Robert Ludlum's™ The Bourne Evolution (Jason Bourne Book 12)

by Brian Freeman

  “My part? What are you saying? You’re supposed to be dead!”

  “Yes, that’s what we wanted everyone to think. The setup worked just as we hoped, thanks in large part to you, Mr. Gattor. The information you gave Abbey Laurent worked exactly as intended. Medusa is grateful. But now we have a problem.”

  “I don’t understand. Why are you here? There’s never supposed to be direct contact! I’m a resource, nothing more. She swore to me I was safe!”

  She.

  Gattor’s contact at Medusa was a woman.

  “Your previous terms of engagement no longer apply,” Bourne informed him. “The mole changes everything. You’re on a list, Mr. Gattor. You’re blown.”

  “My God, what do I do?”

  “I told you, as soon as the journalist calls you again, set up a meeting. We’ll take care of the rest.”

  “But what if she gives him my name? What if he knows me? You just said I’m blown.”

  “If she gives him your name, it won’t be the mole at that meeting. It’ll be the FBI. You’ll be under arrest. And don’t get any ideas about cutting a deal with them, Mr. Gattor. We can get to you anywhere.”

  “This is madness!”

  Bourne slid out the gun he’d taken from the Canadian policeman. Gattor squirmed, seeing the weapon, and Bourne held him in place against the wall. He pressed the butt of the gun, which was empty now, into the lawyer’s hand. “Look, there’s a slim chance you may need to take care of this situation on your own.”

  “What?”

  “The mole is part of Medusa. That means he’ll be cautious. If he suspects a trap, he may contact you outside the scheduled time and place, when we don’t have a wet team ready to go. In that case, we’ll need you to eliminate him yourself. The woman, too, if she’s with him.”

  “Eliminate them? You want me to kill them? That was never part of the deal! I don’t even know how to fire a gun!”

  “If he thinks he’s dealing only with you, he’s less likely to expect an ambush. That’s your advantage. As for the gun, it’s easy. Point and shoot. Be careful, the trigger is sensitive, so don’t put your finger on it until you’re ready to fire. A forehead shot is best, so you’ll need to be close. Anywhere else, and he’ll take time to bleed out, so he may have an opportunity to grab his own weapon and kill you.”

  “Jesus!”

  “Good luck, Mr. Gattor,” Bourne told him. “We’ll be watching.”

  Jason left the lawyer a quivering mess inside the shelter of the trees. He melted back onto the New York streets. As he walked downtown, he slipped his phone into his hand and sent a text to Abbey.

  Phase Two complete. It’s a go.

  Carson Gattor was in full panic mode. The lawyer would be screaming into his phone soon and demanding a meeting, but not with Abbey Laurent.

  The only thing he could do now was reach out to Medusa.

  SEVENTEEN

  “IT was Cain!” Carson Gattor screamed into his phone after he closed and locked the door of his twentieth-floor office near Union Square. “He’s in New York. He confronted me on the street. He said he was part of Medusa. He said you’re looking for a mole inside the organization who knows about me. My God, is that true?”

  The sultry voice of his contact showed no emotion. She never did. “Are you certain it was him, Carson?”

  “Of course I’m sure! You’re the one who gave me the information about him. I thought he was going to kill me!”

  She didn’t answer right away. Her silence told him that calculations were going through her mind. “But in fact, he didn’t kill you. How interesting.”

  “Interesting? That’s all you have to say? This isn’t how it’s supposed to work! This isn’t our deal! I was just supposed to be a go-between. I wasn’t supposed to deal with people like Cain.”

  “Calm down, Carson. If Cain wanted you dead, you’d already have a bullet in your throat.”

  “I won’t calm down. Was he telling the truth? Is there a mole inside Medusa who can expose me?”

  “No, he was simply trying to rattle you, and obviously he succeeded.”

  “But why?”

  “That I’m not sure about. It’s a curious puzzle.”

  Carson shook his head. “You need to help me. Mole or not, I’m at risk. You need to get me out!”

  “Quiet!” the woman insisted, in a voice that didn’t allow for any protest. He knew better than to open his mouth again when she used that tone. In person, it was a tone that brought swift punishment.

