Hwang Liqun sat back, staring at this gorgeous, monstrous creature confronting him like a dark goddess of the underworld. Where had she come from? he wondered. How had Minister Ouyang found her? He and Ouyang Jidan were friends, yes, but there were limits to friendship, areas in which one must not pry. Thus did General Hwang Liqun have only the most superficial knowledge of Maricruz, though he had met her numerous times at parties, official functions, even dinners of a more intimate nature. Nothing in his past experience of her, however, would have led him to suspect that she was capable of this conversation. How much had Ouyang told her of their plans? How did he know she could be trusted? Ouyang trusted no one except the General.
He had assumed that she had called this meeting, on behalf of Ouyang, thus believing he would lose no face by agreeing to attend. Now he understood that Maricruz, deeply and inextricably involved in Ouyang’s—and, therefore, his—business, was speaking for his friend, that he had cannily sent her as his emissary because the stakes were so high, the wartime strategy too fraught to chance a breach in security. Being a foreigner, Maricruz was ignored by Ouyang’s associates and, more importantly, his enemies, who held her in contempt. She was secure, and the General was now grateful for it.
“It is unfortunate, Maricruz,” the General said now, “that I cannot make that claim. Please continue.”
She poured them both more tea. “More than five years ago, you and Ouyang pushed for building the roads and infrastructure in Kenya. You saw the endless wealth in the ground, and you were determined to claim it for China’s growing energy needs. Ouyang predicted that the Kenyans would not ask the price for this desperately needed work, and he was right. And now, as a consequence, he can get whatever he wants out of Kenya—oil, diamonds, raw uranium ore, possibly even rare earth elements.”
The General nodded. “Our gamble will pay off handsomely.”
“And yet,” Maricruz said, “this incredible payoff remains something Cho Xilan, in his overzealous manner, has worked against. Because of him, Zimbabwe is still waiting for China to make good on its infrastructure promises, and Guinea turned over oil rights in exchange for nine billion dollars in housing, transport, and public utilities that have yet to appear. All because of Cho, who has sounded the call for China’s global retreat in order to ‘clean house,’ as he puts it, to sweep aside the entrenched corrupt political hierarchy with a new broom.” She shook her head. “You gave Cho ammunition against you. He unearthed a number of African politicos who were slicing off chunks of money and lining their own pockets.”
The General, slightly nettled, said in a steely voice, “That is the way deals are done in Africa. Nothing new to it.”
“Except when Cho brings evidence of it to the Central Committee. He got them to stop all payments, didn’t he? He built political capital, didn’t he?”
She took a sip of tea, allowed the atmosphere to cool somewhat, then put down the handleless cup. “I’m sorry to be so blunt, General, but time is short. What Cho really wants is a return to the time of Mao, of a central leader, upright, righteous, ideologically dogmatic. He wants nothing less than to rule China, to rule it with an iron fist.”
The General swallowed more tea to calm his teeming mind. Thoughts and ideas chased each other like schools of fish through a coral reef. At length he said, “Let us assume, for argument’s sake, that I agree with your grim assessment of the situation.”
“Sign off on sending a cadre of Ouyang’s men to Lebanon. Our project there is in its final stages. The enormity of the energy opportunities it will bring China is virtually incalculable. Cho doesn’t want either you or Ouyang to gain such power.” She raked him with her eyes. “He will do anything to stop the project from being consummated.”
The General’s eyes began to glaze over as he lost interest. “All this is known to me. There is enough security already in place. Minister Ouyang and I agreed on this aspect of the plan months ago.”
“The situation on the ground has changed,” Maricruz said.
The General cocked his head as a frown deepened into a scowl. “In what way?”
“Jason Bourne has entered the picture.”
Hwang Liqun blew out a small gust of breath. “Yes. He has been traveling with a Mossad agent. But that, by itself, means nothing.” His hand cut through the air in a gesture of finality. “Besides, the Mossad agent is dead.”
Unfazed, Maricruz pressed on. “Bourne has been to Dahr El Ahmar and escaped.”
“This also is old news, Maricruz. Minister Ouyang has made arrangements to take Bourne out should he appear again in Dahr El Ahmar when the deal is consummated.”
“I assume you’re speaking of Colonel Ben David,” Maricruz said. “The trouble is Ouyang doesn’t trust Ben David.”
This came as a surprise to General Hwang Liqun. Now, in a moment of revelation, he knew why Ouyang had arranged such elaborate security, entrusting Maricruz to deliver the intel in person. He looked hard into Maricruz’s eyes. She was right, there wasn’t much time. The deal was due to be consummated nine hours from now. He nodded. “I will sign the order immediately. Tell Ouyang Jidan an unmarked jet will be ready and waiting for his cadre within the hour.”
Are you up for a swim?”
Don Fernando looked at Bourne. “I’m old, Jason, not dead.” He glanced upward at the spinning lights and crowds along the Pont Alexandre III. “The police are making quite a production up there.”
“We’ve got to get out of the area,” Bourne said, “before more come and they lower divers into the water.”
Don Fernando nodded.
“We’ll head downriver. You can see the Pont des Invalides. It’s not far.”
“Don’t worry about me, Jason. I’m always ready for a good swim.” He smiled. “Anyway, quick getaways remind me of my misspent youth.”
“All right, then.”
Bourne slipped off the slimy bridge pier to which they had been clinging like limpets. They had to be careful, as clusters of razorsharp barnacles lived just beneath the waterline. There were spotlights raking the water now, illuminating the area where the car had gone in. All boat traffic had been stopped upriver. A pair of police launches were coming from that direction, loaded with divers, no doubt.
Bourne watched Don Fernando slide in noiselessly. Together, the two men stroked powerfully through the black water, away from the spotlights, the crowds, and the rapidly increasing scrutiny.
By foot, the Pont des Invalides was not a long way off, but in the water their progress was much slower. The water was very cold, and they had been wet for some time. Their sopping clothes did nothing now apart from weighing them down. However, they could not afford to stop to shuck anything off. Besides, they needed to be clothed when they emerged from the water.
Bourne kept up his powerful stroke, and, to his surprise, Don Fernando matched him kick for kick. He might be old, but he was still as strong as a marlin. The farther they went downriver, the farther behind they left the bright spotlights.
However, almost immediately they began to encounter another problem. Away from the bridge, the currents took hold in full force, twisting and turning them, even, on occasion, forcing them under the water. Bourne began to lose feeling in his extremities. The tips of his fingers were frigid, and he could no longer feel his toes at all. Even though they were protected by socks and shoes, his feet had been in the water continuously ever since the car hit the river and the water gushed in.
Slowly, stroke by stroke, they made their way downriver to the Pont des Invalides. Bourne turned just in time to see Don Fernando start to go under. Reaching over, he pulled his head up above the surface, drawing him onto the pier nearest the Right Bank.