The Bourne Treachery
Page 1
THE BOURNE SERIES
Robert Ludlum’s The Bourne Evolution
(by Brian Freeman)
Robert Ludlum’s The Bourne Initiative
(by Eric Van Lustbader)
Robert Ludlum’s The Bourne Enigma
(by Eric Van Lustbader)
Robert Ludlum’s The Bourne Ascendancy
(by Eric Van Lustbader)
Robert Ludlum’s The Bourne Retribution
(by Eric Van Lustbader)
Robert Ludlum’s The Bourne Imperative
(by Eric Van Lustbader)
Robert Ludlum’s The Bourne Dominion
(by Eric Van Lustbader)
Robert Ludlum’s The Bourne Objective
(by Eric Van Lustbader)
Robert Ludlum’s The Bourne Deception
(by Eric Van Lustbader)
Robert Ludlum’s The Bourne Sanction
(by Eric Van Lustbader)
Robert Ludlum’s The Bourne Betrayal
(by Eric Van Lustbader)
Robert Ludlum’s the Bourne Legacy
(by Eric Van Lustbader)
The Bourne Ultimatum
The Bourne Supremacy
The Bourne Identity
THE TREADSTONE SERIES
Robert Ludlum’s The Treadstone Exile
(by Joshua Hood)
Robert Ludlum’s The Treadstone Resurrection
(by Joshua Hood)
THE COVERT-ONE SERIES
Robert Ludlum’s The Patriot Attack
(by Kyle Mills)
Robert Ludlum’s The Geneva Strategy
(by Jamie Freveletti)
Robert Ludlum’s The Utopia Experiment
(by Kyle Mills)
Robert Ludlum’s The Janus Reprisal
(by Jamie Freveletti)
Robert Ludlum’s The Ares Decision
(by Kyle Mills)
Robert Ludlum’s The Arctic Event
(by James H. Cobb)
Robert Ludlum’s The Moscow Vector
(with Patrick Larkin)
Robert Ludlum’s The Lazaruso Vendetta
(with Patrick Larkin)
Robert Ludlum’s The Altman Code
(with Gayle Lynds)
Robert Ludlum’s The Paris Option
(with Gayle Lynds)
Robert Ludlum’s The Cassandra Compact
(with Philip Shelby)
Robert Ludlum’s The Hades Factor
(with Gayle Lynds)
THE JANSON SERIES
Robert Ludlum’s The Janson Equation
(by Douglas Corleone)
Robert Ludlum’s The Janson Option
(by Paul Garrison)
Robert Ludlum’s The Janson Command
(by Paul Garrison)
The Janson Directive
ALSO BY ROBERT LUDLUM
The Bancroft Strategy
The Ambler Warning
The Tristan Betrayal
The Sigma Protocol
The Prometheus Deception
The Matarese Countdown
The Apocalypse Watch
The Scorpio Illusion
The Road to Omaha
The Icarus Agenda
The Aquitaine Progression
The Parsifal Mosaic
The Matarese Circle
The Holcroft Covenant
The Chancellor Manuscriopt
The Gemini Contenders
The Road to Gandolfo
The Rhinemann Exchange
The Cry of the Halidon
Trevayne
The Matlock Paper
The Osterman Weekend
The Scarlatti Inheritance
G. P. Putnam’s Sons
Publishers Since 1838
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Copyright © 2021 by Myn Pyn LLC
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Hardcover ISBN: 9780525542650
Ebook ISBN: 9780525542674
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Cover image: Derek Adams / Arcangel
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CONTENTS
Cover
Also by Robert Ludlum
Title Page
Copyright
Prologue
Part One
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Part Two
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
About the Authors
Tallinn, Estonia
Three Years Ago
From the doorway of a shuttered antique shop in the alley, the man known as Jason Bourne observed the holiday market in Tallinn’s Raekoja Plats. It was almost time to move. When the moment came, he would have only seconds to get the target safely away, but he already had the escape route visualized in his head. He and Nova had rehearsed it a dozen times in the past two hours. Separate the target, hustle him past the old town hall, and follow Kullasseppa out of the square. Then they’d cross the city’s medieval wall to the rendezvous point near the Nevsky Cathedral.
That was the plan, but plans had a way of coming apart once the mission began. In the darkness, with people packed shoulder to shoulder, there were too many ways for an unseen assassin to kill.
