Robert Ludlum's the Bourne Evolution - Brian Freeman Page 0,60
both of us. If any of this is traced back to me, I’m finished. I’m afraid you’re on your own.”
“I don’t want to escape,” Jason replied. “I’m not running.”
His friend’s face showed surprise. “Then why are you here?”
“I’m still chasing Medusa.”
“Alone? That’s crazy.”
“Well, everyone thinks I am crazy, don’t they? Psychologically damaged. A prime candidate for terrorist recruitment.”
“Look—Jason—”
“Medusa is on the move, Scott. Ortiz was step one. I was step one. But whatever’s coming next is much bigger.”
“Do you know what it is?”
“No, but I suspect the Prescix software is involved. Someone at Medusa manipulated the Prescix software last night to arrange the death of Abbey Laurent’s source. They knew I was coming after him. Oh, and I heard about the murder of the Prescix executive, too. You and Miles better be careful.”
“We are.” Scott glanced at the boat pond and saw other early-morning runners heading in their direction. “I need to go. We can’t be seen together. What do you want, Jason? You obviously want something if you took the risk of coming here.”
“I need to identify someone. I think he’s Medusa. I have a photograph but nothing else. I was hoping someone at Carillon could access the facial recognition systems across the cabal and get me a name and background.”
“And if you find him, what will you do?”
“Follow him up the chain. See where it leads me.”
Jason could see his friend weighing the pros and cons. Everything had a cost and benefit in Scott’s world.
“There’s a coffee shop across from the Carillon lobby,” Scott said finally. “Be there in three hours. One of my techs will find you.”
“What’s his name?”
“No names. I’m not putting my people at risk. You meet this man, and he’ll get you the information you need.”
“Will the FBI be meeting me, too, Scott?”
“Don’t worry, you’re safe. I won’t turn you in, for the simple reason that nobody wants you in custody.”
“Just dead,” Jason said.
Scott shook out his legs, getting ready to start running again. “I trust your skills, so I’m sure you’ll monitor the area before you move in.”
“I appreciate the help.”
“This is a one-time offer,” Scott replied. “For old times, Jason. After that, we’re done. But be forewarned. Once this query launches, you’ll be leaving footprints online. Nothing is private anymore. Whatever or whoever you’re searching for, Medusa will find out about it. Quickly.”
TWENTY
THE new Carillon Technology building rose twelve hundred feet in the air over midtown, its sharp silver angles making it look as if it had been carved out of quartz. The company had teased half the cities in the country with the prospect of landing its second headquarters, but ultimately, they’d followed the money to Manhattan. Now the company’s twin towers in California and New York stood like ultra-modern palaces on either coast, with Miles Priest presiding over one and Scott DeRay ruling the other.
Jason watched the mass of pedestrians on Forty-Second Street. He was alert for the possibility of a trap. The location made him nervous, because the easiest kill of all was an innocent collision at a crowded intersection. Gun. Knife. Poison. No one saw a thing, and the ensuing panic covered the assassin’s escape.
Crowds favor the hunter. You’re never safe in a crowd.
Treadstone.
“Do you see any threats?” Abbey asked.
“Not right now.”
“Do you trust Scott?”
“I don’t trust anyone,” Bourne replied.
The light changed. They crossed the street to the sprawling coffee shop on the opposite corner from the Carillon tower. Jason surveyed the tables through the glass windows before he took Abbey by the elbow and led her inside. They waited to purchase drinks and then found an empty table where he could watch the entrance. Abbey drank her latte, but he didn’t touch his own drink. He could tell that she’d picked up on his anxiety, because she didn’t speak to him or interrupt his concentration.
Twenty minutes later, Jason spotted a man entering the shop with an open laptop in his hands. He wore a lime-green dress shirt buttoned to the neck and black jeans. His glasses matched his shirt, and they kept sliding down his long nose. He was short and skinny and had a mop of curly brown hair. He typed one-handed as he waited in line.
“That’s him,” Jason said softly.
“How do you know?”
“I saw him at a meeting with Scott once. He’s a tech savant. Be nice to him. If you tailgate him on the freeway, he can slice your credit rating in half before you get to the next exit.”