Robert Ludlum's the Treadstone Exile Read online

  THE TREADSTONE SERIES

  Robert Ludlum’s The Treadstone Resurrection (by Joshua Hood)

  THE BOURNE SERIES

  Robert Ludlum’s The Bourne Evolution (by Brian Freeman)

  Robert Ludlum’s The Bourne Initiative (by Eric Van Lustbader)

  Robert Ludlum’s The Bourne Enigma (by Eric Van Lustbader)

  Robert Ludlum’s The Bourne Ascendancy (by Eric Van Lustbader)

  Robert Ludlum’s The Bourne Retribution (by Eric Van Lustbader)

  Robert Ludlum’s The Bourne Imperative (by Eric Van Lustbader)

  Robert Ludlum’s The Bourne Dominion (by Eric Van Lustbader)

  Robert Ludlum’s The Bourne Objective (by Eric Van Lustbader)

  Robert Ludlum’s The Bourne Deception (by Eric Van Lustbader)

  Robert Ludlum’s The Bourne Sanction (by Eric Van Lustbader)

  Robert Ludlum’s The Bourne Betrayal (by Eric Van Lustbader)

  Robert Ludlum’s The Bourne Legacy (by Eric Van Lustbader)

  The Bourne Ultimatum

  The Bourne Supremacy

  The Bourne Identity

  THE COVERT-ONE SERIES

  Robert Ludlum’s The Patriot Attack (by Kyle Mills)

  Robert Ludlum’s The Geneva Strategy (by Jamie Freveletti)

  Robert Ludlum’s The Utopia Experiment (by Kyle Mills)

  Robert Ludlum’s The Janus Reprisal (by Jamie Freveletti)

  Robert Ludlum’s The Ares Decision (by Kyle Mills)

  Robert Ludlum’s The Arctic Event (by James H. Cobb)

  Robert Ludlum’s The Moscow Vector (with Patrick Larkin)

  Robert Ludlum’s The Lazarus Vendetta (with Patrick Larkin)

  Robert Ludlum’s The Altman Code (with Gayle Lynds)

  Robert Ludlum’s The Paris Option (with Gayle Lynds)

  Robert Ludlum’s The Cassandra Compact (with Philip Shelby)

  Robert Ludlum’s The Hades Factor (with Gayle Lynds)

  THE JANSON SERIES

  Robert Ludlum’s The Janson Equation (by Douglas Corleone)

  Robert Ludlum’s The Janson Option (by Paul Garrison)

  Robert Ludlum’s The Janson Command (by Paul Garrison)

  The Janson Directive

  ALSO BY ROBERT LUDLUM

  The Bancroft Strategy

  The Ambler Warning

  The Tristan Betrayal

  The Sigma Protocol

  The Prometheus Deception

  The Matarese Countdown

  The Apocalypse Watch

  The Scorpio Illusion

  The Road to Omaha

  The Icarus Agenda

  The Aquitaine Progression

  The Parsifal Mosaic

  The Matarese Circle

  The Holcroft Covenant

  The Chancellor Manuscript

  The Gemini Contenders

  The Road to Gandolfo

  The Rhinemann Exchange

  The Cry of the Halidon

  Trevayne

  The Matlock Paper

  The Osterman Weekend

  The Scarlatti Inheritance

  G. P. Putnam’s Sons

  Publishers Since 1838

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  penguinrandomhouse.com

  Copyright © 2021 by Myn Pyn LLC

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  ISBN 9780525542629 (hardcover)

  ISBN 9780593332658 (international edition)

  ISBN 9780525542636 (ebook)

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  pid_prh_5.6.1_c0_r0

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Also by Robert Ludlum

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Epilogue

  About the Authors

  PROLOGUE

  MAHÉ, SEYCHELLES

  It was almost midnight when the Sikorsky S-92 clattered low over Petite Anse bay, the helo’s massive fifty-six-foot rotors bending the cocoa palms that stood guard over the Kempinski Seychelles Resort’s private beach.

  In the back of the helicopter, Andre Cabot sat comfortably ensconced in the Corinthian leather seat, gray eyes playing over the thousand-dollar bottle of eighteen-year-old Yamazaki single malt sitting in the chair beside him.

  He’d discovered the aged Japanese whisky the week before while on business in Macau, and while Cabot didn’t think it was anything special, his hosts could talk about nothing else.

  “You should buy a bottle, take it with you to Mahé,” one of them said. “Might put Pritchard in a better mood.”

  The comment sent the rest of the table into stitches, and while Cabot didn’t get the joke, it was obviously at his expense.

