Robert Ludlum's the Bourne Evolution - Brian Freeman Page 0,9
death while he drove half an hour outside the city to find a discreet man whose steady hands he’d used in the past. And then he’d paid the doctor’s daughter an exorbitant amount of money to take him here while he slept in the back seat. He needed rest, time to recover, but he couldn’t stay long. There were only so many doctors in a radius around Quebec City, and soon enough they would find a retired surgeon named Valoix and his daughter. They would trace Bourne here. Hunt him down. Kill him.
For God’s sake, why?
But he knew why. They thought he’d become Cain again. A name from the past, a name from his past. An assassin.
In the other room, a loud bell jangled, startling him. His hand twitched, his fist opening and closing. His first instinct when surprised was to reach for a gun, but he’d lost his gun on the boardwalk. He glanced at the nightstand and saw a hotel phone. He limped across the room and picked up the receiver, but said nothing. He waited to hear who it was.
“Bonjour, monsieur,” said an old man’s voice. “Comment ça va ce matin?”
He understood the language, but he let the silence stretch out. Then he replied quietly in a gravelly voice: “Who is this?”
“C’est moi, Monsieur Bernard, bien sûr. Avez-vous faim? Voulez-vous le petit dejeuner?”
“I’ll eat later.”
“D’accord. Avez-vous besoin de quelque chose?”
He thought: Yes, I need something. I need to know how I was set up in New York. I need to know who framed me for murder.
“I’m fine,” Jason replied. “What time is it?”
“Nearly eleven o’clock,” the hotel owner told him, switching to accented English. “You told me to wake you earlier, but the young woman who brought you here said le médecin was very insistent. You needed sleep. I hope that is all right.”
“Yes. Thank you.”
“Your clothes are clean and ready for you. Shall I bring them over?”
“Please.”
“If I may ask, will your beautiful wife be joining you on this trip?” the man asked.
“My wife,” Bourne murmured.
The hotel owner heard his hesitation. “Oh, I hope I didn’t speak out of turn. That lovely creature with the black hair and the eyes that always dance. You are a lucky man. Even an old man can feel his heart race seeing a woman like that.”
That lovely creature.
Nova.
No, they weren’t married. That had been their cover when they first came here. But cover stories had a way of blurring with reality, and at some point, they’d realized there was a genuine attraction between them. They made an unlikely pair, the half-Greek, UK-based intelligence agent and the Treadstone operative with no past. For two years, they’d enjoyed stolen moments in places around the world, whenever they could get away from their other lives. They’d even dreamed about a time when they could be together for good, but making plans was a foolish game for people like them.
“It’s just me this trip,” Bourne replied.
“Ah. Quel dommage.”
“Has anyone asked about me?” Jason inquired. “Does anyone know I’m here?”
“Of course not. Your presence here is confidential, per your standard instructions. You can always count on my discretion.”
“I appreciate it.”
“Well, you are always most generous, monsieur. I will see you shortly.”
Bourne hung up the phone.
He stood in the darkness of the hotel bedroom, momentarily paralyzed with inaction. He was still thinking about Nova, still remembering her, but he couldn’t afford that luxury. Nova was gone. She was dead.
Treadstone had killed her in Las Vegas.
Jason had a new employer now, and he needed to make contact with them. They’d be wondering where he was and what had gone wrong. He went to the small table by the window that overlooked the bay. His phone was there, a pay-as-you-go phone he’d purchased with cash in Albany as he made his way north out of New York. He reinserted the battery, which he’d removed to make sure the phone couldn’t be tracked or remotely accessed, and he powered it on and waited for the phone to acquire a signal.
The contact number was supposed to connect him with a woman named Nelly Lessard. She would answer with the words “Carillon Technology. How may I direct your call?” The extension Bourne asked for would send one of several messages: Call me back. I’m being followed. Requesting a meeting. Everything is fine.
There was one extension that was like a 911 call. Human Resources, seventh floor.
It meant: Emergency, need immediate extraction.
He dialed the phone and waited, expecting to hear Nelly Lessard’s voice.