22
   Marie lay on the narrow bed staring up at the ceiling. The rays of the noonday sun streamed through the shadeless windows filling the small room with blinding light and too much heat. Sweat clogged her face, and her torn blouse clung to her moist skin. Her feet ached from the midmorning madness that had begun as a walk down an unfinished coastal road to a rocky beach below – a stupid thing to do, but at the time the only thing she could do; she had been going out of her mind.
   The sounds of the street floated up, a strange cacophony of high-pitched voices, sudden shrieks and bicycle bells and the blaring horns of trucks and public buses. It was as if a crowded, bustling, hustling section of Hong Kong had been ripped out of the island and set down in some far away place where a wide river and endless fields and distant mountains replaced Victoria Harbour and the countless rows of ascending tall buildings made of glass and stone. In a sense the transplant had happened, she reflected. The miniature city of Tuen Mun was one of those space-oriented phenomena that had sprung up north of Kowloon in the New Territories. One year it had been an arid river plain, the next a rapidly developing metropolis of paved roads and factories, shopping districts, and spreading apartment buildings, all beckoning those from the south with the promise of housing and jobs in the thousands, and those who heeded the call brought with them the unmistakable hysteria of Hong Kong's commerce. Without it they would be filled with innocuous anxieties too placid to contend with; these were the descendants of Guangzhou – the province of Canton – not world-weary Shanghai.
   Marie had awakened with the first light, what sleep she had managed wracked with nightmares – and knew that she faced another suspension of time until Catherine called her. She had telephoned late last night, dragging her out of a sleep induced by total exhaustion only to tell her cryptically that several unusual things had happened that could lead to favorable news. She was meeting a man who had taken an interest, a remarkable man who could help. Marie was to stay in the flat by the telephone in case there were new developments. Since Catherine had instructed her not to use names or specifics on the phone, Marie had not questioned the brevity of the call. 'I'll phone you first thing in the morning my dear. ' Staples had abruptly hung up.
   She had not called by 8:30 or by 9:00, and by 9:36 Marie could stand it no longer. She reasoned that names were unnecessary, each knew the other's voice, and Catherine had to understand that David Webb's wife was entitled to something 'first thing in the morning'. Marie had dialled Staples's flat in Hong Kong; there was no answer, so she dialled again to make sure she had spun the correct numbers. Nothing. In frustration and without caring, she had called the consulate.
   'Foreign Service Officer Staples, please. I'm a friend from the Treasury Board in Ottawa. I'd like to surprise her. '
   The connection's very good, honey. '
   'I'm not in Ottawa, I'm here,' said Marie picturing the face of the talkative receptionist only too well.
   'Sorry, hon, Mrs. Staples is off-premises with no instructions. To tell you the truth, the high commish is looking for her too. Why don't you give me a number-'
   Marie lowered the phone into its cradle, a sublime panic passing through her. It was nearly 10:00, and Catherine was an early riser. 'First thing in the morning' might be any time between 7:30 and 9:30, most likely splitting the difference, but not 10 o'clock, not under the circumstances. And then 12 minutes later the phone had rung. It was the beginning of a far less subtle panic.
   'Marie?'
   'Catherine, are you all right?'
   'Yes, of course. '
   'You said "first thing in the morning"! Why didn't you call before? I've been going out of my mind! Can you talk?'
   'Yes, I'm in a public booth-'
   'What's happened? What's happening! Who's the man you met?'
   There had been a brief pause on the line from Hong Kong. For an instant it seemed awkward and Marie had not known why. 'I want you to stay calm, my dear,' said Staples. 'I didn't call before because you need all the rest you can get. I may have the answers that you want, that you need. Things are not as terrible as you think, and you must stay calm. '
   'Damn it, I am calm, at least I'm reasonably sensible! What the hell are you talking about?'
   'I can tell you that your husband's alive. '
   'And I can tell you that he's very good at what he does -what he did. You're not telling me anything!'
   'I'm driving out to see you in a few minutes. The traffic's rotten, as usual, made worse by all the security surrounding the Sino-British delegations, tying up the streets and the tunnel, but it shouldn't take me more than an hour and a half, perhaps two. '
   'Catherine, I want answers?
   'I'm bringing them to you, a few at least. Rest, Marie, try to relax. Everything's going to be all right. I'll be there soon. '
   'This man," asked David Webb's wife, pleading. 'Will he be with you?'
   'No, I'll be alone, no one with me. I want to talk. You'll see him later. '
   'All right. '
   Had it been Staples's tone of voice? Marie had wondered after hanging up. Or that Catherine had literally told her nothing after admitting she could talk freely over a public phone? The Staples she knew would try to allay the fears of a terrified friend if she had concrete facts to offer in comfort, even a single piece of vital information, if the fabric of the whole were too complex. Something. David Webb's wife deserved something. Instead there had been a diplomat's talk, the allusion to but not the substance of reality. Something was wrong, but it was beyond her understanding. Catherine had protected her, taken enormous risks for her both professionally, in terms of not seeking guidance from her consulate, and personally, in confronting acute physical danger. Marie knew that she should feel gratitude, overwhelming gratitude, but instead she felt a growing sense of doubt. Say it again, Catherine, she had screamed inside herself, say everything will be all right! I can't think any more. I can't think in here! I've got to get out... I've got to have air.
   She had lurched about unsteadily for the clothes they had bought for her when they had reached Tuen Mun the previous night, clothes purchased after Staples had taken her to a doctor who ministered to her feet, applying cushioned gauze, giving her hospital slippers and prescribing thick-soled trainers if she had to do any extended walking during the next few days. Actually, Catherine had picked out the clothes while Marie waited in the car, and considering the tension Staples was under, her selections were both functional and attractive. A light green sheer cotton skirt was complemented by a white cotton blouse and a small white-shelled bag. Also a pair of dark green slacks – shorts were inappropriate – and a second casual blouse. All were successful counterfeits of well-known designers, the labels correctly spelled.
   They're very nice, Catherine. Thank you. '
   They go with your hair,' Staples had said. 'Not that anyone in Tuen Mun will notice – I want you to stay in the flat – but we'll have to leave here some time. Also, in case I get stuck at the office and you need anything, I've put some money in the bag. '
   'I thought I wasn't supposed to leave the flat, that we were going to pick up a few things at a market. '
   'I don't know what's back in Hong Kong any more than you do. Lin could be so furious he might dig up an old colonial law and put me under house arrest... There's a shoe store in Blossom Soon Street. You'll have to go inside and try on the trainers yourself. I'll come with you, of course. '
   Several moments had passed and Marie spoke. 'Catherine, how do you know so much about this place? I've yet to see another Occidental in the streets. Whose flat is it?'
   'A friend's,' said Staples without further elaboration. There's no one using it a great deal of the time, so I come up here to get away from it all. ' Catherine had said no more; the subject was not to be explored. Even when they had talked for most of the night, no amount of prodding had brought forth any more information. It was a topic Catherine simply would not discuss.
   Marie had put on the slacks and the white blouse and struggled with the outsized shoes. Cautiously, she had walked down the stairs and into the busy street, instantly aware of the stares she attracted, wondering whether she should turn around and go back inside. She could not; she was finding a few minutes of freedom from the stifling confines of the small apartment and they were like a tonic. She strolled slowly, painfully, down the pavement, mesmerized by the colour and the hectic movement and the unending, staccato chatter all around her. As in Hong Kong, garish signs rose everywhere above the buildings, and everywhere people haggled with one another alongside stands and in store-front doorways. It was as if a slice of the colony had been uprooted and set down on a vast frontier.
   She had found an unfinished road at the end of a back street, the work apparently abandoned but only temporarily, as levelling machinery – unused and rusting – stood on the borders. Two signs in Chinese were on either side of the descending dirt. Taking each step carefully, she made her way down the steep decline to the deserted shoreline and sat on a cluster of rocks; the minutes of freedom were opening up precious moments of peace. She looked out and watched the boats sailing from the docks of Tuen Mun, as well as those heading in from the People's Republic. From what she could see the first were fishing craft, nets draped over bows and gunwales, while those from the Chinese mainland were mostly small cargo ships, their decks bulging with crates of produce – but not all. There were also the sleek, grey navy patrol boats flying the colours of the People's Republic. Ominous black guns were mounted on all sides of the various craft, uniformed men standing motionless next to them, peering through binoculars. Every now and then a naval vessel would pull alongside a fishing boat, provoking wildly excited gestures from the fishermen. Stoic responses were the replies as the powerful patrols slowly turned and slipped away. It was all a game, thought Marie. The North was quietly asserting its total control while the South was left to protest about its disturbed fishing grounds. The former had the strength of hard steel and a disciplined chain of command, the latter soft nets and perseverance. No one was the victor except those opposing sisters, Boredom and Anxiety.

 'Jing-char shouted a male voice from behind in the distance.
   'Sheir shrieked a second. 'Ni zai zher gan shemma?' Marie spun around. Two men up on the road had broken into a run; they were racing down the unfinished access towards her, their screams directed at her, commanding her. Awkwardly she got to her feet, steadying herself on the rocks as they ran up to her. Both men were dressed in some sort of paramilitary clothing, and as she looked at them she realized they were young – late teenagers, twenty at most.
   Bu xing barked the taller boy, looking back up the hill and gesturing for his companion to grab her. Whatever it was, it was to be done quickly. The second boy pinned her arms from behind.
   'Stop this!' cried Marie, struggling. 'Who are you?!' 'Lady speaks English,' observed the first young man. 'I speak English,' he added proudly, if unctuously. 'I worked for a jeweller in Kowloon. ' Again he glanced up at the unfinished road.
   'Then tell your friend to take his hands off me!' The lady does not tell me what to do. I tell the lady. ' The young lad came closer, his eyes fixed on the swell of Marie's breasts under the blouse. 'This is forbidden road, a forbidden part of the shore. The lady did not see the signs?'
   'I don't read Chinese. I'm sorry, I'll leave. Just tell him to let go of me. ' Suddenly Marie felt the body of the young man behind her pressing against her own. 'Stop it!' she yelled, hearing quiet laughter in her ear, feeling a warm breath on her neck.
   'Is the lady to meet a boat with criminals from the People's Republic? Does she signal to men on the water?' The taller Chinese raised both his hands to Marie's blouse, his fingers on the top buttons. 'Is she concealing a radio perhaps, a signalling device? It is our duty to learn these things. The police expect it of us. '
   'Goddamn you, take your hands off me!' Marie twisted violently, kicking out in front of her. The man behind pulled her back off her feet as the taller boy grabbed her legs, straddling them with his own and scissoring them. She could not move; her body was stretched taut diagonally up from the rocky beach, held firmly in place. The first Chinese ripped off her blouse and then her brassiere, cupping her breasts with both hands. She screamed and thrashed and screamed again until she was slapped and two fingers were pincered into her throat, cutting off all sound but muffled coughs. The nightmare of Ztirich came back to her – rape and death on the Guisan Quai.
   They carried her to a stretch of tall grass, the boy behind clamping his hand over her mouth, then replacing it quickly with his right arm, cutting off the air and any screams she might have managed as he yanked her forward. She was thrown to the ground, one of her attackers now covering her face with his bare stomach as the other began pulling off her slacks and thrusting his hands between her legs. It was Zurich, and instead of writhing in the cold Swiss darkness there was the wet heat of the Orient; instead of the Limmat, another river, far wider, far more deserted; instead of one animal there were two. She could feel the body of the tall Chinese on top of her, thrusting in his panic, furious that he was not able to enter her, her thrashing repelling his assault. For an instant the boy across her face reached under his trousers to his groin – there was a brief moment of space and for Marie the world went mad! She sunk her teeth into the flesh above her, drawing blood, feeling the sickening flesh in her mouth.
   Screams followed; her arms were released. She kicked as the young Oriental rolled away clutching his stomach; she crashed her knee up into the exposed organ above her waist, then clawed at the wild-eyed, sweating face of the taller man, now screaming herself – yelling, pleading, shouting as she had never shouted in her life before. Holding his testicles beneath his shorts, the infuriated boy threw himself down on her, but rape was no longer a consideration, only to keep her quiet. Suffocating, the darkness had begun to close in on Marie -and then she had heard other voices in the distance, excited voices closing that distance, and she knew she had to send up a final cry for help. In a desperate surge, she dug her nails into the contorted face above her, for an instant freeing her mouth from the grip.
   'Here! Down here! Over here!"
   Bodies were suddenly swarming around her; she could hear slaps and kicks and furious screams, but none of the madness was directed at her. Then the darkness had come, her last thoughts only partly about herself. David! David, for God's sake where are you? Stay alive, my dearest! Don't let them take your mind again. Above all, don't allow that! They want mine and I won't give it to them! Why are they doing this to us? Oh, my God, why?
