"What's happened?"
Marta watches as Cross hurriedly pulls on a leather jacket. He doesn't answer, a harassed look on his face as he rushes through the flat, grabbing both his Sig and his Glock, tucking them in the back of his jeans, where they are hidden by his jacket. He grabs the duffel bag they've lugged from one continent to another and several magazines which he shoves into a backpack.
"Aaron!"
Cross blinks, distracted from his purposeful actions.
"Nicky's not coming here. She's on the run in Paris now. I've got to get to get to Schiffbauerdamm."
Marta can see he's anxious to get going. The Berlin neighborhood of Mitte is about six kilometers away; a fifteen minute ride by car. He can grab a cab if he goes by himself; but if she goes with him, they'll be delayed because he'll want to take precautions and they'll likely have to walk and take public transport – but this late at night – nearly 12:45 am, it won't be easy and they'll end up burning an hour or more in the process.
"I'll stay here," she decides.
He looks worried.
She wraps her hand around his wrist, squeezing gently. "I'll be all right. It's not different than what we've been doing the last few days."
"I don't know when I'll be back," he frets.
He wanted her with him when this went down; she knows he didn't want to worry about her safety if he was forced to be away from her for a prolonged period. But precious time is slipping by.
"Aaron, go. If something happens, I'll find my way to you."
The second evening in Berlin, under cover of the night, he took her to the building where his hacker was situated. She didn't meet the man; Aaron didn't want to expose her, but she got a view of the surprisingly comfortable digs. While the hacker's cohorts were situated with the wider Chaos Computer Club just a few blocks over on Marienstraße, Aaron's guy had an actual rented office, adjacent to Reuter's Berlin headquarters. It's a brilliant cover: he's already hacked their network and uses Reuter's system for data feeds. Who's going to look for odd information streams flowing in and out of Reuters when their network is inundated with continuous information from sources around the world every day?
Aaron looks unhappy. She can see him assessing and discarding plans to get to Marienstraße quickly, and to have her with him. She knows he cannot achieve both objectives.
"Go," she tells him firmly. "Now."
He hauls her close for a quick kiss. "The other Sig in that bag," he nods at a backpack identical to his on the table. "You stay out of sight. If you think there's any trouble, you call me immediately."
She nods, lifting her mouth to his for another quick kiss. "Be safe."
He slings the backpack and duffel over one shoulder and leaves. She locks the door behind him, then races to the window which overlooks the square, watching as he exits the building and disappears into the night.
Marta takes a deep breath, then exhales slowly. One day, she thinks, this will be a memory. One day they will be safe.
But even as the thought flits across her mind, she's aware that at best it's a hope; and hope is not a strategy.
Nicky keeps her mouth shut and her eyes firmly closed as she sinks into the cold Seine. When her descent slows, Nicky kicks upward, breaking the surface and inhaling deeply, trying not to swallow any of the disgusting water. There's a reason people don't swim in the Seine: like many urban rivers throughout the world, it's polluted and teeming with bacteria. Sewage and heavy metals have afflicted the Seine's water quality for decades. Nicky mentally runs through a checklist of her last tetanus shots and the various illness she could possibly contract from exposure to the river.
It's late and dark but even so, her plunge into the river did not go unnoticed: from Pont Nôtre Dame and Quai des Gèvres, people are shouting and pointing down at her as the current sweeps her north toward the next bridge, Pont au Change. She struggles to make her way toward Île de la Cité, one of the two remaining natural islands at the center Paris itself. Nicky is aiming for an ancient stone staircase equidistant between the two bridges. Several of these run along Quai de la Corse and Quai aux Fleurs, two of the embankments which encircle the island. The stairs were originally used by merchants bringing their wares to the medieval city by barge, the bottom steps disappearing into the Seine.
The Seine is slow-flowing, but even so, Nicky is winded by the time she maneuvers herself over to the embankment. Her hands nearly slip as she grasps the hewn stone but she manages to pull herself onto the steps, dragging herself out of the water. She sprawls across the small landing, breathing hard. Sitting up, Nicky gags reflexively, overcome by the odor of urine. Her body is weighted down by her wet clothes but she doesn't stop to remove her heavy coat, pushing to her feet and ascending the stairs to Quai de la Corse.
Nicky reaches topside. From here she can see across the Seine to the Marais. The apartment there is no longer a viable hiding place, and she can't go to the Sorbonne safe house. God, she hopes Jason didn't stop for her, and kept going across the Pont Nôtre Dame to that flat. She hopes he can still take orders from her.
She hurries across the street, speeding past Rue Aubé. The streets are lined with a pavilion of green metal and glass market stalls. Built at the turn of the century, they are rusting and nearly decrepit, carts overflowing with pots, pushed against the stalls, some trash and wood crates leaning against decayed walls. Across the stalls, the front gates are locked and covered up, but greenery and blooms peek out from behind plastic and cloth covers. In addition to housing the fabled Nôtre Dame cathedral and the Palais de Justice, Île de la Cité is also home to the Marchés aux Fleurs: the Flower Market where David Webb won his first kiss a lifetime ago.
Her life is a never ending cycle of irony and a past that won't give her respite, Nicky thinks grimly as she shivers, the wet and cold permeating her skin and sinking into her bones. She veers right onto Allée Célestin Hennion, using the flanking stalls for cover. In between two high stands of shrubbery, Nicky discards her wet jacket. Her thin wool jumper is already drying, the hollow fibers wicking away moisture. Her jeans are soaked but there's nothing she can do about that now.
She can hear the distinct wailing of police sirens. The police will be looking for a woman who may or may not have tried to commit suicide by jumping from a bridge; and where their attention is drawn, so too will Treadstone's notice be directed.
