It's the soft stroke of fingers against her cheek that wakes Marta. Blinking, she pushes up in her seat, turning to look at Aaron.
"Where are we?"
"We're about halfway," he answers. He keeps his eyes on the road, but the back of his fingers continue to brush her cheek. "I didn't mean to wake you."
"It's fine. I didn't realize I'd nodded off."
A few hours after the bombshell of Heidi Parish's press conference, she and Aaron had decamped for France, but not before Aaron and Christian Dassault had a quiet conference during which the phrases, "Make us disappear," and "Don't make me have to hunt you down and kill you" had been audible, despite their low voices.
It's a little more than a half-day's drive from Berlin to the French coast. Aaron's been driving since they left. Another stolen car, another collection of fake passports and identities. Despite the fact that he's been up and has barely slept for three days, Aaron shows no sign of fatigue. The scientist in her marvels at the physical benefits of that one-and-a-half percent uptake in mitochondrial protein. His body is a machine in perpetual repair and recovery.
"Your monster is perfect, Dr. Frankenstein," he says.
She snickers, turning her face toward his hand, kissing the back of it. "I think of you as my masterpiece."
He rolls his eyes.
"Where are we?"
"We crossed into Belgium about thirty minutes ago. Another six hours and we'll be at the coast."
"Anything I miss?" she asks, gesturing at the radio, which is now playing soft music.
For much of the ride through France, before she fell asleep, they'd listened to the news outlets reporting how classified government documents appeared on Wikileaks that morning, and that Jason Bourne, a wanted fugitive, might be cleared of alleged embezzlement, although there were still accusations of shady dealings and possible murder at his hands; how a previously disgraced and now vindicated U.S. government whistleblower named Pamela Landy was set to speak to the press the next morning; and not one word about the Beta programs or Colonel Eric Byer.
It doesn't matter though, if Byer isn't publicly mentioned. He's still the devil in the background. But at least he's been temporarily neutralized. They have his files and Nicky's mom has his R&D.
"Nope. Pretty much the same thing they've been reporting all morning."
Earlier, Aaron and Nicky exchanged a briefest of phone calls: "Cherbourg. Fourteen hundred." She's going to meet them tomorrow afternoon to get the other two drives that Aaron has downloaded and parsed for her.
"The ferry for Poole leaves at 6:30 tomorrow night," Aaron says.
"And then?"
He clasps her hand, lifts it to his lips. "Then we go find you your seaside cottage."
"Don't forget the dog," she reminds him.
Aaron's look is tender. "I won't forget the dog," he assures her.
Then
They've been shouting at each other for nearly an hour and Nicky feels emotionally stretched thin and taut. She wants to run, as fast, as far as she can get away; she doesn't want to look behind and see him, them, any of it.
David's refused to leave her, refused to listen to her.
Her voice is hoarse from protesting, from screaming at him.
Let me go let me go let me go.
The chant is in every heart beat, the tattoo in her pulse points, in every harsh breath she draws. She looks at him and she can barely see David. It's like Jason Bourne is overshadowing everything about the man she loves. And she is scared of Jason Bourne.
She grabs his wrist, pointing at his watch. "You're going to be late."
He needs to leave soon or he's going to miss his check-in at Treadstone. She's got to go, too, if she's to join the rest of the analysts in prepping his mission. She thinks she's got to call in sick - there's no way she can go into the office, not right now, not when she's frantic and frightened. She can't brief him, prep his mission - not when being near him wrecks her.
They'll take one look at us together and know.
"Nicky, as soon as this mission is over, I'm coming back for you." He cups her face with his hand, locks eyes with her, wills her to believe him. "I'll come for you."
The doubt, the fear must show in her eyes because David's hands slide to her arms, holding her in place. He doesn't pull her close, but he doesn't give her the space she wants, either.
"Please, Nicky," he begs, eyes bright with agony. "Maggie."
Now
"Maggie?" asks Jason.
"Margot Henley." Nicky's voice is flat. "She was the agent who worked with The Professor."