   She had awakened on a cot in a small room with no windows, a young Chinese woman, a girl really, wiping her forehead with a cool, perfumed cloth. ' Where...?' whispered Marie. 'Where is this? Where am I?'
   The girl smiled sweetly and shrugged, nodding at a man on the other side of the cot, a Chinese Marie judged to be in his thirties, dressed in tropical clothes, a white guayabera instead of a shirt . 'Permit me to introduce myself,' said the man in accented but clear English. 'My name is Jitai, and I am with the Tuen Mun branch of the Hang Chow Bank. You are in the back room of a fabric shop belonging to a friend and client, Mr Chang. They brought you here and called for me. You were attacked by two hoodlums of the Di-di Jing Cha, which can be translated as the Young People's Auxiliary Police. It is one of those well-meant social programmes that has many benefits, but on occasion also has its very rotten apples, as you Americans say. '
   'Why do you think I'm American?'
   'Your speech. While you were unconscious you spoke about a man named David. A dear friend, no doubt. You wish to find him. '
   'What else did I say?
   'Nothing, really. You were not very coherent. '
   'I don't know anyone named David,' said Marie firmly. 'Not in that way. It must have been one of those deliriums that go back to childhood. '
   'It is immaterial. It is your well-being that matters. We are filled with shame and sorrow at what happened. '
   'Where are those two punks, those bastards?
   They are caught and will be punished. '
   'I hope they spend ten years in jail. '
   The Chinese had frowned. To bring that about will mean involving the police – a formal complaint, a hearing before a magistrate, so many legalities. ' Marie stared at the banker. 'Now, if you wish I will accompany you to the police and act as your interpreter, but it was our opinion that we should first hear your desires in this regard. You have been through so much – and you are alone here in Tuen Mun for reasons only you know. '
   'No, Mr Jitai,' said Marie quietly. Td rather not press charges. I'm all right and vengeance isn't a high priority with me. '
   'It is with us, madame. '
   'What do you mean?'
   'Your attackers will carry our shame to their wedding beds where their performances will be less than expected. '
   'I see. They are young-'
   This morning, as we have learned, is not their first offence. They are filth, and lessons must be taught. '
   This morning? Oh, my God, what time is it? How long have I been here?
   The banker looked at his watch. 'Nearly an hour. '
   'I've got to get back to the apartment – the flat – right away. It's important. '
   The ladies wish to mend your clothing. They're excellent seamstresses and it will not take long. However, they believed you should not wake up without your clothes. '
   'I haven't time. I have to get back now. Oh, Christ! I don't know where it is and I don't have an address!'
   'We know the building, madame. A tall, attractive white woman alone in Tuen Mun is noticed. Word spreads. Well take you there at once. ' The banker turned and spoke in rapid Chinese, addressing a half-opened door behind him as Marie sat up. She was suddenly aware of the crowd of people peering inside. She got to her feet – her painful feet – and stood for a moment, weaving but slowly finding her balance, holding the ripped folds of her blouse together.
   The door was pulled back and two old women entered, each carrying an article of brightly coloured silk. The first was a kimono-like garment which was gently lowered over her head becoming a half-dress, covering her torn blouse and much of her soiled green slacks. The second was a long, wide sash which was wrapped around her waist and tied, also gently. Tense as she was Marie saw that each article was exquisite.
   'Come, madame,' said the banker, touching her elbow. 'I will escort you. ' They walked out into the fabric shop, Marie nodding and trying to smile as the crowd of Chinese men and women bowed to her, their dark eyes filled with sadness.
   She had returned to the small apartment, removed the beautiful sash and garment, and lay down on the bed trying to make sense where no reason was to be found. She buried her face in the pillow now, trying to push the horrible images of the morning out of her head, but the ugliness was beyond purging. Instead, it made the sweat pour out of her, and the tighter she closed her eyes, the more violent the images became, interweaving the terrible memories of Zurich on the Guisan Quai when a man named Jason Bourne had saved her life.
   She stifled a scream and leaped off the bed, standing there, trembling. She walked into the tiny kitchen and turned on the tap, reaching for a glass. The stream of water was weak and thin and she watched vacantly as the glass filled, her mind elsewhere.
   There are times when people should put their heads on hold – God knows I do it more than a reasonably respected psychiatrist should... Things overwhelm us... we have to get our acts together. Morris Panov, friend to Jason Bourne.
   She shut off the tap, drank the lukewarm water and went back towards the confining room that served the triple functions of sleeping, sitting and pacing. She stood in the doorway and looked around, knowing what she found so grotesque about her sanctuary. It was a cell, as surely as if it were in some remote prison. Worse, it was a very real form of solitary confinement. She was again isolated with her thoughts, with her terrors. She walked to a window as a prisoner might, and peered at the world outside. What she saw was an extension of her cell; she was not free down in that teeming street below either. It was not a world she knew, and it did not welcome her. Quite apart from the obscene madness of the morning on the beach, she was an intruder who could neither understand nor be understood. She was alone, and that loneliness was driving her crazy.
   Numbly Marie gazed at the street. The street? There she was! Catherine! She was standing with a man by a grey car, their heads turned, watching three other men ten yards behind them by a second car. All five were glaringly apparent, for they were like no other people in the street. They were Occidentals in a sea of Chinese, strangers in an unfamiliar place. They were obviously excited, concerned about something, as they kept nodding their heads and looking in all directions, especially across the street. At the apartment house. Heads? Hair! Three of the men had close-cropped hair – military cuts... marines. American marines!
   Catherine's companion, a civilian to judge by his hair, was talking rapidly, his index finger jabbing the air... Marie knew him! It was the man from the State Department, the one who had come to see them in Maine! The undersecretary with the dead eyes who kept rubbing his temples and barely protested when David told him he did not trust him. It was
   McAllister! He was the man Catherine said she was to meet.
   Suddenly abstract and terrible pieces of the horrible puzzle fell into place as Marie watched the scene below. The two marines by the second car crossed the street and separated. The one standing with Catherine talked briefly with McAllister, then ran to his right, pulling a small hand-held radio from his pocket. Staples spoke to the undersecretary of state and glanced up at the apartment house. Marie spun away from the window.
   He'll be alone, no one with me.
   All right.
   It was a trap! Catherine Staples had been reached. She was not a friend; she was the enemy! Marie knew she had to run. For God's sake, get away! She grabbed the white-shelled purse with the money and for a split second stared at the silks from the fabric shop. She picked them up and ran out of the flat.
   There were two hallways, one running the width of the building along the front with a staircase on the right leading down to the street; the other hallways bisected the first to form an inverted T leading to a door in the rear. It was a second staircase used for carrying garbage to the bins in the back alley. Catherine had casually pointed it out when they arrived, explaining that there was an ordinance forbidding refuse in the street, which was the main thoroughfare of Tuen Mun. Marie raced down the bisecting hall to the rear door and opened it. She gasped, suddenly confronted by the stooped figure of an old man with a straw broom in his hand. He squinted at her for a moment, then shook his head, his expression one of intense curiosity. She stepped out into the dark landing as the Chinese went inside; she held the door slightly open, waiting for the sight of Staples emerging from the front stairs. If Catherine, finding the flat empty, quickly returned to the staircase to rush down into the street to McAllister and the marine contingent, Marie could slip back into the apartment arid pick up the skirt and second blouse Staples had bought for her. In her panic she had only fleetingly thought about them, grabbing the silks instead, not daring to lose precious moments rummaging through the closet where Catherine had hung them among various other clothing. She thought about them now. She could not walk, much less run through the streets in a torn blouse and filthy slacks. Something was wrong. It was the old man! He just stood there staring at the crack in the doorframe.
   'Go away!' whispered Marie.
   Footsteps. The clacking of high-heeled shoes walking rapidly up the metal staircase in the front of the building. If it was Staples she would pass the bisecting hallway on her way to the flat.
   'Deng yi dengf yelped the old Chinese, still standing motionless with his broom, still staring at her. Marie closed the door farther, watching through barely a half inch of space.
   Staples came into view, glancing briefly, curiously at the old man, apparently having heard his sharp, high-pitched angry voice. Without breaking stride she continued down the hall, intent only on reaching the flat. Marie waited; the pounding in her chest seemed to echo throughout the dark stairwell. Then the words came, pleas shouted in hysteria.
   Marie, Marie, where are you? The footsteps hammered now, racing on the cement. Catherine rounded the corner and began running towards the old Chinese and the door – towards her. 'Marie, it's not what you think! For God's sake, stop!'
   Marie Webb spun and ran down the dark steps. Suddenly, a shaft of bright yellow sunlight spread up the staircase, and just as suddenly was no more. The ground floor door three storeys below had been opened; a figure in a dark suit had entered swiftly, a marine taking up his post. The man raced up the steps; Marie crouched in the corner of the second landing. The marine reached the top step, about to round the turn, steadying himself on the railing. Marie lunged out, her hand – the hand with the bunched silks – crashing into the astonished soldier's face, catching him off balance; she slammed her shoulder into the marine's chest, sending him reeling backwards down the staircase. Marie passed his tumbling body on the steps as she heard the screams from above.
   'Marie! Marie! I know it's you! For Christ's sake, listen to me!'
   She lurched out into the alley and another nightmare began its dreadful course, played out in the blinding sunlight of Tuen Mun. Running through the connecting thoroughfare behind the row of apartment buildings, her feet now bleeding inside the training shoes, Marie threw the kimono-like garment over her head and stopped by a row of garbage cans where she removed her green slacks and threw them inside the nearest one. She then draped the wide sash over her head, covering her hair, and ran into the next alleyway that led to the main street. She reached it and seconds later walked into the mass of humanity that was a slice of Hong Kong in the new frontier of the colony. She crossed the street.
   'There!' shouted a male voice. The tall one!'
   The chase began, but abruptly, without any indication, it was different. A man raced down the pavement after her, suddenly stopped by a wheeled stand blocking his way; he tried to shove it aside only to put his hands into recessed pots of boiling fat. He screamed, overturning the cart, and was now met with shrieks from the proprietor, obviously demanding payment as he and others surrounded the marine, forcing him back into the kerb.
   There's the bitch?
   As Marie heard the words, she was confronted by a phalanx of women shoppers. She spun to her right and ran into another alley off the street, an alley she suddenly discovered was a dead-end, closed by the wall of a Chinese temple. It happened again! Five young men – teenagers in paramilitary outfits – suddenly appeared from a doorway and gestured for her to pass.
   'Yankee criminal!' Yankee thief!' The shouts were in the cadence of a rehearsed foreign language. The young men locked arms and without violence intercepted the man with close-cropped hair, crowding him against a wall.
   'Get out of my way; you pricks!' shouted the marine, 'Get out of my way or I'll take every one of you brats!'
   'You raise your arms... or a weapon-' cried a voice in the background.
   'I never said anything about a weapon!' broke in the soldier from Victoria Peak.
   'But if you do either,' continued the voice, 'they will release their arms, and five Di-di Jing Cha – so many trained by our American friends – will certainly contain one man. '
   'Goddamn it, sir! I'm only trying to do my job! It's none of your business!'
   Tm afraid it is, sir. For reasons you do not know. '
   'Shit!' The marine leaned against the wall, out of breath, and looked at the smiling young faces in front of him.
   'Lai!' said a woman to Marie, pointing to a wide, oddly shaped door with no visible handle on what appeared to be a thick, impenetrable exterior. 'Xiao xin. Kaa-fill. '
   'Carefull I understand. ' An aproned figure opened the door and Marie rushed inside, instantly feeling the harsh blasts of cold air. She was standing in a large walk-in refrigerator where carcasses of meat hung eerily on hooks under the glow of mesh-encased light bulbs. The man in the apron waited a full minute, his ear at the door. Marie wrapped the wide silk sash around her neck and clutched her arms to ward off the sudden, bitter cold made worse by the contrasting oppressive heat outside. Finally, the clerk gestured for her to follow him; she did so, threading her way around the carcasses until they reached the huge refrigerator's entrance. The Chinese yanked a metal lever and pushed the heavy door open, nodding for Marie, who was shivering, to walk through. She now found herself in a long, narrow deserted butcher's shop, the bamboo blinds on the front windows filtering the intense noonday sunlight. A white-haired man stood behind the counter by the far right window, peering through the slats at the street outside. He beckoned for Marie to join him quickly. Again she did as she was instructed, noticing an oddly shaped floral wreath behind the glass of the front door which appeared to be locked.
