The Bourne Evolution

by Brian Freeman

  “Carson Gattor. Yes, Restak orchestrated that.”

  “Did he use Prescix to do that?” Abbey asked.

  “He did, but that’s only one of his tools. You have a Prescix account, too, I see. Nine months ago, you bought a very expensive bottle of French perfume, which you couldn’t afford. You probably don’t even know why you bought it. In fact, you were part of a paid Prescix sponsorship that inserted that particular French perfume into your life at multiple touchpoints. It took twenty-three touchpoints and four days before you purchased the bottle. Don’t worry, most of the other buyers cracked more quickly than you did. The company sold seventeen thousand units that week, which is nine times their typical average U.S. weekly sales.”

  Abbey stared at him, and her face flushed deep red.

  “Let’s get back to the reason we’re here,” Jason interrupted. “Restak. What else did you find about him?”

  “I told you, very little. Even where he leaves footprints, the identity leads to a dead end. Last night he was an anarchist sympathizer with the handle KillAllNazis. That profile is now inactive. I’m sure he won’t go back to it.”

  “We need to locate him,” Jason said.

  “That won’t be easy. As far as the world is concerned, Peter Restak has no real life. No credit cards, no bank records, no permanent address, not even a past address. He knows how hackers like me identify people, because he’s exactly like me. I doubt he stays in any one place for a long period of time.”

  “There must be something,” Abbey interjected. “What about friends? Or a girlfriend? You people can’t spend every night playing Call of Duty and searching for mommy videos on Pornhub.”

  The tech’s fish eyes drilled into her again. “Do you really want to antagonize me, Abbey Laurent? Does that seem like a good idea?”

  “I want you to stop showing off and tell us what you found. Because we all know you found something. There’s no way you’re going to sit here and tell us that this Restak is a smarter hacker than you. You’ve got too much ego for that. So how do we find him?”

  The tech’s nostrils flared with annoyance. “I don’t like her, Bourne.”

  “That’s too bad, because I’m liking her more and more,” Jason replied. “Now answer her question. How do we find Restak?”

  The young man sighed. “You won’t find him directly, like I told you. But he did make a mistake. It was a girlfriend. I found a few matching photos of him with a woman named Holly d’Angelo. He scrubbed their relationship online, so there’s nothing on social media, but he must have forgotten to check photo processing services. They showed up together in the background of several photos taken by other people that were uploaded to a photo-printing database for a national drugstore. I got them with facial recognition.”

  Abbey shook her head. “Unbelievable.”

  “Where do we find Holly d’Angelo?” Jason asked.

  “She has a one-bedroom apartment in Flatbush, and she works at a medical clinic in the city. After her job most days, she works out at a women-only fitness studio on Twenty-Third. Then she takes the train home.”

  “You have her picture?” Abbey asked.

  The tech nodded. “I already sent it to your phone. I sent you the photos of Restak, too. Are we done?”

  “We’re done,” Jason replied. “Thanks for the help.”

  “Thank Scott, not me.” He slapped his laptop shut and gave Abbey another disgruntled stare from his cold eyes as he stood up. Abbey stuck out her tongue at him, which triggered an angry hiss from the tech.

  As the man turned away, Jason grabbed his wrist in an iron grip.

  “By the way,” Bourne said, “your name is Aaron Haberman. You have a condo on Thirty-Third Street in Kips Bay, and you have a cabin in the Finger Lakes that you like to visit on weekends. See, I make it a point of knowing about the people in Scott’s circle, Aaron. So if you have any ideas about messing with Abbey’s online life, then be aware that I will insert myself into your real life. And believe me when I tell you that is something you do not want.”

  * * *

  —

  NASH Rollins stood on the Battery Park walkway and watched boats navigate the wavy waters of the Hudson River. It was a cool, breezy afternoon, with clouds moving fast overhead. On the far side of the channel, the Statue of Liberty lifted her torch like a salute. Rollins leaned on his cane, as stiff and unmoving as a statue himself.

