Good.” Quan, the wushun master, almost casually tossed a jian, a slender double-edged sword, traditionally used by gentlemen and scholars. As Ouyang Jidan caught it deftly by the hilt, Quan said, “White Snake Form.”
Ouyang stood perfectly still in the center of the training facility. The three men against whom he had been fighting for the past twenty minutes, using the Red Phoenix open-hand style, now picked up their own swords. Unlike Ouyang’s, theirs were dao, short, single-edged broadswords. All the weapons were carbon steel, rather than the traditional wooden training swords. Ouyang had moved beyond those years ago. There were twenty-nine levels in his chosen wushun discipline; he was fifteenth level.
Quan, a tiny man, looking no more than a wisp, was old in the manner of all great wushun masters. That is to say old in years only. He moved like a thirty-year-old, but his mind was filled with the wisdom only long decades of experience could produce. He was twenty-ninth level.
“Now,” Quan said to the three men, “attack.”
Ouyang moved not a muscle as the others advanced, an oasis of utter calm in the eye of the approaching whirlwind. The three men—tall, medium, and small in stature—came at him one by one, in the gliding, stretched movements of the Chinese straight sword form.
The small one struck first, an overhead blow meant to split the skull. Ouyang countered without moving his legs or torso in the slightest. Just his arms blurred, steel struck on steel, a lightning flash of sparks, and then the short man, shaken, stepped back at the precise moment the tall man lunged in with a strike meant to penetrate all the way to the spine. With a flick of his wrists that was neither disdainful nor flamboyant, Ouyang guided his opponent’s dao aside.
The medium man’s approach was entirely different. He was an expert in Sacred Stone, the same form Ouyang was using. For almost five minutes the two men stood toe-to-toe, with only their arms and weapons moving, until Ouyang, employing an unorthodox strike, swept his opponent’s legs out from under him.
The three men now spread out and simultaneously attacked Ouyang from different directions, the medium man switching from the immobile Sacred Stone to the fluid Fire Dance. For long moments, the endless clang of steel on steel, sparks like lightning, blurs like a mist clouding the interior of the building. Again and again the men tried to defeat Ouyang. Again and again, they were deflected, and then, in a breathtaking flurry, disarmed, defeated.
Well,” Colonel Sun said, when it was over, after Ouyang had been elevated to sixteenth level in a brief ceremony, “even I am impressed.”
Ouyang looked at him, sword blade lying against his hairless forearm. “Perhaps you wish to take me on.”
Colonel Sun chuckled, shaking his head. “You are old school, Minister. I never studied the straight sword forms.”
“Too low-tech, I imagine.” Ouyang sheathed his jian with a reverence the younger man would never grasp. “So there is a gap in your expertise.”
Colonel Sun chuckled again, but there was an undertone of uneasiness, an unanswered question of failure. He was young to be such a highly ranked officer—in his midthirties, a handsome man, with a slight Manchu cast to his eyes and cheekbones. Ouyang had mentored him, brought him along, overseeing his swift rise through the military ranks. Sun was intelligent, inquisitive, like Ouyang, a visionary—one of the young upstarts that, Ouyang hoped, would help bring the Middle Kingdom the world hegemony it so richly deserved.
“I have altered my mind-set,” Colonel Sun said, “of Ministers who sit in offices and shuffle papers as they make decisions.”
“Only me,” Ouyang said with an impish smile. “Only me.”
Later, the two men sat in the private dining suite at the Hyatt on the Bund reserved exclusively for Ouyang. They drank Starbucks coffee and ate the American breakfast Ouyang insisted they tolerate, if not enjoy, as part of their preparation for world hegemony. Outside the windows stretched Pudong and the glittering arc of the Bund, for centuries one of the world’s most famous waterfronts.
Colonel Sun, having had enough of the foreign substances, put aside his fork and said, “One of our people has been taken into custody at Caesarea.”
Ouyang scowled. “That is most unfortunate.”
Colonel Sun, clearing the tastes out of his mouth with a gulp of water, nodded. “Jason Bourne was with Director Yadin.”
“He’s like a fucking cockroach,” Ouyang said. “Impossible to kill, as you yourself found out in the catacombs of Rome. You tried twice and failed both times.”
Colonel Sun winced. “Everyone has failed. That does not mean I’ll fail again.”
Ouyang nodded. “An outcome that would please me, Sun. And also, I might add, lead to another promotion.” He wiped his lips. “Now, about the Mexican operation.”