   The older man indicated that Marie should look through the window. She parted two curved bamboo slats and gasped, astonished at the scene outside. The search was at its frenzied peak. The marine with scalded hands kept waving them in the air as he went from store to store across the street. She saw
   Catherine Staples and McAllister in a heated conversation with a crowd of Chinese who obviously were objecting to foreigners disturbing the peaceful if hectic way of life in Tuen Mun. In his panic McAllister apparently had shouted something offensive and was challenged by a man twice his age, an ancient in an Oriental gown who had to be restrained by younger, cooler heads. The undersecretary of state backed away, his arms raised, pleading innocence, as Staples shouted to no avail in her efforts to extricate them both from the angry mob.
   Suddenly, the marine with the hurt hands came crashing out of a doorway across the street; shattered glass flew in all directions as he rolled on the pavement, yelling in pain as his hands touched the cement. He was pursued by a young Chinese dressed in the white tunic, sash and knee-length trousers of a martial-arts instructor. The marine sprang to his feet and, as his Oriental adversary ran up to him, he pounded a low left hook into the young man's kidney, and followed it with a well-aimed right fist into the Oriental face, pummelling his assailant back into the store-front while screaming in agony at the pain both blows caused his scalded hands.
   A last marine from Victoria Peak came running down the street – one leg limping, his shoulders sagging as if damaged from a fall – a fall down a flight of stairs, thought Marie as she watched in amazement. He came to the aid of his anguished comrade and was very effective. The amateurish attempts at combat by the berobed students of the unconscious martial-arts instructor were met by a flurry of slashing legs, crashing chops and the whirling manoeuvres of a judo expert.
   Suddenly again, with no warning whatsoever, a cacophony of Oriental music swelled, the cymbals and primitive wood instruments reaching abrupt crescendos with each stride of the ragtag band that marched down the street, its followers carrying placards mounted with flowers. The fighting stopped as arms were restrained everywhere. Silence spread along the main avenue of commerce of Tuen Mun. The Americans were confused; Catherine Staples choked back her frustration and Edward McAllister threw up his hands in exasperation.
   Marie watched, literally hypnotized by the change outside. Everything came to a stop, as if a halt had been ordered by an announcement from some sepulchral presence not to be denied. She shifted her angle of sight between the bamboo blinds and looked at the ragged group approaching. It was led by the banker Jitai! It was heading for the butcher's shop!
   Her eyes darting, Marie saw Catherine Staples and McAllister race past the odd gathering in front of the shop. Then across the street the two marines once again took up the chase. They all disappeared in the blinding sunlight.
   There was a knock on the front door of the butcher's shop. The old man with white hair removed the wreath and opened it. The banker, Jitai, walked in and bowed to Marie.
   'Did you enjoy the parade, madame?' he asked.
   'I wasn't sure what it was. '
   'A funeral march for the dead. In this instance, no doubt, for the slain animals in Mr Woo's cold storage. '
   ' You...? This was all planned?
   'In a state of readiness, you might say,' explained Jitai. 'Frequently our cousins from the north manage to get across the border – not the thieves but family members wishing to join their own – and the soldiers want only to capture them and send them back. We must be prepared to protect our own. '
   'But me...? You knew?
   'We watched; we waited. You were in hiding, running from someone, that much we did know. You told us that when you said you did not care to go before the magistrate, to "press charges", as you put it. You were directed into the alley outside.'
   The line of women with the shopping bags-'
   'Yes. They crossed the street when you did. We must help you. '
   Marie glanced at the anxious faces of the crowd beyond the bamboo slats, then looked at the banker. 'How do you know I'm not a criminal?'
   'It doesn't matter. The outrage against you resulting from two of our people is what matters. Also, madame, you do not look or speak like a fugitive from justice. '
   'I'm not. And I do need help. I have to get back to Hong Kong, to a hotel where they won't find me, where there's a telephone I can use. I don't really know who, but I have to reach people who can help me... help us. ' Marie paused, her eyes locked with Jitai's. 'The man named David is my husband. '
   'I can understand,' said the banker. 'But first you have to see a doctor. '
   'What?'
   'Your feet are bleeding. '
   Marie looked down. Blood had seeped through the bandages, penetrating the canvas of her shoes. They were a sickening mess. 'I guess you're right,' she agreed.
   Then there will be clothes, transportation – I myself will find you a hotel under any name you wish. And there is the matter of money. Do you have funds?
   'I don't know,' said Marie, putting the silks on the counter and opening the white-shelled purse. That is, I haven't looked. A friend – someone who I thought was a friend – left me money. ' She pulled out the bills Staples had placed in the purse.
   'We are not wealthy here in Tuen Mun, but perhaps we can help. There was talk of taking up a collection. '
   'I'm not a poor woman, Mr Jitai,' interrupted Marie. 'If that is necessary and, frankly, if I'm alive, every cent will be returned with interest far in excess of the prime rate. '
   'As you wish. I am a banker. But what would such a lovely lady like yourself know of interests and prime rates? Jitai smiled.
   'You're a banker and I'm an economist. What do bankers know about the impacts on floating currencies caused by inflated interests, especially in the prime rates? Marie smiled for the first time in a very long time.
   She had over an hour to think in the countryside quiet as she sat in the taxi that drove her down to Kowloon. It would be another forty-five minutes once they reached the less quiet outskirts, particularly a congested district called Mongkok. The contrite people of Tuen Mun had been not only generous and protective but inventive as well. The banker, Jitai, apparently had confirmed that the hoodlums' victim was indeed a white woman in hiding and running for her life, and that therefore, as she was in the process of reaching people who might help her, perhaps her appearance might be altered. Western clothes were brought from several shops, clothes that struck Marie as odd; they seemed drab and utilitarian, neat but dreary. Not cheap, but the kind of clothes that would be selected by a woman who had either no sense of design or felt herself above it. Then after an hour in the back room of a beauty shop she understood why such a costume had been chosen. The women fussed over her; her hair was washed and blown dry, and when the process was over she had looked in the mirror, barely breathing as she did so. Her face – drawn, pale and tired – was framed by a shell of hair no longer a striking auburn but mouse-grey with subtle tinges of white. She had aged more than a decade; it was an extension of what she had attempted after escaping from the hospital but far bolder, far more complete. She was the Chinese image of the upper-middle-class, serious, no-nonsense tourist -probably a widow – who peremptorily issued instructions, counted her money, and never went anywhere without a guidebook which she continuously checked off against each site on her well-organized itinerary. The people of Tuen Mun knew such tourists well and their imposed portrait was accurate. Jason Bourne would approve.
   There were other thoughts, however, that occupied her on the ride to Kowloon, desperate thoughts that she tried to control and keep in perspective, pushing away the panic that could so easily engulf her, causing her to do the wrong thing, make a wrong move that could harm David – kill David. Oh, God, where are you? How can I find you? Howl
   She searched her memory for anyone who could help her, constantly rejecting every name and every face that came to her because in one way or another each had been a part of that horrible strategy so ominously termed beyond-salvage -the death of an individual the only acceptable solution. Except, of course, Morris Panov, but Mo was a pariah in the eyes of the government; he had called the official killers by their rightful names: incompetents and murderers. He would get nowhere, and conceivably bring about a second order for beyond-salvage.
   Beyond-salvage... A face came to her, a face with tears running down his cheeks, muted cries of mercy in his tremulous voice, a once-close friend of a young foreign service officer and his wife and children in a remote outpost called Phnom Penh. Conklin! His name was Alexander Conklin. Throughout David's long convalescence he had tried repeatedly to see her husband but David would not permit it, saying that he would kill the CIA man if he walked through the door. The crippled Conklin had wrongfully, stupidly made accusations against David, not listening to the pleas of an amnesiac, instead assuming treachery and 'turning' to the point where he had tried to kill David himself outside of Paris. And, finally, he had mounted a last attempt on New York's 71st Street, at a sterile house called Treadstone 71, that nearly succeeded. When the truth about David was known, Conklin had been consumed with guilt, shattered by what he had done. She had actually felt sorry for him; his anguish was so genuine, his guilt so devastating. She had talked with Alex over coffee on the porch, but David would never see him. He was the only one she could think of that made sense – any sense at all!
   The hotel was called the Empress, on Chatham Road in Kowloon. It was a small hotel in the crowded Tsim Sha Tsui frequented by a mix of cultures, neither rich nor hardly poor, by and large salesmen from the East and West who had business to do without the largess of executive expense accounts. The banker, Jitai, had done his job; a single room had been reserved for a Mrs. Austin, Penelope Austin. The 'Penelope' had been Jitai's idea, for he had read many English novels and 'Penelope' seemed 'so right'. So be it, as Jason Bourne would have said, thought Marie.
   She sat on the edge of the bed and reached for the telephone, unsure of what to say but knowing she had to say it . 'I need the number of a person in Washington, DC, in the United States,' she said to the operator. 'It's an emergency. '
   There is a charge for overseas information-'
   'Charge it,' broke in Marie. 'It's urgent. I'll stay on the line
   'Yes?' said the voice filled with sleep. 'Hello!
   'Alex, it's Marie Webb. '
   'Goddamn you, where are you? Where are both of you? He found you!'
   'I don't know what you're talking about. I haven't found him and he hasn't found me. You know about all this?
   'Who the hell do you think almost broke my neck last week when he flew into Washington? David! I've got relays on every phone that can reach me!' Mo Panov's got the same! Where are you?'
   'Hong Kong – Kowloon, I guess. The Empress Hotel, under the name of Austin. David reached you?'
   'And Mo! He and I have turned every trick in the deck to find out what the hell is going on and we've been stonewalled! No, I take it back – not stonewalled – no one else knows what's going on either! I'd know if they did! Good Christ, Marie, I haven't had a drink since last Thursday!'
   'I didn't know you missed it. '
   'I miss it! What's happening?'
   Marie told him, including the unmistakable stamp of government bureaucracy on the part of her captors, and her escape, and the help given by Catherine Staples that turned into a trap, engineered by a man named McAllister whom she had seen on the street with Staples.
   'McAllister? You saw him?'
   'He's here, Alex. He wants to take me back. With me he controls David, and he'll kill him! They tried before!'
   There was a pause on the line, a pause filled with anguish. ' We tried before,' said Conklin softly. 'But that was then, not now. '
   'What can I do?'
   'Stay where you are,' ordered Alex. 'I'll be on the earliest plane to Hong Kong. Don't go out of your room. Don't make any more calls. They're searching for you, they have to be. '
   'David's out there, Alex! Whatever they've forced him to do because of me, I'm frightened to death!'
   'Delta was the best man ever developed in Medusa. No one better ever walked into that field. I know. I saw. ' That's one aspect, and I've taught myself to live with it. But not the other, Alex! His mind! What will happen to his mind? Conklin paused again, and when he spoke his voice was pensive. 'I'll bring a friend with me, a friend to all of us. Mo won't refuse. Stay put, Marie. It's time for a showdown. And, by Christ, there's going to be one!'

23
   'Who are you?' screamed Bourne in a frenzy, gripping the old man by the throat and pressing him into the wall.
   'Delta, stop it? commanded d'Anjou. 'Your voice! People will hear you. They'll think you're killing him. They'll call the desk. '
   'I may kill him and the phones don't work!' Jason released the impostor's impostor, released his throat but gripped the front of his shirt, ripping it as he swung the man down into a chair.
   The door,' continued d'Anjou steadily, angrily. 'Put it in place as best you can, for God's sake. I want to get out of Beijing alive, and every second with you diminishes my prospects. The door!
   Half crazed, Bourne whipped around, picked up the shattered door and shoved it into the frame, adjusting the sides and kicking them into place. The old man massaged his throat and suddenly tried to spring out of the chair.
   Won, mon ami!' said the Frenchman, blocking him. 'Stay where you are. Do not concern yourself with me, only with him. You see, he really might kill you. In his rage he has no respect for the golden years, but since I'm nearly there, I do. '
   'Rage? This is an outrage? sputtered the old man, coughing his words. 'I fought at El Alamein and, by Christ, I'll fight now!' Again the old man struggled out of the chair, and again d'Anjou pushed him back as Jason returned.
   'Oh, the stoically heroic British,' observed the Frenchman. 'At least you had the grace not to say Agincourt. '
   'Cut the crap!' shouted Bourne, pushing d'Anjou aside and leaning over the chair, his hands on both arms, crowding the old man back into the seat . 'You tell me where he is and you tell me quickly, or you may wish you never got out of El Alamein!'
   'Where who is, you maniac?"
   'You're not the man downstairs! You're not Joseph Wadsworth going up to room three twenty-five!'
   'This is room three twenty-five and I am Joseph Wadsworth! Brigadier, retired, Royal Engineers!'
   'When did you check in?'
   'Actually, I was spared that drudgery,' replied Wadsworth haughtily. 'As a professional guest of the government, certain courtesies are extended. I was escorted through customs and brought directly here. I must say the room service is hardly up to snuff – God knows it's not the Connaught – and the damned telephone's mostly on the fritz. '
   'I asked you when!'
