Robert Ludlum's the Bourne Evolution - Brian Freeman Page 0,11

near a door that led to the beach. He took off the sunglasses he was wearing, but left the wool cap on his head.

“Oui, monsieur?” a waitress asked him sullenly, as if his arrival in the half-empty café was an imposition on her time.

He ordered a plate of fried shrimp and coffee.

There was a small television over the restaurant’s bar, tuned to the international version of CNN. A week later, the assassination of Congresswoman Sofia Ortiz was still the top of the news. He saw footage from the riot that had erupted after the shooting, but he didn’t need a reminder. He’d been there. Riot was the wrong word for what had happened. Riots were organic, unpredictable, uncontrolled affairs. The violence in New York had spread neatly, like a controlled burn, as if someone, somewhere, were writing a script for it and sending out actors to play their parts. This was a riot with a plan, and part of the plan had been to make sure that Abbey Laurent was one of the victims.

Jason had followed her out of the park after the shooting. So had someone else. She’d been tracked by a man in a hood, but not a random thug, not part of the anarchist chaos sweeping the streets. This man never took his eyes off her. When Jason saw him aim a gun across the rioters at Abbey, he’d staged a collision to rescue her, and then he’d doubled back to take the man out with a choke hold around his neck.

The man had no ID, nothing to explain his presence in the riot. He was a pawn.

He was Medusa.

The waitress put Bourne’s lunch in front of him. He devoured it hungrily, not sure when he’d have time to eat again. He gulped down the coffee, too. He found himself staring out the window at the beach, where a few children hung out near the river, throwing stones. In the distance, he could see a ship gliding eastward toward the open waters of the Atlantic. If he couldn’t break apart the conspiracy, that might be his future, escaping overseas in the cargo hold of one of those ships.

On the other side of the café, the front door opened and closed.

Bourne shot a glance at the door and swore under his breath. It was a policeman. He was a local cop, dressed in a zippered olive-green police jacket and a black brimmed cap. He had a holstered sidearm at his waist. He was a tall beanpole, young, probably not even twenty-five, and he knew everyone in the café. The sullen waitress came alive and flirted with him. The chef made jokes.

It might be a coincidence that the cop had arrived here now, but Bourne didn’t think so. The word had already gone out. The police were looking for him. He watched the cop out of the corner of his eye, and the policeman made a careful survey of the restaurant as he chatted with the waitress. He spotted Bourne at the corner table, and his stare fixed on him for an extra beat. That was all. Then the cop looked away, too quickly.

Jason knew he’d been spotted.

He unfolded two bills from his pocket and put the cash on the table to pay for his meal. Casually, he finished his coffee and popped the last fried shrimp into his mouth. He put his sunglasses back on, got up, and used the rear door to exit the café. A handful of wooden steps led to the beach, where the children were playing. He joined them at the water and threw a couple of stones, the way they were doing. Then he stole a glance over his shoulder.

The policeman was watching him from the patio. He had a radio in his hand, calling for backup.

Jason strolled eastward along the beach. Not far ahead of him, a wooded section of land encroached on the river. He could see the peaks of several houses tucked among the trees. When he stopped to tie his shoe, he shot another look behind him and saw the policeman following, maybe fifty yards away. The young cop had his right hand close to the holster on his belt. He wasn’t even hiding his pursuit, but Jason could tell from the man’s jerky motions that he was nervous.

When a pursuer is nervous, make them more nervous. Do the unexpected. Keep them off balance.

Treadstone.

Where the trees grew close to the river, Bourne saw steps leading to a waterfront house.