The Bourne Evolution

by Brian Freeman

He let go of her hands. Abbey backed up, embarrassed, a flush on her face. They got out of the elevator and walked silently to the end of the hall, where the room was. He undid the lock and murmured, “Stay here while I make sure it’s clear.”

  Her eyes stared at the floor. “Okay.”

  Jason went into the one-bedroom apartment. Nothing had changed, not the paint, the furniture, the curtains. It was the same as it had been when he was here with Nova. He went back to the door and held it open so that Abbey could come inside. He closed the door behind her and did the dead bolt.

  “Are we safe here?” she asked softly.

  “I think so.”

  “Good.”

  “Do you want anything? They usually keep the fridge stocked.”

  “No, thanks.”

  “I’ll sleep on the couch. You can have the bed.”

  “Okay.”

  “Abbey, listen, I’m sorry.”

  She shoved her hands in her pockets. “Don’t be. You got the signal right.”

  “It’s better if nothing happens between us.”

  “Definitely,” she replied. “Definitely better. Sure.”

  “I kill people,” Jason said. “Don’t forget that.”

  “I haven’t forgotten.” She went to the window and looked out at the lights of the city. “Did you kill Carson?”

  “It wasn’t me. But he’s dead.”

  “Medusa?”

  Jason nodded. “One of them was definitely Medusa. His job was to make sure Gattor died. The rest, I don’t think so.”

  “Then who were they? Why were they after him?”

  He sat down at the apartment’s dinette table and pulled out the phone he’d taken from the last of the assailants. Abbey sat down next to him, and she pulled her chair close enough that their legs brushed together. He unlocked the phone using the code he’d seen the man enter, and he opened the app for the Prescix software.

  As he scrolled through the man’s news feed, Abbey whistled, seeing the photos and articles about Carson Gattor. “He was a lawyer for white power groups? I never would have guessed that.”

  “That’s the thing, I don’t think he was,” Bourne replied. “These articles are all deepfakes. So are the photos. This incident was manipulated. Someone knew where Carson was going, and they put him in the crosshairs for a bunch of anti-fascist thugs who love to go around beating up Nazis. Look at these posts. The software targeted these people, fed them sophisticated misinformation, and sent them after Gattor. And then Medusa included one of their own just to make sure they got the result they wanted. Gattor dead.”

  “Software can do all that?” Abbey asked.

  “Apparently so. With the right code and the right people pulling the strings.”

  “Prescix,” she murmured. “Congresswoman Ortiz talked about Prescix. Are they part of Medusa?”

  “I don’t know. Medusa obviously has people who can hack parts of the Prescix system.”

  “There was a news station on TV in the cab. A top exec at Prescix was found murdered in Las Vegas today.”

  “Whatever Medusa is planning, they’re moving forward,” he said.

  “But what do we do now? Carson was our only link to Medusa, and now he’s dead.”

  Bourne frowned. “I know. Medusa outplayed us.”

  Abbey looked deep in thought, and he found himself unsettled by how attractive she was. Then she took the assailant’s phone out of his hands and reopened the Prescix software. “Hang on a minute, Jason. Don’t be so sure.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She scrolled to the very end of the thread and then turned the phone around for Jason to see. “Look at this last photo of Carson. The one they posted to make sure the thugs could find him. It was taken at Villiers. Medusa was there.”

  He studied the phone and saw that she was right. The photograph showed Carson Gattor in the wine bar, his coat over his arm, his wineglass in his hand. The lawyer looked down at the hidden camera without realizing it was there.

  “Let’s go through the photos you took outside the bar,” Jason said. “Maybe we can figure out who was watching Gattor.”

  Again they leaned next to each other, both of them conscious of their closeness. Abbey took her phone from her pocket and scrolled slowly through the dozens of photographs she’d taken in a burst as she walked past the wine bar. The first time through they found nothing, but then Bourne reexamined the angle of the photo in the Prescix post. He opened up Abbey’s pictures again.

