Chapter 1 Juneau, Alaska The present When Sam Young spotted the blond woman in the Norwegian Jewel sweatshirt coming into his gallery, he knew they'd found him. Yes, she looked like any of the thousands of other tourists streaming off the cruise ships every day. Her eyes went to the cheap framed prints of Mendenhall Glacier, not the handcrafted Native sculptures. She carried a plastic bag stuffed with Chinese-made T-shirts from a discount gift shop near the port. If he took her in the back and searched her, he was sure he'd find a valid cruise ship ID and a matching passport with her name and photograph. Spies didn't make obvious mistakes like that. But she was a fake. Cruise passengers came and went every day, but once their ship left for the next port, they were gone for good. In by eight a.m., out by four thirty p.m., depending on the tide. But this woman had been here before. Not in the gallery. She was smart enough not to kiss the dog more than once. However, Sam had learned to study and remember faces, and he was certain he'd seen this same woman outside the shop in the last couple of days. He'd know for sure if he got a buzz on his phone. Sam's tradecraft specialty was as a computer hacker, and even though he'd been inactive for Treadstone for two years, he still kept his hand in the game. That was partly for his own protection, because when it came to Treadstone, you were never really out. He kept surveillance cameras inside and outside his Franklin Street shop, as well as on the road near his house on Black Wolf Way. He'd written an app to isolate faces from the video feeds and maintain them in a database, and with each new entry, the program ran facial recognition to look for duplicates. When it found one, it sent the information to his phone. Buzz. Sam felt the vibration in his pocket. He took out his phone and examined the side-by-side photographs that appeared in the notification from his app. One was the thirtysomething woman standing in his shop right now, pretending to study a display of colorfully painted Russian nesting dolls. The other was a woman with dark hair and an oilskin jacket who'd passed on the sidewalk outside the shop three days earlier. Although the second image was less focused, and she'd changed her hair in between, it was definitely the same person. Studying the picture again, Sam was also certain that he'd seen her at a table at Mar y Sol when he'd had dinner there on Wednesday. She'd been watching him for a while. Sam slipped his hands casually into his pockets, one hand curling around the grip of his Hellcat pistol, as he approached her. "Can I help you?" The woman was good. A pro. She looked up with a false smile, but he could see her eyes take note of his hands, then flick up to the corner of the ceiling and spot the positioning of the security camera. He assumed there was a weapon hidden inside her gift bag. If she went for it, the question would be which one of them was faster. Sam didn't like his odds. There was something about the hawkish look in her blue eyes that made him think she'd be the better fighter. But she was the advance scout, not the shooter. There was too much risk going after him in the middle of downtown. "Oh, no, thank you," she replied pleasantly. "Just browsing. You have beautiful things here." "Thank you." "I suppose most of your business comes from the ships. It must get so quiet off-season. Do you close up for the winter?" "No, I'm open all year, but you're right. Most of the crowds disappear as soon as the cruise season ends." "How did you come to be in a place like this?" she asked him. Sam shrugged. He was sure she knew exactly where he'd come from. "I don't know. How does anyone end up anywhere?" "Oh, well, I guess you're right about that. Anyway, I wish I could afford to buy something, but you know, the family's always on a budget. T-shirts for the kids and not much else." "That's okay," he told her. "Take your time and look around." "I will, thanks." She spent another five minutes in the shop, just to make it look good. As she was leaving, she called out to say goodbye, and her eyes shot another glance at the ceiling camera. Then, as the bell on the door chimed, she headed out to Franklin Street and turned toward the harbor. She didn't look through the window again. That would be the last time he saw her. But others would come soon. Tonight, most likely. She'd probably report that she'd been blown and that the assault team needed to assume he'd be waiting for them. She hadn't fooled him, and he hadn't fooled her. As soon as she was gone, Sam closed the shop. He assessed his options but decided there was only one thing to do. Get the hell out of Juneau right now. Whoever was after him, he'd be outgunned and outnumbered. He didn't know how they'd found him-there were no more than half a dozen people who knew that the Arizona hacker with the Treadstone code name Dax was now gift shop owner Sam Young in Alaska-but he didn't have time to worry about how his cover had been blown. He'd had an escape strategy in place from day one. It was time to put it into play. Sam emptied the cash from the register. There wasn't much, just a few hundred dollars. He thought about stopping at the bank to withdraw the money from his accounts, but he assumed if they were watching the store, they'd have someone watching his bank, too, to see whether he was making a run. It didn't matter. His bank had a branch in the town of Haines. Once he was clear of Juneau, he could stop there on his way into the backcountry. He locked the shop and hiked up the Franklin Street hill. He always parked several