The Mercedes began to swerve in wider and wider arcs, and the Sig fell to the floor well, out of his reach. Horns blared, brakes squealed, abruptly halted tires left scorch marks on the bridge bed. Wide-eyed, Nicodemo was forced to try to free himself while attempting to keep control of the car. Blind instinct took over. In trying to pry Bourne’s legs away from him, he removed his hands from the wheel. But as he arched back again, his right foot inadvertently stabbed down on the accelerator. The Mercedes shot forward just as it was aimed at the side of the bridge. The combination of its speed and weight lifted it onto the pedestrian walkway, slammed it into the ancient stone, crumbling in places, of the bridge’s decorative balustrade.
The impact jerked everyone forward, momentarily loosening Bourne’s grip, but at that moment, a light truck, attempting to circumnavigate the traffic tie-up, sideswiped the Mercedes, smashing it through the already crumbling balustrade.
The massive impact hurled the Mercedes out over the river, the driver’s door swinging wide with the momentum, and the car plummeted straight down. It hit the water, which instantly rushed in on a merciless tidal wave, swamping the interior, threatening to drown the three men inside.
Ann made a sound much like that of a cat purring. She set aside her salad. “You know, Mr. Li, it occurs to me now that I know nothing about Natasha Illion—apart, that is, from what I read in W, Vogue, and Vanity Fair, but that’s all image, publicity spin.”
Mr. Li smiled. They were back on familiar ground. “Tasha and I lead very different lives,” he said with a shrug of his shoulders.
“But when you come together...” The slightest hint of a smile. “I beg your pardon.”
“Tasha isn’t someone easy to know,” Li said as if he had not heard her. “Israelis are gruff, direct, often disconcertingly so. Like all of them, she spent time in the army. That changes them, in my opinion.”
“Is that so?” Ann cupped her chin in one hand. “How do you mean?”
The salad bowls were cleared away, the oversized steak knives presented and, with a brief flourish, laid out.
“In Tasha’s case, it’s made her wary, distrustful. She considers her entire life a secret.”
“And, of course, you find this intriguing, fascinating.”
He sat back as the entrées and side dishes were set before them. Several twists of black pepper later, he took up fork and steak knife and sliced. The meat was bloody, exactly as ordered. “I’m a selfprofessed xenophile. I’m fascinated, as you put it, by the different, the exotic, the unknowable.”
“I imagine there’s nothing more exotic than an Israeli supermodel.” He chewed slowly and fastidiously. “I could think of several, but I’m quite content with what I have.”
“Unlike my late husband.” She dragged several onion rings onto the crusty top of her steak. She looked up suddenly, her gaze like the thrust of a knife. “Charlie confided in you about his affairs.” It wasn’t a question, and Li didn’t take it as such. “It seemed that Charles had very few friends and no confidants,” he said. “Apart from you.” Her eyes held steady on him. “That should have been me.”
“We can’t always get what we want, Senator.” He took a slice of meat between his teeth, chewed in his dainty way, then swallowed. “But we can try.”
“I’m wondering why Charlie felt he could confide in you.” “The answer is simple enough,” Li said. “It’s easier to talk of intimate matters to a stranger.”
But that wasn’t it at all, and they both knew it. Ann was growing weary of the conversational circumlocutions required by Chinese custom. Though Li was American born, in this he was very traditional. Maybe the Chinese insisted on these long, circular verbal paths, she thought, to wear you out, soften you up for the moment when negotiation began.
“Come on, Mr. Li. You and Charlie shared secrets.”
“Yes,” he said. “We did.”
Ann was so surprised by this bald admission that she briefly lost her breath.
“Your husband and I had an arrangement, Senator. An arrangement that benefitted both of us in equal measure.”
Ann didn’t bat an eye. “I’m listening.”
“It seems to me,” Li said, “that you have been listening all evening.” She laughed then, dry as wood. “Then we understand each other.”
He inclined his head fractionally. “However, we do not know one another.” The emphasis was subtle, but clear.
“This shortcoming has not been lost on me.” She smiled without, she hoped, a trace of guile. “Which is why I would like to present you with a gift.”
Li sat perfectly still across from her, his body neither tense nor relaxed. Simply waiting.
“Something precious that will correct the deficiency between us.”
From her handbag, she took out a small manila envelope, which she passed across the table. Li spent several moments engaging her eyes with his own. Only then did he allow his gaze to fall to the envelope.
His hands moved, took up the envelope, and unsealed it. He shook out its contents, which consisted of a single sheet of paper, a photocopy of an official document. As if magnetized, his eyes were drawn to the seal at the top of the page.
“This is...monstrous, insane,” he murmured, almost to himself.
As he scanned the information, a bead of sweat appeared at his meticulous hairline. Then he looked up into Ann’s face.
“Your beloved Tasha is not just a beauty, Mr. Li, she’s also a beast,” Ann said. “She’s a Mossad agent.”
Jackknifing his body, Bourne followed Nicodemo out the open driver’s door, but immediately had to turn back to fetch Don Fernando, who was floundering over into the front. With his hands bound behind him, Bourne used his teeth to grab at Don Fernando’s shirt. Grateful for the help, Don Fernando scissored his legs, propelling himself through the door.
It was dark under the water, and the two men positioned themselves back-to-back, their hands together so they would not lose each other. Breaching the surface, they heard screams emanating from pedestrians on the bridge, and, in the far distance, sirens. Bourne directed them to one of the bridge’s immense piers, thick with encrusted green-black weed. Beneath the weeds were barnacles, sharp as razor blades. Shoving himself back first against the pier, Bourne scraped the plastic tie against the barnacles, sawing through his bonds.
Don Fernando was beside him, treading water calmly. “Almost out of it,” Bourne said.
Don Fernando nodded. But just as Bourne reached for him, he was pulled under the water.
Nicodemo!
Bourne swiped at the pier, then kicked out powerfully as he dove beneath the water. Like a shark, he could feel Don Fernando’s thrashing, along with the kicking movement that was part of Nicodemo’s attack. Finding Don Fernando in the blackness, he used one of the barnacles he had grabbed to slice through the plastic tie, then propelled Don Fernando toward the surface.
This maneuver cost him. Nicodemo swerved underwater, caught Bourne a blow to the side of his head. Bourne canted over in the water, bubbles strewn from between his lips. Nicodemo struck him again, along the nerve bundle in the side of his neck. Bourne’s consciousness seemed to drift away from him. He tried to move, but nothing seemed to work. He was aware of Nicodemo maneuvering behind him, and he kicked out, but a slimy rope encircled his neck, a ferocious pressure converged at his throat. His lungs burned and his throat ached. Reaching around, Nicodemo pressed on his cricoid cartilage. If that shattered, he would drown within seconds.
He felt an increasingly tenuous connection with his consciousness, felt a sharp, circular instrument against his fingertips, but he wondered whether he possessed the strength to use it. The pressure on his throat was unbearable. Any second now Nicodemo’s fingertips would break through, and the black water would cascade down his throat, into his stomach and his lungs, and he would spiral down into the silty bottom of the river.