“I’ll make one last offer of mercy,” Miss Shirley told him. “Crawl over here on your hands and knees and kiss my feet. If you do that, I’ll make it quick. I’ll just cut your heart out and we’ll be done.”
Bourne steadied himself on the wall. Oxygen slowly swelled his chest again. He felt the tiredness of the past days catching up to him. His headache throbbed. His wounds opened up and leaked blood. A part of him knew it would be easier to jump. A part of him knew he was going to lose. Then he stared through the driving rain at Miss Shirley, and instead of her face, he saw Nova. He could see Nova’s body coming into focus through the scope of this woman’s rifle. He could see Miss Shirley’s finger, her sharp black fingernail, as she squeezed the trigger.
He charged. He threw himself at her across the walkway. She deflected his blow as if she were schooling a child and then drove a knee into his groin and hit him in the head three times, left right left. Pain split open his skull. His ears rang. Dizziness made the wall spin. She hit him once more, a jab square in the neck, and he fell backward, choking. His legs crumpled underneath him. He collapsed to the stone, rain and sky spinning around his eyes like a kaleidoscope. Blood spat from his lips.
Miss Shirley picked up the knife and came for him.
Bourne tried to move, tried to scramble away, but her foot kicked across the bottom of his chin like it was a football, and his head crashed against the stone. He lay stretched out on the walkway over the sea, unable to fight back. Miss Shirley knelt on top of him. Her knees held his thighs down. With the point of the blade, she cut open his shirt and exposed his bare chest. The cool fingers of her other hand found his heart, which was beating wildly. She caressed him, stroking his skin. Then her fingers squeezed into a fist, and she thumped down hard on his torso with a single blow that made his entire body scream with agony. His heart, staggered by the impact, nearly stopped right there.
“Shall we begin?” Miss Shirley said.
Her right arm raised the crescent blade in the air. She swung it like a scythe, with lightning speed, and his left hand reacted by instinct. He grabbed her wrist and locked it in his fingers. He held her arm frozen in place, the blade inches from severing his shoulder. She pushed down; he pushed back, like a tug-of-war. But her strength was unbelievable. Millimeter by millimeter, she overpowered him. The knife drew closer.
Miss Shirley’s other hand pinched his throat. She cut off his air. With his right hand, he tried to pry away her fingers, but her grip was like a tiger’s jaws clamped around prey. His lungs boiled. His eyes began to roll up into his head. His left arm, the one keeping the knife at bay, began to weaken. In a few more seconds, he’d lose consciousness, and he’d awaken to find himself in the midst of a slow, torturous death.
She knew she was winning. She bent down close to his face, eye to eye, and kissed his lips like a lover.
“After we’re done here, I think I’ll take a little vacation, Bourne,” she told him with a sadistic giggle in her voice. “I know just where to go. Quebec City.”
Bourne’s muscles tightened with rage. He saw the threat in her eyes, and he believed every word of it. She’d go after Abbey next. She’d kill her, too, slowly and horribly. And he was the only one who could stop it.
His lungs, his limbs, his whole body wanted to give up. But his brain refused.
He let go of the wrist clamped around his throat. His right arm pawed on the wet stone for something, anything, he could use to fight back. That was when he felt the coils of the nylon climbing rope still clipped to his belt. Under his shirt, he found the loop that was knotted into the rope. With his eyes burning into hers, he jerked the loop over her head and around her neck before she understood what was happening. Then he wrenched the rope back hard, dragging her head with it, and her dark eyes widened with shock and fear as her own lungs were stripped of air.
Her hands weakened, just for an instant. The knife wobbled in her grasp. He used that second to let go and drive his left hand like a piston into her chest. She shuddered with the blow; the knife spilled from her fingers. Her other hand unlocked from his throat, letting in sweet air. Her body reared back, giving him a single moment of freedom, and he dug his fingernails under the calf pressing down on his thigh and upended her. She screamed as she flew. Her body landed against the parapet, then broke through the old stone and disappeared backward over the wall into the air.
