The Bourne Retribution Read Online Free PDF

lunchtime. He usually worked through the midday hours, occasionally consuming a premade sandwich one of his assistants brought up to him from the underground canteen.
    Yesterday, though, Yadin, dressed oddly casually in a white guayabera shirt, shorts, and boating shoes, got into an unmarked Mossad vehicle. He was alone, no bodyguard in sight. His usual armored car sat vacant and guarded somewhere below the building.
    Firing up the motorcycle he had bought to get around the traffic-clogged city, Bourne followed Yadin as he nosed his car out into traffic. By the way he was dressed, Bourne guessed that he was headed for the marina and his beloved boat, but as soon as Yadin turned toward the center of the city, Bourne knew he was wrong.
    Twelve blocks away, the Director pulled into a parking spot near a bus stop. Bourne nosed his motorcycle in toward the curb. A Dan Line bus was slowing, its air brakes sighing as it headed for the stop. Bourne glimpsed Yadin standing in line. The Director looked like an old man as he shuffled along in line, a bent-backed pensioner on a too-meager income.
    Bourne followed the bus as it heaved its bulk out into traffic, waiting patiently at each successive stop to see if Yadin got off.
    He finally did, at the Weizmann Street stop. Bourne observed him cross the street, walk down to an enormous faceted glass-and-steel building with an immense circular structure on the roof. It looked like one of the CIA buildings in DC.
    Bourne gunned the motorcycle forward, parked it at the curb, then followed Yadin between pillars, up a pedestrian ramp. As Yadin entered the building, he was brought up short by the sign: TEL AVIV SOURASKY MEDICAL CENTER . Immediately he thought of the Director’s coughing fit on the Caesarea beach, his half-smoked cigar. From the evidence, it seemed possible that Yadin was ill and didn’t want anyone to know. If that was the case, Bourne decided he would honor that wish.
    Heading back down the ramp, he got on his motorcycle, wheeled around, and drove away.
      
    T he Yemenite jewelry shop on one end of Mazal Dagim Street, in the Old Jaffa Bazaar in Tel Aviv, was an unprepossessing storefront, old by the looks of it, with an exquisite hand-painted sign hanging above the door. Inside, the silver jewelry sparkled with the intricate filigree work typical of Yemenite culture. The artistry was exquisite. The Ben Asher family had been working at this address for many years, their craft honed ages before Israel had come into existence.
    Apter Ben Asher, current patriarch of the family, was the man Rebeka had told Bourne to seek out should he need to purchase anything in secret.
    “ Anything? ” he had asked her.
    “ Anything at all ,” she had replied with the enigmatic smile he saw in his mind’s eye as he stepped across the threshold from late-morning sun into the cool, dim interior. He had spent two restless nights in a Tel Aviv hotel, and early this morning, making certain no one was following him, either another of Ouyang’s men or handlers sent by the Director, he had at last proceeded to the silversmith’s.
    The shop was illuminated by spotlights strategically placed for viewing the array of jewelry in waist-high glass cases that ringed the rear and side walls. It was filled with customers bending over, peering at the wares, asking to try on a necklace or a bracelet. Straight ahead, behind the cases, was a narrow door that presumably led to the workshop.
    Bourne waited for an opening, then asked one of the young salesgirls for Apter Ben Asher.
    When she asked his name, he said, “Just tell him a friend of Rebeka’s is here to see him.”
    She gave him an odd look, before nodding perfunctorily. As she headed back to the rear door, she threw a quick glance at him over her shoulder. Bourne was sure he saw a flicker of fear cross her face like heat lightning.
    Several moments passed while Bourne admired the silver work. When he looked up a small, rather roly-poly man in a