Internally, the Director of Mossad was traditionally known as Memune, “first among equals.” Not Eli Yadin. “I have a name,” he would say to the new recruits whenever he met them. “Use it.”
Yadin was normally an optimistic man—in his line of work you were either optimistic or you blew your brains out inside of eighteen months. But today he was unhappy; worse, his optimism had failed him. Possibly that was due to Amir Ophir, the man sitting opposite him, aboard his sailboat, the most secure spot in Tel Aviv—all of Israel for that matter.
Ophir was the head of Metsada, Mossad’s Special Ops branch. Through Kidon, its wet-work group, it was in charge of conducting assassination, sabotage, paramilitary, and psychological warfare projects. Unlike the Director, Ophir was dark of both skin and hair. His eyes, set far apart in his face, were pitch black, like the pupil of a raven’s eye. Yadin often thought Ophir’s soul was the same color.
“Honestly, Memune, I don’t understand you.” Ophir shook his head. “When he was up and running, the man was a liability, an albatross, even. Now he’s finished, done. He goes out with the trash. The Mexicans not only killed Eden, they desecrated him. This is totally unacceptable. They must be made to pay.”
“Are you telling me my job, Amir?”
“Of course not, Memune,” Ophir said hastily. “I am only voicing my outrage—the outrage of our entire family.”
“I share your outrage, Amir. And believe me, the perpetrators will be made to pay.”
“I will design a counter to the Mexicans that will—”
“You will do no such thing,” the Director said sharply.
“What?”
“Ouyang Jidan is behind the Mexicans. A larger plan has been set in motion.”
Ophir’s expression grew dark. “You have not told me about it.”
“I just did,” the Director said blandly.
“Details.”
“Compartmentalization.”
Ophir appeared offended by this blatant rebuff. “You do not trust me?”
“Don’t be absurd, Amir.”
“Then—”
The Director looked him in the eye. “The plan involves Bourne.”
Ophir made a derisive sound through pursed lips.
The Director raised a hand. “Ah, well, you see…”
“Memune, listen to me. Wherever Bourne goes, death follows. First Rebeka and now Eden. What I cannot fathom is why you’ve brought him into the center of our family.”
“I know how close you were with Eden.”
“Eden Mazar was one of my best men.”
The Director could see that Ophir was getting heated more rapidly than usual.
“I feel your pain, Amir,” the Director said, “but Bourne is of great strategic use to us.”
“Bourne is burned out. He’s of no use to anyone.”
“I disagree.”
Ophir raised one ebon eyebrow. “Even if you’re right, which I seriously doubt, is that use worth Eden Mazar’s life?”
“Amir, Amir, it is for God to make such a judgment.”
Ophir snorted. “Yes. God is everywhere, and nowhere at all. The fact is, God has nothing to do with our chosen profession. If there is a God, there would be no need for Mossad or Kidon.”
Unfortunately, the Director knew what Ophir meant. It was times like these—when terror clamped Eli’s heart and was slowly squeezing the life out of it—that felt as if God had abandoned his chosen people. But such thoughts were counterproductive.
“I would prefer we leave God out of our discussion,” the Director said. It wasn’t spoken as an order, and yet it was. This, too, was the Mossad way.
“You’re mistaken to pin the two deaths on Bourne,” he went on. “He was their harbinger, but certainly not their cause.”
“He failed to protect Rebeka.”
“Rebeka didn’t need protection,” the Director snapped. “You of all people know that.”
“And what about Eden?”
The Director stood up. The wind had changed directions, and he spent some time adjusting the sails accordingly. When everything was secure and to his liking he returned to his seat and stared into Ophir’s raven eyes.
“Amir, we find ourselves in a situation that I fear is quite beyond us. We need help.”
“I can get you all the help you need.”
The Director shook his head. “I think not. Not this time.”
“Memune, please. Bourne can’t be trusted.” Ophir’s eyes grew dark and dangerous. “He’s not us; he’s not family,” he said emphatically.
