“You know what, Mr. Mystery Man?” she snapped. “You’re scarier than the guy on the pier. I knew what his deal was. I knew what he was going to do to me. You, I have no idea. You’ve killed how many people in the past couple of days, and now you sit there like you’re not going to hurt me and like you’re some kind of hero.”
“I’m definitely not that,” Bourne said.
Abbey bit her lip. She didn’t trust this man, but she knew he was telling her the truth. She’d been set up. From the beginning, she’d been played. “Okay. His name is Carson Gattor. He’s a lawyer and partner at the firm of Davis, Nelvis and Bear in New York.”
“How did you get involved with him as a source?”
“I met him in Las Vegas,” Abbey replied.
Bourne closed his eyes. Gunfire exploded in his head again. He saw people running, blood on the ground. Sweat gathered on his neck despite the cold night air, and he felt his hands curling into fists. Nova!
“Are you okay?” Abbey asked. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Bourne said, trying to steady himself. “Why Las Vegas?”
“His firm represented the casino after the mass shooting there. I was doing a profile on the killer, Charles Hackman, and Carson helped me with background. He called me a couple of weeks after the article came out and told me how much he liked it. He said he had a story I might be interested in. In addition to his legal work, Carson is a big shot in New York political circles. That’s when he told me that Sofia Ortiz was planning a big rally to take on the tech companies and expose their cover-up of a huge data hack.”
“Did Gattor tell you how he knew about it?” Bourne asked.
“No, but the congresswoman confirmed it off the record when I interviewed her.”
“I know she did.”
“You know?” Abbey asked. Then her face darkened. “It was you. You broke into the magazine office and searched my desk. You found my voice recorder.”
He nodded. “I also found out that Medusa has been watching you. Your webcam was hacked. They’ve been keeping an eye on you, Abbey. Every keystroke on your computer has probably been monitored. You can also assume that your apartment is bugged.”
“This is crazy!” she replied.
“I know.”
“So what happens now?”
“Now I go after Carson Gattor,” Bourne said.
“I mean, you’ve got what you wanted. Do you kill me?”
Jason slipped a hand inside his pocket. He saw her flinch, expecting a gun. Instead, he pulled out the keys to the Renault and let them dangle from his fingers. “Here. Take the car.”
Abbey stared at him. “What?”
“Take the car. Drive back to Quebec City. When you get there, write the story. Everything. Write it all down and publish it. Make sure there isn’t any secret left that would give them a reason to come after you. Right now, you’re a loose end, but if you go public and put whatever you know online, they might decide you’re not worth the trouble to kill. But be prepared. They’ll come after you in other ways. They’ll discredit you. Smear you. They’ll paint you as a conspiracy nut, and they may even plant evidence to convict you of a crime. Watch your back, Abbey.”
“You’re really letting me go?” she asked.
“I told you I would.”
“And what the hell are you going to do if I take the car? Sit here in the woods?”
“Why do you care?”
“Call it morbid curiosity. I’m a reporter, remember?”
“We’re only a hundred yards from a parking lot for long-term campers,” Jason replied with a tight smile. “I have a friend in Montreal. When I came across the border, I arranged for him to leave a car, ID, and cash from one of my accounts.”
“You don’t leave much to chance, do you?”
“No.”
Always have a backup. Always assume you’ll need a way to escape. Treadstone.
“And that’s it?” Abbey asked.
“That’s it.”
“You’re not worried that I’ll warn Carson Gattor that you’re coming after him?”
“You took a risk by giving me the name. I’ll take the same risk with you. Now get the hell out of here, Abbey Laurent. The longer you stay with me, the more danger you’re in.”
Abbey clutched the car keys in her hand. She pushed herself to her feet on the dock and didn’t say anything more to him. As she walked away, he didn’t look back at her. Sitting by the lake, he heard the car door open and shut, and then he heard the purr of the engine. The headlights came on, throwing his shadow over the water. He heard the crunch of the tires in the dirt as she did a three-point turn and drove toward the highway.
Bourne was alone.
That was how it had to be.
THIRTEEN
NASH Rollins waited in the darkness outside the terminal at the north end of the Quebec City airport. A CSIS agent with a pencil mustache stood beside him and conducted an animated phone conversation in French. Rollins leaned on his cane and perused the night sky for the arrival of the Treadstone helicopter. He was more than ready to get out of Canada.
The CSIS agent, whose name was Fontaine, hung up the phone. “The borders are all on alert for your man. This Cain.”
Rollins shrugged. “You won’t find him.”
“Don’t be so sure of that. We tracked the stolen Renault and its plates on a street cam. The police are searching for the car.”
“He’ll switch vehicles soon if he hasn’t already. You lost him for good as soon as he was out of Quebec.”
“Are you suggesting we don’t know how to do our jobs, Mr. Rollins?”
That was, in fact, what Rollins was suggesting, but he didn’t bother with actual insults. “I’m suggesting that Cain is a professional who knows how to avoid capture. He knows where to cross the border without being detected.”
“And why are you so sure he’s on his way out of the country?”
“Because he got the woman. He got what he came for. He’s done here.”
