Robert Ludlum's the Bourne Evolution - Brian Freeman Page 0,53

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