  A man came up next to him at the railing. He was wiry and medium height, with choppy black hair, a prominent nose, and thick dark eyebrows. His skin was the color of olive oil. He wore black corduroys, a black T-shirt, and a loose-fitting untucked checked shirt with the cuffs rolled back. The shirt, Rollins knew, made it impossible to see that the man had a holster and weapon in the small of his back. He also had two knives, one in his pocket, one at his ankle. He had a holster on his other ankle for a smaller backup pistol.

  Standard equipment for Treadstone.

  “Benoit,” Rollins murmured, staring at the New York view and not at the man next to him.

  “Boss.”

  The two of them had worked together for more than a decade. Rollins had recruited him from the French intelligence service at the suggestion of Cain. Whatever else was true of Cain, the man knew how to assess the value of people. Even inside Treadstone, Rollins had to be careful about the agents he trusted, and Benoit was one of the few whose reliability was beyond question.

  In the old days, Rollins had trusted Cain, too.

  “What’s going on?” Benoit asked. “I had to break off an assignment in New Orleans to get back here. I don’t recall your ever sending the jet for me before.”

  Rollins squinted into the sunlight. “I texted you a photograph.”

  Casually, Benoit removed his phone from his pocket and checked it as he pretended to take a picture of Lady Liberty. The picture that Rollins had sent was taken from a camera feed in an elevator. The man in the picture had his back to the camera, but the woman was clearly visible, a hoodie slipping down to reveal her face.

  “That was captured on an internet-enabled video feed overnight,” Rollins murmured. “The computers flagged it for manual review, which we did this morning. The woman is Abbey Laurent. The man with her is Bourne.”

  “Okay.”

  “The video came from a UK safe house near Gramercy Park. You need to be ready if they go back there.”

  “What are my orders?”

  “Termination.”

  “Just Cain or the girl, too?”

  Rollins had learned long ago to shove his conscience down into a place where it didn’t gnaw at his soul. “Take them both. We can’t afford loose ends. Shaw thinks there’s too much risk of this getting out and destroying Treadstone. We’ve only recently gone back in business, and there are a lot of people in Washington who wish we’d been shut down altogether.”

  “Understood.”

  But Benoit didn’t move from where he was. He stayed on the walkway with his hands clenched around the railing, and he watched the harbor as the wind mussed his dark hair.

  “Is there something else?” Rollins asked.

  “I’ve never questioned an order from you, Nash.”

  “Then don’t start now.”

  Benoit turned and violated protocol by staring directly into Rollins’s eyes. If there were cameras, it would be clear that the two of them were together. And Rollins knew that there were always cameras.

  “I know Jason Bourne,” Benoit said. “I’ve worked with him many times. He’s the best. Even after what happened to him, he never lost a step in the field. What I’m saying is, are you absolutely certain he’s turned? Because that doesn’t sound like the man I know. Even when I was watching him in Las Vegas, I didn’t see any evidence of it. Yes, I know, he’s good, and he knows how to keep cover. But the alternate explanation is that he was innocent then and still
is.”

  “Do you think I like this?” Rollins snarled. “I know Bourne, too. I’ve known him for years. But he has changed, Benoit. Medusa recruited him, or manipulated him, or whatever it is they do. Regardless, he’s not on our side anymore. I saw the FBI report on Congresswoman Ortiz. It was Cain. His room, his fingerprints, his gun. There is zero room for doubt.”

  Benoit casually trimmed a jagged edge on one of his nails. “Does Bourne know the truth about Las Vegas? And about Nova?”

  “No.”

  “Maybe you should have told him what was really going on.”

  “That wasn’t an option. Given his behavior since then, I’m not questioning my decision. For all we know, he was already Medusa when he was in Las Vegas. Did you think about that? It’s very possible that Cain is the one who ordered the hit on Nova.”

  Benoit shrugged. “You make strategy based on data, Nash. You believe what the computers tell you. I act based on people. I’m not saying you’re wrong. I’m just saying you’re not describing the person I know.”

  “Do you have a problem with this assignment? Do I need to get someone else?”