His face felt the bite of the bitter-cold December night. An inch of powdery snow had already fallen, trampled into slippery slush by hundreds of footsteps. A church choir sang from the steps of t
he raekoda, their voices competing with the happy chatter of visitors in the rows of open-air shops. Strings of white lights dangled between the rooftops and swayed in the wind, and a fifty-foot, brightly lit Christmas tree dominated the center of the huge square. He smelled cinnamon wafting from vats of hot mulled wine.
On his radio, Bourne heard the honey-smooth British accent of his Treadstone partner. “Any sign of Kotov?” Nova asked.
Bourne eyed the stone archway ahead of him. A tunnel led to the restaurant where several of the Baltic defense ministers were having dinner. “Not yet. It should be any minute now.”
“You have company,” Nova warned.
“Long beard, fur collar, fleece hood?”
“That’s him.”
“How many others?” Bourne asked.
“At least four. Looks like Holly was right. The FSB wasted no time sending in a team to take out Kotov.”
Bourne’s eyes swept the town hall square again. He spotted Nova twenty yards away, browsing at a kiosk that sold German nutcrackers. She wore a beret over her long, lush black hair, and she was dressed in leggings and a zipped navy jacket. Her body was short and pencil thin. Her green eyes passed over him, too, without showing any sign of recognition. No one in the plaza would have guessed that they knew each other, that they’d worked half a dozen Treadstone missions together in the past year, or that they’d been naked in each other’s arms at a Stockholm hotel only seven hours ago, before they got the emergency summons to Tallinn.
“It’s go time,” Bourne said. “They’re coming out.”
From under the stone arch, men in business suits and a few women in long winter coats flowed into the square in groups of twos and threes. Bourne knew all of their names and recognized each face, although he’d never met any of them in person. They hailed from the snowbound north, including countries such as Finland, Latvia, Lithuania, and Poland that bordered the spidery fingers of the Baltic Sea.
And Russia. The Russians were here, too.
“There he is,” Bourne whispered.
Grigori Kotov emerged from the tunnel and lingered under the arch as he lit a cigarette. Casually, he blew smoke into the air and pretended to admire the Christmas lights, but his eyes examined the people in the plaza. He was in his fifties and long past his field days, but a spy was always a spy. Something made him nervous, and Bourne knew that the problem wasn’t what he saw, but what he didn’t see.
His official security was gone. No one was here to protect him. The man’s face was as immobile as a mask, but behind that mask was fear. Where are they?
Kotov was average height with a meaty Russian build. He wore no hat, as if to prove his toughness in the cold, and his charcoal wool coat was unbuttoned. He had a round face with a salt-and-pepper beard, and his brown hair was trimmed very short, making a sharp V in the middle of his high forehead. His skin was pale, marked by a prominent vertical scar on his right cheek, and he had bottom-of-a-well dark eyes and thick lips pushed together in a permanent frown. He still looked like what he’d been thirty years ago. A KGB killer.
Now! Move now!
Bourne marched toward the Russian defense minister with long strides. He noted the killer with the long beard perusing stuffed bears at a kiosk—just a father looking for gifts for his child, not an assassin marking his victim. The man made no move toward Kotov. Not yet. However, Bourne saw his lips moving, and he spotted the edge of a microphone jutting out from under the fleece of the killer’s winter cap.
Tick tick tick, went the clock in Bourne’s head. No time!
“Minister Kotov,” he announced loudly as he drew near to the Russian, who tensed with surprise at the stranger calling him by name. “I was hoping we’d run into each other during the conference. My name’s Briggs. Charlie Briggs. We had drinks together after the telecom panel in Copenhagen last year. You, me, and Dr. Malenkov.”
Kotov was a professional with honed survival instincts. Everyone in the Russian siloviki—the Putin political allies with roots in the old Soviet security services—knew a day like this might come. Especially one like Kotov, who’d been a U.S. double agent for nearly a decade. The man took a long drag on his cigarette, as if he knew it might be his last one, but his voice remained calm. “Are you quite sure it was Dr. Malenkov? In Copenhagen?”
The Russian knew the CIA signal.
Malenkov. Copenhagen. You’re blown. Your life is in immediate danger.
“Yes, we went to a bistro on the Nyhavn,” Bourne replied. “I’m afraid Dr. Malenkov had a little too much akvavit.”
“Ah, yes, now I remember. A most pleasant evening, Mr. Briggs.”