Then
The order to enter the Situation Room comes halfway through her day. She's crouched at her terminal, scrolling through a newly published psychology article when her desk phone rings and Conklin orders her to the fifth floor.
When Nicky enters the room, it's packed. The electrochromic glass has been activated, the room smoked in for privacy.
Studying the assembled crowd, Nicky frowns. Something is off. More than half the people in this room run Treadstone. Conklin, Zorn, four senior strategic analysts, Ward Abbott, Albert Hirsch, and...holy shit. Colonel Eric Byer and three of his staff.
Treadstone and NRAG don't have all-hands meetings.
Whatever the purpose of this meeting, it's intended to make a point.
Bourne is against the far side, arms across his body, his posture alert and ready.
Why is she here? She's low-level. She's not part of strategic operations; she's with logistics. The only time she comes in contact with Bourne is pre- and post-missions. She's so unimportant that only Conklin acknowledges her presence, pointing to the back, near Christine Freestone, one of the Treadstone strategists.
Nicky carefully avoids looking at Jason as she passes him, turning her body to avoid brushing against his. David kissed her for the first time yesterday at the Flower Mart, and everything in her yearns to lean toward him, to seek him out. But he's not David right now. He's Bourne, and she doesn't exist for him.
She takes the seat next to Christine. The entire room is staring at the widescreen mounted on the ready room wall. One of the techs is bringing up video footage that's shaky, blurry, before it sharpens into focus. It's body armor camera - but whose?
A distorted voice echoes on screen. "Target acquired. Fifteen meters."
Nicky freezes. She knows that voice.
It's the Professor, Treadstone's Spain-based asset.
Carefully observing the others in the room, noting their focus on the screen, she steals a look at Bourne. He shows no sign of recognition; nor should he. None of the assets know each other, except by their respective home bases - Bourne is Paris; Owen - the Professor - is Barcelona; Castel - Rome; Mannheim - Berlin, and so on. Even as close as she and David have gotten, she's never talked to him about the other assets, nor has he asked.
Their handlers know each other because Treadstone requires them to keep each other apprised of their charges' abilities, side effects, performance measures.
Except a few months ago, Margot Henley disappeared, vanished without a trace. NRAG auditors and investigators arrived at Treadstone's Paris operations, questioning her about Maggie - how well did she know Margot? Had they ever had friendly conversations in which Margot shared private details? The line of questioning centered on personal details, information which Nicky could truthfully answer she did not have. She and Margot were not confidantes. The handlers were friendly and collegial with one another, their amity generated by quarterly meetings, the similarities of their jobs, their attenuation to their assets, but none of them were friends.
She'd been able to evade the lie detector only because the investigators had not thought to ask her if she knew with whom Maggie might have been intimately involved. They had combed through the network and files, looking for something. Nicky knows it had something to do with Margot's last visit to Paris, months earlier, when they'd bumped into each other, when Maggie had looked so frightened. She learned from the other handlers that they too, had been questioned about Maggie and her potential whereabouts.
And they all wondered: what had happened to Maggie? Where had she gone? And more importantly, why had she disappeared?
The camera jostles as its wearer closes in on a small ranch-style house with white siding and brick. Nicky recognizes the hallmarks of an American suburb. A large bay window, partially obscured by a Japanese red maple tree overlooks the long walkway, curved against neat landscaping that leads up to a tiny porch and white front door.
Why the hell is the Spain-based asset in America?
And...why are they viewing a body cam?
The only times they ever review body cam footage is during training exercises, to refine the plan and work out kinks before a sensitive mission. Body cam isn't used during actual ops. And certainly not a live cam.
What the hell is going on?
Who is in that house? What is the Professor looking for? Why are all of Treadstone's senior admins and Colonel Byer here?
"Five meters," says the Professor, as he strides up the walkway.
"Roger that," says the tech managing the IT switch. He taps on the keyboard. "We have a single heat signature."