   'Last night, but since the plane was six hours late I suppose I should say this morning. '
   'What were your instructions?'
   'I'm not sure it's any of your business. '
   Bourne whipped out the brass letter-opener from his belt and held the sharp point against the old man's throat . 'It is if you want to get out of that chair alive. '
   'Good God, you are a maniac. '
   'You're right, I haven't much time for sanity. In fact, none at all. The instructions?
   'They're harmless enough. I was to be picked up some time around twelve noon, and as it's now after three, one can assume that the People's government is not run by the clock any more than its airline. '
   D'Anjou touched Bourne's arm. The eleven-thirty plane,' said the Frenchman quietly. 'He's the decoy and knows nothing. '
   'Then your Judas is here in another room,' replied Jason over his shoulder. 'He has to be!'
   'Don't say any more, he'll be questioned. ' With sudden and unexpected authority, d'Anjou edged Bourne away from the chair and spoke in the impatient tones of a superior officer. 'See here, Brigadier, we apologize for the inconvenience, it's a damned nuisance, I know. This is the third room we've broken into – we learned the name of each occupant for the purposes of shock interrogation. '
   'Shock what! I don't understand. '
   'One of four people on this floor has smuggled in over five million dollars' worth of narcotics. Since it wasn't the three of you, we have our man. I suggest you do as the others are doing. Say your room was broken into by a raging drunk, furious over the accommodation – that's what they're saying. There's a lot of that going on and it's best not to be put under suspicion, even by mistaken association. The government here often overreacts. '
   'Wouldn't want that,' sputtered Wadsworth, formerly of the Royal Engineers. 'Damned pension's little enough to get by on. This was meant to be a little extra feathering for the old Surrey nest. '
   The door, Major,' ordered d'Anjou, addressing Jason. 'Easy, now. Try to keep it upright. ' The Frenchman turned to the Englishman. 'Stand by and hold it, Brigadier. Just lean it back and give us twenty minutes to get our man, then do whatever you like. Remember, a raging drunk. For your own sake. '
   'Yes, yes, of course. A drunk. Raging. '
   'Come, Major!'
   Out in the hallway they picked up their bags and started rapidly towards the staircase. 'Hurry up? said Bourne. There's still time. He has to make his change – I'd have to make it! We'll check the street entrances, the taxi stands, try to pick two logical ones, or goddamn it, illogical ones. We'll each take one and work out signals. '
   'First there are two doors,' broke in d'Anjou, breathlessly. 'In this hallway. Pick any two you wish but do it quickly. Kick them in and yell abusive language, slurring your words, of course. '
   'You were serious?'
   'Never more so, Delta. As we saw for ourselves the explanation is entirely plausible and embarrassment will restrict any formal investigation. The management will no doubt persuade our brigadier to keep his mouth shut. They could lose their comfortable jobs. Quickly now! Take your choice and do the job!'
   Jason stopped at the next door on the right. He braced himself, then rushed towards it, crashing his shoulder into the middle of the flimsy upper panel. The door flew open.
   'God's teeth? screamed a woman in Hindi, half out of her sari, which was draped around her feet.
   'What the devil is happening? Has that damned lock broken again?' a naked man shrieked as he came racing out of the bathroom, his genitals shielded with an inadequate towel.
   Both stood gaping at the mad intruder, who lurched about with unfocused eyes as he swept articles off the nearest bureau, yelling in a coarse, drunken voice. 'Rotten hotel! Toilets don't work, phones don't work! Nothing – Jesus, this isn't my room! Shhorry... '
   Bourne weaved out, slamming the door shut behind him.
   'That was fine!' said d'Anjou. They'd already had trouble with the lock. Hurry. One more. That one!' The Frenchman pointed to a door on the left . 'I heard laughter inside. Two voices. '
   Again Jason crashed into a door, smashing it open, roaring his drunken complaints. However, instead of being met by two startled guests, he faced a young couple, both bare to the waist, each drawing on a pinched cigarette, inhaling deeply, their eyes glazed.
   'Welcome, neighbour,' said the young American male, his voice floating, his diction precise, if at quarter speed. 'Don't let things trouble you so. The phones don't work but our can does. Use it, share it. Don't get so uptight. '
   'What the hell are you doing in my room?' yelled Jason even more drunkenly, his slur now obscuring his words.
   'If this is your room, macho boy,' interrupted the girl, swaying in her chair, 'you were privy to private things and we're not like that. ' She giggled.
   'Christ, you're stoned?
   'And without taking the Lord's name in vain,' countered the young man, 'you're very drunk. '
   'We don't believe in alcohol,' added the spaced-out girl. 'It produces hostility. It rises to the surface like Lucifer's demons. '
   'Get yourself detoxified, neighbour,' continued the young American liltingly. Then get healthy with grass. I will lead you into the fields where you will find your soul again-'
   Bourne raced out of the room, slamming the door, and grabbed d'Anjou's arm. 'Let's go,' he said, adding as they approached the staircase. 'If that story you gave the brigadier gets around, those two will spend twenty years deballing sheep in Outer Mongolia. '
   The Chinese proclivity for close observation and intense security dictated that the airport hotel should have a single large entrance in the front for guests and a second for employees at the side of the building. The latter was replete with uniformed guards who scrutinized everyone's working papers and searched all bags and bulging pockets when the employees left for the day. The lack of familiarity between guards and workers suggested that the former were changed frequently, putting space between potential bribes and bribers.
   'He won't chance the guards,' said Jason as they passed the employees' exit after hastily checking in their two canvas bags, pleading lateness for a meeting due to the delayed plane. They look as if they get Brownie points for picking up anyone who steals a chicken wing or a bar of soap. '
   They also intensely dislike those who work here,' agreed d'Anjou. 'But why are you so certain he's still in the hotel? He knows Beijing. He could have taken a taxi to another hotel, another room. '
   'Not looking the way he did on the plane, I told you that. He wouldn't allow it. I wouldn't. He wants the freedom to move around without being spotted or followed. He's got to have it for his own protection. '
   'If that's the case, they could be watching his room right now. Same results. They'll know what he looks like. '
   'If it were me – and that's all I've got to go on – he's not there. He's made arrangements for another room. '
   'You contradict yourself!' objected the Frenchman as they approached the crowded entrance hall of the airport hotel. 'You said he'd be receiving his instructions by phone. Whoever calls will ask for the room they assigned him, certainly not the decoy's, not Wadsworth's. '
   'If the phones are working – a condition that's a plus for your Judas, incidentally – it's a simple matter to have calls transferred from one room to another. A plug is inserted in the switchboard, if it's primitive, or programmed, if it's computerized. It's not a big deal. A business conference, old friends on the plane – read that any way you like – or no explanation at all, which is probably best. '
   'Fallacy!' proclaimed d'Anjou. ' His client here in Beijing will alert the hotel operators. He'll be wired into the switchboard. '
   'That's the one thing he won't do,' said Bourne, pushing the Frenchman through a revolving door out on to the pavement, which was crawling with confused tourists and businessmen trying to arrange transportation. 'It's a gamble he can't afford to take,' continued Jason, as they walked past a line of small, shabby buses and well-aged taxis at the kerb . 'Your commando's client has to keep maximum distance between the two of them. There can't be the slightest possibility that a connection could be traced, so that means everything's restricted to a very tight, very elite circle, with no runs on a switchboard, no calling attention to anyone, especially your commando. They won't risk wandering around the hotel, either. They'll stay away from him, let him make the moves. There are too many secret police here; someone in that elite circle could be recognized. '
   The phones, Delta. From all we've heard, they're not working. What does he do then?'
   Jason frowned while walking, as if trying to recall the unremembered. Time's on his side, that's the plus. He'll have back-up instructions to follow in case he's not reached within a given period after his arrival – for whatever reasons – and there could be any number considering the precautions they have to take. '
   'In that event they'd still be watching for him, wouldn't they? They'd wait somewhere outside and try to pick him up, no?'
   'Of course, and he knows that. He has to get by them and reach his position without being seen. It's the only way he retains control. It's his first job. '
   D'Anjou gripped Bourne's elbow. Then I think I've just spotted one of the spotters. '
   'What?' Jason turned, looking down at the Frenchman and slowing his pace.
   'Keep walking,' ordered d'Anjou. 'Head over to that truck, the one half out on the street with the man on the extension ladder. '
   'It follows,' said Bourne. 'It's the telephone repair service. ' Remaining anonymous in the crowds, they reached the truck.
   'Look up. Look interested. Then look to your left. The van quite far ahead of the first bus. Do you see it?
   Jason did, and instantly he knew the Frenchman was right. The van was white and fairly new and had tinted glass windows. Except for the colour it could be the van that had picked up the assassin in Shenzhen, at the Lo Wu border. Bourne started to read the Chinese characters on the door panel. 'Niao Jing Shan... My God, it's the same! The name doesn't matter – it belongs to a bird sanctuary, the Jing Shan Bird Sanctuary! In Shenzhen it was Chutang, here something else. How did you notice it?
   The man in the open window, the last window on this side. You can't see him too clearly from here but he's looking back at the entrance. He's also somewhat of a contradiction – for an employee of a bird sanctuary, that is. '
   'Why?
   'He's an army officer, and by the cut of his tunic and the obviously superior fabric, one of high rank. Is the glorious People's Army now conscripting egrets for its assault troops? Or is he an anxious man waiting for someone he's been ordered to pick up and follow, using a rather acceptable cover flawed by an angle of sight that demands an open window?'
   'Can't go anywhere without Echo,' said Jason Bourne, once Delta, the scourge of Medusa . 'Bird sanctuaries -
   Christ, it's beautiful. What a smoke screen. So removed, so peaceful. It's one hell of a cover. '
   'It's so Chinese, Delta. The righteous mask conceals the unrighteous face. The Confucian parables warn of it. '
   'That's not what I'm talking about. Back in Shenzhen, at Lo Wu, where I missed your boy the first time, he was picked up by a van then – a van with tinted windows – and it also belonged to a government bird sanctuary. '
   'As you say, an excellent cover. '
   'It's more than that, Echo. It's some kind of mark or identification. '
   'Birds have been revered in China for centuries,' said d'Anjou, looking at Jason, his expression puzzled. They've always been depicted in their great art, the great silks. They're considered delicacies for both the eye and the palate. '
   'In this case they could be a means to something much simpler, much more practical. '
   'Such as?'
   'Bird sanctuaries are large preserves. They're open to the public but subject to government regulations, as they are everywhere. '
   'Your point, Delta?'
   'In a country where any ten people opposed to the official line are afraid to be seen together, what better place than a nature reserve that usually stretches for miles? No offices or houses or apartments being watched, no telephone taps or electronic surveillance. Just innocent bird watchers in a nation of bird lovers, each holding an official pass that permits him entry when the sanctuary is officially closed -day or night. '
   'From Shenzhen to Peking? You're implying a situation larger than we had considered. '
   'Whatever it is,' said Jason, glancing around. 'It doesn't concern us. Only he does... we've got to separate but stay in sight. I'll head over-'
   'No need!' broke in the Frenchman. There he is!'
   'Where?
   'Move back! Closer to the truck. In its shadow. '
   'Which one is her

The priest patting the child, the little girl,' answered d'Anjou, his back to the truck, staring into the crowd in front of the hotel's entrance. 'A man of the cloth,' continued the Frenchman bitterly. 'One of the guises I taught him to use. He had a priestly black suit made for him in Hong Kong complete with an Anglican benediction sewn into the collar under the name of a Savile Row tailor. It was the suit I recognized first. I paid for it. '
   'You come from a wealthy diocese,' said Bourne, studying the man he wanted more than his life to race over and take, to subdue and force up into a hotel room and start on the road back to Marie. The assassin's cover was good – more than good – and Jason tried to analyse that judgement. Grey sideburns protruded below the killer's dark hat; thin steel-rimmed glasses were perched low on the nose of his pale, colourless face. His eyes wide and his brows arched, he showed joy and wonder at what he saw in this unfamiliar place. All were God's works and God's children, signified by the act of being drawn to a little Chinese girl and patting her head lovingly, smiling and nodding graciously to the mother. That was it, thought Jason, in grudging respect. The son of a bitch exuded love. It was in his every gesture, every hesitant movement, every glance of his gentle eyes. He was a compassionate man of the cloth, a shepherd of his flock which extended far beyond a parish or a vicarage. And as such, in a crowd he might be glanced at but instantly dismissed by eyes seeking out a killer.
