The Bourne Evolution

by Brian Freeman

  “It’s just me this trip,” Bourne replied.

  “Ah. Quel dommage.”

  “Has anyone asked about me?” Jason inquired. “Does anyone know I’m here?”

  “Of course not. Your presence here is confidential, per your standard instructions. You can always count on my discretion.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  “Well, you are always most generous, monsieur. I will see you shortly.”

  Bourne hung up the phone.

  He stood in the darkness of the hotel bedroom, momentarily paralyzed with inaction. He was still thinking about Nova, still remembering her, but he couldn’t afford that luxury. Nova was gone. She was dead.

  Treadstone had killed her in Las Vegas.

  Jason had a new employer now, and he needed to make contact with them. They’d be wondering where he was and what had gone wrong. He went to the small table by the window that overlooked the bay. His phone was there, a pay-as-you-go phone he’d purchased with cash in Albany as he made his way north out of New York. He reinserted the battery, which he’d removed to make sure the phone couldn’t be tracked or remotely accessed, and he powered it on and waited for the phone to acquire a signal.

  The contact number was supposed to connect him with a woman named Nelly Lessard. She would answer with the words “Carillon Technology. How may I direct your call?” The extension Bourne asked for would send one of several messages: Call me back. I’m being followed. Requesting a meeting. Everything is fine.

  There was one extension that was like a 911 call. Human Resources, seventh floor.

  It meant: Emergency, need immediate extraction.

  He dialed the phone and waited, expecting to hear Nelly Lessard’s voice. Instead, a whistle whined in his ear, and he heard an electronic recording. “Your call cannot be completed as dialed.”

  Jason heard a roaring in his head. The wound in his shoulder throbbed.

  Had he misdialed? No.

  He tried again and got the same message. And again. And again. The number was supposed to be monitored 24/7. Nelly was always supposed to be there to take his call. Instead, the number had been shut down. Taken away from him, taken out of service. He knew what that meant.

  The operation had been terminated. He’d been burned.

  There was only one other way to get in touch with Carillon. He still had one other person he could reach. Scott DeRay had given him a special private cell phone number that he answered himself day or night. Jason had never used it before, but he dialed the number now.

  A man’s voice answered on the first ring, but it wasn’t the voice he expected. The voice belonged to a stranger, not a friend.

  “Who is this?” the man asked.

  Jason tried to make sense of it. Why was someone else answering this phone?

  “I need to talk to Scott,” Jason said.

  “You have the wrong number.”

  “I know that’s not true!” Bourne insisted. “I know you can reach him. This is his phone. It’s urgent we talk.”

  “I can’t help you. You have the wrong number.”

  Liar! Jason wanted to shout into the phone. He squeezed his eyes shut and debated how much to say. “Look, I need to talk to Scott right now. Or to Miles Priest. Tell them it’s about . . . it’s about Medusa.”

  There was a long stretch of dead air on the phone.

  Then the voice said, “Don’t call this number again.”

  The next long silence told Jason that the man had hung up.

  The setup that had started in New York was complete. They hadn’t missed a single detail. Jason was a wanted man, cut off from rescue, cut off from his lifelines. Even a friend who went back to his forgotten childhood had set him adrift.

  Bourne was on his own.

  FOUR

  THE screams of the gulls kept Jason company as he hiked along a rocky beach toward the streets of Saint-Jean-sur-Mer. The April air was crisp and cool. He wore a blue wool hat pulled down over his forehead and a pair of sunglasses supplied by Monsieur Bernard. His clothes were clean now, no evidence of bloodstains, and he’d showered, shaved, and replaced the dressings on his wounds. He looked like any other early-season visitor taking a holiday in the small tourist village.

  People came to Saint-Jean-sur-Mer because of the river. They sailed, they fished, they ate lobster rolls in the seaside cafés. Art galleries and bakeries hugged the north-south highway that followed the water. The houses all had the same peaked roofs, white siding, and cherry-red trim. Without the French signs, he could have pictured himself in Cape Cod. Only a few hundred people lived here, and most of them could trace their family roots to this same place for generations.