“A mistake was made at Las Peñas.” Colonel Sun spat. “Mexicans! They can’t be trusted to think for themselves. Though, in the past that has worked in our favor.” He hesitated a moment, as if unsure whether to voice his next thought. “And then there is Maricruz.”
Ouyang stiffened visibly. “Maceo Encarnación’s daughter is an exception to the rule.”
“And yet,” Colonel Sun said, “she is the one who brought us into contact with the Mexicans.”
“In the past that has worked in our favor,” Ouyang said, deliberately parroting his protégé.
“The failure at Dahr El Ahmar to obtain the Israeli laser process for enriching uranium has not only set back our plans in Africa, but also given Cho Xilan the ammunition he needs against our long-range path for China.”
Cho was the secretary of the powerful Chongqing Party, Ouyang’s chief rival in the Central Committee. The Chongqing was also known as the Pure Heaven party for its conservative view of continuing the Middle Kingdom’s long-standing policy of isolation and non-engagement with the West. The rift between conservative and liberal factions of the government had been blown open by the very public purging of Bo Xilai and the subsequent arrest of his wife for allegedly murdering a Westerner.
“Listen to me, Sun. Now that the president has decided to convene the Party Congress, everything has changed,” Ouyang said. “In two weeks we will finalize plans to hand power to a new generation of leaders.
“I am determined to be one of those leaders. I am just as determined to ensure that Cho Xilan is not one of them. He was elevated when Bo Xilai was purged. We must find a way to implicate him in conspiring with the former head of the Chongqing Party.”
Colonel Sun considered. “That will not be easy. Cho has many powerful friends.”
“Nothing we do is easy, Sun.” Ouyang’s fork paused on the way to his mouth, hanging in midair. “Listen to me now. The Mexicans could not be expected to deal with Jason Bourne, a man they know nothing about. Carlos did what he was ordered to do, and, as a result, Mossad has been dealt another blow. First the powerful agent Rebeka, and now Eden Mazar.”
“Well then, it’s no wonder Yadin is talking with Bourne.”
“The question is, why is Bourne listening?” Ouyang chewed meditatively on a bite of egg and bacon. “Why was Bourne in Las Peñas protecting Mazar? Bourne is a loner. He loathes and distrusts government agencies.” He shook his head, staring out at the glimmering high-rise skyline of Shanghai. “Something vital has changed. We need to find out, Sun.”
The colonel shook his head. “I don’t understand.”
Ouyang pursed his lips. “Bourne is a wild card, Sun, he always has been. We cannot afford to let him or Mossad interfere with us.”
“I don’t understand why you’re still worried about Mossad. Their agent Rebeka is dead.”
“Given what we know, Sun, there is every possibility that Mossad’s Director has talked Bourne into following in Rebeka’s footsteps.”
“I still don’t—”
“You know as much as you need to know, Sun.” Ouyang turned away. “Focus on Bourne. He’s your target now.”
Bourne had booked himself into an anonymous motel on the seedier side of Caesarea, away from the posh tourist center where the rich came to play. Its whitewashed stone looked abused, as if the past had beaten it up. It was, however, not so anonymous that a man dressed as a tourist, carrying an overnight bag, wasn’t able to find it and book himself a room, paying cash for a one-night stay. While the clerk turned his back to fetch his room key, the tourist checked the computer terminal for Bourne’s room number.
The tourist had an entirely unremarkable face. In fact, minutes after he had checked in, the clerk had forgotten what he looked like. Meanwhile, on the third floor, the tourist stopped outside Bourne’s room.
He set down his overnight bag, unzipped it, and removed a vinyl sheet that, when shaken out, deployed as a suit, into which he stepped. When he zipped up the front, his body seemed to disappear. He slipped plastic booties over his shoes, then snapped on latex gloves.
Inside Bourne’s room, he observed everything with a cold clinician’s eye. He went methodically through every drawer, shelf, checked behind every picture, underneath the bed—making certain to replace everything in the precise spot and angle in which he’d found it. Finding nothing of interest, he stepped into the bathroom. He felt behind the toilet’s water tank, lifted the porcelain lid to peer inside. From the side of the sink, he picked up a water glass. Holding it at rim and bottom, he sprayed a fine white powder on the curved side. Immediately several fingerprints were revealed. He placed a short length of a specially formulated tape over the fingerprints, then carefully peeled it off. The prints were perfectly preserved on the tape.
A moment later, silent and ghost-like, he slipped from the room. Stripping off the vinyl suit and booties, he stowed them in his bag. He kept the latex gloves on. Descending two flights of metal stairs, he exited unnoticed through the rear door, vanishing into the white noonday glare.