“I was hoping you might have ten minutes to talk with me. My company is releasing an upgrade to our security software, and I could give you a look at the latest features.”
Kotov’s eyes swept the market, and he now saw what Bourne saw. Killers. He crushed his cigarette under his leather shoe in the snow. “Yes, all right.”
“My hotel’s just off the plaza.”
“Excellent.”
The two men headed through the market side by side. Wind swirled the snow around them in clouds. The assassin with the long beard glanced their way, undoubtedly reporting that the rules of the game had changed. Kotov wasn’t alone. Then the killer took up pursuit down the row of shops. Bourne steered the Russian with a hand on his elbow, and the two of them veered past a kiosk selling scented candles.
Nova reported on the radio. “He’s ten steps behind you.”
“I need a diversion.”
“Understood,” she replied. “When you hear the shot, he’ll be exactly two steps back. Head for the cathedral.”
“See you there.”
Bourne kept his pace steady. He didn’t accelerate or slow down, as if he wasn’t worried about pursuers. He was just an American businessman trying to do a deal with a Russian politician. He pretended to shiver a little in the cold, and he slid his hands into his pockets, where he curled his fingers around the grip of his gun.
Next to him, Kotov walked casually, a man without a care in the world. “I assume we’re being followed.”
“Yes. There’s going to be an incident in a few seconds. Stay close.”
“How does Ms. Schultz plan to get me out of the country?”
“Our job is to get you to Holly. After that, the details of getting you out are up to her.”
Bourne focused on the crunch of boots in the snow behind him, which got louder as the bearded killer narrowed the gap. Automatically, his brain made calculations, and he estimated that the man was now four paces away.
“Four steps,” Nova confirmed on the radio. “He’s moving fast.”
“Ready.”
Bourne slid his finger over the trigger of his gun. An instant later, the loud bangs of a pistol and the shattering of glass rocked the market. Immediately, Bourne drew his gun and spun, seeing the bearded man two steps behind him. Despite the distraction, the man was already lifting his gun, but he wasn’t fast enough. Bourne fired into the man’s forehead, and the bearded killer crumpled instantly.
Nova kept firing into the air. Screams rippled through the square as people panicked and ran. Bourne dragged Kotov through the crowd toward the south side of the plaza. As they neared the town hall, he checked every face, hunting for the next assassin, the next lethal threat. Everywhere around them, people flooded out of the square into the tiny alleys surrounding the market.
It was chaos! Madness!
Except for one old woman. She was calm in the midst of the storm.
Too calm!
The woman, at least eighty years old and dressed in colorful peasant clothes, stirred roasted chestnuts in a copper basin near the town hall’s stone steps. Her other arm hung stiffly at her side, as if stilled by a stroke. But the woman’s bright eyes roamed the plaza like a hawk, and when her gaze landed on Bourne and Kotov,
her stiff arm shot instantly upward.
She had a gun in her hand.
“Down! Down!” Bourne shouted. He piled into Kotov and took the Russian to the ground. Shots banged around them, ricocheting off the cobblestones with little explosions of snow. The old woman kept firing, emptying her magazine, and Bourne felt a hot sting in his hand as shrapnel bounced off the pavement. He rolled through the slush and fired back three times, the first shot kicking stone dust off the wall of the town hall, the next two landing in the old woman’s chest. The basin of nuts toppled over as she collapsed forward.
Bourne helped Kotov to his feet. “Go!”
They plunged out of the Raekoja Plats into the southbound street, staying close to the storefronts on Kullasseppa. Bourne kept his gun in his hand, level at his waist. He walked quickly, with the older Russian laboring to keep pace beside him. He checked over his shoulder and saw no one following. Ahead of them, he eyed the doorways and windows in the apartments above them. The crowd of people thinned the farther they got from the square, and soon, they were alone in the darkness.
“Who are you?” Kotov asked, huffing with exertion.
“I’m called Cain.”
Kotov stopped to catch his breath. “Cain? You’re Cain? I’ve heard of you.”
“Oh, yes?”
“Stories get told. The man with no memory. No past.”
Bourne didn’t react, but he felt a roaring in his head like the surge of an ocean wave breaking over him. The pressure built like that whenever someone mentioned his past. What Kotov said was true: Bourne had lost his memory on a Treadstone mission a few years earlier, when a gunshot to his head had nearly killed him. His entire life had been erased in that instant. Ever since, he’d struggled to start over, not knowing who he really was.
But he couldn’t think about that now.