There was this one girl,” Bourne said in a confidential tone of voice. “Her name was Olga. Blond, blue-eyed, from the Caucasus, in sight of the Caspian.” He gave the FSB operative, who had at last confessed his name was Leonid, a knowing grin. “A robust girl, if you know what I mean.” He shook his head. “Boris and I had some memorable nights with Olga and her friends. Maybe you remember her?”
“They all tend to run together, those girls,” Leonid said. “Interchangeable as cogs, and about as memorable. Their intense neediness makes them ugly. All of them are steeped in poverty and ignorance, all of them think you’re their ticket out. For them, you’re nothing more than a rung on the ladder out of the cesspit.”
That was the most Leonid had spoken at once since the plane had taken off from Sheremetyevo. For Bourne’s purposes, it was a major breakthrough.
“There is that,” he said now. “The problem: too many beautiful girls.”
Leonid nodded grimly. “All wanting the same thing.”
Bourne glanced down at the container he was holding. “This coffee is terrible. Tea suits me better.”
“Tea would be welcome.”
“A generous pour of first-rate vodka would make it perfect.” Without waiting for a response Bourne rose and went back down the aisle to the galley to give his order.
The attendant brought out a large tray of small bottles, then set a pair of china cups and saucers out on the narrow counter. “Here,” he said, “take your pick of vodkas while I find the tea.”
On his first trip to the galley, Bourne had noted the medical cabinet that all such planes carrying dignitaries had on board. While the attendant knelt down to fetch the tea canisters from a lower drawer, Bourne rummaged through the cabinet until he found a sedative powder. He poured some into one of the cups, then added the contents of one of the small vodka bottles, stirring it with his forefinger until the powder dissolved.
“English Breakfast or Oolong?” the attendant asked.
“No Russian Caravan?”
“I’m sorry, no.”
“English Breakfast will be fine,” Bourne said.
Moments later he brought the teas back to Leonid, but when he handed him one cup, Leonid, looking up with a wolfish smile, said, “I’ll take the other one.”
Bourne handed him the cup he indicated, then sat down and began to sip his tea. Leonid, keeping his eyes on Bourne, put his lips to the rim of the cup and tasted the tea. He wrinkled his nose. “English Breakfast.”
“Not Russian Caravan,” Bourne said, “but at least it’s brewed strong.”
The two men sat in companionable silence for a time, until Bourne set aside his cup. Pressing a button on the side of his seat, he lowered the back, crossed his arms over his chest, and closed his eyes. His breathing soon slowed.
Beside him, Leonid’s eyelids began to droop, his eyes losing focus. He set his cup and saucer on the seat tray and, as Bourne had done, lowered the seat back. His lids flickered closed and he was out.
Bourne counted to one hundred to be certain Leonid had succumbed, then checked the lock on the case affixed to his wrist. It was one of those that could be opened only by a key that could not be duplicated. He set about searching Leonid for the key.
It took him some moments, but at length he found it in a thin leather case strapped to the inside of Leonid’s left ankle. He was reaching for it when Leonid stirred. Bourne waited, patient, until he was certain Leonid was still deeply asleep.
Extricating the key, he fit it into the lock, turned it to the right. There was an odd sound, not of lock tumblers opening but of a mechanism arming. Bourne froze. He had encountered locks like this before. They were triggers for a booby trap set inside the case—a fail-safe mechanism to destroy the contents before it could fall into unfriendly hands.
In his experience, there were two ways to disarm the mechanism. The first was to pull out the key and reinsert it; the other was to turn the key to the left. The problem was if it was the latter, removing the key would detonate the fail-safe. Crouching down, Bourne peered more closely at the lock. He had seen one of these before—in fact, Boris had showed it to him. It was a favorite of the FSB.
He had to be right; there would be no second chance. Holding his breath, he turned the key to the left. He heard the tumblers click into place, at once disarming the fail-safe and releasing the lock. Gingerly, Bourne opened the case.
The interior was entirely made up of a thick pad of dense gray foam interspersed with lines of dull metal. In the precise center a cutout, approximately four inches by two inches, had been made. Resting in this cutout was a small rectangular object. Its metal top gleamed dully in the airplane light.
