BOURNE walked along one of the dozen crowded piers that stretched into the heart of Nassau Harbor. Hundreds of boats bobbed in the pale green water, ranging from beat-up fishing charters to sleek two-hundred-foot yachts. Two soaring highway bridges arched over the inlet’s narrow channel, and the pink towers of the Atlantis resort loomed over the white-sand beach of Paradise Island. From where he was, he could see several cruise ship behemoths docked at Prince George Wharf.
The warm late-afternoon sun beat down on his face. He wore a dirty green tank top and loose-fitting cargo shorts, along with a fraying baseball cap, sneakers, and no socks. He hadn’t shaved. He’d swapped his leather duffel for an old canvas bag with a shoulder strap. With that look, he blended in as just another Nassau beach bum, one of those urban escapees who’d traded in the nine-to-five world for a downscale island life.
Halfway down the pier, he found what he was looking for, a thirty-foot catamaran with smoked black windows on its bridge and the name Irish Whiskey painted along its gleaming-white hull. The owner kept it in pristine shape. The flat boat deck was empty, but someone had been stretched out in the sun recently, leaving behind a half-full pink drink in a hurricane glass and a rippled Tom Clancy paperback that had obviously spent time in the water.
Bourne stepped from the pier onto the boat, feeling it rock under his feet. He didn’t announce himself, because if he was in the right place, the owner already knew he was here. He’d talked to half a dozen locals as he tracked down the man on the catamaran, and he was sure that the man’s spies had warned him that a stranger was coming his way.
Except Bourne wasn’t a stranger.
He dropped his bag on the deck and made his way to the glass door leading to the boat’s interior. He opened it, stepped inside, and immediately felt the barrel of a gun pushed against the back of his head.
“Cain,” the boat’s owner said cheerfully.
“Hello, Teeling.”
“I’d say you were getting sloppy, because you made it so easy for me to spot you. But you’re never sloppy, are you? That means you wanted me to know you were coming. Presumably, that means you want me to think you’re not a threat.”
“You’re right. I just want to talk. I’m not a threat.”
“Well, that’s where you’re wrong, because the Jason Bourne I know is always a threat.”
“My gun’s in my bag outside,” Bourne told him. “Otherwise, I’m unarmed.”
“How’d you find me?”
“You’re not as anonymous as you think you are, Teeling. Director Shaw made sure we kept an eye on you after you left. I heard you hopscotched around South America for a couple of years, then landed here. Retirement suits you.”
The man grunted. “Seriously? And all this time, I figured if Treadstone ever found me, they’d kill me. Or if they didn’t, then the commies would.”
Teeling pulled the gun from Bourne’s head and gestured toward a white leather sofa that stretched below the boat’s slanted windows. The floors and cabinets in the interior were all varnished oak. Bourne sat down, and Teeling went over to the boat’s mirrored wet bar and grabbed a bottle of his namesake whiskey. He held up a glass. “You want a shot?”
“No, thanks.”
The agent poured one for himself, then sat down at a safe distance. He was well into his seventies, but Bourne wasn’t about to underestimate the threat posed by any Treadstone man, and Teeling had been one of the best. They’d only overlapped by a year before Teeling left the agency, but the stories of the man’s operations in Russia in the post-Gorbachev era were legendary.
Teeling was around five feet ten, and he’d maintained a strong build. He wore no shirt, exposing a deep tan interrupted by multiple scars. His turquoise swimsuit came down to his bony knees. He had long gray hair that hung to his shoulders, but his bushy mustache and eyebrows were still mostly black. He had a wrinkled face, with dark eyes that were sharp and bright. He kept his gun loosely in his fingers, pointed at the floor.
“You’re a hot commodity these days, Cain,” Teeling told him.
“Oh?”
“Yeah, I’ve been reading about you in the news.”
“Don’t believe everything you read. I didn’t shoot the congresswoman.”
“Well, I assumed the stories were bullshit, but I was wondering what was up. The fact that you’re here makes me think you’d rather I didn’t pick up the phone and call any of our old colleagues.”
“You’re right.”