  “The man at that table with his laptop open. See how Carson is looking down? The person who took it was seated. It’s him. He used the laptop to grab the photo and post it to Prescix.”

  Abbey enlarged the photograph of the man in the wine bar, who didn’t look older than thirty. It was impossible to tell how tall he was, and the picture she’d taken was in profile, but they could see a long, slim nose, the untrimmed line of his beard creeping down his neck, and his sandy-blond hair pulled into a short ponytail on top of his head. He wore a rust-colored sweater with a collar and zipper.

  “He’s Medusa?” Abbey asked.

  “I think so.”

  “So how do we figure out who he is?”

  Bourne stared at the man in the photograph. There was only one way to find him. “I have to talk to an old friend,” Jason said.

  * * *

  —

  BEFORE sunrise, Jason sat behind the Hans Christian Andersen statue near the boat pond in Central Park. The rain had stopped overnight, but the ground was still wet. The luxury apartments of Fifth Avenue loomed above the trees. He’d arrived early, but he didn’t have to wait long before he recognized the jogger approaching on the concrete trail. The man wasn’t tall, but he ran with a fast, confident athleticism. He was dressed down, so no one would recognize that he was one of the most powerful men in the country. The man stopped at the Conservatory Water, ran his hands through his wavy dark hair, and rested for a minute with his hands on his knees.

  “It’s good that you’re a creature of habit,” Jason called.

  Scott DeRay spun around. “Jesus Christ.”

  “Sorry to ambush you, Scott, but we need to talk.”

  “Of course, yes. Definitely.”

  Scott took a plastic bottle from his belt and drank a squirt of Gatorade. He checked to confirm that the two of them were alone and then headed to the bench where Jason was sitting. He sat down next to his childhood friend.

  “I didn’t shoot Sofia Ortiz,” Jason said.

  Scott hesitated. “If you say so, I believe you.”

  “But?”

  “But I’m sorry, Jason. No one else will believe it. There’s too much evidence. The FBI has video of you in the hotel, fingerprints in the room and on the gun. And as for your background—well, we both know you fit the profile.”

  “Medusa framed me. They set me up.”

  Scott waited to answer. He drank another shot of Gatorade, and his face glowed with sweat. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have gotten you into this. But my hands are tied. Right now, it doesn’t matter to the cabal whether Medusa framed you or recruited you. The effect is the same. They want nothing to do with you. A member of Congress was assassinated. I’m heading to Washington this morning to reassure a bunch of furious politicians that Big Tech had nothing to do with it. If any actual evidence comes out that you were working for us, it will be devastating.”

  “I get that,” Jason replied. “I’m an outcast. Me being dead would be better for everyone. Treadstone is trying to kill me, did you know that? Nash Rollins is hunting me. Is that Miles Priest’s handiwork?”

  Scott frowned. “Yes. Miles talked to the director, and Shaw sent Nash after you. He knows the two of you have history.”

  “Well, can you call off the dogs? Give me some breathing room?”

  His friend stood
up from the bench. Dawn lightened the sky, creating reflections on the boat pond. “Do you remember all the times we came here as kids? Sorry, what am I saying, of course you don’t remember. But we did. It seems like a long time ago.”

  “For me, it was a different lifetime.”

  “I know. The point is, you were my best friend, Jason.”

  “Is that your way of softening the blow that you can’t help me?”

  Scott looked down at him. “I wish I could. I wish I could set you up with a new identity somewhere, but I can’t. What’s going on is bigger than both of us. If any of this is traced back to me, I’m finished. I’m afraid you’re on your own.”

  “I don’t want to escape,” Jason replied. “I’m not running.”

  His friend’s face showed surprise. “Then why are you here?”

  “I’m still chasing Medusa.”

  “Alone? That’s crazy.”

  “Well, everyone thinks I am crazy, don’t they? Psychologically damaged. A prime candidate for terrorist recruitment.”