As she fell, the rope uncoiled from his belt, slithering like a snake. It dragged him with her toward the edge of the cliff. He braced his feet against the worn outcropping, but the weight of her body yanked him forward and tumbled him over the edge. His fingers grasped for any handhold that would keep him from falling. Then, with a jolt, the pressure at the end of the rope vanished. He held on, clinging to the rock with the tips of his fingers. When he looked down into the voracious sea, he saw Miss Shirley falling the rest of the way to the bottom of the cliff.
She fell in two pieces.
The rope around her neck had cut off her head.
Her body landed in the white surf, which sucked it in and consumed it. Her head bounced like a soccer ball off the pointed sea rocks and became wedged in a furrow in the granite. Waves crashed over the head but failed to dislodge it. She landed faceup, and her eyes stayed open, staring grotesquely at Bourne as he dangled from the wall.
FORTY-FIVE
BOURNE made it down from the wall and back to the cemetery before he collapsed. He lost consciousness, his body yielding to a tidal wave of pain. When he opened his eyes again, he had no idea how much time had passed. The rain had stopped, but the daylight was almost gone, and thick dark clouds raced overhead. He pushed himself up slowly until he was sitting on the wet ground. A deep chill in his bones made him shiver. He rubbed his hands through his hair, blinked, and waited for the dizziness to pass.
Then he saw that he wasn’t alone.
Nash Rollins loomed over him, a solitary figure in a hat and gray raincoat in the middle of the old graves. The Treadstone agent leaned on a cane and pointed a gun at Bourne’s chest.
“You look like hell, Jason.”
“Thanks.”
“That must have been one hell of a fight.”
“At least I kept my head,” he replied.
“Yeah, I saw what you left at the bottom of the cliff. That’s enough to give me nightmares.”
“You and me both,” Bourne said. He studied the empty grounds and the austere frame of the old castle set against the trees. “Is the area secure?”
“It is. MI5 gave us a hand.”
“The Medusa guards?”
“We dealt with them.”
“If you search the woods, you’ll find the body of Miles Priest. They killed him.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. I wouldn’t say I liked Miles, but I had a grudging respect for him. We were a little bit alike. Both of us willing to make the hard choices and go it alone if we needed to. You’re the same way.”
Bourne stood up on unsteady legs. He didn’t bother trying to run. He knew he wouldn’t make it more than a few steps before collapsing again, and Nash was unlikely to miss at this range.
“I take it you’re here to kill me,” Bourne said.
“I’m sorry. That was always the plan. The director wants you dead.”
“I’m not Medusa, Nash. I never was.”
“Abbey Laurent told me the same thing. She said I should help you instead of killing you.”
“Do you believe her?”
“Honestly, I don’t know what to believe anymore.”
“Then I guess you have a choice to make,” Bourne said.
Rollins sighed loudly and sat down on top of one of the gravestones. He propped his chin on the end of his cane. “You and I go way back, Jason.”
“Yes, we do.”
“You were always one of my best men. I work with a lot of agents who are smart and tough, but you had something more. Somehow you managed to hang on to your soul long after the rest of us had lost ours. I respected that. B
ut ever since what you went through, ever since the memory loss, I’ve had my doubts. Damaged men are a liability in our business.”
“We’re all damaged,” Bourne said.
“Maybe so. Maybe you’re right about that. I’ve sure as hell made my share of mistakes. The fact is, I was willing to believe the worst about you. I was absolutely certain you’d turned. What happened in New York just confirmed what I already believed. You needed to go, Jason. You needed to be taken out. I was willing to pull the trigger myself, regardless of our history.”
“Well, here I am. If that’s what you think, pull the trigger.”
Rollins let out a humorless laugh and shoved his gun back in its holster. “I was wrong about all of it, wasn’t I? Every last thing.”
“Yes.”
“Ortiz? Benoit? It wasn’t you. It was that monster at the bottom of the cliff who killed them.”
“And Nova, too,” Bourne said.
“Christ. I’m sorry, Jason. Truly.”