“Okay. So what do you want from me? No offense, Bourne, but I’m out, and I like being out. I’ve got money in the bank, a few good spots on the water for yellowtail and snapper, and a couple of local girls who think gray hair is sexy. I’d rather not mess any of that up.”
The man made it sound as if he’d left the intelligence world completely behind, but Bourne doubted that was true. Out was never really out at Treadstone. You could leave the life, but it never left you. If only for his personal protection, Teeling was bound to keep a close eye on who was coming and going in Nassau. Bourne was counting on that.
“A private jet probably arrived at Pindling this morning from Nevada,” he said. “The jet’s owner is Gabriel Fox, CEO of the Prescix Corporation. Did you happen to hear anything about that?”
Teeling grinned. “Any chance Mr. Fox was accompanied by a woman who looks like a major-league ballbuster?”
“A very good chance.”
“Well, in fact, word of such an arrival did cross my phone.”
“Where did they go?” Bourne asked.
“They headed for the billionaires’ marina on the south side of the island. Just them, nine serious dudes, and some crates of thousand-dollar champagne.”
“It’s not bubbly inside those crates. It’s guns.”
Teeling shrugged. “Well, this is the Caribbean, Bourne. The curtains don’t usually match the carpet.”
“Are they still in the marina?”
“No, they boarded one of the mega-yachts moored over there and headed out about two hours ago.”
“Going where?”
“That I don’t know. There’s a lot of water around here and a whole lot of private islands where boats can dock without people keeping an eye on you. You could charter a plane and hope you get lucky, but you don’t have much daylight left. So unless you’ve got a satellite to do a flyover, you’re not going to find them.”
“I don’t think they’re on their own,” Bourne said. “They’re going to a meeting with other leaders in the tech world. So I suspect there have been other departures from the same marina in the last day or so. Helicopters, too. That sound familiar?”
“It does. Happens a few times a year, actually. This one seems off schedule, though.”
“Do you know where they go?”
“You must think my curiosity is endless, Bourne,” Teeling said. “Why would I care where a bunch of CEOs go to have deviant sex and plot world takeovers?”
“In other words, you do know.”
Teeling got up and poured himself another shot of whiskey. “They pay a lot to shut up the servants and the girls, but rumors go around anyway. It’s a beautiful little rock between here and Freeport. I tried to track the ownership, but it’s buried under a dozen or so shell companies.”
“I think the island is owned by Miles Priest.”
Teeling whistled. “Ah, Miles. I should have guessed. He keeps his fingers in every pie, doesn’t he? We clashed several times when he was running the FBI.”
“Have you ever been out to the island?”
“I sailed close enough to get them nervous once. They’ve got a pier for the yachts and a helipad, too. There’s a big estate up on the hill, but it’s mostly hidden in the trees, so you can’t catch more than a glimpse from the water. I was close enough to attract some armed security to the beach. Miles values his privacy.”
“I need to get out there,” Bourne said.
“In other words, you want me to take you?” Teeling asked.
“That’s right.”
“You got cash? I don’t do things like this for old times’ sake.”
“I’ve got cash.”
Teeling rubbed his chin as he sipped his whiskey. “I assume you don’t intend to sail right up to the marina and say hello.”
“No.”
“Well, I can take you around the other side of the island. There’s nothing but rocks back there, but I can only get so close.”
“That’s okay.”
“Odds are, security will see you coming.”
“I’ll take that chance,” Bourne said.
“What exactly do you think is going on out there?” Teeling asked.
Bourne debated how much to say. “Is an organization called Medusa on your radar?”
“I’ve heard the name, but not much more than that.”
“From Treadstone?”
“Actually, no,” Teeling told him. “An old Russian comrade retired down here like me. Very much on the QT. We get drunk on Baikal vodka every now and then. He let the name slip last year like it was a hush-hush operation out of Moscow. Made it sound like it was the next stage after their election interference. But even scarier.”
“The Russians and Medusa? That’s interesting. Did you tell anyone?”
Teeling shrugged. “Why would I? I’m out of the game. What do you think Medusa is planning on the island?”
“I think they’re going to open those crates of champagne,” Bourne said.