Leaning forward, forearms on knees, the Director put his hands together as if in prayer. “And yet, for better or for worse, it’s Bourne, Amir. Only Bourne can help us now.”
Jason Bourne, sitting in ancient shadow, stared out at the sunlight chopping the Mediterranean into diamond shards. He imagined each shard to be a leaping fish, went through the exercise of visualizing what each fish looked like as it leapt from the water. Instead he saw Eden Mazar’s decapitated head flying over the gazebo into the edge of the surf.
Diamond shards became flecks of blood, raining down on him. He saw Eden’s veiled eyes admonishing him. He closed his eyes, but that only brought up images of Rebeka in Mexico City, dying in the backseat of a taxi.
Above him rose the arches of the ancient aqueduct built in the first century BCE, during King Herod’s reign. Three hundred years later, with the city of Caesarea greatly enlarged, it was extended, bringing cool, clear water from the springs of Shummi six miles away at the foot of Mount Carmel. Now the modern resort of Caesarea, adjacent to the ruins of the old city, was run by a private corporation.
At some point he became aware that a figure had entered his island of shade, and he grew annoyed, wanting, more than anything, to be alone. He turned, about to voice his displeasure, when he saw the Director, clad in one of his usual lightweight linen suits. His one concession for the beach was highly polished leather huaraches.
“It took me some time to find you,” the Director said, “so I imagine that’s the way you wanted it.”
When Bourne made no reply and swung his head to look out again at the sea, the Director stepped closer and sat down beside him.
“I understand you left the hospital prematurely.”
“Opinions differ,” Bourne said dully.
“A doctor’s opinion—”
“I know my body better than any doctor,” Bourne said curtly.
For some time, the two sat in an uncomfortable silence. Young women in tiny bikinis ran, shouting with laughter, into the surf to interrupt their boyfriends’ game of water Frisbee. Someone was taking photos of the aqueduct. A mother herded her two children up the beach, rubbing a towel briskly over their dripping heads. The salt tang was overlaid with the scents of suntan lotion and clean sweat.
“How’s your shoulder?”
“My shoulder’s fine,” Bourne said. “Is that why you’re here? To check on my health? I don’t need a shoulder.”
“I don’t have a shoulder to give,” the Director said brusquely. Then he sighed. “You may want out, Jason—”
“I don’t want out. I just want to be here.”
“Doing nothing but thinking of her.”
“It’s none of your business what I’m doing.”
“Sitting on the beach day after day isn’t for people like us.”
Bourne remained mute.
“We’ll rest when we’re dead,” the Director observed drily. “Anyway, I didn’t come here to debate the merits of the life we’re in. I came to tell you that your enemies are still searching for you.”
“Eden’s death is proof I’m not ready.”
“No one could have saved Eden, not from a betrayal by Carlos. Recall, if you will, Eden had his handpicked bodyguards with him. They were killed instantly. You did your best.”
“I should have done better. In other times—”
“This isn’t other times,” the Director said. “And the past is the past. You and I have to deal with the now.”
Bourne’s eye was caught by two of the Director’s grim-faced men coming down the beach. They bracketed the man who had been taking pictures and hustled him away.
“It didn’t take me that long to find you,” the Director said. “It hasn’t taken Ouyang Jidan long, either.”
Bourne squinted through the harsh sunlight. Was the photographer in custody Chinese?
The Director produced a cigar but made no move to light it, simply rolled it back and forth between his fingers like a magician’s wand. “Don’t for a moment imagine Ouyang hasn’t been monitoring the entire situation, Jason.” The Director’s face held a measure of solace for Bourne. “You embarrassed him, caused him to lose face. He’s going to strike while you’re most vulnerable.”
Bourne swung his head around. “Did Rebeka know about Ouyang?”
“What? No.”
“Who did, besides you?”
The Director heaved another sigh. “My head of Metsada. Amir Ophir.”
“Then why did Ouyang order her killed?”
For a moment the Director stood stock-still. A pulse beat in his right temple. “Encarnación gave the order.”
“No,” Bourne said. “He didn’t.”