  But he took the hit, forced a smile, and played along. Knowing that he was being watched and that everything he said or did would make its way back to the Seychelles—to Nigel Pritchard.

  Cabot had been thinking about the conversation ever since, replaying every detail in his mind. His initial confusion at the laughter, followed by the spark of anger that came when he realized they were laughing at him.

  A month ago, they wouldn’t look me in the eye, now they dare disrespect me in public.

  The rage rushed through his blood like a flame up a
fuse, but before it could ignite his notoriously vicious temper it was tamped by the same question that was plaguing him now.

  Did the men at the table know something that he did not?

  As the founder and CEO of DarkCloud Cybersecurity, Cabot had made both his name and his fortune by unearthing the secrets the rich and powerful paid millions to keep hidden. He’d hacked governments, rigged elections, and stolen corporate secrets from Fortune 500 companies—all without leaving a trace—and the thought that somewhere out there was a question that he couldn’t answer haunted his dreams.

  Cabot had made inquiries and used his network of spies, hackers, and snitches to get a sense of what might be going on, but both the streets and the digital ether were silent. No matter how many times he asked the question, the answer was always the same: “No problems here. Business as usual.”

  But Cabot’s gut told him otherwise.

  “They’re lying,” he said.

  His words were soft, barely audible over the hum of the engines, but when Cabot looked up, he wasn’t surprised to find the wide-shouldered man with the bone-white scar across his throat looking at him.

  “They’re lying, Beck,” he repeated. “I know they are.”

  “What do you want me to do?” the German asked, his damaged vocal cords leaving his voice little more than a gravelly whisper.

  “Be ready,” he said.

  The moment the helicopter touched down, Beck was on his feet, the SIG 226 looking like a toy in his meaty hand. He ducked out of the cabin, slipped to the door with a nimbleness that belied his size, and stepped out onto the tarmac.

  When he returned to the cabin a few moments later, his face was dark with anger.

  “Problem?” Cabot asked.

  “He didn’t send a car.”

  Business, like war, was all about keeping your enemy off balance, and Cabot, seeing the play, instinctively knew what Nigel was trying to pull.

  “Call the heliport, have them send the shuttle,” he said, moving to the walnut cabinets built into the bulkhead.

  “Of course,” Beck replied.

  While the German made the call, Cabot punched his code into the keypad and waited for the muted click of the magnetic lock before opening the panel.

  Inside were a pair of safes; one was for storing the cash and other valuables Cabot used to pay off the government officials and customs agents he encountered while conducting business abroad—the other one was for everything else.

  He opened the second safe, selected a Glock 42 from the weapons inside, racked a round into the chamber, and dropped the pistol into his coat pocket. By the time he closed the safe and secured the panel, Beck was waiting, a silver briefcase handcuffed to his wrist.

  “Let’s get this over with,” Cabot said, starting toward the cockpit.

  “What about the bottle?” the German asked.

  He contemplated leaving it there, but knowing that Nigel would have already been advised that he was bringing it, decided to keep up appearances.

  “Bring it,” he said.

  Compared to the Mercedes-Maybach Nigel usually sent to pick him up, the resort’s Cadillac Escalade was a marked step down. But Cabot had more pressing issues on his mind: mainly how much he had riding on this deal. So he settled in for the drive.

  They pulled out and drove north on Anse Soleil Road, their destination glinting like a fluorescent jewel in the distance. During the day, the Club Liberté Casino was barely noticeable, the elegant two-story glass-and-stone-fronted building effortlessly eclipsed by the shimmer of the Indian Ocean and the antifreeze-green fronds of the sandragon trees swaying in the salt-laden breeze.

  But once the sun went down, and the casino staff removed the protective covers from the Skybeam revolving spotlights mounted to the roof, Club Liberté came to life in a two-million-candlepower blaze of light.

  There weren’t many left on the island who remembered the casino’s humble beginnings, back when it was just a stuffy two-thousand-square-foot pole building where locals went for cheap drinks and to feed their spare change into the nickel slots.

  In 2002, Nigel came to town and bought the place for pennies on the dollar. Most people, Cabot included, thought he’d overpaid, but the cagey Englishman proved them wrong, betting that the poker fad sweeping the United States would eventually spread to their far corner of the world.

  He was right, and after spending a year strong-arming the rest of the casinos on the island—running them out of business—he unveiled the completely remodeled casino. As the only legal gaming facility left on the island, Club Liberté quickly established itself as the region’s premier entertainment venue.

  As an avid gambler himself, it was a place Cabot usually enjoyed visiting, but when the Escalade pulled through the gate and followed the cobblestone drive to the main entrance, he felt nothing but dread.

  The driver stopped beside the scarlet carpet, where a doorman in a black tuxedo stood waiting.