  Carson waited through an interminable length of silence. He heard nothing on the phone but the smooth, measured sound of her breathing, which he knew well. That sound always aroused him. Her breath was like that when she straddled him, her eyes closed, when she teased him with her interminably slow movements up and down, postponing the aching moment of relief.

  They’d met exactly six times. Every meeting was memorable. Every one ended the same way, with depraved, glorious sex in a hotel room and information passed to him on a thumb drive for distribution to a contact in the media or government. Money always showed up in his bank account a few days later, although in truth, he would have paid her for the experience. She was that good.

  The very first time had been in Las Vegas. He’d been in town for a meeting with one of his clients, and a taxi had taken him to an upscale casino outside the city. He’d played the blackjack tables and lost big. He’d never had such a losing streak in his life, but he found that he couldn’t stop, not even when the rational part of his brain told him to walk away. The deeper he dug the hole, the more he believed that his luck had to turn, and when it did, everything would go his way. But his luck never changed. He played and lost throughout the night, raising the stakes higher and higher with each hand, until he was down by more than one hundred and fifty thousand dollars. He didn’t have that kind of money.

  That was when he met her.

  She showed up at his side, incredibly tall, sleek and gorgeous, with black hair and pale eyes that sent a surge of blood between his legs. She wore a barely-there thigh-high black dress that clung to her bony curves, and when she bent over, he could see everything.

  “You seem to have a problem, Mr. Gattor.”

  How did she know his name?

  Carson hadn’t put it together at the time. He was in too much of a fog. It was only later that he realized that he’d been set up, that he’d been chosen and steered to the casino and manipulated and cheated out of his money. No, all he knew at that moment was that he was turned on by this woman and facing a debt he couldn’t pay.

  “I have a solution. I have a way for you to satisfy your debt in full and make a great deal more money beyond that.”

  “What do I have to do?” he asked, although it didn’t matter. Whatever it was, he was going to do it. He couldn’t say no to her.

  “We’ll talk about details soon. For now, I only have one demand.”

  “What is it?”

  “You must remember at all times when we are together to call me Miss Shirley.”

  Then she’d taken him up to a penthouse suite in the hotel that overlooked the mountains and introduced him to a night of pain and pleasure unlike anything he’d ever experienced. In the morning, she’d given him a first-class airline ticket and told him to strike up a conversation with the man in the seat next to him.

  That was all. Build a relationship.

  That was his first mission for Medusa.

  “You did the right thing by calling me, Carson,” Miss Shirley told him when the waiting on the phone had gone on for more than a minute. “Your assessment of the situation is correct. We need to extract you.”

  “You’ll pull me out?”

  “Yes. Obviously, your work for us has become known, and that means you’re at risk. You can’t stay in New York.”

  “Where will I go?”

  “Initially, you’ll join me in Las Vegas. I’ll send the jet for you tonight. Someone will debrief you about your interaction with
Cain and Ms. Laurent. And then we’ll find you a new location and identity. You’ll start over, Carson. Do you like Asia? Perhaps we can send you to Bangkok. I suspect you’d find diversions to entertain you there. Of course, our relationship will need to end. We won’t talk again.”

  “I—I don’t know—” He found himself horrified at the idea of never spending another night with her.

  “The alternative is another meeting with Cain,” Miss Shirley replied. “Is that what you want?”

  “No!”

  “Fine. Do exactly as I say. There’s a wine bar in Greenwich Village called Villiers. Be there tonight at ten o’clock. In the meantime, I’ll make plans for your departure, and I’ll text you further instructions when you’re in place. Walk, don’t take a cab. We need to make sure you’re not being followed.”

  “Are you sure it’s safe?”

  “Relax, Carson. Haven’t I always taken care of you?”

  “What if he contacts me again?” Carson asked. “What if he simply shows up somewhere? What do I do?”

  He heard the smile in her voice. “You said Cain gave you a gun. Use it.”

  *

  MISS Shirley hung up the phone.