  The Treadstone agent shook his head. “No. Don’t worry about me. I’m quite clear on the assignment. Bourne and the girl are dead.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  MILES Priest and Nelly Lessard sat on the outdoor terrace of Gabriel Fox’s fifteen-million-dollar estate high in the desert hills of Henderson, Nevada. The founder of Prescix had designed the home himself. It was bone-white, boxy and geometric, with a sweeping view across the Las Vegas valley. From where they were, they could see the lineup of casinos on the Strip, from Mandalay Bay in the south to the Stratosphere in the north. All of the glass towers glinted in the sunshine. On the other side of the valley, barren hills rose over the city, and snow capped the peak of Mount Charleston.

  The décor of the estate reflected Gabriel’s quirky personality, in addition to his money. Half a dozen bighorn sheep wandered in the private acreage of the mountain above them, and the animals had free run of the house. The multilevel swimming pool featured fountains and a wave machine so Gabriel could surf at will. There was a black-light bowling alley. One room had been finished to look like a Polynesian coastline, including genuine statues imported from Easter Island and walls that were actually 4K screens live-streaming footage from the Pacific. Another room re-created a 1950s Hollywood party, featuring wax figures of actors like Marilyn Monroe, Cary Grant, Katharine Hepburn, Kirk Douglas, and others, built for Gabriel by Madame Tussauds.

  On the table in front of Miles and Nelly, an air-conditioned conveyor belt brought a steady stream of cocktails and eclectic appetizers from Gabriel’s four-star kitchen. Morimoto sushi. Hong Kong dim sum. Texas brisket. Minnesota lutefisk. Rum shots, craft beer, and glasses of five-hundred-dollar wines.

  Priest hated the over-the-top ego on display. To him, it was a monument to excess. He tugged at the collar of his dress shirt as the ninety-degree heat beat down on them. He hated heat, too. He preferred the cold days and nights of his castle in Scotland. Nelly, on the other hand, thrived on it. She’d grown up in Phoenix, and she took in the view without even breaking into a sweat. She also seemed to have no problem with the lavish surroundings. Priest ate and drank nothing, but Nelly calmly sampled the drinks and hors d’oeuvres passing on the belt in front of them.

  “Do you want me to do the talking, Miles?” Nelly asked, noting the discomfort on his face. “You don’t do too well around Gabriel. He pushes your buttons.”

  “The man is insane,” Priest replied.

  “Maybe so, but he’s also a genius, and he has what we want. Namely, Prescix. So you have to indulge him.”

  “Yes, because he has so little indulgence in his life,” Priest replied sourly.

  “You know what I mean.”

  The two of them looked up as Gabriel Fox made his entrance onto the terrace. He was dressed in the uniform of a World War I infantryman, including a helmet on his head and a rifle and bayonet in his arms. The brown fabric of the uniform was torn and soiled with mud and bloodstains.

  He sat down across from them and smiled pleasantly, with no indication that his attire was unusual. “Miles, Nelly, always a treat to see you.”

  “Hello, Gabriel,” Priest replied. “Are you doing some kind of reenactment?”

  Gabriel’s face creased with genuine puzzlement. “Reenactment? Reenactment of what?”

  “It’s nothing,” Nelly interjected, shooting a glance at Priest. “We were very sorry to hear about Kevin Drake.”

  The CEO of Prescix shrugged. He flipped open one of the compartments on the conveyor belt and removed a plate stacked with crispy-fried black bites. It took Priest a moment to realize that the food on the plate was actually a mound of crickets. He had to look away and cover his mouth as Gabriel popped two between his teeth and ate them with a loud crunch.

  “Oh, that. Well, we all have to go sometime.”

  Gabriel took off his helmet and rubbed some of the sweat on his bald head. He was only in his mid-thirties, but stocky, with a round, sunburned face and a bushy brown mustache. Five years earlier, he’d literally been living on the Las Vegas streets and writing his software in the public library, and now he was a billionaire eating bugs in a Big Tech version of Wonderland. Priest shook his head.