   Bourne remembered. Carlos! The Jackal had been dressed in the clothes of a priest, his dark Latin features above the starched white collar, walking out of the church in Neuilly-sur-Seine in Paris. Jason had seen him! They had seen each other, their eyes locking, each knowing who the other was without words being spoken. Get Carlos. Trap Carlos. Cain is for Charlie and Carlos is for Cain! The codes had exploded in his head as he raced after the Jackal in the streets of Paris... only to lose him in the traffic, as an old beggar, squatting on the pavement, smiled obscenely.
   This was not Paris, thought Bourne. There was no army of dying old men protecting this assassin. He would take this jackal in Peking.
   'Be ready to move!' said d'Anjou, breaking into Jason's memories. 'He's nearing the bus. '
   'It's full. '
   That's the point. He'll be the last one on. Who refuses a pleading priest in a hurry? One of my lessons, of course. '
   Again the Frenchman was right. The door of the small, packed shabby bus began to close, stopped by the inserted arm of the priest, who wedged his shoulder inside and obviously begged to be released, as he had been caught. The door snapped open; the killer pressed himself inside and the door closed.
   'It's the express to Tian an men Square,' said d'Anjou. 'I have the number. '
   'We have to find a taxi. Come on!'
   'It will not be easy, Delta. '
   'I've perfected a technique,' replied Bourne, walking out of the shadow of the telephone truck as the bus passed by, the Frenchman at his heels. They weaved through the crowd in front of the airport hotel and proceeded down the line of taxis until they reached the end. A last cab rounded the circle, about to join the line when Jason rushed into the street, holding up the palms of his hands unobtrusively. The taxi came to a stop as the driver pushed his head out the window.
   'Shemma?'
   ' Weir cried Bourne, running to the driver and holding up fifty American dollars worth of unmetered yuan. 'Biyao bang zhu,' he said, telling the man he needed help badly and would pay for it.
   'Lao!' exclaimed the driver, as he grabbed the money. 'Bingli bar he added, justifying his action on behalf of a tourist who was suddenly ill.
   Jason and d'Anjou climbed in, the driver vocally annoyed that there was a second passenger entering the kerbside door. Bourne dropped another twenty yuan over the seat and the man was mollified. He swung his cab around, away from the line of taxis, and retraced his path out of the airport complex.
   'Up ahead there is a bus,' said d'Anjou, leaning forward in the seat, addressing the driver in an awkward attempt at Mandarin. 'Can you understand me?'
   'Your tongue is Guangzhou, but I understand. '
   'It is on the way to Tian an men Square. '
   'Which gate?' asked the driver. 'Which bridge?'
   'I don't know. I know only the number on the front of the bus. It is seven-four-two-one. '
   'Number one ending,' said the driver. Tian Gate, second bridge. Imperial city entrance. '
   'Is there a parking section for the buses?'
   There will be a line of many bus-vehicles. All are filled. They are very crowded. Tian an men is very crowded this angle of the sun. '
   'We should pass the bus I speak of on the road, which is favourable to us for we wish to be at Tian a men before it arrives. Can you do this?'
   'Without difficulty,' answered the driver, grinning. 'Bus-vehicles are old and often break down. We may get there several days before it reaches the heavenly north gate. '
   'I hope you're not serious,' interrupted Bourne.
   'Oh, no, generous tourist. All the drivers are superior mechanics – when they have the good fortune to locate their engines. ' The driver laughed contemptuously and pressed his foot on the accelerator.
   Three minutes later they passed the 'bus-vehicle' carrying the killer. Forty-six minutes after that they entered the sculptured white marble bridge over the flowing waters of a man-made moat that fronted the massive Gate of Heavenly Peace – from which the leaders of China displayed themselves on the wide platform above approving the paraded instruments of war and death. Inside the misnomered gate is one of the most extraordinary human achievements on earth. Tian an men Square. The electrifying vortex of Beijing.
   The majesty of its sheer vastness first catches the visitor's eye, then the architectural immensity of the Great Hall of the People on the right, where reception areas accommodate as many as three thousand people. The single banquet hall seats over five thousand, the major 'conference room' ten thousand with space to spare. Opposite the Gate, reaching towards the clouds, is a four-sided shaft of stone, an obelisk mounted on a two-storey terrace of balustraded marble, all glistening in the sunlight, while in the shadows below on the huge base of the structure are carved the struggles and triumphs of Mao's revolution. It is the Monument to the People's Heroes, Mao first in the pantheon. There are other buildings, other structures – memorials, museums, gates and libraries – as far as the eye can see. But, above all, the eye is struck by the compelling vastness of open space. Space and people... and for the ear something else, totally unexpected. A dozen of the world's great stadiums, all dwarfing Rome's Colosseum, could be placed within Tian an men Square and not exhaust the acreage; people in hundreds of thousands can wander about the open areas and still leave room for hundreds of thousands more. But there is an absence of an element whose lack would never have been found in Rome's bloody arena, much less tolerated in the contemporary great stadiums of the world. Sound; it is barely there, only decibels above silence, interrupted by the soft rippling notes of bicycle bells. The quiet is at first peaceful and then frightening. It is as though an enormous, transparent geodesic dome had been lowered over a hundred acres, as an unspoken, but understood, command from a nether kingdom repeatedly informs those below that they are in a cathedral. It is unnatural, unreal, and yet there is no hostility towards the unheard voice, only acceptance – and that is more frightening. Especially when the children are quiet.
   Jason observed these things quickly and dispassionately. He paid the driver the sum based on the odometer reading and shifted his concentration to the purpose and problems facing him and d'Anjou. For whatever reason, whether a phone call had reached him or whether he had opted for back-up instructions, the commando was on his way to Tian a men Square. The pavane would begin with his arrival, the slow steps of the cautious dance bringing the killer closer and closer to his client's representative, the assumption being that the client would remain out of sight. But no contact would be made until the impostor was convinced the rendezvous was clean. Therefore the 'priest' would mount his own surveillance, circling the appointed co-ordinates of the meeting ground, searching out whatever armed minions were in place. He would take one, perhaps two, pressing them at the point of a knife or jamming a silenced gun into their ribs to elicit the information he needed; a false look in the eyes would tell him that the conference was a prelude to execution. Finally, if the landscape seemed clear, he would propel a minion under a gun to approach the client's representative and give his ultimatum: the client himself must show up and walk into the net of the assassin's making. Anything else was unacceptable; the central figure, the client, had to be the deadly balance. A second meeting ground would be established. The client would arrive first, and at the first sign of deception he would be blown away. That was the way of Jason Bourne. It would be the commando's if he had half a brain in his head.
   Bus number 7421 rolled lethargically into place at the end of the line of vehicles disgorging tourists. The assassin in priestly garb emerged, helping an elderly woman down to the pavement, patting her hand as he nodded his gentle goodbyes. He turned away, walked rapidly to the rear of the bus, and disappeared around it.
   'Stay a good thirty feet behind and watch me,' said Jason. 'Do as I do. When I stop, you stop; when I turn, you turn. Be in a crowd; go from one group to another but make sure there are always people around you. '
   'Be careful, Delta. He is not an amateur. '
   'Neither am I. ' Bourne ran to the end of the bus, stopped, and edged his way around the hot, foul-smelling louvres of the rear engine. His priest was about fifty yards ahead, his black suit a dark beacon in the hazy sunlight. Crowds or no crowds he was easy to follow. The commando's cover was acceptable, his playing of it even more so, but like most covers there was always the glaring but unrecognized liability. It was in limiting those liabilities that the best distinguished themselves from the merely better. Professionally, Jason approved the clerical status, not the clerical colour. A roman priest might be wedded to black, but not an Anglican vicar; a solid grey was perfectly acceptable under the collar. Grey faded in the sunlight, black did not.
   Suddenly, the assassin broke away from the crowd and walked up behind a Chinese soldier taking pictures, the camera at eye level, the soldier's head moving constantly. Bourne understood. This was no insignificant enlisted man on leave in Beijing; he was too mature, his uniform too well tailored – as d'Anjou had remarked about the army officer in the truck. The camera was a transparent device to scan the crowds; the initial meeting ground was not far away. The commando, now playing his role to the fullest, clasped a fatherly right hand on the military man's left shoulder. His left was unseen but his black coat filled the space between them – a gun had been jammed into the officer's ribs. The soldier froze, his expression stoic even in his panic. He moved with the assassin, the commando now gripping his arm and issuing orders. The soldier abruptly, out of character, bent over, holding his left side, recovering quickly and shaking his head; the weapon had been rammed again into his ribcage. He would follow orders or he would die in Tian an men Square. There was no compromise.
   Bourne spun around, lowering his body and tying a perfectly firm shoelace, apologizing to those behind him. The assassin had checked his rear flank; the evasive action was demanded. Jason stood up. Where was he? Where was the impostor! There! Bourne was bewildered; the commando had let the soldier go! Why! The army officer was suddenly running through the crowds, screaming, his gestures wildly spastic, then in a frenzy he collapsed and chattering, excited people gathered around his unconscious body.
   Diversion! Watch him. Jason raced ahead, feeling the time was right. It had not been a gun but a needle – not jammed but puncturing the soldier's ribcage. The assassin had taken out one protector; he would look for another, and perhaps another after that. The scenario Bourne had predicted was being played out. And as the killer's concentration was solely on his search for his next victim, the time was right! Now! Jason knew he could take out anyone on earth with a paralysing blow to the kidneys, especially a man whose least concern was an attack on himself – for the quarry was attacking and his concentration was absolute. Bourne closed the gap between himself and the impostor. Fifty feet, forty, thirty-five, thirty... he broke away from one crowd into another... the black-suited 'priest' was within reach. He could take him! Marie!
   A soldier. Another soldier! But now, instead of an assault there was communication. The army man nodded and gestured to his left. Jason looked over, bewildered. A short Chinese in civilian clothing and carrying a government briefcase was standing at the foot of a wide stone staircase that led up to the entrance of an immense building with granite pillars everywhere supporting twin sloping pagoda roofs. It was directly behind the Heroes Monument, the carved calligraphy over the huge doors proclaiming it to be the Chairman Mao Memorial Hall. Two lines were moving up the steps, guards separating the individual groups. The civilian was between the two lines, the briefcase a symbol of authority; he was left alone. Suddenly, without any indication that he would make such a move, the tall assassin gripped the soldier's arm, propelling the smaller army man in front of him. The officer's back arched, his shoulders snapping upright; a weapon had been shoved into his spine, the commands specific.
   As the excitement mounted and the crowds and the police continued to run towards the collapsed first soldier, the assassin and his captive walked steadily towards the civilian at the steps of the Mao Memorial. The man was afraid to move and again Bourne understood. These men were known to the killer; they were at the core of the tight, elite circle that led to the assassin's client and that client was nearby. They were no mere minions; once they appeared the lesser figures became even less important for these men rarely exposed themselves. The diversion, which was now reduced to a mild disturbance as the police swiftly controlled the crowds and carried the body away, had given the impostor the seconds he needed to control the chain that led to the client. The soldier in his grip was dead if he disobeyed, and with a single shot any reasonably competent marksman could kill the man by the steps. The meeting was in two stages, and as long as the assassin controlled the second stage he was perfectly willing to proceed. The client was obviously somewhere inside the vast mausoleum and could not know what was happening outside, nor would a mere minion dare follow his superiors up into the conference area.
   There was no more time for analysing, Jason knew it. He had to act. Quickly. He had to get inside Mao Zedong's monument and watch, wait for the meeting to conclude one way or another – and the repugnant possibility that he might have to protect the assassin crossed his mind. Yet it was within the realm of reality and the only plus for him was the fact that the impostor had followed a scenario he himself might have created. And if the conference was peaceful, it was simply a matter of following the assassin – by then inevitably buoyed by the success of his tactics as well as by whatever the client delivered – and taking an unsuspecting supreme egotist in Tian an men Square.
   Bourne turned, looking for d'Anjou. The Frenchman was on the edge of a controlled tourist group; he nodded as if he had read Delta's thoughts. He pointed to the ground beneath him, then made a circle with his index finger. It was a silent signal from their days in Medusa. It meant he would remain where he was, but if he had to move he would stay in sight of that specific location. It was enough. Jason crossed behind the assassin and his prisoner and walked diagonally through the crowd, rapidly negotiating the open space to the line on the right half of the staircase, and up to the guard. He spoke in a polite, if pleading, Mandarin.
   'High Officer, I'm most embarrassed! I was so taken by the calligraphy on the People's Monument that I lost my group which passed through here only minutes ago.'
   'You speak our language very well,' said the astonished guard, apparently used to the strange accents of tongues he neither knew nor cared to know. 'You are most courteous. '
   'I'm simply an underpaid teacher from the West who has an enduring love of your great nation, High Officer. '
   The guard laughed. 'I'm not so high, but our nation is great. My daughter wears blue jeans in the street. '
   'I beg your pardon?'