blocks away, which gave him time to identify any surveillance that might be waiting for him. It was a cold September day, gray and ominous, with low clouds clinging to the steep green hillsides. Drizzle spat on his face. He kept his hand around the Hellcat in his pocket, but his shoulders were hunched, just a man trudging along in the rain. His eyes took a close look at each parked car and each doorway. If they were watching him, they were keeping it under wraps. He saw no one. Sam debated whether to go home. He had his go bag, his laptop, and more money hidden under the floorboards in his living room. He could be in and out in ninety seconds, and then he'd be on the way to Statter Harbor, where he kept his Exhilarator speedboat gassed up and ready to go. As he'd developed an escape plan-knowing a day like this would come sooner or later-he'd thought about using a floatplane. That would give him more range and speed, but the flying weather around Juneau was too iffy day by day to guarantee he could get out of town on short notice. With the Exhilarator, he could head to Hoonah or race up the channel to Haines or Skagway. Once there, he could hide out in the woods or take an SUV over the Rockies on the Alaska Highway. He found his red Honda parked at the top of the hill near 6th Street. From there, he could see the dark water of the harbor through mist and fog. The Jewel was the only cruise ship docked there today, and he knew it would be gone in less than two hours. Everyone in Alaska retail knew the port times of the ships. Sam made a show of dropping his wallet, which gave him a chance to check the undercarriage of his Accord, in case anyone had planted explosives or tracking devices. He also noted the tiny red threads he'd secured across the gaps of each car door. They were still there; no one had broken into the vehicle during the day. Even so, he held his breath when he started the engine. It caught. He didn't blow up. Sam headed north on the Glacier Highway. He watched the mirrors and didn't see anyone following him. He decided to stop home to grab his go bag, but ten minutes later, he changed his mind. A shrill alarm went off on the phone in his pocket, which was the signal that someone had broken one of the invisible laser barriers guarding the windows and doors of his house. There were people inside. Sam pulled onto the highway shoulder near the bridge at Lemon Creek, where wooded hilltops and snowcapped mountains went in and out of view through the clouds. His breath came quickly; adrenaline surged through him. When he dug out his phone, he activated the cameras located in the house's ductwork, which gave him sound and video of the interior. He spotted four men, all dressed in black, all armed with semiautomatics and suppressors. The faces of the men were unfamiliar, but who they were didn't concern him. What mattered was that they would take him down as soon as he came through the door. "Should we check the computer?" one of them said through the video feed. "Don't bother," another replied. "He's a hacker. He'll have it secured. We'll take it with us and let the pros crack it. But keep your eyes open. He's bound to have backups. Maybe electronic, maybe print." "What are we looking for?" "Anything about Intelsat." On the shoulder of the Glacier Highway, Sam closed his eyes and swore. Now he understood. Now it all made sense. Intelsat. Of course. Seven years earlier, long before he became the Alaskan named Sam Young, he'd tapped into the feed of a satellite located in geosynchronous orbit over the Indian Ocean, and he'd modified the satellite's stored data. The order had come with a clearance code that went straight to the top. There were no names, but orders like that didn't use names. He'd known what the mission was about. Everyone in the world knew why satellite data was important at that particular moment. In the darkest part of his heart, he'd also known that sooner or later that mission would cost him his life. Some secrets were so dangerous they had to stay buried forever. Sam could feel the trap closing around him. They were waiting for him at home. Did they know about his escape route, too? He was only five minutes from the harbor, and all he could do was hope that they hadn't found the Exhilarator. He pulled back onto the highway, forced himself not to speed, and continued into the locals' section of Juneau, where there were grocery stores and McDonald's drive-throughs and dentist offices and churches. It was harder to spot a tail there, but as he drove, he didn't think anyone picked him up. The sweat gathered on his neck. He kept eyeing the mirrors. Where are they? At each intersection, he expected to spot someone in a parked car, watching the road. There were only so many routes in and out of the city. But he made it all the way to the turn that led into the harbor, and his instincts told him he was still alone. Next stop, the boat. Then Haines. Then the inland wilderness. He parked near the pier that led out among dozens of sailboats and trawlers. Ahead of him was the choppy water of Auke Bay, whitecaps pulsing in the afternoon wind. It was raining harder now, and he pulled a yellow slicker from the backseat and pulled up the hood. That was good. He was harder to recognize that way. Sam made his way to the Exhilarator. He tried to keep his hands steady as he undid the tarpaulin and climbed aboard. He'd done this dozens of times, practiced over and over for a moment like this. The boat was fast, the engine new. When he fired it up, the motor growled to life, a tiger ready to stretch its legs on the water. He looked back