  Jason dug in his pocket to check how much money he had left. He’d paid the doctor and his daughter and Monsieur Bernard, and now he only had a couple hundred Canadian dollars in cash. Somewhere he’d need to get more. He was certain that the bank account that Scott DeRay and Miles Priest had set up for him was shut down, with special instructions to delay the man who came to the bank looking to withdraw funds.

  A message would be sent. Killers would be dispatched.

  He felt something else in his pocket. When he pulled it out, he saw a plastic, electronic hotel key for his room in New York, overlooking Washington Square Park. That was the room where the shooter had set up a rifle while Jason was in the crowd below. That was the room where the fatal shot on Sofia Ortiz had been taken from an open window.

  A bullet in the throat. The signature of Cain.

  He broke the key in half and divided the pieces among two separate waste bins he found outside the sidewalk shops.

  Jason realized he was hungry. It had been more than twenty-four hours since he’d eaten anything at all. He chose a brasserie that served fish and chips and fish soup, with windows that looked out on the bay. It was a one-room restaurant, and all the tables had plastic tablecloths decorated with pictures of vegetables and flowers. Ropes, fishnets, and life preservers hung on the walls as decorations. He sat at an empty table in the corner, near a door that led to the beach. He took off the sunglasses he was wearing, but left the wool cap on his head.

  “Oui, monsieur?” a waitress asked him sullenly, as if his arrival in the half-empty café was an imposition on her time.

  He ordered a plate of fried shrimp and coffee.

  There was a small television over the restaurant’s bar, tuned to the international version of CNN. A week later, the assassination of Congresswoman Sofia Ortiz was still the top of the news. He saw footage from the riot that had erupted after the shooting, but he didn’t need a reminder. He’d been there. Riot was the wrong word for what had happened. Riots were organic, unpredictable, uncontrolled affairs. The violence in New York had spread neatly, like a controlled burn, as if someone, somewhere, were writing a script for it and sending out actors to play their parts. This was a riot with a plan, and part of the plan had been to make sure that Abbey Laurent was one of the victims.

  Jason had followed her out of the park after the shooting. So had someone else. She’d been tracked by a man in a hood, but not a random thug, not part of the anarchist chaos sweeping the streets. This man never took his eyes off her. When Jason saw him aim a gun across the rioters at Abbey, he’d staged a collision to rescue her, and then he’d doubled back to take the man out with a choke hold around his neck.

  The man had no ID, nothing to explain his presence in the riot. He was a pawn.

  He was Medusa.

  The waitress put Bourne’s lunch in front of him. He devoured it hungrily, not sure when he’d have time to eat again. He gulped down the coffee, too. He found himself staring out the window at the beach, where a few children hung out near the river, throwing stones. In the distance, he could see a ship gliding eastward toward the open waters of the Atlantic. If he couldn’t break apart the conspiracy, that might be his future,
escaping overseas in the cargo hold of one of those ships.

  On the other side of the café, the front door opened and closed.

  Bourne shot a glance at the door and swore under his breath. It was a policeman. He was a local cop, dressed in a zippered olive-green police jacket and a black brimmed cap. He had a holstered sidearm at his waist. He was a tall beanpole, young, probably not even twenty-five, and he knew everyone in the café. The sullen waitress came alive and flirted with him. The chef made jokes.

  It might be a coincidence that the cop had arrived here now, but Bourne didn’t think so. The word had already gone out. The police were looking for him. He watched the cop out of the corner of his eye, and the policeman made a careful survey of the restaurant as he chatted with the waitress. He spotted Bourne at the corner table, and his stare fixed on him for an extra beat. That was all. Then the cop looked away, too quickly.

  Jason knew he’d been spotted.

  He unfolded two bills from his pocket and put the cash on the table to pay for his meal. Casually, he finished his coffee and popped the last fried shrimp into his mouth. He put his sunglasses back on, got up, and used the rear door to exit the café. A handful of wooden steps led to the beach, where the children were playing. He joined them at the water and threw a couple of stones, the way they were doing. Then he stole a glance over his shoulder.

