Home > Robert Ludlum's The Bourne Evolution(4)

Robert Ludlum's The Bourne Evolution(4)
Author: Brian Freeman

And she knew that in some way it was connected to her.

“Police everywhere.”

There! Two burly young men, one black, one white, both in Nordiques jerseys, were squeezed into a corner booth behind the band. Their voices carried over the crowd. She shoved her way through the bar and bent over their table. A dim sconce light cast shadows on their faces.

“Excuse me.”

The two men stopped their conversation and sized her up from behind their beers. They liked what they saw. “What’s up, baby doll?” one of them said.

“Did I hear you say that something happened at Château Frontenac?”

“Oh, yeah,” the white Nordiques fan replied. “I was just up there. Whole area’s shut down.”

“What’s going on?”

“Dunno. I heard people saying there were bodies in the street. Some kind of shooting. Hey, why don’t you sit down, and we can—”

But Abbey was already gone.

She threaded through the mass of people toward the bar door. She needed to get back to Château Frontenac right now and find out what had happened.

When she got outside, the chill hit her wet clothes, and she shivered again. The rain had stopped, but the pavement was still damp. Rue Sainte-Angèle climbed sharply in the darkness, and she began to head up the street. As she did, a man crossed the road to intercept her. He’d obviously been waiting for her.

“Mademoiselle Laurent?”

She glanced nervously both ways. She was conscious of the fact that the two of them were alone on the empty street. Her hand covered the latch on her bag, in case she needed to reach for the Taser she kept inside. Her reporting often took her to uncomfortable places, and she’d learned to be prepared for anything.

The man gave her a bland smile and repeated his question. “You are Abbey Laurent, aren’t you? The reporter?”

“What’s this about? Who are you?”

“We had a meeting. I apologize for being late.”

“You?” She reacted with surprise. “You’re the mystery man?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, where the hell were you?”

“I’m sorry. I was detained. It was unavoidable.”

Abbey relaxed a little, but she studied him with a faint disappointment. He wasn’t what she’d expected. He was tall and solidly built, with thinning blond hair and gold-rimmed glasses that pinched the bridge of his nose. He wore a brown raincoat over a neat, expensive beige suit and tie. He looked like a middle-aged accountant, not a spy, and she’d pictured her intriguing mystery man as more Chris Pine than Jonah Hill.

“I’m glad I was able to find you,” he added in a voice that was almost sugary in its politeness. “Obviously, I went through a lot of trouble to meet you.”

“How did you find me?”

“Everyone leaves a footprint online, Ms. Laurent. Routines are easy to track. We know a lot about you. We’ve followed your reporting for some time.”

“We?”

“I’m a member of an influential group. You said you wanted a story, didn’t you? They’re part of the story.” He gave her another of his bland smiles and waved toward the end of the street. “Shall we take a walk?”

“Yes, okay.”

The two of them headed side by side to the intersection where Rue Sainte-Angèle met Rue Saint-Jean. They walked down the middle of the cobblestoned street past trendy shops and restaurants that were closed for the night. There was no traffic and no other pedestrians. Her mystery man kept his hands in the pockets of his raincoat, and Abbey noticed that he never looked directly at her. However, his eyes moved constantly, examining the shadows around them.

“Looking for someone?” she asked.

“Just being careful.”

“Are you expecting trouble?”

“I always expect trouble.”

“I heard there was an incident near Château Frontenac,” she said. “People were killed.”

“Yes.”

“Is that why you were late?”

“Yes.”

“Was this because of our meeting? Was I in danger?”

“There were dangerous men near the hotel,” the man replied, “but they were looking for me, not you. They were hoping you would lead them to me.”

“And did you kill them?”

This time he stopped and looked at her. She saw that he had icy blue eyes behind his gold-rimmed glasses. “Is that what you think I am? A killer?”

“I don’t know what you are. I don’t even know your name.”

“Names are unimportant.”

“Except you know my name,” Abbey said.

“True enough, Ms. Laurent.”

They reached the old stone wall at Artillery Park, part of the city’s fortifications that had been built three hundred years earlier when the British and French were battling for the land. Without asking, the man led her down the stairs into the park, and then he stopped near the grassy hill under the wall. He lit a cigarette and blew smoke into the air. He smiled at her again, and she decided that she didn’t like his smile. The location where they’d stopped was hidden from the view of other buildings in the area. Alarm bells went off in her head.

“What does this have to do with the murder of Congresswoman Ortiz?” she demanded impatiently. “You said you’d help me get answers. I want to know why she was killed. And who shot her.”

He held his cigarette delicately between two fingers. “That was a terrible night.”

“Yes, it was.”

“You were near the congresswoman when she was shot, weren’t you?”

“That’s right. I was. Do you know who did it?

“The American government thinks it was Cain,” he replied.

“Who is Cain?” Abbey asked. Then she added with an undercurrent of horror, “Is it you? Did you kill Sofia Ortiz?”

The question seemed to amuse him. “Me? Hardly. I’m not in his league. Cain is a ghost. A legend. I’m simply flesh and blood.”

She realized he was playing with her. Toying with her, the way a cat plays with a mouse before it bares its claws. This whole meeting felt off. He’d promised her a story, and now he was dancing around all of her questions. The way he looked, the way he talked, the way he acted, none of it felt like the same man who’d texted her.

And then she remembered.

She hadn’t used the code phrase the mystery man had given her. She’d never confirmed that he was the man she was supposed to meet.

Abbey summoned a casual smile to her face. “So what do you like most about Quebec?”

He stared at her, his brow creased with puzzlement. “I’m sorry?”

“We ask that of all the tourists. Canadians are very polite, you know. What do you like most about Quebec? I mean, I know there’s so much.”

She needed to hear him say the words. Those wonderful little maple candies. She held her breath, waiting.

Say it!

He threw his cigarette to the ground and crushed it under his foot. He took off his gold-rimmed glasses, wiped them carefully with a handkerchief from his suit pocket, and repositioned them on his face. His hands returned to the deep pockets of his raincoat. “I guess the lower town,” he said. “So picturesque.”

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