Read Online The Bourne Retribution by Eric Van Lustbader - Free Book Online Page B

wardrobe, dropping his burned and torn jacket, shirt, and trousers into the trash bin next to the sink in the filthy toilet. He was sorry to see his military uniform go, but he had no choice; it smelled like singed hair and roasted metal.
    Continuing his walk, he paused at a street vendor’s stall to eat cubes of roast pork belly on a bamboo stick, washing the protein down with two bottles of Coke so chilled, shards of ice were floating in them. By the time he was finished consuming the food, his fingers had stopped tingling and his head had cleared.
    On reaching Jiujiaochang Road, he spent the next several minutes checking the immediate vicinity. While he watched the passersby, he listened to snatches of their conversations. He neither saw nor heard anything out of the ordinary. When a siren sounded, it was far away, headed in other directions. At length, he ducked through the front door to Wei-Wei’s building. It was narrow, as was the entryway, which smelled of hot oil and sizzling Sichuan peppercorns. The stairs rose steeply ahead of him, creaking with every step he took.
    On the second-floor landing the cooking smells were stronger. Even out here, the oil from the burst peppercorns stung his eyes. Wei-Wei’s apartment was at the far end of the landing, in the back. As he passed a grime-coated window, he peered out, could see a narrow alley abutted by the overlapping tiles of steeply pitched rooftops on the neighboring buildings.
    Wei-Wei’s doorbell was out of order, so he knocked on the door, then harder. There was no response. He put his ear against the door. At first he could hear nothing but what sounded like the wind soughing through the apartment, as if Wei-Wei had left the window open. Then, following his third knock, a brief rustling came to him, as of stiff clothes rubbing against flesh. Still, Wei-Wei didn’t answer.
    Standing back, Bourne kicked the door in, and was immediately confronted by a Shanghainese police office pointing a gun at him.
    “Who are you?” he said in an affected and officious voice. “What are you doing breaking into a private citizen’s home?”
    “Wei-Wei is a friend of mine,” Bourne said. He showed the cop his Carl Halliday passport. “From time to time, we do a little business.”
    The cop’s eyes narrowed. “What sort of business?” The muzzle of his service pistol never wavered from Bourne’s chest.
    “Nothing major,” Bourne said. “Just, from time to time, shipments of gum.”
    “Gum?”
    “Chewing gum.” Bourne produced the pack he had purchased at the airport and held it out. “Chinese herbs. See? Canadians are nuts for Chinese herbs.”
    Then Bourne frowned as he put away the pack of gum. “Where is my friend? Where’s Wei-Wei?”
    The cop beckoned with his free hand and he and Bourne went into the tiny bedroom, where the man known as Wei-Wei was hanging from a rope looped over a wooden rafter.
    “Seems a competitor got to him,” the cop said. He gestured with his gun. “I’ll have to ask you to leave. The forensics team is on its way. I can question you in the hallway.”
    Bourne was about to protest when he heard a sound like that of a small box closing. The cop’s eyes opened wide, his lips pulled back from his nicotine-stained teeth, and he pitched forward into Bourne’s arms.
    A tiny dart stuck out the side of his neck.

9
    D ani Amit, head of Collections, entered Director Yadin’s office with a grim look on his face. Across from Yadin sat Amir Ophir.
    “We’ve lost Davidoff,” Amit said.
    The Director frowned. “What d’you mean? He’s not in Shanghai?”
    “He may be,” Amit said, “or he may not.”
    “I think you’d better explain yourself,” Ophir said.
    Amit gave Ophir merely a glance. Using a tablet computer, he pulled up a short video on the Director’s large monitor, which took up most of the wall opposite the desk. In it, the three men saw Bourne going through passport control.
    “This comes from the Shanghai