People came to Saint-Jean-sur-Mer because of the river. They sailed, they fished, they ate lobster rolls in the seaside cafés. Art galleries and bakeries hugged the north-south highway that followed the water. The houses all had the same peaked roofs, white siding, and cherry-red trim. Without the French signs, he could have pictured himself in Cape Cod. Only a few hundred people lived here, and most of them could trace their family roots to this same place for generations.
Jason dug in his pocket to check how much money he had left. He’d paid the doctor and his daughter and Monsieur Bernard, and now he only had a couple hundred Canadian dollars in cash. Somewhere he’d need to get more. He was certain that the bank account that Scott DeRay and Miles Priest had set up for him was shut down, with special instructions to delay the man who came to the bank looking to withdraw funds.
A message would be sent. Killers would be dispatched.
He felt something else in his pocket. When he pulled it out, he saw a plastic, electronic hotel key for his room in New York, overlooking Washington Square Park. That was the room where the shooter had set up a rifle while Jason was in the crowd below. That was the room where the fatal shot on Sofia Ortiz had been taken from an open window.
A bullet in the throat. The signature of Cain.
He broke the key in half and divided the pieces among two separate waste bins he found outside the sidewalk shops.
Jason realized he was hungry. It had been more than twenty-four hours since he’d eaten anything at all. He chose a brasserie that served fish and chips and fish soup, with windows that looked out on the bay. It was a one-room restaurant, and all the tables had plastic tablecloths decorated with pictures of vegetables and flowers. Ropes, fishnets, and life preservers hung on the walls as decorations. He sat at an empty table in the corner, near a door that led to the beach. He took off the sunglasses he was wearing, but left the wool cap on his head.
“Oui, monsieur?” a waitress asked him sullenly, as if his arrival in the half-empty café was an imposition on her time.
He ordered a plate of fried shrimp and coffee.
There was a small television over the restaurant’s bar, tuned to the international version of CNN. A week later, the assassination of Congresswoman Sofia Ortiz was still the top of the news. He saw footage from the riot that had erupted after the shooting, but he didn’t need a reminder. He’d been there. Riot was the wrong word for what had happened. Riots were organic, unpredictable, uncontrolled affairs. The violence in New York had spread neatly, like a controlled burn, as if someone, somewhere, were writing a script for it and sending out actors to play their parts. This was a riot with a plan, and part of the plan had been to make sure that Abbey Laurent was one of the victims.
Jason had followed her out of the park after the shooting. So had someone else. She’d been tracked by a man in a hood, but not a random thug, not part of the anarchist chaos sweeping the streets. This man never took his eyes off her. When Jason saw him aim a gun across the rioters at Abbey, he’d staged a collision to rescue her, and then he’d doubled back to take the man out with a choke hold around his neck.
The man had no ID, nothing to explain his presence in the riot. He was a pawn.
He was Medusa.
The waitress put Bourne’s lunch in front of him. He devoured it hungrily, not sure when he’d have time to eat again. He gulped down the coffee, too. He found himself staring out the window at the beach, where a few children hung out near the river, throwing stones. In the distance, he could see a ship gliding eastward toward the open waters of the Atlantic. If he couldn’t break apart the conspiracy, that might be his future, escaping overseas in the cargo hold of one of those ships.
On the other side of the café, the front door opened and closed.
Bourne shot a glance at the door and swore under his breath. It was a policeman. He was a local cop, dressed in a zippered olive-green police jacket and a black brimmed cap. He had a holstered sidearm at his waist. He was a tall beanpole, young, probably not even twenty-five, and he knew everyone in the café. The sullen waitress came alive and flirted with him. The chef made jokes.
It might be a coincidence that the cop had arrived here now, but Bourne didn’t think so. The word had already gone out. The police were looking for him. He watched the cop out of the corner of his eye, and the policeman made a careful survey of the restaurant as he chatted with the waitress. He spotted Bourne at the corner table, and his stare fixed on him for an extra beat. That was all. Then the cop looked away, too quickly.
Jason knew he’d been spotted.
He unfolded two bills from his pocket and put the cash on the table to pay for his meal. Casually, he finished his coffee and popped the last fried shrimp into his mouth. He put his sunglasses back on, got up, and used the rear door to exit the café. A handful of wooden steps led to the beach, where the children were playing. He joined them at the water and threw a couple of stones, the way they were doing. Then he stole a glance over his shoulder.
The policeman was watching him from the patio. He had a radio in his hand, calling for backup.
Jason strolled eastward along the beach. Not far ahead of him, a wooded section of land encroached on the river. He could see the peaks of several houses tucked among the trees. When he stopped to tie his shoe, he shot another look behind him and saw the policeman following, maybe fifty yards away. The young cop had his right hand close to the holster on his belt. He wasn’t even hiding his pursuit, but Jason could tell from the man’s jerky motions that he was nervous.
When a pursuer is nervous, make them more nervous. Do the unexpected. Keep them off balance.
Treadstone.
Where the trees grew close to the river, Bourne saw steps leading to a waterfront house. As he neared the stairs, he suddenly bolted into the woods, making no effort to hide his escape. The sudden movement sent pain knifing through his shoulder, and his brain swirled through a tornado of dizziness that almost drove him to his knees. He thundered up the steps and stopped, waiting for his mind to right itself. The house in front of him looked like a summer cottage, with a large porch and picture windows overlooking the river. When he crept to the rear windows and looked inside, he saw patio furniture stored near the door and covered with a plastic sheet. No one was home.
Jason looked back toward the trees. The policeman came after him, slowly, uncertainly. A smart cop would keep him pinned down and wait for backup to arrive. A nervous cop would try to be a hero. Bourne crouched and waited for the man to get closer, and he could see that the cop had his gun in his hand.
Do the unexpected.
Bourne stood up, in plain view, his hands over his head. “I surrender! I surrender, and I need your help!”
The cop aimed his gun at Bourne. “Don’t move!”
Jason moved anyway. Keep them off balance. He came off the porch, hands still in the air. He invented a limp as he walked toward the cop, locking eyes with him, feeling the man’s fear. “I’m unarmed. I need your help. They’re going to kill me!”
“I said, Don’t move! Stay where you are!”
“You can’t let them take me. You have to bring me in. If the Americans get hold of me, I’ll disappear.”
“One more step, and I’ll shoot!” the cop insisted.
Jason stopped. They were ten feet apart across a muddy trail. “Yeah, sure, whatever you say. I told you, I’m unarmed. Look, I know how this goes. I turn around, I get on my knees. You put on the cuffs. I don’t want any trouble. I want everybody to know about this. I’m telling you, that’s what’s keeping me alive. Hell, call the TV news and get them out here. Get your picture in the paper.”