  “Look—Jason—”

  “Medusa is on the move, Scott. Ortiz was step one. I was step one. But whatever’s coming next is much bigger.”

  “Do you know what it is?”

  “No, but I suspect the Prescix software is involved. Someone at Medusa manipulated the Prescix software last night to arrange the death of Abbey Laurent’s source. They knew I was coming after him. Oh, and I heard about the murder of the Prescix executive, too. You and Miles better be careful.”

  “We are.” Scott glanced at the boat pond and saw other early-morning runners heading in their direction. “I need to go. We can’t be seen together. What do you want, Jason? You obviously want something if you took the risk of coming here.”

  “I need to identify someone. I think he’s Medusa. I have a photograph but nothing else. I was hoping someone at Carillon could access the facial recognition systems across the cabal and get me a name and background.”

  “And if you find him, what will you do?”

  “Follow him up the chain. See where it leads me.”

  Jason could see his friend weighing the pros and cons. Everything had a cost and benefit in Scott’s world.

  “There’s a coffee shop across from the Carillon lobby,” Scott said finally. “Be there in three hours. One of my techs will find you.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “No names. I’m not putting my people at risk. You meet this man, and he’ll get you the information you need.”

  “Will the FBI be meeting me, too, Scott?”

  “Don’t worry, you’re safe. I won’t turn you in, for the simple reason that nobody wants you in custody.”

  “Just dead,” Jason said.

  Scott shook out his legs, getting ready to start running again. “I trust your skills, so I’m sure you’ll monitor the area before you move in.”

  “I appreciate the help.”

  “This is a one-time offer,” Scott replied. “For old times, Jason. After that, we’re done. But be forewarned. Once this query launches, you’ll be leaving footprints online. Nothing is private anymore. Whatever or whoever you’re searching for, Medusa will find out about it. Quickly.”

  TWENTY

  THE new Carillon Technology building rose twelve hundred feet in the air over midtown, its sharp silver angles making it look as if it had been carved out of quartz. The company had teased half the cities in the country with the prospect of landing its second headquarters, but ultimately, they’d followed the money to Manhattan. Now the company’s twin towers in California and New York stood like ultra-modern palaces on either coast, with Miles Priest presiding over one and Scott DeRay ruling the other.

  Jason watched the mass of pedestrians on Forty-Second Street. He was alert for the possibility of a trap. The location made him nervous, because the easiest kill of all was an innocent collision at a crowded intersection. Gun. Knife. Poison. No one saw a thing, and the ensuing panic covered the assassin’s escape.

  Crowds favor the hunter. You’re never safe in a crowd.

  Treadstone.

  “Do you see any threats?” Abbey asked.

  “Not right now.”

  “Do you trust Scott?”

  “I don’t trust anyone,” Bourne replied.

  The light changed. They crossed the street to the sprawling coffee shop on the opposite corner from the Carillon tower. Jason surveyed the tables through the glass windows before he took Abbey by the elbow and led her inside. They waited to purchase drinks and then found an empty table where he could watch the entrance. Abbey drank her latte, but he didn’t touch his own drink. He could tell that she’d picked up on his anxiety, because she didn’t speak to him or interrupt his concentration.

  Twenty minutes later, Jason spotted a man entering the shop with an open laptop in his hands. He wore a lime-green dress shirt buttoned to the neck and black jeans. His glasses matched his shirt, and they kept sliding down his long nose. He was short and skinny and had a mop of curly brown hair. He typed one-handed as he waited in line.

  “That’s him,” Jason said softly.

  “How do you know?”

  “I saw him at a meeting with Scott once. He’s a tech savant. Be nice to him. If you tailgate him on the freeway, he can slice your credit rating in half before you get to the next exit.”

  “I’m not sure you can cut a negative number in half,” Abbey commented with a smirk.

