Robert Ludlum's the Bourne Evolution - Brian Freeman Page 0,138

were different. I knew you’d make one of the best assets I ever recruited.”

“Thank you, Fyodor,” Scott replied.

Although the truth is, I was the one who recruited you.

Fyodor cut into another of the cheeses, and the wafting smell affected Scott with a wave of nausea. He had to hold on to the table to steady himself as the room spun. He felt a strange tingling in his lips, like the pricks of a hundred needles.

“You all right, my friend?” Fyodor asked, chewing loudly. “You’re starting to look sick.”

“I’m fine,” Scott replied.

“I was sorry to hear the news about your Miss Shirley, by the way.”

Scott said nothing at the mention of her name. He missed Shirl, but he hadn’t cried for her. She would have detested any show of weakness like that from him. Even so, it was still hard to imagine his world without her. She’d been a secret ally at his side for almost twenty years.

“I’d always assumed she was indestructible,” Fyodor went on.

“So had I.”

“Bourne killed her?”

“Yes.”

“I would have liked to see that battle,” Fyodor mused. “It must have been one for the ages. How did he do it?”

“He cut off her head,” Scott murmured angrily.

“Just like Perseus and Medusa, eh? How ironic. What about Bourne himself?”

“Treadstone killed him.”

“Are you sure? Bourne has proved to be a slippery adversary in the past.”

Scott rubbed his temples with his fingers. A fierce headache had now taken root behind his eyes. “This time I’m sure. Treadstone tried hard to keep it quiet, but we intercepted an encrypted transmission of a classified report directly to the attorney general. It confirmed his death.”

“Well, RIP Jason Bourne. I do like it when the American government does our work for us.”

Scott nodded in agreement, but he’d begun to feel light-headed. He didn’t understand what was happening to him. The flu? He found it hard to concentrate on their conversation. He needed to get back outside into the fresh air of Paris. “I told you Bourne wouldn’t be a problem, Fyodor.”

“Indeed you did.”

“I’ll let you know when we’re moving ahead on Prescix. And how much more money we need.”

“Do that.” Fyodor reached across the table and wrapped up Scott’s hand in his paw. “Anyway, congratulations, my friend. I appreciate a man who delivers on his promises. There’s bound to be a bonus in it for you. Whatever you want.”

Scott stood up from the chair. As he did, the inside of the café made somersaults in front of his eyes. “I don’t care about anything like that.”

“Ah yes, of course,” Fyodor replied, with a cynical rasp in his voice. “You don’t care about material things, says the man in the five-thousand-dollar Savile Row suit. You’re an idealist. You know what we call idealists in Russia, don’t you?”

“What?”

Fyodor leaned dangerously far back in the little café chair and laughed until his belly shook. “As soon as I find one, I’ll let you know.”

*

FYODOR was in no hurry to leave the café.

When he was done with the food, he signaled to the lovely little French waitress and ordered a bottle of Pouilly-Fuissé to wash it all down. She poured him the first glass, and while she did, his thick fingers explored her ass under the thin fabric of her skirt. She didn’t slap his hand away. Instead, she gave him a grin and a wink that said: Ask me how much.

Ah, Paris. He loved this city.

An hour later, he’d finished the wine and had a buzz that would last him until lunch. He stripped the linen napkin out of his collar and crumpled it on the table. He pushed his huge frame out of the chair and took heavy, unsteady steps toward the café door. Outside, he paid no attention to his bodyguards standing on either side of the bistro entrance. His town car waited for him at the curb. He closed his eyes briefly to savor the sunshine, and then he bent down and yanked open the town car’s rear door.

The car wasn’t empty. Nash Rollins sat in the back seat.

“Fyodor Mikhailov,” Rollins announced in a pleasant voice. “It’s been a long time.”

The Russian whirled around with surprising speed for a big man, but that was when he noticed for the first time that the two bodyguards outside the café were not his own men. They were strangers. Americans. With guns.

Fyodor gave a long, loud sigh of resignation. Life was what it was. You won until you lost, and then you dealt with the consequences. “Nash Rollins. I