The object was made of solid lead, which could mean only one thing: It was a protective shell that contained a radioactive substance. It was far too small to be a nuclear warhead, and this tiny a bit of uranium, even if it were weapons-grade, would be useless. What then did the lead shell contain?
Bourne’s mind raced back to the locking mechanism Boris had shown him. It was guarding a case not unlike this one, containing a lead shell in which resided a tiny vial of polonium-210, “our new silent weapon of choice for assassinations,” Boris had said. Bourne remembered the death of former FSB agent Alexander Litvinenko, who died in London of polonium poisoning after having leaked secrets to MI6. The radioactive substance had been put into his tea.
Was that what Leonid was bringing into the Party Congress? Why? On whose orders? Bourne relocked the case with the same care with which he had opened it, returned the key to its miniature “holster,” and, lying back in his seat, closed his eyes.
Behind lowered lids he considered the possibilities. This plane belonged to Minister Ouyang, so there was a high probability that it was Ouyang who had ordered the polonium-210. Who was it for? The obvious choice was Cho Xilan, his nemesis, but Bourne knew that choices like these weren’t often obvious.
With an iron will, he cleared his mind of questions he could not as yet answer. He detached it from the moorings of consciousness, and, soon enough, drifted off to sleep.
The first time I met Rebeka, she was curious as well as courteous,” Ouyang said as he slipped on his shirt and began to button it up. “The second time, we had dinner, and a more charming companion could not be imagined.” He wrapped his tie around his neck and slipped it underneath his collar. “The third time, she almost killed me.”
Having neatly knotted the tie, he put on his suit jacket, and sat. “That she didn’t succeed was a simple matter of happenstance.”
“Blind luck,” Cho said sourly.
“If you wish.” Ouyang sat back, shot his cuffs, resettling himself. “There is no easy way to describe this creature. She was far too complex a personality for that. And perplexing.”
“She caught you off guard,” the Patriarch said.
“This was before I understood what she was.”
“You were never able to understand her.”
“No one did. She’s inscrutable.” Ouyang picked a piece of lint off the sleeve of his jacket. “As to her being a field courier, I allowed myself to be swayed by her gender. I didn’t credit her enough. I treated her with disdain.”
“She made you pay for your arrogance.” Deng Tsu slid the onionskin back into its file, stowed it away in his briefcase. “You couldn’t leave well enough alone. You had to have your revenge. You had her killed in Mexico City when she was with Jason Bourne. You had her knifed in the side, as she had knifed you.” Deng shook his head. “So began Mossad’s personal feud with you. And all for a courier, Jidan.” He sighed. “You have put us in a perilous situation.”
“With respect, Patriarch, I have done nothing of the kind,” Ouyang said. “Eli Yadin’s increasing desperation to get to me has finally led him to make a mistake. He has enlisted Jason Bourne to be his proxy.”
“How has he managed that?” the Patriarch said. “Ever since he was manipulated by the American Central Intelligence Agency, Bourne notoriously hates the clandestine services.”
“Eli Yadin is smarter than the CIA. He never would have been able to persuade Bourne to do his bidding if Rebeka hadn’t been murdered. Eli is canny enough to know that Bourne will only respond to personal loss. Rest assured, it will be Bourne who comes after me.”
Cho Xilan shook his head. “How is this good news?”
“The devil you know.” Ouyang crossed one leg over the other. “Instead of being faced with the daunting task of monitoring every member of Mossad’s Kidon section, I can concentrate on Bourne. Best of all, I don’t have to lift a finger because I know he’ll come to me.”
“What? In Beidaihe?” Cho laughed uneasily. “Surely you’re joking.”
“He isn’t,” Deng Tsu said.
“But Bourne is a Westerner,” Cho protested. “No Westerner will be allowed within fifty miles of Beidaihe.”
“Clearly, Jidan knows Bourne better than you do, Cho Xilan. Have a care.”
“Bourne is a master of infiltration and assassination.” Ouyang put his hands together, much in the manner of a priest at prayer. “But I am forewarned—and I am prepared.”