Robert Ludlum's the Bourne Evolution - Brian Freeman Page 0,27

blocks behind him, Bourne followed, too. When he reached the next alley, he could see both of them. Abbey walked without looking back, and Farnham stayed about twenty yards behind her on the opposite sidewalk. Near the next intersection at Côte de la Fabrique, Abbey disappeared into a bakery. She wasn’t inside for long. When she came out, she had a takeaway cup of coffee in her hand, and again she glanced up and down the street.

This time, however, she zeroed in on a police officer approaching from the opposite direction. She engaged in a brief conversation with the cop, then walked quickly away. Farnham increased his pace to catch her, but he had only gone a few steps when the police officer confronted him on the sidewalk. The cop demanded to know who Farnham was and why he was following a young woman on the street, and while the American agent made loud protestations, Abbey disappeared from view around the next curve.

Bourne smiled. The woman was smart and resourceful. She’d spotted the tail. By the time Farnham got free of the cop, he had to run to locate her again, but he was too late. Bourne kept Farnham in sight as the Treadstone agent hurried to the next intersection, where several streets came together in a busy jumble of cars and people. There was no sign of Abbey Laurent.

As Jason watched, Farnham pulled out his phone to call in a report. Less than five minutes later, a blue Mercedes whipped along the busy street and stopped beside him, and the agent climbed into the passenger seat. The car sped off. Bourne waited to see what would happen next. As soon as the car disappeared, he spotted Abbey emerging from her hiding place on a grassy slope above the Côte de la Fabrique, where she’d been watching the whole thing.

Definitely smart.

With a toss of her deep red hair, Abbey joined the people on the street. Jason gave her plenty of space, but she walked with more assurance now, as if she were confident that she’d shaken the people pursuing her. Her route took her sharply uphill past the Morrin Centre, and eventually she reached Rue d’Auteuil near Esplanade Park, only a couple of blocks from the offices of The Fort. As he had the previous night, Jason stayed in the park, rather than on the street, and he shadowed Abbey until she reached the building where the magazine was housed. She observed the broken window on the front door, and the sight obviously unnerved her. She turned around, suspicious again, and made a careful review of the area, as if she could feel his eyes. Then she went inside.

Bourne waited. There was nothing else to do. Waiting was the real art of surveillance. He bought a newspaper; he bought coffee; he found a bench near the Boer War monument, where the trees sheltered him. The morning was cold but bright, and he wore sunglasses. From where he was, he could see the building doors. Whenever Abbey came outside again, he’d spot her.

Soon he had company on the stakeout. The blue Mercedes returned and pulled into a parking place with a similar vantage on Abbey Laurent’s building. Someone had obviously reported to Treadstone that she’d arrived at The Fort. Two men got out of the Mercedes. One was Farnham; the other was an agent who Bourne didn’t recognize. Farnham took the car keys, and the other agent walked away down the cobblestoned street, leaving Farnham alone to take the first shift. Jason watched the young operative get behind the wheel of the Mercedes. The driver’s window was open, and he could see the occasional cloud of cigarette smoke drift into the air.

The morning passed slowly.

A few people came and went from the building, but Abbey stayed inside. Farnham didn’t leave the car, and he smoked his way through half a pack of cigarettes as he sat there. Bourne eyed the street for other surveillance, but he didn’t see anyone else covering the neighborhood. It seemed to be just the two of them.

Then, around twelve-thirty, a newcomer attracted his attention. A woman panhandler shuffled down the north side of Rue d’Auteuil, cupping her palm at everyone she passed and demanding change. She wore a multicolored skirt that draped to her ankles and a heavy crocheted black sweater that was too long for her arms. Her thick black hair fell to the middle of her back, with half a dozen red plastic butterflies