Cross needs them focused on her if he's going to exfiltrate data. She hopes the kid he's hired is really as shit hot as he thinks. Going head to head with Eric Byer is playing chicken at professional league levels. Although the Colonel is retired from the US Air Force, every indication suggested he was lined up to be a general. Rumor had it that Byer was given the option of a promotion to the starred ranks, or taking over NRAG. Why be a one-star when you could be a god?
Allée Célestin Hennion circles the flower market but the Cité Métro station is situated where the Allée intersects with Rue de Lutèce, a pedestrian pathway a few hundred yards ahead. Nicky spent formative years in Paris and can navigate the underground fluently. The trains stop running at 1:15 am, but half an hour is enough to start Treadstone on a merry fucking chase.
Nicky opens the wet messenger bag. The file is drenched, useless; but the Glock is still useable. A wet metal gun will rust and corrode over time if it isn't properly dried, but she only needs it to work tonight. She pulls it out and presses the release, removing the magazine and locking the slide to rear. Nicky tilts the pistol, draining water from the barrel. Returning her attention to the magazine, she removes a few rounds, flicking her wrist to empty the magazine of water before reinserting it and letting the slide go forward. Modern ammunition comprises four components: the bullet is seated into a case, which is filled with a propellant powder and sealed with a primer. Because the cartridge is airtight, water doesn't affect it. When the gun's firing pin strikes the primer, the percussive cap creates a spark and explodes, setting off the propellant and driving the bullet forward. Nicky racks the slide and tucks the gun into the back of her pants.
She leaves the messenger bag and makes her way toward the Métro, keeping her head down, trying not to look rushed. Behind her, there comes the sound of shouts and whistles, and she glances over her shoulder. The black clad agents speaking into headpieces with their guns drawn aren't the gendarmes. One of them walks over to where she left the messenger bag.
Shit. They found her much quicker than she anticipated.
Nicky breaks into a hard run for the Métro, hearing the sound of pursuit behind her. Two rapid shots are fired, eliciting screams of panic and fear from a few people walking down the street. Nicky ducks, swings left through one of the stalls for the other side. She assesses those gunshots – at this range, the agents shouldn't – wouldn't – miss, which means they have orders to bring her in.
As she approaches the entrance to the Métro, she sees people rushing from the pedestrian thoroughfare. The reason why becomes clear as bright lights from a car illuminate the stone walkway and a Peugeot suddenly squeals to a sharp stop onto Rue de Lutèce, causing some exiting Métro-goers to scream and jump out of the way.
Nicky gasps. No!
The lamps illuminate Jason's hard face as he points a gun out the open window – not at her, but at the agents closing in a hundred yards behind her.
Nicky nearly trips, her alarm is so great.
"No!" she shouts, waving him away. "Get out of here, get out!"
Jason stares at her, baffled by her dismay. He reaches over to fling the door open but Nicky shakes her head and screams, "Go!"
The she veers sharp left, away from him.
Shit! Shit!
She hears more gunshots and fearful shouts and risks a glance behind to see two Treadstone assets down, the other two ignoring their fallen comrades, as they chase after her and Jason. Jason has thrown the car into reverse coming parallel to her.
Oh God, oh God. Follow orders, follow orders!
She stops, shouts at him as he pulls alongside, "I don't need to be saved!" she barks.
Bourne blinks.
"Get out of here." She infuses her voice with the command tone of a handler.
A bullet wings the top edge of the car, sparks flying as it makes contact with metal. They both flinch. Okay, that was meant to be a kill shot. So Treadstone's orders are to bring her in, or to kill Bourne.
Nicky runs for the street in front of her - Rue de la Cité, one of the island's main traffic arteries. More gunshots. More screaming. When Nicky risks a look behind, she sees the Peugeot lurching at the Treadstone agents, only one of whom is able to jump aside. The other is little more than a rag doll when his body slides off the hood as Bourne accelerates and does an hard 90 degree turn onto Rue Aubé.
Nicky runs down Rue de la Cité, spinning effortlessly around some pedestrians, knocking others out of her way, ignoring their outraged expletives. Her heart is pounding, her breath coming in gasps. Running on surface streets is a bad idea – she's too exposed. There's another Métro station four minutes away at Quai St. Michel in the fifth arondissement. She doesn't see any agents following her, but that doesn't mean they aren't behind her – or ahead. It's also entirely possibly they've turned their attention to more important quarry: Bourne. She prays that Jason gets away. He has to.
The night is rent with sirens as the police join the fray. She wonders what Byer has offered as an explanation for mobilizing the Paris police force. As she crosses over the Petit Pont-Cardinal Lustiger, which connects Île de la Cité to the Left Bank, Nicky sees a phalanx of gendarmes up ahead. She veers onto Quai St. Michel for the Métro station, but three Treadstone agents suddenly converge on her from the Hôtel Notre-Dame Saint Michel at the corner of Quai Saint-Michel and Rue de la Cité.
It registers immediately that she's trapped.
A hard body knocks into her, bringing her down with a painful thud on the stone tiles lining the bistro in front of the hotel. She can hear the startled shouts of the bistro's few patrons who are enjoying a late night repast and drink. Nicky twists swiftly, breaking out of the agent's hold, coming to her feet, kicking the fallen man hard in his midsection. She hears his furious grunt of pain and sees another agent moving toward her. Nicky spins, her extended leg catching him across his jaw, sending him across a couple of tables behind him. She is mid turn, catching her balance when she sees an extended arm and a Sig Sauer crosses her line of vision. It's the third agent.
Light explodes across her eyes as the agonizing blow catches her across her temple, then everything dims. Before she blacks out, Nicky has the fanciful thought that she can see Bourne in the distance, watching from the blue Peugeot. Then there is nothing but darkness.