  She lay naked on a chaise lounge in a white-walled estate in the Las Vegas hills. The ninety-degree sun beat down on her bronzed body. She climbed off the chaise lounge and walked in her sandals to the diving board of the Roman-inspired pool, which was surrounded by stone urns, erotic fountains, and statues of goddesses. She kicked off her shoes, mounted the board, and made a clean dive, her lean body slicing into the turquoise water. Like the Olympic swimmer she was, she swam forty laps freestyle and used the ladder to climb out of the pool again, not winded at all.

  Water dripped from her breasts and wet hair. She dried herself with a towel, retrieved her sandals, and returned to the chaise at an unhurried pace.

  She picked up the phone and dialed a number.

  “Restak,” a voice answered.

  “It’s me.”

  “What can I do for you … Miss Shirley?”

  “I’m coming to New York,” she replied. “Cain is there. We need an incident arranged for tonight.”

  EIGHTEEN

  “THERE he is,” Bourne told Abbey, stealing a glance through binoculars at the Broadway entrance of the high-rise off Union Square.

  A cold rain fell in the New York night. Carson Gattor wore a beige trench coat and opened an umbrella over his head. He joined the crowd of pedestrians and turned left across from the park, heading west past a row of retail shops. He walked quickly and nervously, looking back over his shoulder every few steps.

  Jason didn’t move.

  “Shouldn’t we follow him?” Abbey asked.

  “We will. First I want to see who else is following him.”

  Bourne waited patiently, assessing the others in the crowd near Gattor. When he was satisfied, he took Abbey’s arm, and the two of them hurried along Fourteenth Street without crossing the street, keeping an eye on the lawyer across the late-evening traffic. They’d done a rough color job to change Abbey’s hair from red to black, and she wore a dark hoodie pulled up to hide her face. Jason wore a wool cap pulled low on his forehead and an Islanders jersey. Despite checking his surroundings repeatedly, Gattor never looked in their direction. He wasn’t skilled at identifying surveillance.

  They stayed behind him for two long blocks until he got to Sixth Avenue, where he turned left toward the heart of Greenwich Village. Rain spat through the streetlights, and the passing cars threw spray over the curbs. The short southbound blocks passed quickly, and the farther Gattor went, the more careless he got about looking back. It was easy to keep him in sight. When he reached the clock tower of the Jefferson Market Library, he turned onto Tenth Street and continued through the leafy streets of the Village. The pedestrians thinned, and Jason allowed the gap between them to increase. Gattor walked several more blocks past parked cars that were squeezed together on the street and trash bags piled on the curb. On the other side of Seventh Avenue, they watched him disappear into a small wine bar with tall windows facing the sidewalk.

  Jason and Abbey sat down next to each other under the awning of a shipping store across the street, where they had a vantage on the bar. The place was packed. As the door opened and closed, they could hear piano music. Jason put an arm around Abbey’s shoulders and nudged her head against him, so they looked like lovers taking a respite from the rain. From where they were, they could see the One World Trade Center tower jutting into the sky.

  “Do you think he’s meeting someone?” Abbey said under her breath.

  “It looks that way.”

  “Medusa?”

  “Most likely.”

  She saw the concern on Jason’s face. “You don’t look pleased. Isn’t this what you wanted?”

  “He’s alone,” Jason said. “Nobody followed him. Just us. He isn’t being watched. I don’t understand that. If he’s meeting anyone from Medusa, they’d make sure the area’s secure.”

  “Do you think it’s a trap? For us?”

  “If they wanted us, this place would already be surrounded. It’s not.”

  “What do you want to do?” Abbey asked.

  Jason shot his gaze across the narrow street toward the wine bar and its flashing neon sign with the name Villiers. The lights were bright inside, and a crowd of twenty- and thirty-somethings made the place standing room only. Several high cocktail tables dotted the floor and a railing circled the perimeter for people who were standing up. He could see Carson Gattor near the rear wall, his coat over his sleeve. The lawyer had a glass of white wine in his hand, and he closed his eyes as he drank. He looked relaxed now. Relieved.

  But he was still alone. No one had approached him. The size of the crowd squeezed into the small bar made it impossible to tell whether Gattor was being watched.