  The young man from Carillon spent a ridiculous amount of time at the counter specifying how the barista should prepare his drink, eliciting eye rolls from the people in line behind him. When he finally got his soy mocha, he went straight to Jason’s table without looking at anyone else in the shop. He’d obviously been prepped for the man he was supposed to meet.

  “Scott sent me,” he said as he sat down. He checked out Abbey from behind his green glasses. “Who’s the girl? Scott didn’t say there would be anybody else.”

  “She’s with me,” Jason replied.

  “We’re inseparable,” Abbey added, smiling.

  The tech studied both of them with condescending eyes. His lone typing hand made a frenzied attack on the keyboard, and he was quiet for almost a minute. Then he sat back in the chair. “Abbey Laurent. Canadian journalist for The Fort. Birthday, October 2. Studio apartment in Quebec City, behind on last month’s rent, credit card debt exceeding eight thousand dollars. Savings account balance one thousand two hundred and forty-two dollars, checking account balance eighty-nine dollars. Most common online password is ImAbs1002. Had an unusual result on her Pap smear three years ago, but further testing showed no issues. On the pill. Three full-frontal nude photos sent to a college boyfriend twelve years ago. Very nice.”

  The smile disappeared from Abbey’s face. “You piece of shit.”

  Jason put a hand on her arm and murmured, “Easy.”

  “You both need to understand that I’m not to be messed with,” the young tech snapped. “Got it? As far as your lives go, I am God.”

  “We just want to identify someone,” Jason said, “and we can pay for the privilege.”

  “Carillon pays me four hundred and fifty thousand dollars a year, plus options. Keep your money, Mr. Bourne. Yes, I know who you are. I’m here to do a favor for Scott, and that’s all. Now show me the man you want to hack.”

  Her face dark with anger, Abbey took out her phone and scrolled to the picture of the Medusa operative in the coffee shop. “This is him. I can text you the picture.”

  The tech shook his head. “I already have it. I transferred everything from your phone while I was waiting in line.”

  “You little—” Abbey began, then stopped without saying anything more and clamped her lips together.

  “Don’t worry, we needed to dump the phone anyway,” Jason said. “We’ll get new burners this afternoon.�
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  The tech ignored their conversation. “Did Scott explain the timeline? If anyone is monitoring this person’s online records, they’ll know you’ve located him. You won’t have much time to get to him before his identity is erased and rewritten. I’m masking our geographic signature here, but it will also take them about ninety seconds to override that and figure out where you are.”

  “Then we better move fast,” Jason said.

  The tech used his index finger to push his green glasses up his nose. He typed one-handed again, still drinking his latte and only occasionally looking at the screen. He said nothing as he worked. Almost five minutes passed, which was longer than Jason expected, and he saw a small crinkle of surprise on the tech’s face. Obviously, Medusa kept their records more secure than the Canadian health service did.

  Meanwhile, Jason kept an eye on Forty-Second Street through the coffee shop windows. He knew they didn’t have much time before someone crashed the party.

  “Interesting,” the tech said finally.

  “Did you find him?” Jason asked.

  “Yes, but I had to break into archives to recover his deleted records. He went to a lot of trouble to remove himself from the grid.”

  “Who is he?”

  “His name is Peter Restak. That’s an alias. Fingerprints don’t match anyone else on file, so his previous identity is unknown.”

  Like me, Bourne thought.

  “Restak is a hacker,” the tech went on. “And an impressive one, I have to say. He didn’t leave many breadcrumbs behind. He’s used multiple online personas on different social media platforms, but he rarely uses any of them more than once. He’s a chameleon online, sometimes young, sometimes old, man, woman, trans, whatever. Once he’s inside a fake persona, he establishes relationships with similarly situated real people. He feeds them posts that reinforce their biases, and he recruits them for extremist activities. He was heavily involved in the Ortiz riot. The people he’s interacted with now have multiple arrest records. A couple of them have been killed. It’s like group behavioral modification. Very cool stuff.”

  “Does that include the murder of a lawyer in the Village last night?” Jason asked.