They watch as he carefully picks the lock, opens the door quietly. He enters a small foyer that gives way to the living room. The house is bright with natural light, and decorated in neutral colors: cream walls, taupe furniture, and a jute rug over maple wood floors.
The microphone picks up the sound of running water. The Professor walks silently, feeling along the long wall with one hand. When he glances briefly to his right, Nicky can see his suppressed Walther P5 Compact pistol.
Dread pools in Nicky's stomach. Next to her, Christine makes an odd noise. So does the male strategist to their left. Paul is his name. Nicky realizes they're all breathing hard. That's the sound she hears. The room feels suddenly hot, as if all air has been shut off, stifled.
The wall ends and the Professor turns the corner. An open concept kitchen is before them, a wide bank of windows offering a stunning view of water and mountains. It looks like the Pacific Northwest. A kitchen island is parallel to the windows, a bowl of fruit and a wilting orchid plant weighing down a cheerful red-striped mat.
In between the island and the windows, at the kitchen sink, stands a slender woman with long, ash blond hair, her back to them. She's wearing a thick white cotton robe, and bright yellow rubber gloves. The water sound - that's her rinsing off dishes and leaning down to put them in the dishwasher rack next to her. There is familiarity in her movements - oh God. No.
Perhaps Owen realizes at the exact moment they do who she is. Perhaps he makes a sound the mic doesn't pick up, because it causes Margot Henley to whip around, her dyed hair flouncing around her shoulders.
She gasps, eyes widening with fear and horror.
"Target acquired," says the tech.
At the same moment the Walther comes into view, Maggie has thrown the plate in her hand at the Professor. It connects with his arm; he grunts, but gets off a shot. The puffing sound of a suppressor precedes the bullet that smashes into Margot, throwing her back against the sink. The bullet passes through her and shatters the glass behind her. Window shards explode outward as Maggie drops to the ground, hidden behind the island.
They hear the sound of her gasping, of her soft whimpering.
He made a mistake. It's always one shot, one kill. Nicky bites down hard on her cheek.
The Professor strides into the kitchen, past the island, gun now held in both hands. He moves carefully. He doesn't know if Maggie's got a weapon. He clears the island and holds the gun on Maggie. She's writhing on her side, tears streaking down her cheeks as she grabs at her bloodstained left shoulder.
"Owen," she whispers, the sound little more than a breath.
The Professor wavers - no, he doesn't. He fires a single shot. Margot Henley stops moving, eyes wide open, the bullet hole in her forehead so perfect, so neat. Her body rolls, she's on her back, and the blood-drenched robe falls open…revealing a heavily round and pregnant belly.
Shuddering breaths cascade from the back of the room, where the analysts are sitting. Conklin looks startled, Zorn looks ill. Abbott, Hirsch and the NRAG people - they're all passive. Bourne's face is blank.
The tech's voice is shaken as he issues his next order. "Secure the premises. Clean up and acquisition teams are on their way to retrieve the stolen items."
There is no response from the Professor.
He's still staring down at Maggie. Or rather, his cam is. It's focused on her naked belly, the baby inside that's dying, now that its mother is dead.
"Respond," orders the tech, regaining some of his control.
Christine leaps from her seat, a hand slapped over her mouth and she rushes from the room. The door slams behind her.
"Confirmed." The Professor's voice is quiet, expressionless.
Bile rises in her throat but Nicky stays frozen in place. Eric Byer is staring directly at her, those blue eyes, that collegiate-handsome face, fixed on her. Her reptilian brain recognizes the danger, sizes up possible responses not to draw further notice - Nicky stops breathing.
"Go get Freestone," snaps Conklin. He scowls and Nicky takes the lifeline he's thrown at her.
Nicky stands and walks toward the entrance, aware that Byer is still looking at her. It's only when she gets to the door that he shifts his gaze back to the screen.
She does not dare look at Bourne. On screen, the Professor hasn't moved. He's still staring down at the dead woman. Maggie's hand twitches, but her body is otherwise still.
"She's already dead," says Abbott to Byer. "She just doesn't know it."
Nicky flees.