Robert Ludlum's the Bourne Evolution - Brian Freeman Page 0,59

photos you took outside the bar,” Jason said. “Maybe we can figure out who was watching Gattor.”

Again they leaned next to each other, both of them conscious of their closeness. Abbey took her phone from her pocket and scrolled slowly through the dozens of photographs she’d taken in a burst as she walked past the wine bar. The first time through they found nothing, but then Bourne reexamined the angle of the photo in the Prescix post. He opened up Abbey’s pictures again.

“The man at that table with his laptop open. See how Carson is looking down? The person who took it was seated. It’s him. He used the laptop to grab the photo and post it to Prescix.”

Abbey enlarged the photograph of the man in the wine bar, who didn’t look older than thirty. It was impossible to tell how tall he was, and the picture she’d taken was in profile, but they could see a long, slim nose, the untrimmed line of his beard creeping down his neck, and his sandy-blond hair pulled into a short ponytail on top of his head. He wore a rust-colored sweater with a collar and zipper.

“He’s Medusa?” Abbey asked.

“I think so.”

“So how do we figure out who he is?”

Bourne stared at the man in the photograph. There was only one way to find him. “I have to talk to an old friend,” Jason said.

*

BEFORE sunrise, Jason sat behind the Hans Christian Andersen statue near the boat pond in Central Park. The rain had stopped overnight, but the ground was still wet. The luxury apartments of Fifth Avenue loomed above the trees. He’d arrived early, but he didn’t have to wait long before he recognized the jogger approaching on the concrete trail. The man wasn’t tall, but he ran with a fast, confident athleticism. He was dressed down, so no one would recognize that he was one of the most powerful men in the country. The man stopped at the Conservatory Water, ran his hands through his wavy dark hair, and rested for a minute with his hands on his knees.

“It’s good that you’re a creature of habit,” Jason called.

Scott DeRay spun around. “Jesus Christ.”

“Sorry to ambush you, Scott, but we need to talk.”

“Of course, yes. Definitely.”

Scott took a plastic bottle from his belt and drank a squirt of Gatorade. He checked to confirm that the two of them were alone and then headed to the bench where Jason was sitting. He sat down next to his childhood friend.

“I didn’t shoot Sofia Ortiz,” Jason said.

Scott hesitated. “If you say so, I believe you.”

“But?”

“But I’m sorry, Jason. No one else will believe it. There’s too much evidence. The FBI has video of you in the hotel, fingerprints in the room and on the gun. And as for your background—well, we both know you fit the profile.”

“Medusa framed me. They set me up.”

Scott waited to answer. He drank another shot of Gatorade, and his face glowed with sweat. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have gotten you into this. But my hands are tied. Right now, it doesn’t matter to the cabal whether Medusa framed you or recruited you. The effect is the same. They want nothing to do with you. A member of Congress was assassinated. I’m heading to Washington this morning to reassure a bunch of furious politicians that Big Tech had nothing to do with it. If any actual evidence comes out that you were working for us, it will be devastating.”

“I get that,” Jason replied. “I’m an outcast. Me being dead would be better for everyone. Treadstone is trying to kill me, did you know that? Nash Rollins is hunting me. Is that Miles Priest’s handiwork?”

Scott frowned. “Yes. Miles talked to the director, and Shaw sent Nash after you. He knows the two of you have history.”

“Well, can you call off the dogs? Give me some breathing room?”

His friend stood up from the bench. Dawn lightened the sky, creating reflections on the boat pond. “Do you remember all the times we came here as kids? Sorry, what am I saying, of course you don’t remember. But we did. It seems like a long time ago.”

“For me, it was a different lifetime.”

“I know. The point is, you were my best friend, Jason.”

“Is that your way of softening the blow that you can’t help me?”

Scott looked down at him. “I wish I could. I wish I could set you up with a new identity somewhere, but I can’t. What’s going on is bigger than