  The policeman was watching him from the patio. He had a radio in his hand, calling for backup.

  Jason strolled eastward along the beach. Not far ahead of him, a wooded section of land encroached on the river. He could see the peaks of several houses tucked among the trees. When he stopped to tie his shoe, he shot another look behind him and saw the policeman following, maybe fifty yards away. The young cop had his right hand close to the holster on his belt. He wasn’t even hiding his pursuit, but Jason could tell from the man’s jerky motions that he was nervous.

  When a pursuer is nervous, make them more nervous. Do the unexpected. Keep them off balance.

  Treadstone.

  Where the trees grew close to the river, Bourne saw steps leading to a waterfront house. As he neared the stairs, he suddenly bolted into the woods, making no effort to hide his escape. The sudden movement sent pain knifing through his shoulder, and his brain swirled through a tornado of dizziness that almost drove him to his knees. He thundered up the steps and stopped, waiting for his mind to right itself. The house in front of him looked like a summer cottage, with a large porch and picture windows overlooking the river. When he crept to the rear windows and looked inside, he saw patio furniture stored near the door and covered with a plastic sheet. No one was home.

  Jason looked back toward the trees. The policeman came after him, slowly, uncertainly. A smart cop would keep him pinned down and wait for backup to arrive. A nervous cop would try to be a hero. Bourne crouched and waited for the man to get closer, and he could see that the cop had his gun in his hand.

  Do the unexpected.

  Bourne stood up, in plain view, his hands over his head. “I surrender! I surrender, and I need your help!”

  The cop aimed his gun at Bourne. “Don’t move!”

  Jason moved anyway. Keep them off balance. He came off the porch, hands still in the air. He invented a limp as he walked toward the cop, locking eyes with him, feeling the man’s fear. “I’m unarmed. I need your help. They’re going to kill me!”

  “I said, Don’t move! Stay where you are!”

  “You can’t let them take me. You have to bring me in. If the Americans get hold of me, I’ll disappear.”

  “One more step, and I’ll shoot!” the cop insisted.

  Jason stopped. They were ten feet apart across a muddy trail. “Yeah, sure, whatever you say. I told you, I’m unarmed. Look, I know how this goes. I turn around, I get on my knees. You put on the cuffs. I don’t want any trouble. I want everybody to know about this. I’m telling you, that’s what’s keeping me alive. Hell, call the TV news and get them out here. Get your picture in the paper.”

  “Shut up! Do it just like you said. Turn around and get on your knees. Do it!”

  “Sure. Absolutely. Thank you. You’re saving my life!”

  Bourne turned around and sank to his knees. He laced his hands behind his head. He closed his eyes and held his breath, focusing all of his senses on listening to the movements of the cop behind him. He heard the splash of boots in the mud and heavy, anxious breathing. The cop got closer. He was right there behind him, squatting, inches away. Then Jason heard the noise he was waiting for, the smooth slide of metal against leather as the cop holstered his weapon in order to reach for his cuffs.

  Instantly, Bourne twisted and drove his elbow into the cop’s kidney. As he spun, he fished out the cop’s gun with his other hand. Bourne shot an elbow upward and cracked the man’s chin, snapping his head backward. At the same time, he backhanded the man’s ear and knocked him sideways. He swung the heavy gun into the cop’s forehead, drawing blood and dizzying him. Bourne hit him again, harder, and this time the cop crumpled onto his back with his eyes closed.

  Jason scrambled to his feet. He felt wetness on his skin and glanced at his shoulder, where blood seeped through his shirt. His stitches had opened. He stumbled down the steps toward the beach, but as he neared the water, he stopped. They were already coming for him, but not the police. He didn’t hear sirens. Instead, overhead, he heard the fierce throb of an engine getting louder.

  A helicopter.