   'It's nothing. Where is your tour-group identification?'
   'My what?'
   The name tag to be worn on all outer clothing. '
   'It kept falling off,' said Bourne, shaking his head helplessly. 'It wouldn't stay pinned. I must have lost it. '
   'When you catch up, see your guide and get another. Go ahead. Get to the back of the line on the steps. Something is going on. The next group may have to wait. You'll miss your tour. '
   'Oh? Is there a problem?'
   'I don't know. The official with the government briefcase gives us our orders. I believe he counts the yuan that could be made here, thinking this holy place should be like Beijing's underground train. '
   'You've been most kind. '
   'Hurry, sir. '
   Bourne rushed up the steps, bending down behind the crowd, once again tightening a secure shoelace, his head angled to watch the assassin's progress. The impostor talked quietly to the civilian with the soldier still in his grip – but something was odd. The short Chinese in the dark suit nodded, but his eyes were not on the impostor; they were focused beyond the commando. Or were they? Jason's angle of vision was not the best. No matter, the scenario was being followed, the client reached on the assassin's terms.
   He walked through the doors into the semi-darkness, as awed as everyone in front of him by the sudden appearance of the enormous white marble sculpture of a seated Mao, rising so high and so majestically that one nearly gasped in its presence. Theatricality helped. The shafts of light that played down on the exquisite apparently translucent marble evoked an ethereal effect that isolated the gigantic sitting figure from the velvet tapestry behind it and the outer darkness around. The massive statue with its searching eyes seemed in itself alive and aware.
   Jason pulled his own eyes away and looked for doorways and corridors. There were none. It was a mausoleum, a hall dedicated to a nation's saint. But there were pillars, wide high shafts of marble that provided areas of seclusion. In the shadows behind any one of them could be the meeting ground. He would wait. He would stay in other shadows and watch.
   His group entered the second great hall and it was, if anything, more electrifying than the first. Facing them was a crystal glass coffin encasing the body of Chairman Mao Zedong, draped in the Red flag, the waxen corpse in peaceful repose – the closed eyes, however, any second likely to open wide and glare in fiery disapproval. There were flowers surrounding the raised sarcophagus, and two rows of dark green pine trees in huge ceramic pots lined the opposing walls. Again shafts of light played a dramatic symphony of colour, pockets of darkness pierced by intersecting beams that washed over the brilliant yellows and reds and blues of the banks of flowers.
   A commotion somewhere in the first hall briefly intruded on the awed silence of the crowd, but was arrested as rapidly as it had begun. As the last tourist in line, Bourne broke away without being noticed by the others. He slipped behind a pillar, concealed in the shadows, and peered around the glistening white marble.
   What he saw paralysed him as a dozen thoughts clashed in his head, above all the single word trap! There was no group following his own! It was the last admitted – he was the last person admitted – before the heavy doors were closed. That was the sound he had heard – the shutting of the doors and the disappointed groans from those outside waiting to be admitted.
   Something is going on... The next group may have to wait ... A kindly guard on the steps.
   My God, from the beginning it was a trap! Every move, every appearance had been calculated! From the beginning! The information paid for on a rain-soaked island, the nearly unobtainable airline tickets, the first sight of the assassin at the airport – a professional killer capable of a far better disguise, his hair too obvious, his clothes inadequate to cover his frame. Then the complication with an old man, a retired brigadier from the Royal Engineers – so illogically logical! So right, the scent of deception so accurate, so irresistible! A soldier in a truck's window, not looking for him but for them I The priestly black suit – a dark beacon in the sunlight, paid for by the impostor's creator – so easily spotted, so easily followed. Christ, from the beginning! Finally, the scenario played out in the immense square, a scenario that could have been written by Bourne himself – again irresistible to the pursuer. A reverse trap: Catch the hunter as he stalks his quarry!
   Frantically Jason looked around. Ahead in the distance was a steady shaft of sunlight. The exit doors were at the other end of the mausoleum; they would be watched, each tourist studied as he left.
   Footsteps. Over his right shoulder. Bourne spun to his left, pulling the brass letter-opener from his belt. A figure in a grey Mao suit, the cut military, cautiously passed by the wide pillar in the dim outer light of the pine trees. He was no more than five feet away. In his hand was a gun, the bulging cylinder on the barrel a guarantee that a detonation would be reduced to the sound of a spit. Jason made his lethal calculations in a way David Webb would never understand. The blade had to be inserted in such a way as to cause instant death. No noise could come from his enemy's mouth as the body was pulled back into darkness.
   He lunged, the rigid fingers of his left hand clamped vice-like over the man's face as he plunged the letter-opener into the soldier's neck, the blade rushing through sinew and fragile cartilage, severing the windpipe. In one motion, Bourne dropped his left hand, clutching the large weapon still in his enemy's grip, and swung the corpse around, dropping with it under the branches of the row of pine trees lined up along the right wall. He slid the body out of sight into the dark shadows between two large ceramic pots holding the roots of two trees. He crawled over the corpse, the weapon in front of his face, and made his way back against the wall towards the first hall, to where he could see without being seen.
   A second uniformed man crossed through the shaft of light that lit up the darkness of the entrance to the second hall. He stood in front of Mao's crystal coffin, awash in the eerie beams, and looked around. He raised a hand-held radio to his face and spoke, listening; five seconds later his expression changed to one of concern. He began walking rapidly to his right, tracing the assigned path of the first man. Jason scrambled back towards the corpse, hands and knees silently pounding the marble floor, and moved out towards the edge of the low-slung branches.
   The soldier approached, walking more slowly, studying the last people in the line up ahead. Now! Bourne sprang up as the man passed, hammer-locking his neck, choking off all sound as he pulled him back down under the branches, the gun pressed far up in the flesh of the soldier's stomach. He pulled the trigger; the muffled report was like a burst of air, no more. The man expunged a last violent breath and went limp.
   He had to get out! If he was trapped and killed in the awed silence of the mausoleum the assassin would roam free and Marie's death would be assured. His enemies were closing the reverse trap. He had to reverse the reversal and somehow survive! The cleanest escape is made in stages, using whatever confusion there is or can be created.
   Stages One and Two were accomplished. A certain confusion already existed if other men were whispering into radios. What had to be brought about was a focal point of disruption so violent and unexpected that those hunting him in the shadows would themselves become the subjects of a sudden, hysterical search.
   There was only one way and Jason felt no obscure heroic feelings of I-may-die-trying. He had to do it! He had to make it work. Survival was everything, for reasons beyond himself. The professional was at his apex, calm and deliberate.
   Bourne stood up and walked through branches, crossing the open space to the pillar in front of him. He then ran to the one behind, and then the one behind that, the first pillar in the second hall, thirty feet from the dramatically-lit coffin. He edged his body around the marble and waited, his eyes on the entrance door.
   It happened. They happened. The officer who was the assassin's 'captive' emerged with the short civilian carrying his government briefcase. The soldier held a radio at his side;
   he brought it up to speak and listen, then shook his head, placing the radio in his right-hand pocket and removing the gun from his holster. The civilian nodded once, reached under his jacket and pulled out a short-barrelled revolver. Each walked forward towards the glass coffin containing the remains of Mao Zedong, then looked at each other and began to separate, one to the left, one to the right.
   Now! Jason raised his weapon, took rapid aim and fired. Once! A hair to the right. Twice! The spits were like coughs in shadows as both men fell into the sarcophagus. Grabbing the edges of his coat, Bourne gripped the hot cylinder on the barrel of his pistol and spun it off. There were five shells left. He squeezed the trigger in rapid succession. The explosions filled the mausoleum, echoing off the marble walls, shattering the crystal glass of the coffin, the bullets embedding themselves in the spastically jerked corpse of Mao Zedong, one penetrating a bloodless forehead, another blowing out an eye.
   Sirens erupted; clamouring bells split the air and deafened the ear, as soldiers, appearing at once from everywhere, raced in panic towards the scene of the horrible outrage. The two lines of tourists, feeling trapped in the eerie light of the house of death, exploded into hysteria. En masse, the crowds rushed towards the doors and the sunlight, trampling those in their paths. Jason Bourne joined them, crashing his way into the centre of an inside column. Reaching the blinding light of Tian an men Square, he raced down the steps.
   D'Anjou! Jason ran to his right, rounding the stone corner, and ran down the side of the pillared structure until he reached the front. Guards were doing their best to calm the agitated crowds while trying to find out what had happened. A riot was in the making.
   Bourne studied the place where he had last seen d'Anjou, then moved his eyes over a gridlock area within which the Frenchman might logically be seen. Nothing, no one even vaguely resembling him.
   Suddenly, there was the screeching of tyres far off on a thoroughfare to Jason's left. He whipped around and looked. A van with tinted windows had circled the stanchioned pavement and was speeding towards the south gate of Tian an men Square. They had taken d'Anjou. Echo was gone.

24
   'Qu'est-il arrive?'
   'Des coups defer! Les gardes sont paniques!"
   Bourne heard the shouts and, running, joined the group of French tourists led by a guide whose concentration was riveted on the chaos taking place on the steps of the mausoleum. He buttoned his jacket, covering the gun in his belt, and slipped the perforated silencer into his pocket. Glancing around, he moved quickly back through the crowd next to a man taller than himself, a well-dressed man with a disdainful expression. Jason was grateful that there were several others of nearly equal height in front of them; with luck and in the excitement he might remain inconspicuous. Above, at the top of the mausoleum's stairs, the doors had been partially opened. Uniformed men were racing back and forth along the stairs. Obviously the leadership was a shambles, and Bourne knew why. It had fled, had simply disappeared, wanting no part of the terrible events. All that concerned Jason now was the assassin. Would he come out? Or had he found d'Anjou, capturing his creator himself and leaving with Echo in the van, convinced that the original Jason Bourne was trapped, a second unlikely corpse in the desecrated mausoleum.
   'Qu'est-ce que c'est?' asked Jason, addressing the tall, well-dressed Frenchman beside him.
   'Another ungodly delay, no doubt,' replied the man in a somewhat effeminate Parisian accent. This place is a madhouse, and my tolerance is at an end! I'm going back to the hotel. '
   'Can you do that?' Bourne up-graded his French from middle-class to a decent university. It meant so much to a Parisian. 'I mean, are we permitted to leave our tour? We hear constantly that we must stay together. '
   'I'm a businessman, not a tourist. This "tour", as you call it, was not on my agenda. Frankly, I had the afternoon off -these people linger endlessly over decisions – and thought I'd see a few sights but there wasn't a French-speaking driver available. The concierge assigned me – mind you assigned me – to this group. The guide, you know, is a student of French literature and speaks as though she was born in the seventeenth century. I haven't a clue what this so-called tour is all about. '
   'It's the five-hour excursion,' explained Jason accurately, reading the Chinese characters printed on the identification tag affixed to the man's lapel. 'After Tian an men Square we visit the Ming tombs, then drive out to watch the sunset from the Great Wall. '
   'Now, really, I've seen the Great Wall! My God, it was the first place all twelve of those bureaucrats from the Trade Commission took me, prattling incessantly through the interpreter that it was a sign of their permanence. Shirt If the labour weren't so unbelievably cheap and the profits so extraordinary-'
   'I, too, am in business, but for a few days also a tourist. My line is wicker imports. What's yours, if I may ask?'
   'Fabrics, what else? Unless you consider electronics, or oil, or coal, or perfume – even canework. ' The businessman allowed himself a superior but knowing smile. 'I tell you these people are sitting on the wealth of the world and they haven't the vaguest idea what to do with it. '
   Bourne looked closely at the tall Frenchman. He thought of Medusa's Echo and a Gallic aphorism that proclaimed that the more things changed the more they remained the same. Opportunities will present themselves. Recognize them, act on them. 'As I said,' continued Jason while staring up at the chaos on the staircase, 'I, too, am a businessman who is taking a short sabbatical – courtesy of our government's tax incentives for those of us who plough the foreign fields – but I've travelled a great deal here in China and have learned a good deal of the language. '
   'Cane has come up in the world,' said the Parisian sardonically.
   'Our best quality work is a staple line on the Cete d'Azur, as well as points north and south. The Grimaldi family has been a client for years. ' Bourne kept his eyes on the staircase.
   'I stand corrected, my business friend... in the foreign fields. ' For the first time the Frenchman actually looked at Jason.
   'And I can tell you now,' said Bourne, 'that no more visitors will be permitted into Mao's tomb, and that everyone on every tour in the vicinity will be cordoned off and possibly detained. '
   'My God, why?
   'Apparently something terrible happened inside and the guards are shouting about foreign gangsters... Did you say you were assigned to this tour but not really a part of it?'