“A party, huh?”
“Sort of.”
Teeling’s mustache wrinkled. He capped the bottle of whiskey and grabbed a white captain’s hat from behind the bar. He shoved it low on his forehead over his long gray hair. The patch on the front of the hat read: Cut Bait.
“Guess we better haul ass and get you out there,” Teeling said.
BY the time Bourne saw the lush green island rising out of the water ahead of them, it was nearly sunset. The small piece of rock was shaped like a question mark, surrounded by miles of empty ocean. Through the binoculars, he saw a strip of white sand and dense foliage covering the shallow hillside. The roof and upper floor of a large estate barely cleared the tree line. A sleek yacht was docked at the pier that stretched from the beach into the deeper water.
Bourne handed the binoculars to Teeling. “Is that the boat?”
“That’s the one. Looks like they’ve unloaded some of those crates you were talking about. I don’t think we want to stay out here in plain sight for very long.”
“All right, let’s head around to the far side. Move in as close as you can, but don’t draw attention to yourself.”
“Not my first rodeo, Bourne,” Teeling replied with a wink as he revved the boat’s engine. The wind made his long gray hair fly. “Seems like you’re going up against an army. You want some backup in there?”
“I don’t want to mess up your retirement, Teeling.”
“Well, I appreciate that, although to be honest, there are days when I do miss the game. Tell you what, I’ll find a quiet spot on the horizon to drop a line. You need a round-trip ticket, you let me know, okay?”
“Thanks.”
Teeling navigated the catamaran westward until the beach disappeared from view, and then he steered closer, making the small island loom larger in front of them. The water got choppier, and the boat rose and fell like a bucking bronco with the waves. On this side, the island looked like a lonely patch of wilderness looming out of the ocean. Bourne saw trees crowded together and whitecaps breaking on the rocks at the shore. No one was visible.
As the catamaran neared to within a hundred yards of the island, Bourne slipped off the boat into the cool ocean water. He’d changed into a black neoprene wet suit, and he had his gun, knife, and shoes secured inside a waterproof pouch in the zippered jacket. He waited as the boat passed him and veered toward the open sea, and then he swam for the island with measured strokes. The late-evening shadows and cresting waves kept him out of sight. He reached the rocky beach within a few minutes, but he lingered off the coast before emerging from the water, in case a welcoming party was prepared to meet him.
However, the isolated beach seemed quiet. Too quiet.
He was sure that Miles Priest would maintain surveillance on any craft drawing near to the island, particularly if a meeting of the tech cabal was underway. He would have expected the catamaran to draw guards to the beach, even if the craft made no attempt to land. Instead, there was no one. He was alone.
Bourne shouldered his way out of the water. He retrieved his gun from inside the jacket and felt better with it in his hand. He looked up and down the thin, ragged coastline, which ended in a green wall of Caribbean pines, mahogany, and palm trees. Surf slapped on the shore, and a light, humid breeze blew across his wet skin. Birds chattered loudly over his head, as if agitated.
Something felt wrong.
Not far away, he saw a break in the trees that marked a trail leading inland. He spotted a flash of color near the path, and when he looked more closely, he recognized red stripes on the tough rubber frame of a Zodiac that had been dragged from the water and hidden inside the brush. He wasn’t the first visitor on the island. Bourne kept low as he jogged for the trees where the boat had been stowed. He thought about disabling it with his knife, but he decided to leave it intact, in case he needed to use the craft for his own escape.
He continued deeper into the trees, but he hadn’t gone twenty feet before he spotted a body sprawled across the sandy path.
He stopped, listening for other movement. He spun, slowly, with his gun arm outstretched. When he was convinced he was alone, he approached the body and saw a muscular black man in the beige uniform of a security guard. The man’s gun holster was empty, and his throat had been cut in a deep red slash. Bourne checked for a pulse and found none, but the body was still warm. The assault had been recent.
Medusa was already making its way into the heart of the tech cabal.
Still crouched by the body, Bourne looked up sharply as he heard the crack of gunfire from the eastern side of the island.
He got to his feet and ran through the jungle.