  Before he had a chance to open the door, Beck hopped out, the bulky German making no attempt to hide the pistol on his waist.

  He brushed the man aside with a gruff “Tell your boss that Monsieur Cabot is here,” and scanned the area. Once the man in the tuxedo scrambled through the main entrance, Beck turned back to the Escalade.

  “All clear.”

  Cabot climbed out and smoothed the front of his graphite-gray W. W. Chan & Sons suit, double-checked the pistol in his pocket, and started for the door. He barely made it to the steps before a man with slicked-back black hair and a tight-fitting Italian-cut suit stepped out to meet him, an accommodating smile spread wide across his face.

  “Monsieur Cabot,” he began in French, “so very nice to . . .” He paused, the smile faltering when he saw the Escalade sitting at the curb. “Oh, merde.”

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  “Please, Monsieur Cabot, the oversight, it was n-not intentional.”

  “It’s fine,” he lied. “Now, if you would be so kind, I am late to my meeting.”

  “Of course,” the man nodded. “Mr. Pritchard is waiting in the VIP room.”

  They stepped inside. Cabot returned the nods of the gray-haired men licking their wounds in the leather club chairs that lined the entryway and pushed through the pair of burnished teak doors before stepping out onto the gaming floor.

  It was standing room only, the floor packed with the island’s rich and shameless. Gold-chained men and collagen-enhanced women crowded around the tables, chain-smoking while laying thousand-dollar cash bets at the roulette and craps tables.

  Cabot followed the man up the carpeted stairs and into a hall, passing a line of rooms before reaching a pair of gold-inlaid doors.

  “If the monsieur will permit me,” the man said, ducking inside.

  Cabot shot his cuff and consulted the Rolex Daytona on his wrist. The minute hand ticked past the top of the hour—the realization that he was late burned hotter than the cigarette smoke that stung his eyes.

  Thirty seconds later, the man was back. He held the door open, and with a slight bow announced, “Mr. Pritchard would like you to meet him in the main room.”

  About time.

  Cabot passed through the sitting room with its pastel walls, cherry-stained bookshelves, and a pair of cream-colored couches and found himself in a second, larger room with an empty felt-topped card table and a rough-hewn bar where a pair of scantily clad call girls eyed him over flutes of Veuve Clicquot.

  He ignored the girls, his focus never leaving the two men seated in the oversized leather armchairs in the center of the room.

  “Ah, Bertie, look who finally arrived,” Nigel Pritchard said, a sardonic grin stretching across his fleshy face.

  You fat fuck.

  “There were transportation issues,” Cabot said.

  “Ah, that old Sikorsky of yours finally give up t
he ghost?”

  “No,” Cabot said, reining in his temper, “the issue wasn’t on my end.”

  “Well, at least you made it.”

  “Looks like he came bearing gifts as well,” the second man said, nodding to the bottle in Beck’s hand.

  “That must be the famed Yamazaki our friends in Macau were telling me about,” he said, eyes lighting up as he hefted his bulk from the chair and tottered across the room.

  Nigel had obviously been drinking, and for an instant it appeared the booze had gone to his head and that he was about to snatch the bottle from Beck’s hands. His fingers were inches from the neck when something in the German’s eyes made him reconsider his actions.

  He froze, jerked his hand back like a man who’d seen a snake hiding in the weeds, and stood there nervously licking his lips.

  Not as dumb as you look, eh, Nigel?

  Nigel tore his eyes from the bottle and turned to Cabot with a petulant “Well?”

  “Let the dog have it,” he told his bodyguard in German.

  Beck handed the bottle over and Nigel spent a few seconds studying the label before handing it to one of the hookers at the bar.

  “Pour us a drink, love,” he said, motioning for Cabot to take the seat across from his.

  Cabot lowered himself into the chair, the contemptuous smile of the man seated to his left sending a flash of anger up his spine. He focused every ounce of his considerable will on keeping his face blank, not reacting to the obvious bait, but knew he’d failed when Nigel asked, “You remember Bertie, don’t you?”

  Not trusting his voice, Cabot nodded yes.

  “How daft of me. Of course you do—he used to work for you,” Nigel chortled.

  “Andre,” his former employee nodded.

  Andre, is it? Why, you snot-nosed little fuck.

  The arrival of the booze marked the end of the bullshit, and while Nigel slurped at the whisky, Bertie produced a laptop and set it on the table.

  “You have the money?”

  Beck was at his side in a flash, unlocking the cuff and placing the case before his boss.

  “Five hundred thousand, as agreed,” Cabot said, popping the clasps and opening the lid, revealing a stack of bearer bonds.