   'Essentially, yes. '
   'Grounds for at least speculation, no? Detention, almost certainly. '
   'Inconceivable?
   This is China-'
   'It cannot be! Millions upon millions of francs are in the balance! I'm only here on this horrid tour because-'
   'I suggest you leave, my business friend. Say you were out for a stroll. Give me your identification tag and I'll get rid of it for you-'
   'Is that what it is?'
   'Your country of origin and passport number are on it. It's how they control your movements while you're on a guided tour. '
   'I'm for ever in your debt!' cried the businessman ripping the plastic tag off his lapel. 'If you're ever in Paris-'
   'I spend most of the time with the prince and his family in-'
   'But of course. ' Again, my thanks!' The Frenchman, so different and yet so much like Echo, left in a hurry, his well-dressed figure conspicuous in the hazy, greyish yellow sunlight as he headed towards the Heavenly Gate – as obvious as the false quarry who had led a hunter into a trap.
   Bourne pinned the plastic tag to his own lapel and now became part of an official tour; it was his way out through the gates of Tian an men Square. After the group had been hastily diverted from the mausoleum to the Great Hall, the bus passed through the northern gate and Jason saw through the window the apoplectic French businessman pleading with the Beijing police to let him pass. Fragments of reports of the outrage had been fitted together. The word was spreading. A white Occidental had horribly defiled the coffin and the hallowed body of Chairman Mao. A white terrorist from a tour without the proper identification on his outer clothing. A guard on the steps had reported such a man.
   'I do recall,' the tour guide said in obsolete French. She was standing by the statue of an angry lion on that extraordinary Avenue of Animals where huge stone replicas of large cats, horses, elephants and ferocious mythical beasts lined the road, guarding the final way to the tombs of the Ming Dynasty. 'But my memory faileth concerning your knowledge of our language. And I do believe that I heard you employ our tongue but a moment ago. '
   A student of French literature and speaks as though she were in the seventeenth century... an indignant businessman, now undoubtedly far more indignant.
   'I didn't before,' replied Bourne in Mandarin, 'because you were with others and I didn't wish to stand out. But let's speak your language now. '
   'You do so very well. '
   'I thank you. Then you do recall that I was added to your tour at the last minute?'
   The manager of the Beijing Hotel actually spoke to my superior, but, yes, I do recall. ' The woman smiled and shrugged. 'In truth, as it is such a large group, I recall only giving a tall man his tour-group emblem, and it is in front of my face now. You will have to pay additional yuan on your hotel bill. I am sorry but then you are not part of the tourist programme. '
   'No, I'm not, because I'm a businessman negotiating with your government. '
   'May you do well,' said the guide with her piquant smile. 'Some do, some do not. '
   'My point is that I may not be able to do anything,' said Jason, smiling back. 'My Chinese speech is far better than my Chinese reading. A few minutes ago several words fell into place for me and I realized I'm t6 be at the Beijing Hotel in about half an hour from now for a meeting. How can I do that?
   'It is a question of finding transportation. I will write out what you need and you can present it to the guards at the Da hong men-'
   'The Great Red Gate?' interrupted Bourne. The one with the arches?
   'Yes. There are bus-vehicles that will take you back to Beijing. You may be late, but then it is customary, I understand, for government people to be late also. ' She took out a notebook from the pocket of her Mao jacket and then a reed-like ballpoint pen.
   'I won't be stopped?
   'If you are, ask those who stop you to call the government people,' said the guide, writing out instructions in Chinese and tearing off the page.
   This is not your tour group!' barked the operator of the bus in lower-class Mandarin, shaking his head and stabbing his finger at Jason's lapel. The man obviously expected his words to have no effect whatsoever on the tourist, so he compensated with exaggerated gestures and a strident voice. It was also apparent that he hoped that one of his superiors under the arches of the Great Red Gate would take notice of his alertness. One did.
   'What's the problem? asked a well-spoken soldier, walking rapidly up to the door of the bus, parting his way through the tourists behind Bourne.
   Opportunities will present themselves...
   There's no problem,' said Jason curtly, even arrogantly in Chinese, as he withdrew the guide's note, thrusting it into the hand of the young officer. 'Unless you wish to be responsible for my missing an urgent meeting with a delegation from the Trade Commission, whose military procurements chief is a General Liang-Somebody-or-other. '
   'You speak the Chinese language. ' Startled, the soldier pulled his eyes away from the note.
   'I'd say that's obvious. So does General Liang. '
   'I do not understand your anger. '
   'Perhaps you'll understand General Liang's,' interrupted Bourne.
   'I do not know a General Liang, sir, but then there are so many generals. You are upset with the tour?'
   'I'm upset with the fools who told me it was a three-hour excursion when it turns out to be five hours! If I miss this meeting because of incompetence there'll be several very upset commissioners, including a powerful general of the People's Army who's anxious to conclude certain purchases from France. ' Jason paused, holding up his hand, then continued quickly in a softer voice. 'If, however, I get there on time I'll certainly commend – by name – anyone who might help me. '
   'I will help you, sir!' said the young officer, his eyes bright with dedication. 'This sick whale of a bus could take you well over an hour, and that is only if this miserable driver stays on the road. I have at my disposal a much faster vehicle and a fine driver who will escort you. I would do so myself but it would not be proper to leave my post. '
   'I'll also mention your commitment to duty to the general. '
   'It's my natural instinct, sir. My name is-' 'Yes, do let me have your name. Write it on that slip of paper. '
   Bourne sat in the bustling lobby of the Beijing Hotel's east wing, a half-folded newspaper covering his face, the left edge off-centre so he could see the line of doors that was the entrance. He was waiting, watching for the sight of Jean
   Louis Ardisson of Paris. It had not been difficult for Jason to learn his name. Twenty minutes ago he had walked up to the Guided Tour Travel Desk and said to the female clerk in his best Mandarin.
   'I'm sorry to bother you, but I'm First Interpreter for all French delegations having business with government industry and I'm afraid I've lost one of my confused sheep. '
   'You must be a fine interpreter. You speak excellent Chinese. What happened to your... bewildered sheep?' The woman permitted herself a slight giggle at the phrase.
   'I'm not sure. We were having coffee in the cafeteria, about to go over his schedule, when he looked at his watch and said he would call me later. He was going on one of the five-hour tours and apparently was late. It was an inconvenience for me, but I know what happens when visitors first arrive in Peking. They're overwhelmed. '
   'I believe they are,' agreed the clerk. 'But what can we do for you?'
   'I need to know the correct spelling of his name, and whether he has a middle name or what's called a baptismal name – the details that must be included on the government papers that I'll fill out for him. '
   'But how can we help?
   'He left this behind in the cafeteria. ' Jason held up the French businessman's identification tag. 'I don't know how he even got on the tour. '
   The woman laughed casually as she reached under the counter for the day's tour ledger. 'He was told the departure area and the guide understood; each carries a list. Those things fall off all the time, and she no doubt gave him a temporary ticket. ' The clerk took the tag and began turning pages as she continued. 'I tell you, the idiots who make these are not worth the small yuan they are paid. We have all these precise regulations, these strict rules, and we are made to look foolish at the beginning. Who is who? The woman stopped, her finger on an entry in the ledger. 'Oh, bad luck spirits,' she said softly, looking up at Bourne. 'I do not know if your sheep is bewildered, but I can tell you he bleats a great deal. He believes himself very grand and was himself very disagreeable.
   When he was told there was no chauffeur who spoke French he took it as an insult to his nation's honour as well as his own – which was more important to him. Here, you read the name. I cannot pronounce it. ' 'Thank you so much,' said Jason, reading. He had then gone to a house phone marked 'English' and asked the operator for Mr Ardisson's room.
   'You may dial it, sir,' said the male operator, a note of technological triumph in his voice. 'It is room one-seven-four-three. Very fine accommodations. Very fine view of the Forbidden City. '

Thank you. ' Bourne had dialled. There was no answer. Monsieur Ardisson had not yet returned, and under the circumstances he might not return for quite a while. Still, a sheep that was known for bleating a great deal would not stay silent if his dignity was affronted or his business was in jeopardy. Jason decided to wait. The outlines of a plan were coming into focus. It was a desperate strategy based on probabilities, but it was all he had left. He bought a month-old French magazine at the news-stand and sat down, feeling suddenly drained and helpless.
   The face of Marie intruded on David Webb's inner screen, and then the sound of her voice filled the close air around him, echoing in his ears, suspending thought and creating a terrible pain at the centre of his forehead. Jason Bourne removed the intrusion with the force of a sledgehammer. The screen went dark, its last flickering light rejected by harsh commands spoken by an ice cold authority. Stop it! There is no time. Concentrate on what we must think about. Nothing Else!
   Jason's eyes strayed intermittently, briefly, constantly returning to the entrance. The clientele of the east wing lobby was international, a mix of languages, of clothing from Fifth and Madison Avenues, Savile Row, St Honorfe and the Via Condotti, as well as the more sombre apparel of both Germanys and the Scandinavian countries. The guests wandered in and out of the brightly lighted shops, amused and intrigued by the pharmacy selling only Chinese medicines, and flocking into the crafts shop next to a large relief map of the world on the wall. Every now and then someone with an entourage came through the doors, obsequious interpreters bowing and translating between uniformed government officials trying to appear casual and weary executives from across the globe whose eyes were dazed from jet lag and the need for sleep, to be preceded, perhaps, by whisky. This might be Red China, but negotiations were older than capitalism, and the capitalists, aware of their fatigue, would not discuss business until they could think straight. Bravo Adam Smith and David Hume.
   There he was! Jean Louis Ardisson was being escorted through the doors by no fewer than four Chinese bureaucrats, all of whom were doing their best to mollify him. One rushed ahead to the lobby liquor store as the others detained him by the elevator, chattering continuously through the interpreter. The buyer returned carrying a plastic bag, the bottom stretched and sagging under the weight of several bottles. There were smiles and bows as the elevator doors opened. Jean Louis Ardisson accepted his booty and walked inside, nodding once as the doors closed.
   Bourne remained seated watching the lights as the elevator ascended. Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen. It had reached the top floor, Ardisson's floor. Jason got up and walked back to the bank of telephones. He looked at the sweep hand of his watch; he could only guess at the timing, but a man in an agitated state would not stroll slowly to his room once he left the elevator. The room signified a measure of peace, even the relief of solitude after several hours of tension and panic. To be held for questioning by the police in a foreign country was frightening for anyone, but it became terrifying when an incomprehensible language and radically different faces were added to the knowledge that the prisoner was in a country where people frequently disappeared without explanation. After such an ordeal a man would enter his room and, in no particular order, would collapse, trembling in fear and exhaustion; light one cigarette after another, forgetting where he left the last one; take several strong drinks, swallowing rapidly for a faster effect; and grab the telephone to share his dreadful experience, unconsciously hoping to minimize the after-effects of his terror by sharing them. Bourne could allow Ardisson's collapsing, and as much wine or liquor as the man could handle, but he could not permit the telephone. There could be no sharing, no lessening of the terror. Rather, Ardisson's terror had to be extended, amplified to the point where he would be paralysed, fearing for his life if he left his room. Forty-seven seconds had elapsed; it was time to call.
   'Hello? The voice was strained, breathless.
   'I'll speak quickly,' said Jason quietly in French. 'Stay where you are and do not use the telephone. In precisely eight minutes I'll knock on your door, twice rapidly, then once. Admit me, but no one else before me. Especially a maid or a housekeeper.'
   'Who are you?
   'A countryman who must speak to you. For your own safety. Eight minutes. ' Bourne hung up and returned to the chair, counting off the minutes and calculating the time it took an elevator with the usual number of passengers to go from one floor to the next. Once on a specific floor, thirty seconds were enough to reach any room. Six minutes went by and Jason rose, nodding to a bewildered stranger next to him, and walked to an elevator where the lighted numbers indicated it would be the next to reach the lobby. Eight minutes were ideal for priming a subject; five were too few, not long enough for the right degree of tension. Six were better but passed too quickly. Eight, however, while still within an urgent timespan, provided those additional moments of anxiety that wore down a subject's resistance. The plan was not yet clear in Bourne's mind. The objective, however, was crystallized, absolute. It was all he had left, and every instinct in his Medusan body told him to go after it. Delta One knew the Oriental mind. In one respect it had not varied for centuries. Secrecy was worth ten thousand tigers, if not a kingdom.
   He stood outside the door of 1743, looking at his watch. Eight minutes precisely. He knocked twice, paused, then knocked once again. The door opened and a shocked Ardisson stared at him.
   'C'est vous!' cried the businessman, bringing his hand to his lips.