  “You don’t sound very upset about his murder, Gabriel. Kevin was your partner. He took Prescix public. He made all this possible.”

  Gabriel flicked his hands as if he were typing on a keyboard. “These are what made Prescix possible. These fingers. Kevin was an accountant. A number cruncher. The only thing he knew about software was what I taught him. And he was trying to steal the company away from me and hand it over to you, Miles. Do you think I don’t know that?”

  “It’s business,” Priest replied.

  “My business.”

  “So did you have him killed?” Priest asked.

  The Prescix founder stamped the barrel of his rifle on the ground with a loud crack. “I’m not the one who goes around shooting members of Congress, Miles.”

  Priest opened his mouth to fire back, then scowled and didn’t answer.

  “We’re getting off track here,” Nelly interjected. “As Miles says, this is about business, Gabriel. It’s true that Carillon has wanted to acquire Prescix for some time, and you’re right that Kevin was sympathetic to our interests.”

  “He was sympathetic because you bought him off.”

  “Regardless of his motives, you can’t deny there’s synergy between our companies. Prescix has amazing potential, and with Carillon behind it, the reach of your software would be almost limitless. We want you on board. We want to finalize a contract, and you would find the terms extremely favorable. This doesn’t have to be a hostile takeover. It can be a deal built around our mutual goals. The fact is, you’re already part of Big Tech, whether you like it or not. If Congress starts regulating us, they’re not going to leave you out of the mix. We all need to speak with one voice.”

  “I speak with my own voice,” Gabriel snapped. “I designed and built Prescix. I run Prescix. Your little cabal is not going to get your hands on it.”

  “We’re happy to negotiate an independent management agreement as part of the acquisition,” Nelly said. “You’d still be calling the shots.”

  “Pass,” Gabriel replied, popping more crickets into his mouth.

  “Would you rather see the company in Medusa’s hands?” Priest asked. “Because that’s the alternative. They’re already infiltrating and using your code. They’re manipulating your vision, Gabriel. Is that what you want? Imagine what they can do if they’re able to take over the company itself.”

  Gabriel chuckled. “Medusa, Medusa, Medusa. It’s an obsession with you, Miles. Are you sure it’s not just a myth?”

  “Tell that to Congresswoman Ortiz,” Priest replied. “Medusa order
ed her assassination, not us.”

  “That’s not what I’m hearing from Washington.”

  “Don’t believe them. Medusa is inside the Beltway and the intelligence agencies. Their power is growing.”

  “Or maybe you just need a bogeyman, Miles,” Gabriel retorted. “Give the people some new threat to be afraid of, so they don’t notice that the real threat is you.”

  “Do you think Kevin’s murder was just coincidental timing?” Priest replied. “He was killed by Medusa to stop our takeover so they can move on the company themselves. Right now, they need you, but once they’re successful in acquiring Prescix, you’ll be gone so they can put their own man at the top. And by gone I mean they’ll find you at the bottom of your wave pool.”

  Gabriel shrugged. “Prescix has always been independent, and that’s the way it’s going to stay. I’ve already taken steps to assure that.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I’m in final negotiations with an equity group to take us private again. No more hostile takeover attempts, Miles. Prescix will be its own master.”

  “What private fund has that kind of leverage?”

  “They’re quiet, but their resources are vast. Face it, Miles, you’re too late. You’ve been outbid and outmaneuvered.”

  “You’re making a mistake, Gabriel,” Nelly told him gently.

  “She’s right,” Priest added. “Whatever group you’re talking about, Medusa must be somewhere in the background. You’re giving them exactly what they want.”

  “What I want is to keep my company and my software away from you,” Gabriel replied with a smile. He placed his World War I helmet back on his bald head, and he stood up with his rifle across his chest. “Now, don’t worry, Miles. This isn’t personal. As Nelly says, this is just business. The two of you can feel free to stay here as long as you want. Enjoy the amenities of the estate. Me, I have to get back to planning a party.”

  “A party?” Nelly asked.