The CSIS agent had an annoying habit of smoothing his mustache with his finger. “Well, if we do find him before he gets across the border, he’s ours first. We believe he murdered a Canadian government official when he kidnapped the reporter. He’ll need to answer for that, in addition to his other crimes on Canadian soil.”
“What about the body at the naval museum?” Rollins asked. “Did you identify him?”
“Not yet. The man had no wallet. But he matches the description the woman gave us of the person who tried to kill her in Artillery Park. The question is why Cain killed him.”
“Probably because the man saw his face.”
“He’s quite a dangerous man, your Cain.”
“Yes, he is.”
“What do you think he’ll do with the woman?”
“He’ll kill her, too,” Rollins replied.
“Quel dommage. She’s a pretty thing. Spirited, too. The kind of cat who’s likely to leave scratches on your back.” The agent smoothed his mustache again and smirked, as if he’d made a very amusing joke.
Rollins made no comment. He saw the lights of the approaching helicopter and heard the staccato throb of its rotors. Black and unmarked, it floated down to the helipad in front of them, and Rollins had to hold his hat down to keep it on his head. As the helicopter touched down, Rollins signaled the pilot with a finger across his throat. The engine quieted, and the rotors began to slow.
The CSIS agent extended a hand. “Good hunting, Mr. Rollins.”
“Thank you.”
“I’d like to say I’m sorry to see you go, but in all honesty, most of us will be happy to see the backs of you and your men. And Cain, too, of course. We have no interest in being part of the American Wild West.”
Rollins snorted. “Au revoir, Fontaine.”
The agent gave him a pain
ed smile. He combed his mustache one last time and headed back to the terminal building. When he was out of earshot, Rollins took out his phone and dialed Treadstone in New York.
“It’s me,” he said. “I’m heading home.”
“The tone of your voice suggests you failed again.”
Rollins fumed silently. “Yes. Bourne made it out of the city. He took the journalist with him, and after that, he disappeared. I assume he’ll head back to the U.S.”
“What’s his next target?”
“Unknown.”
“Director Shaw won’t be happy. He’s getting pressure from Congress. One of their own was murdered, and the assassin is one of ours. Cain needs to be eliminated. Soon.”
Rollins didn’t need headquarters telling him what he already knew.
“Activate all of our assets around the U.S.,” he told her, “and tell them to keep a close eye on our safe houses. Cain knows all of them. He could show up anywhere. Issue a kill-on-sight order, and make sure we warn everyone who knows him. Jason Bourne isn’t Treadstone anymore. He’s Medusa.”
* * *
—
BOURNE used a penlight to guide him through the trees. Every few steps, he stopped, listening. He had the Medusa assassin’s gun in his hand. Even out here, even at night, there were always threats. He didn’t know what Abbey Laurent would do now that she was free. She might go back to Quebec City, as he’d told her to do. Or she might pull off the road at the next town and call the police.
It was also possible that his contact in Montreal had turned against him. He and Nova had relied on the man many times, but payoffs had a way of trumping loyalty. Jason kept off-the-books contacts in most cities, but he was a marked man now, and even the most reliable sources could smell a lucrative payday. He didn’t know whether to expect a welcoming party when he went for the car.
He turned off the flashlight as he neared the main highway. At the end of the trail, nearly two dozen cars filled a small parking lot used by backpackers hiking into the mountains. He spotted the truck that had been left for him, a beat-up forest-green Land Rover. Instead of heading for the vehicle, he stayed on the fringe of the trees and circled the parking lot, coming up on the Land Rover from behind. He moved silently, leading with the gun.
No one was here.
They hadn’t found him yet.
Jason crossed the pavement to the truck. He checked under the chassis for explosives or tracking devices, but found nothing. Then he located the keys in a metallic case under the front bumper and let himself inside the vehicle. The truck had a stale smell of fake pine from an air freshener dangling under the mirror. He checked under the dashboard and found a thick envelope that contained twenty-five thousand dollars in cash from one of his personal accounts.
Time to go.
He turned the key in the ignition and switched on the headlights. When he did, he grabbed for his gun.
Abbey Laurent stood in front of the car.
Jason threw open the door and leaped out, pointing the gun at her chest. She put up her arms and spread her fingers wide.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded.
When Abbey didn’t answer, Bourne walked over to her and pressed the suppressor against her forehead. “I said, what the hell are you doing here?”
“Honestly? I don’t know.”
“What does that mean? You’re working with them, aren’t you? You’re one of them.”
Her voice was steady as she replied. “I’m not. I swear I’m not. I’m exactly who you think I am.”
“Then why did you come back? I let you go.”
“Because I want to go with you,” Abbey said.
“What?”
Jason saw a fierce determination in her eyes. “Look, I may not trust you, but I trust everyone else even less. Plus, I’m a writer, and this story isn’t over. You said you want to expose the conspiracy? So do I. These people killed Michel, and they tried to kill me. I want to find out the truth about who they are.”
“You’re insane.”
“Maybe I am.”
“You’ll slow me down. You’ll wind up dead.”