at the parking lot, not seeing any cars pulling off the highway in pursuit. Go! He eased away from the pier and headed west out of the harbor. His pace was a slow putt-putt crawl through the no-wake zone as he steered toward open water. The low, dark hills loomed behind the bay, their green treetops zigzagging against the gray sky. The air got cold, and he gritted his teeth against the wind. When he'd cleared the mouth of the harbor, he unleashed the engine, kicking up white foam, the prow slapping down hard as it crested the waves. He shot between the islands and wheeled northward into the channel. He was alone out here, just him and the whales, and for the first time since he'd left the shop, he began to relax. He was on his way. He was almost free. Then, as he passed Lincoln Island, he saw the first of the other boats. It was waiting for him, sleek and black. If his Exhilarator was a tiger, this was a cheetah that he couldn't outrun. The boat floated out there, patiently expecting him to cut his engine, which he did. He had to think, but there was no time to think. Another black speedboat appeared around the north end of the island. When Sam looked over his shoulder, he saw two more boats closing from the south, making a pincer and cutting off his escape. He was trapped in the channel with nowhere to go. Each boat carried two men, dressed in black, holding semiautomatic rifles. Eight to one. They didn't hurry; they knew they had him. Their engines stuttered as they began to get closer, moving in on him from four directions. This was the end. Every operative recognized that moment when there was no way out. Sam only had seconds now, just time enough to send a text. A warning! He grabbed the satellite phone from the boat's storage compartment. They could see what he was doing. The gunfire began, bullets whizzing near his head. He ducked down out of the line of fire, but his shelter wouldn't last long. The other boats would be on top of him soon. When the phone found a signal, he keyed in a number that he'd memorized years ago. It belonged to Nash Rollins, his Treadstone handler. More shots. The other boats rose up and down with the high waves. A ricocheted bullet broke his right wrist and knocked the phone out of his hand. Gasping in pain, Sam crawled along the deck and retrieved it. He had to tap out his message left-handed as the men appeared above him, still firing, now at point-blank range. The other boats rose up and down with the high waves. A ricocheted bullet broke his right wrist and knocked the phone out of his hand. Gasping in pain, Sam crawled along the deck and retrieved it. He had to tap out his message left-handed as the men appeared above him, still firing, now at point-blank range. He heard the message go through as a rain of bullets blasted through his slicker, the rubber turning from yellow to red. His lungs began to fill with blood. When he took a breath, there was nothing there. No sweet Alaska air. Never again. But Sam had sent Nash the warning. One message. One word. Defiance . Chapter 2 The first light of dawn had barely begun to break through the darkness when Jason Bourne opened the floor-to-ceiling window in his Paris apartment. Warm, humid air blew inside as he studied the empty alley of Rue Houdart below him. There was no balcony outside the window, just an ornamental iron railing and a few flowerpots filled with dying African violets. Below him, the greasy pavement was wet from overnight rain. Pigeons pecked for crumbs near an overflowing waste bin, and a solitary motorbike whined through puddles as it headed for the plaza at Rue des Amandiers. The vandals had come back to the alley. Only a day after the white brick wall on the building across from him had been scrubbed, new graffiti had already been sprayed overnight in drippy red paint. Aime moi deux fois. Love me two times. It was a Jim Morrison joke, because the apartment in the 20th arrondissement was only half a block from the sprawling Père Lachaise cemetery, where the singer was buried. Otherwise, the street looked as it did every morning. Nothing was different. No one lurked in the gated entrance below him. The typical cars were parked on the sidewalk. He'd long ago memorized every model, every license plate. Even so, Bourne felt a sense of unease, like a tiny drip of fresh paint on that smooth white wall. Once you saw it, you couldn't see anything else. What is it? As he stayed in the shadows behind the glass, his gaze traveled from window to window. He knew his neighbors in the building across the way. Like a voyeur from Rear Window, he'd studied their habits from the nighttime darkness, making note of who drank too much red wine and who was sleeping with whom. He didn't care about their private lives, but he needed to know if something suddenly changed. A new visitor. A new threat. Bourne had lived here since the beginning of April. It was early September now. The name on the lease belonged to a seventy-year-old widow in Lyon, and she'd been happy to lend her identity for a thousand-Euro bribe. The summer had been uneventful--no Treadstone missions, no overseas hunts, nothing but Paris art museums and his relentless workouts. But his time here was winding down. Typically, he switched locations every six months. He knew that the assassin known as Lennon was still looking for him, and that meant no safe house stayed safe for long. Sooner or later, if he didn't keep moving, Lennon would find him. But had he found him already? Excerpted from Robert Ludlum's the Bourne Defiance by Brian Freeman All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
