all over my seat cushions. You will have a thorough medical checkup and then some rest.”

  The SUV drove on through the thick Tel Aviv traffic.

  “Eli, I’m sorry.”

  Yadin turned to him.

  “I know Rebeka was your daughter. I know what a terrible loss Sara’s death was.”

  Yadin made no comment. He stared straight ahead as the SUV turned onto Weizmann Street. Bourne had been here once before, following the Director into Sourasky Medical Center.

  As the SUV pulled up to the entrance, Yadin said, “Come now, Jason. You really do look a sight.”

  Twenty minutes later, in a surgery on the third floor, Bourne, stripped naked, lay on a table while a surgeon checked all his wounds. Several of them required stitches. He was given shots of local anesthetic and was duly sewn up. His lesser cuts and contusions were administered to, he was given a prescription for an antibiotic, then was released to get dressed.

  All the while he had lain naked, Eli Yadin had stood guard, staring out the window, hands clasped loosely behind his back, as if in deep contemplation.

  “I followed you here once,” Bourne said as he buttoned his shirt.

  “Did you? I never knew.”

  “I was concerned you were ill.”

  “I am ill.” Yadin turned back to him, his expression bleak. “Life has made me ill, Jason. I am dying of the ten thousand lies I am forced to tell in order to ensure the safety of my country. I am a patriot, Jason, but I am wounded to my soul by the lies I utter.”

  He lifted an arm, ushering Bourne out of the surgery. They began to walk slowly down the hall dotted with nurses, patients on gurneys, an occasional doctor, hurrying from one catastrophe to another.

  “None of my wounds has struck deeper than the one caused by the lie I was forced to tell you.”

  Bourne stopped, turned toward the Director.

  “That the lie was absolutely necessary. That it served to protect a number of people, including you, makes it only nominally more palatable.”

  He shook his shaggy head. “You see, the lie I told you goaded you into hunting down Ouyang. He was a serious threat to me, to Mossad, to the State of Israel, but try as I might I could not get to him. Then you fell into my lap, as it were. Because of Rebeka. Because of your work with her, because of your feelings for her.

  “God sent you to me, Jason, and I had no choice but to use you. And you accomplished the impossible.” His smile was wan, almost transparent. “I know I have given you reason to hate me now, but I have faith that in time you will find it in yourself to forgive me.”

  “Why would I?” Bourne said coldly. “You’ve done to me what every other agency has done.”

  Eli gestured and they continued down the hallway. “Because whether you choose to believe it or not I consider you a friend—a good friend I am honored to know.”

  “Enough with the bullshit, Director.”

  “I mean it, Jason, with all my heart.”

  “How can you mean it when you lie to friends?”

  “I lie only when it’s absolutely necessary.”

  “The trouble is it’s you who decides when it’s necessary.”

  “I think I’ve earned the right.”

  “Everyone thinks that.”

  Eli grunted. “Let me know if you feel the same way when you leave this unit.”

  He pushed open the double doors to critical care. Inside, the atmosphere was as hushed and sepulchral as a funeral parlor. Solemn nurses and PAs moved from patient to patient like bees pollinating flowers.

  Each patient was housed in a separate room. The sighs of breathing tubes and beeps of electronic monitors were virtually the only sounds, a kind of doleful electronic music.

  They stopped in front of a door. “The measure of my trust in you, Jason, is that I have taken you here, that in a moment I will allow you to walk into this room, because in there is my one true secret and your gift.”

  There was silence for some time.

  “Will you come in with me?” Bourne asked.

  Eli Yadin’s smile seemed to brighten. “Another time.”

  Bourne opened the door.

  “I’ll be here, Jason.”

  The room was large and bright, more like a diminutive living room than a hospital cubicle. The door sighed shut behind him and he was alone with the person sitting up in the bed on the far side of the room.

  “Hello, Jason.”

  For a moment he felt rooted to the spot, absolutely disbelieving despite what his eyes showed him. It was as if his stunned mind was suspicious that this was another of Eli Yadin’s superbly tailored lies.

  “Won’t you come here?”

  Bourne could find nothing to say. Was this a dream? He had such a powerful sense of unreality he nearly staggered. He felt blood rush to his head. His heart beat painfully in his chest, and he could scarcely breathe.

  “Rebeka,” he said at last, “for all this time I thought you were dead.”

  “My real name is Sara. Sara Yadin.” She held out her hand. “If you touch me you’ll know I’m not dead.”

  “I’ve been…”

  “I know, and I’m so sorry.”

  “All I could think of was…”

  Her hand was so thin, so pale, almost translucent.

  Bourne was aware of a great heat inside himself, a rageful trembling in his soul. His fist slammed into the wall so hard, the plaster groaned, cracking. The door opened, and it was all he could do not to rush through it and crush Eli Yadin’s windpipe.

  “Get out!” he yelled.

  “It’s all right,” Sara called. “Everything’s fine.”

  The door subsided, sighing shut.

  Bourne’s face was a frightening mask. “Your father lied to me, time and again he lied.”

  “He lied to everyone, Jason. It was to protect me while I was vulnerable lying here, without strength, recovering.”

  Her words did nothing to dispel his fury. “But it was me he manipulated. He used my anguish at your death—”

  “To kill the man who ordered me dead.”

  “I would willingly have—”

  “Of course,” Sara said, “but you might have failed. Even you.” She smiled sadly. “If he’d told you the truth you would have insisted on seeing me. And having seen me, part of you would have remained here with me. Your attention would have been divided. Your effectiveness would have been compromised.”

  Apart from the rhythmic beeping of the heart rate monitor, there was silence.

  “You know it’s true, Jason.”

  She was right, Bourne thought. Knowing she was alive, l
ying here helpless, would have made him crazy. He would not have been thinking clearly. Ouyang was far too dangerous a foe to engage while his concentration was divided.

  “Please.” She waggled her outstretched fingers. “I want to touch you. I want to hold you. I want to know you’re real, that you’ve returned from China alive and well.”

  Like a sleepwalker, he approached the bed. He recognized her, yet she looked vastly different. She was painfully thin, and so ashen she appeared almost ghostly. In some places, the blue of her veins shone through her translucent skin with a venomous lucidity. She had the appearance of someone who was still in the grip of an exceptionally grave and painful illness.

  As he came close, she parted her gown, revealing the ugly scar on her side where she had been stabbed the night they had escaped Maceo Encarnación’s villa in Mexico City. He had had to carry her the final yards, and then…

  He took her to him, enfolding her, cradling her, rocking her gently. As the tips of his fingers ran along the still-livid scar, he felt his heart well up to the bursting point. And he whispered, “I saw you bleed out in the back of the taxi. I left you a corpse in Mexico City. I stood by while they buried you here in Tel Aviv. And now…”

  “Now here we are. Everything is good.” She smiled.

  He remembered that smile, and the feelings it engendered rose up in him like a cresting wave.

  “You were so brave, Jason. So resourceful. I never would have made it if it weren’t for you.” She took his head in her hands, kissed him tenderly with lips soft as clouds. “My love, you saved my life.”

  For a seemingly endless time, they held each other wordlessly, content just to feel each other, to assure themselves that this reunion was real, not a dream from which they would wake, heartbroken and in despair.

  “Jason,” she said at length, “I was so frightened for you. When my father told me his plan, I was livid. I wouldn’t speak to him for days. But he kept at me, repeated over and over what I told you, and at last I relented. And he was right. You were the only one who could get close to Ouyang, who could kill him. The only one. And of course, he had given you the perfect motivation: my death.”