  He looked up and saw a black helicopter descending toward the beach like a giant insect. Before it even landed, half a dozen operatives in paramilitary gear leaped from the open door and landed in the shallow water not even a hundred yards from the trees. They all had automatic rifles in their hands. From where they were, he was invisible, but his location had already made its way from a nervous cop’s radio to the men who were hunting him. They knew where he was. Half of them moved down the beach, heading straight for the woods, and the other half crept toward the street to cut him off.

  Before Bourne could move, he heard another engine. A second helicopter soared into view over the trees and descended toward the other end of the beach like a pincer, squeezing him from both directions.

  Jason backed up the steps, then turned and ran toward the house. He ignored the pain. He ignored the dizziness. The young cop was still unconscious in the mud, and he jumped over him on his way toward the highway. He had to get away now! In less than a minute, the road would be shut down in both directions by men with guns. He ran past the house and down the dirt driveway to Route 132, where he put up a hand to stop an Audi sedan that was barreling toward him in the southbound lane.

  The Audi’s brakes squealed as the car jammed to a stop. There were two people in the front seat, a man and a woman. He heard the driver swearing at him.

  Bourne ran to the car’s back door and threw it open and pointed the cop’s gun at the man’s head.

  “Drive.”

  The man behind the wheel was a bearded fifty-something businessman in a navy sport coat and open-collared dress shirt. He had a blond woman in the seat next to him who was less than half his age. The anger in the man’s face bled away as he saw the gun, and his eyes widened with terror. “Oh shit, oh shit, just take the car. Take the car!”

  “Drive,” Bourne repeated, pulling the back door shut and stretching along the floor of the car. “I’ve got a gun pointed at your spine through the seat. You stop for anything, I fire, and you’re paralyzed. Got it? Now go.”

  “Yeah, yeah, whatever you say.”

  Jason heard the wheels screeching as the car accelerated.

  “Don’t speed!” he directed the man. “Don’t draw any attention to yourself. There may be men with rifles heading toward the highway from the beach. Ignore them. If you do anything to signal them, you’re both dead.”

  “Okay! I’m driving! Don’t hurt us! Where do you want to
go?”

  “Just keep heading south,” Bourne said, closing his eyes and applying pressure to the bloody wound on his shoulder. “As soon as I figure out where I’m going, I’ll tell you.”

  FIVE

  ABBEY knew that the policeman didn’t believe her story. There was no evidence left in Artillery Park of her encounter with the man in the gold-rimmed glasses. He was gone. Her Taser was gone. There were no witnesses.

  The police officer had the look of a butler at a royal palace. He was in his thirties but oozed the kind of pompous condescension that most men take at least fifty years to perfect. He was slim and tall, with brown hair parted in the middle and greased down, and he sported a pencil mustache that he kept combing with the tip of his finger. He had prominent cheekbones and ears that jutted from the side of his head.

  “You didn’t know this man?” the cop said with obvious skepticism. “You’d never seen him before?”

  “No, but he knew me. He was waiting outside the bar. He called me by name.”

  “Could he have seen you while you were inside?”

  “I suppose. I didn’t see him, but it’s possible.”

  “Did you have a lot to drink last night?” the police officer asked, staring down his nose at her.

  “I had one beer. What does that have to do with anything?”

  “Hmm,” the cop said, working his mouth as if he were chewing something unpleasant. “And you say this man pulled a gun on you?”

  “That’s right. He was going to kill me.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Well, the gun was my first clue,” Abbey snapped.

  She shifted impatiently on her feet and looked around the park to see if anyone was watching her. It crossed her mind that maybe she was being followed; maybe she’d been followed for days, ever since New York. She felt tired, angry, and paranoid. It had been a bad night. She hadn’t felt safe going back to her apartment, so she’d crashed on a girlfriend’s couch and made up an excuse about ducking an old boyfriend. She’d hardly slept at all. And then, in the morning, she’d debated whether to report what had happened. Her editor, Jacques, had finally prevailed on her to call the police, but now she was regretting her decision.