“Don’t blame yourself, Nash. You made a judgment based on the evidence you had. The evidence Medusa wanted you to see. Anyone looking at who I was, at what I’d done, would have come to the same conclusion. I didn’t give you any reason to doubt yourself.”
“Well, I’ve never been troubled by self-doubt,” Rollins replied. “I always thought it was a sign of weakness.”
“Since I lost my memory, I’m never without it.”
Rollins’s mouth wrinkled into a frown. “We still have a problem, you know. We haven’t stopped Medusa. You dealt them a blow, but it’s not fatal. Taking out the black widow leaves a lot of other spiders behind.”
“Except we know who’s spinning the web.”
“Oh?”
“Scott DeRay,” Bourne said. “Medusa was his brainchild from the very beginning.”
Rollins whistled with surprise. “Seriously? You two were close. He was willing to set you up?”
“I made it easy for him.”
The Treadstone agent shook his head. “Unfortunately, knowing that doesn’t change anything, Jason. Even if you’re right, we can’t simply make a move against him. Scott has Medusa spies in place throughout the government. They’ll cover for him if we try to do anything without evidence. No one will believe your story.”
“A mentally deranged ex-agent suspected of shooting a congresswoman? No. They won’t.”
“Plus, Scott will never tip his hand if he knows you’re still alive. As long as he thinks you’re out there hunting him, he’ll keep operating in the background, and we’ll never be able to expose him or the network.”
“You’re right.”
“I want to roll all of these bastards up, Jason, but right now, the biggest thing standing in the way of that is you.”
Bourne didn’t say anything at first, because everything Nash said was true. Scott needed to feel safe if they were going to take him down. He needed to believe that Cain was no longer a threat. It was the same lesson that Scott had quoted to him earlier.
When your enemy thinks he’s winning, he’s at his most vulnerable.
Treadstone.
“In that case, you know what you have to do,” Bourne told him. “It’s why you came here in the first place.”
“What’s that?” Rollins asked.
“You have to kill me.”
DISAPPEARANCE OF CARILLON CEO EXPOSES A WIDE-RANGING CONSPIRACY
May 3, 2020
WASHINGTON (AP)
In the wake of the disappearance of former FBI director and Carillon CEO Miles Priest, federal officials are releasing details for the first time about a shadowy anarchist organization in which Priest is believed to have been involved.
Known by the nickname Medusa, the organization has operated in secrecy for several years, using technology and violence to foment divisions along political and cultural lines. Medusa is suspected of playing a role in the recent assassination of Congresswoman Sofia Ortiz and in the murders of several chief executives of worldwide technology companies on a private Caribbean island owned by Priest.
Long considered one of the most influential leaders in the technology community, Priest is now described by officials in the Department of Justice as the mastermind of Medusa and the architect of a strategy to undermine popular confidence in democratic government. His whereabouts remain unknown.
The shocking developments have raised questions about the future of Big Tech, with aggressive new legislation targeting the industry expected to pass Congress in the next few days. Analysts expect a wave of much tighter regulations governing how the largest tech companies handle data and interact with customers.
At Carillon Technology, where Priest served as CEO, the revelations have prompted a leadership shake-up. Carillon, which is a key provider of database infrastructure to a wide range of internet companies, announced yesterday that senior vice president and COO Scott DeRay would take over as the new chief executive.
DeRay, who claims to have no knowledge of Priest’s activities with Medusa, promised a full internal investigation and cooperation with federal authorities.
In a prepared statement, DeRay said, “Now is the time for the tech giants of this country, including Carillon, to regain credibility with the government and the public, and I plan to lead that charge.”
According to anonymous intelligence sources, the Medusa organization has been under investigation by officials in the USA and Europe for some time. The investigation recently culminated in a joint US-UK raid on the Priest compound in Scotland, in which several Medusa mercenaries were killed.
Among the dead was an ex-intelligence agent so far known only by the code name Cain, who was widely suspected of being the mastermind behind the Ortiz assassination….