  “Take a walk outside the place,” Jason told Abbey. “Both directions. Don’t stop or look through the windows, but have your phone out and do a continuous burst of photographs of the interior. I’d like to see who’s in there with him.”

  “You think someone from Medusa is already there?”

  “I don’t know, but Gattor’s not here for the chardonnay. Do you feel comfortable doing this?”

  “Sure.”

  Abbey got to her feet and dodged a couple of cars as she ran to the opposite corner of Tenth near the wine bar. She wandered past the blue-painted walls of Villiers and pretended to be having a conversation on her phone as she fired off multiple photographs of the people inside. Then she acted as if she’d gotten lost and retraced her steps, repeating the process from the other direction. Bourne smiled. She had good tradecraft.

  She rejoined Jason and huddled close to him again. Rain dripped from the awning.

  “Carson is at the back. He’s not talking to anybody, and I didn’t notice anyone paying attention to him.”

  “Do you know if he lives near here?”

  “No. Other direction. He told me he has a place in Chelsea.”

  “I don’t like this,” Jason said.

  They waited as time ticked by, first half an hour, then an hour. Nothing changed inside the wine bar. Periodically, Jason kept an eye on Gattor, and he noticed that the man’s relaxed demeanor evaporated as the evening wore on. The lawyer grew anxious, checking his watch and his phone. He was being stood up, and that obviously unnerved him. When the clock passed eleven, Gattor made a call to someone but obviously got no answer.

  Still, he made no effort to leave.

  “Jason!” Abbey whispered urgently. “Across the street. Under the scaffolding.”

  Bourne shifted his gaze that way. Two men had arrived on the corner, with eyes glued to their phone screens. Both were young, probably not even twenty-five, dressed completely in black. One was tall and skinny, with messy brown hair streaked with neon green. His companion was a squat Asian with a chin beard and dark buzz cut.

  When Jason looked the other way up Seventh Avenue, he sa
w a third man, also in black, his head shaved bald and his neck covered in tattoos.

  Then, only seconds later, an Uber car pulled up to the curb on the far side of the street, and two muscular young women emerged from the back seat. Also in black. One slipped a Guy Fawkes mask over her face, but her friend spoke to her sharply, and she removed it and secured it in the pocket of her black jacket.

  The five of them stood in the rain up and down the street, not communicating directly with each other but obviously together.

  “What’s going on?” Abbey asked. “Are they looking for us?”

  “I don’t think so, but something’s going down.”

  Bourne leaned back and checked inside Villiers with his binoculars. Gattor had his phone in his hand now. He tapped out a text. The lawyer waited, and a few seconds later, his face broke into a smile of relief. He took his trench coat and slipped his arms into the sleeves. He shook out his umbrella on the floor.

  “Gattor’s getting ready to go,” Jason said. “He got a text with new instructions. I want you out of here, Abbey. Right now, before Gattor leaves.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Things are about to get violent. I don’t want you in the middle of it. I want you safe.”

  “These kids? They’re Medusa?”

  Bourne shook his head. “No, they look like street thugs, but them showing up now isn’t a coincidence.”

  “I’d rather stay with you,” Abbey said.

  “That’s not an option. Listen to me. There’s an apartment complex near Gramercy Park that Nova and I used once. We can stay there tonight. A block away, you’ll find a twenty-four-hour bistro on Park and Twentieth. Take a cab there, and wait for me.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Get some answers for us. Now go. Please.”

  Abbey hesitated, obviously reluctant to leave, but then she got to her feet and walked with her head down, back along Tenth the way they’d come. He kept an eye on her until he saw her flag down a cab and head safely away. Then he returned his attention to Villiers, where he saw Carson Gattor walk out of the wine bar into the rain. Jason slumped against the shop wall. Through slitted eyes, he watched what was happening at the intersection. Gattor crossed the street, his umbrella up, heading down Seventh. The lawyer paid no attention to Jason, who was sprawled on the sidewalk like one of the city’s homeless. As Gattor passed him, Jason saw the two men at the corner checking their phones and signaling to the others.