The Bourne Retribution Read Online Free PDF Page B

heavily scarred leather apron had appeared in the doorway. He sported a full beard, shot through with a shade of gray that matched his hooded eyes. He had a wide face and thick lips. Rather than step out into the shop proper, he beckoned to Bourne with one long finger.
    He said not a word of greeting as Bourne stepped past him into the workshop. Closing the door securely behind him, he crossed to a wooden stool and sat, studying Bourne, hands clasped in his lap.
    “So you are the man she spoke about,” he said at last. “What can I do for you?”
    Bourne handed him the passport the Director had given him.
    Ben Asher took it, flipped to the first page, swiveled around to peer at it under a bright light using a jeweler’s loupe. At length, he grunted, then turned back, holding out the passport.
    “It’s gratifying to see that Mossad’s expertise hasn’t slipped.”
    Bourne gave him a wry half smile. “You’ll have to repair the back cover.”
    Frowning, Ben Asher swiveled back around, placing the passport in the center of the circle of light. He found the slit right away.
    “What was in here?”
    “A tracking device.”
    “Ah.” Ben Asher swiveled back to Bourne. “So you want a new name and electronic code for this.”
    “No,” Bourne said, taking back the passport. “I want a new one.”
    “In other words, an entirely different identity.”
    “That’s right. It needs to look used—immigration stamps and so forth.”
    “Naturally.”
    “Including one for Shanghai that’s dated tomorrow.”
    Ben Asher stared at him for a moment. “What time is your flight?”
    “Eight thirty this evening.”
    “Doable, certainly.” Asher tapped his forefinger against his lower lip. “Now, what nationality should you be? Too bad you don’t have any Asian blood in you; a Malaysian businessman would pass unnoticed in Shanghai.” He studied Bourne’s face. “I could make you Syrian, but that would only stir up trouble.”
    “How about Canadian?”
    “Perfect! Bland as consommé. Do you want to choose the name, as well?”
    “Let’s make it Carl Halliday,” Bourne said. “How much?”
    “Now you offend me.”
    “All artists should be paid for their expertise.”
    Ben Asher smiled and shrugged. “Yes, but you see, you are the man Rebeka loved.”

5
    I t was a sad homecoming for Maricruz. She could not help thinking that the traffic-choked crawl from the airport to smog-shrouded Mexico City—slow, tedious, never ending—was like a funeral procession.
    The mansion on Castelar Street, in Colonia Polanco, overlooked Lincoln Park, where, she had been told, Jason Bourne had dragged the Mossad agent, whom her brother had knifed, after escaping from the house. She had never set eyes on Bourne, didn’t know what he looked like, though she had a clear picture of him in her mind’s eye. Bourne had killed her brother and her father, that much she knew—that much and no more. Her brother’s demise was no great loss, but her father—well, that was another matter entirely.
    She had expected the house of her childhood to look old and worn, cracks showing where it was in need of restuccoing, but the building that lay in front of her, surrounded by sparkling flower beds and riotous sprays of bougainvillea, gleamed in the wan sunlight as if just polished. The stone had been repointed and the stucco recently painted.
    Inside lay bigger surprises still. She was met at the front door by Wendell Marsh, SteelTrap’s lawyer, who had been handpicked by her father. More than that, Maceo Encarnación had put Marsh through school, sponsoring, then mentoring the orphan. He was now a de facto member of the family, though that would never occur to him.
    “Maricruz.” He embraced her. “So good to see you. It’s been, what—?”
    “Too long.” Maricruz stepped back to look at Marsh. He was a broad-shouldered man with stark features, thick, swept-back hair that was almost entirely white. Marsh had been born a pessimist, a