FORTY-SIX
SCOTT DeRay strolled along Rue de Vaugirard next to a wrought-iron fence outside the Jardin du Luxembourg. It was mid-morning under a blue sky, with May weather that was unseasonably warm for Paris. He wore a bespoke gray business suit he’d collected from his Savile Row tailor the previous week in London, and he used a hat and sunglasses to avoid being recognized. The media had featured him in its headlines recently, which meant that his photograph had been seen around the world. He didn’t want to take chances.
Stopping on the sidewalk outside the park, Scott threw a casual glance back the way he’d come, looking for signs that he was being followed. With his intelligence training, he didn’t think that anyone would be able to stay on his tail without him spotting it. It would take a skilled agent to do that. Even so, he had an instinct that he was being watched, and that instinct had dogged him for days.
Ahead of him, he heard a cacophony of voices. A crowd of Chinese tourists emerged through the park’s northwest gate, following a petite raven-haired guide who waved a small flag over her head. The crush of visitors spilled into the street and took up all of the space on the sidewalk, squeezing Scott uncomfortably against the high railing. Just in front of him, a Chinese man in a suit took pictures with an expensive camera while walking backward. Scott shouted a warning as the man came closer, but the elderly Chinese man piled into him anyway and nearly knocked both of them down. As they untangled, Scott strained to keep a polite smile on his face, and the tourist apologized profusely in Chinese.
When the crowd had passed on the way back to their tour bus, Scott checked his surroundings again to confirm that he was alone. Then he walked two more blocks and crossed into a cobblestoned side street. He found a small bistro named Bergeron with red awnings, where two beefy bodyguards with radios stood watch outside. Russian security was always painfully obvious. The café typically didn’t open until dinner, but Scott had arranged for a private breakfast to be served that morning. He nodded at the two bodyguards, allowed himself to be searched, then went inside.
A single table for two had been set in the café’s corner, far from the windows. There, he saw Fyodor Mikhailov waiting for him. The chairs in the café were made of delicate braided metal, and Scott was surprised that they
could stand up to the Russian’s massive girth. Fyodor had a napkin stuffed into the collar of his shirt, and he was already halfway through breakfast, with a silver urn of coffee on the table in front of him, along with croissants, a crusty baguette, apricot pastries, macaron cookies in rainbow colors, and a selection of aromatic cheeses.
“Scott, my friend,” Fyodor rumbled. “Sit, sit. Take a load off.”
Scott sat down and wiped his brow. The interior of the café felt extremely warm, and he found himself sweating. “Good morning, Fyodor.”
A waitress in a crisp white blouse and short black skirt appeared next to him with a double espresso. He shook his head when she asked if he wanted anything else. She fluffed the fresh flowers on the table, then disappeared with a flirty smile. She couldn’t be more than twenty years old.
“The shit of getting old is that you still feel young,” Fyodor said, his eyes following the girl back to the kitchen.
“You, Fyodor? You’re not old, you’re timeless.”
The Russian snorted. “If I get any more timeless, I’ll be dead. My doctor says I need to give up vodka, wine, and rich food.”
“How’s that going?”
“I gave up my doctor instead. Try the Epoisses. It smells like an infantryman’s boot after a month at the front, but my God, it’s delicious.”
“Maybe later.”
The Russian bit off half a croissant smeared with a vile-smelling paste and groaned with delight as he chewed. “The newspapers are painting you as the savior of the American tech industry. That made me laugh out loud, I’ll tell you. The only thing better than fucking over your adversary is getting him to thank you for doing it.”
Scott allowed himself a smile. “The U.S. media is even easier to manipulate than Congress. Give them an anonymous source, and they’ll print whatever you want.”
“Miles Priest a traitor to his country. I love that.”
“I figured you would,” Scott said.
“Still, I didn’t like seeing the name Medusa out there so much, my friend. That’s a hell of a risk. You exposed too much of what we’re really doing. My colleagues in Moscow aren’t happy.”
Robert Ludlum's™ The Bourne Evolution (Jason Bourne Book 12) Page 34