“I know the risks. That’s my choice. If I slow you down, then fine, leave me behind. But you might find you can use me. A man traveling alone attracts a lot more attention than a man and a woman together. I’m your cover.”
Jason frowned, but he couldn’t argue with her logic.
“See?” Abbey went on. “You know I’m right. Take me to New York with you. That’s where Carson Gattor is. You already said he’s the first link in the chain that leads to Medusa. You know it’s not going to be easy to get to him. He’s smart. If he thinks you’re coming after him, he’s going to be on his guard. He doesn’t know you, but he knows me. I can help you draw him out, Mr. Cain.”
He shook his head in disbelief at this woman’s sheer foolish courage. He hadn’t met someone like her in a long time.
Not since Nova.
He lowered his weapon.
“I’m not Cain,” he told her. “Not anymore. Cain was a long time ago. My name is Jason Bourne.”
PART TWO
FOURTEEN
THE CEOs of thirty-six of the world’s most influential technology companies sat around a handmade beechwood conference table imported from a Baltic coastal village in Sweden. Thirty of the participants were men, six were women, and they ranged in age from twenty-nine to seventy-five. Their countries of origin were dominated by the U.S., but also included representatives from China, South Korea, Switzerland, Germany, and India. The invitation-only group had no name. Outside of this room, it didn’t officially exist. The billionaire members called it simply “the cabal.”
Four times a year, they came here to discuss technology strategy, in a villa owned by Miles Priest on a private island a few miles off the coast of Nassau. Warm ocean breezes blew through the open-air space that looked down on the island’s sand beach, which was now bone-white in the moonlight. Dozens of red-necked Bahama parrots chattered in the palm trees beyond the balcony. Silver platters of coconut-crusted shrimp, fish stew and johnnycakes, conch salad, and guava duff sat in the middle of the table within easy reach, along with carafes of wine, sparkling water, Yellow Bird, and Goombay Smash. There was, ironically, no technology allowed at these meetings. No phones, no laptops, no devices of any kind. The members of the cabal knew better than anyone that people were always listening.
Miles Priest sat in his usual place at the head of the table, his back to the ocean view. Scott DeRay sat on his right, and Nelly Lessard, who coordinated the cabal’s communications and meetings, sat on his left. Most of the others in the group wore comfortable tropical attire—flowered shirts, shorts, sandals—but Priest never wore anything except a business suit at these meetings. He was still a product of the FBI culture in which he’d spent thirty years. Always professional. Always driven by stringent rules and values. Many of the CEOs expected hedonistic pleasures during their stay on the island, and Priest had no trouble indulging their distasteful fetishes, but he refused to allow such weaknesses in his own life.
At most meetings, the executives deferred to him as the leader of the cabal. That was high praise in a group whose other members were equally brilliant, arrogant, and über-rich, but Priest’s éminence grise persona and his six-foot-six stature managed to keep them in line. So did the fact that Nelly Lessard kept secret recordings of each member’s private peccadilloes. A night at a Macau hotel with two seventeen-year-olds? A taste for trafficked Egyptian antiquities? Nelly Lessard knew all about them. If anyone stepped seriously out of line, they were quietly reminded that certain recordings could be sent to their boards of directors or even the criminal authorities in their countries.
However, tonight Miles Priest was on the defensive.
“A debacle!” Hon Xiu-Le announced from the far end of the conference table. The
small forty-year-old with straw-like black hair was the Shanghai-based leader of China’s largest social messaging application, representing nearly a billion users. “A debacle, Mr. Priest, there is no other way to describe it! You told us that your operation in New York would help us gain the upper hand against Medusa. We would finally know what they were planning. Instead you played right into their hands.”
Priest’s sagging bloodhound face showed no expression. “I don’t disagree with you, Hon.”
“Congress is screaming!” added Tyler Wall, the youngest member of the cabal and the founder of a medical device company specializing in internal microrobotics for surgical procedures. The irony of his focus on small things was that Wall was built like a carnival strongman, with blond hair down to his waist and a full beard. His odd affectation was that he always wore a flowing white robe and carried a walking stick, like a modern-day Moses. “The legislation from Ortiz should have been dead in the water, but after her murder, the bill is gathering momentum in the House. Rumors are all over D.C. that Big Tech was behind the assassination. You think anyone is going to believe us if we say yes, the killer was our agent, but actually he was a Medusa mole and we had no idea about that when we hired him? How stupid does that make us look?”
Wall looked straight at Scott DeRay as he said this.
“You’re right, I take full responsibility for the recruitment of Jason Bourne,” Scott replied. “Obviously, he was more susceptible to manipulation by Medusa’s psychological methods than I realized. The man is one of my oldest friends, but I misjudged him.”
“A lot of good that does now,” Wall went on. “If our involvement in hiring him comes to light, this is disastrous! Catastrophic!”
“It won’t come out,” Priest interjected sharply.
“That seems optimistic, Mr. Priest,” Hon Xiu-Le announced to sympathetic rumblings from the others at the table. The Chinese entrepreneur adjusted tiny round glasses on his face and folded his small hands together. “If this man is captured, it seems inevitable that the investigation will lead back to Mr. DeRay—and from him to all of us.”
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