   'Keep calm,' said Jason in French, stepping inside and closing the door. 'We have to talk,' he continued. 'I must know what happened. '
   ' You! You were next to me in that horrid place. We spoke. You took my identification. You were the cause of everything?
   'Did you mention me?
   'I didn't dare. It would have looked as if I had done something illegal – giving my pass to someone else. Who are you? Why are you here? You've caused me enough trouble for one day! I think you should leave, monsieur. '
   'Not until you tell me exactly what happened. ' Bourne walked across the room and sat down in a chair next to a red lacquered table. 'It's urgent that I know. '
   'Well, it's not urgent that I tell you. You have no right to walk in here, make yourself comfortable and give me orders. '
   'I'm afraid I do have that right. Ours was a private tour and you intruded. '
   'I was assigned to that damn tour!'
   'On whose orders?
   The concierge, or whatever you call that idiot downstairs. '
   'Not him. Above him. Who was it?
   'How would I know? I haven't the vaguest idea what you're talking about. '
   'You left. '
   'My God, it was you who told me to leave!'
   'I was testing you. '
   Testing...? This is unbelievable!'
   'Believe,' said Jason. 'If you're telling the truth no harm will come to you. '
   'Harm?'
   'We do not kill the innocent, only the enemy. '
   'Kill... the enemy?
   Bourne reached under his jacket, took the gun from his belt and placed it on the table. 'Now convince me you're not the enemy. What happened after you left us?
   Stunned, Ardisson staggered back into the wall, his wide, frightened eyes riveted on the weapon. 'I swear by all the saints you are talking to the wrong man,' he whispered.
   'Convince me. '
   'Of what?'
   'Your innocence. What happened?
   'I... down in the square,' began the terrified businessman. 'I thought about the things you said, that something terrible had happened inside Mao's tomb, and that the Chinese guards were shouting about foreign gangsters, and how people were going to be cordoned off and detained -especially someone like me who was not really part of the tour group... So I started to run – my God, I couldn't possibly be placed in such a situation! Millions of francs are involved, profits on a scale unheard of in the high fashion industry! I'm no mere bargainer, I represent a consortium?
   'So you began running and they stopped you,' interrupted Jason, anxious to get the non-essentials out of the way, 'yes! They spoke so rapidly I didn't understand a word anyone was saying, and it was an hour before they found an official who spoke French!'
   'Why didn't you simply tell them the truth? That you were with our tour. '
   'Because I was running away from that damned tour and I had given you my damned identification card! How would that look to these barbarians who see a fascist criminal in every white face?'
   'The Chinese people are not barbarians, monsieur,' said Bourne, gently. Then suddenly he shouted. 'It is only their government's political philosophy that's barbaric! Without the grace of Almighty God, with only Satan's benediction!'
   'I beg your pardon?'
   'Later, perhaps,' replied Jason, his voice abruptly calm again. 'So an official who spoke French arrived. What happened then?'
   'I told him I was out for a stroll – your suggestion, monsieur. And that I suddenly remembered I was expecting a call from Paris and was hurrying back to the hotel, which accounted for my running. '
   'Quite plausible. '
   'Not for the official, monsieur. He began abusing me, making the most insulting remarks and insinuating the most dreadful things. I wonder what in the name of God happened in that tomb?
   'It was a beautiful piece of work, monsieur,' answered Bourne, his eyes wide.
   'I beg your pardon?
   'Later perhaps. So the official was abusive?
   'Entirely! But he went too far when he attacked Paris fashion as a decadent bourgeois industry! I mean, after all we are paying money for their damned fabrics – they certainly don't have to know the margins, of course. '
   'So what did you do?
   'I carry a list of the names with whom I'm negotiating -some are rather important, I understand, as they should be, considering the money. I insisted the official contact them and I refused – and I did refuse – to answer any more questions until at least several of them arrived. Well, after another two hours they did, and let me tell you, that changed things! I was brought back here in a Chinese version of a limousine – damned cramped for a man of my size and four escorts. And far worse, they told me that our final conference is postponed yet again. It will not take place tomorrow morning but instead in the evening. What kind of hour is that to do business?' Ardisson pushed himself away from the wall, breathing hard, his eyes now pleading. 'That's all there is to tell you, monsieur. You really do have the wrong man. I am not involved in anything over here but my consortium. '
   'You should be!' cried Jason accusingly, raising his voice again. To do business with the godless is to debase the work of the Lord!'
   'I beg your pardon?
   'You have satisfied me,' said the chameleon. 'You are simply a mistake. '
   'A what?
   'I will tell you what happened inside the tomb of Mao Zedong. We did it. We shot up the crystal coffin as well as the body of the infamous unbeliever!'
   'You what
   'And we will continue to destroy the enemies of Christ wherever we find them! We will bring His message of love back into the world if we have to kill every diseased animal who thinks otherwise! It will be a Christian globe or no globe at all!'
   'Surely there is room for negotiation. Think of the money, the contributions'
   'Not from Satan!' Bourne rose from the chair, picked up the gun and shoved it under his belt, then buttoned his jacket and tugged at the cloth as though it were a military tunic. He approached the distraught businessman. 'You are not the enemy but you're close, monsieur. Your wallet, please, and your trade papers, including the names of those with whom you negotiate. '
   'Money...?'
   'We do not accept contributions. We have no need of them. '
   Then why?
   'For your protection as well as ours. Our cells here must check out individuals to see whether or not you're being used as a dupe. There is evidence we may have been infiltrated. Everything will be returned to you tomorrow. '
   'I really must protest-'
   'Don't,' broke in the chameleon, reaching under his jacket, his hand remaining there. 'You asked who I was, no? Suffice it to say that as our enemies employ the services of such as the PLO and the Red Armies, the Ayatollah's fanatics and Baader Meinhof, we have mounted our own brigades. We neither seek nor offer any quarter. It is a struggle unto death. '
   'My God!'
   'We fight in His name. Do not leave this room. Order your meals from room service. Do not call your colleagues or your counterparts here in Beijing. In other words, stay out of sight and pray. In truth, I must tell you that if I myself was followed and it is known that I came to your room, you will simply disappear. '
   ''Unbelievable...!' His eyes suddenly unfocused, Ardisson's whole body began to tremble.
   'Your wallet and your papers, please. '
   Showing the full array of Ardisson's papers, including the Frenchman's list of government negotiators, Jason hired a car under the name of Ardisson's consortium. He made it plain to a relieved dispatcher at the China International Travel Service on Chaoyangmen Street that he both read and spoke Mandarin, and as the rented car would be driven by one of the Chinese officials, no driver was required. The dispatcher told him the car would be at the hotel by 7:00 pm. If everything fell into place, he would have twenty-four hours to move as freely as a Westerner could in Beijing, and then some. The first ten of those hours would tell him whether or not a strategy conceived in desperation would lead him out of the darkness or plunge both Marie and David Webb into an abyss. But Delta One knew the Oriental mind. For a score of centuries it had not varied in one respect. Secrecy was worth ten thousand tigers, if not a kingdom.
   Bourne walked back to the hotel, stopping in the crowded shopping district of Wang Fu Jing around the corner from the hotel's east wing. At number 255 was the Main Department Store where he made the necessary purchases of clothing and hardware. At number 261 he found a shop named Tuzhang Menshibu, translated as the Seal Engraving Store, where he selected the most official-looking stationery he could find. (To his amazement and delight, Ardisson's list included not one but two generals, and why not? The French produced the Exocet, and although hardly high fashion, it was high on any list of high-tech military equipment.) Finally, at the Arts Store, numbered 265 on the Wang Fu Jing, he bought a calligraphy pen and a map of Beijing and its environs, as well as a second map showing the roads leading from Beijing to the southern cities.
   Carrying his purchases back to the hotel, he went to a desk in the lobby and began his preparations. First, he wrote a note in Chinese relieving the driver of the rented car of all responsibility in turning the automobile over to the foreigner. It was signed by a general and amounted to an order. Second, he spread out the map and circled a small green area on the outskirts of northwest Beijing.
   The Jing Shan Bird Sanctuary.
   Secrecy was worth ten thousand tigers, if not a kingdom.

25
   Marie leaped out of the chair at the shrill, jangling bell of the telephone. She ran, limping and wincing, across the room and picked it up. 'Yes!'
   'Mrs. Austin, I presume. '
   'Mo? ... Mo Panov! Thank God. ' Marie closed her eyes in gratitude and relief. It had been nearly thirty hours since she had spoken to Alexander Conklin and the waiting and the tension, above all the helplessness, had driven her to the edge of panic. ' Alex said he was going to ask you to come with him. He thought you would. '
   Thought? Was there a doubt? How are you feeling, Marie? And I don't expect an answer from Pollyanna. '
   'Going mad, Mo. I'm trying not to, but I'm going mad!
   'As long as you haven't completed the journey I'd say you were remarkable, and the fact that you're fighting every step of the way even more so. But then you don't need any chicken soup psychology from me. I just wanted an excuse to hear your voice again. '
   To find out whether I was a babbling wreck,' said Marie gently, making a statement.
   'We've been through too much together for such a third-rate subterfuge – I'd never get away with it with you. Which I just didn't. '
   'Where's Alex?'
   Talking into the pay phone next to me; he asked me to call you. Apparently he wants to speak with you while whoever it is he's talking to is still on the line... Wait a second. He's nodding. The next voice you hear, et cetera, et cetera. '
   'Marie?'
   'Alex! Thank you. Thank you for coming-'
   'As your husband would say: "No time for that." What were you wearing when they last saw you.
   'Wearing?'
   'When you got away from them. '
   'I got away twice. The second time was in Tuen Mun. '
   'Not then,' interrupted Conklin. The contingent was small and there was too much confusion – if I remember what you told me. A couple of marines actually saw you but nobody else did. Here. Here in Hong Kong. That'd be the description they'd start with, the one that would stick in their minds. What were you wearing then?'
   'Let me think. At the hospital-'
   'Later,' broke in Alex. 'You said something to me about swapping clothes and buying a few things. The Canadian consulate, Staples's apartment. Can you remember?'
   'Good Lord, how can you remember?'
   'No mystery, I make notes. It's one of the by-products of alcohol. Hurry, Marie. Just generally, what were you wearing?'
   'A pleated skirt – yes, a grey pleated skirt, that was it. And a kind of bluish-grey blouse with a high collar-'
   'You'd probably change that. '
   'What?
   'Never mind. What else?'
   'Oh, a hat, a fairly wide-brimmed hat to cover my face. '
   'Good!'
   'And a fake Gucci purse I bought in the street. Oh, and sandals to make me shorter. '
   'I want the height. We'll stick to heels. That's fine, that's all I need. '
   'For what, Alex? What are you doing?'
   'Playing Simon Says. I know perfectly well the State Department passport computers picked me up, and with my smooth, athletic walk even State's wart-hogs could spot me in customs. They won't know a damn thing, but someone's giving them orders and I want to know who else shows up. '
   'I'm not sure I understand. '
   'I'll explain later. Stay where you are. We'll get there as soon as we can make a clean break. But it has to be very clean, sterile in fact, so it may take an hour or so. '
   'What about Mo?'
   'He has to stay with me. If we separate now, at the least they'll follow him, at worst they'll take him in. '
   'What about you?
   'They won't touch me beyond a tight surveillance. '
   'You're confident. '
   'I'm angry. They can't know what I've left behind or with whom or what my instructions are if there's a break in any pre-arranged phone calls. For them, right now I'm a walking – limping – mega-bomb that could blow apart their entire operation, whatever the hell it is. '
   'I know you say there's no time, Alex, but I've got to tell you something. I'm not sure why, but I have to. I think one of the things about you that so hurt and enraged David was the fact that he thought you were the best at what you did. Every once in a while, when he'd had a few drinks or his mind wandered – opening a door or two for him – he'd shake his head sadly or pound his fist furiously and ask himself why! "Why?" he'd say. "He was better than that ... he was the best". '
   'I was no match for Delta. No one was. Ever. '
   'You sound awfully good to me. '
   'Because I'm not coming in from the cold, I'm going out. With a better reason than I've ever had in my life before. '
   'Be careful, Alex. '
   'Tell them to be careful. ' Conklin hung up the phone, and Marie felt the tears rolling slowly down her cheeks.
   Morris Panov and Alex left the gift shop in the Kowloon railway station and headed for the escalator that led to the lower level, Tracks 5 and 6. Mo, the friend, was perfectly willing to follow his former patient's instructions. But Panov the psychiatrist could not resist offering his professional opinion.
   'No wonder you people are all fucked up,' he said, carrying a stuffed panda under his arm and a brightly-coloured magazine in his hand. 'Let me get this straight. When we go downstairs, I walk to the right, which is Track Six, and then proceed to my left towards the rear of the train, which we assume will arrive within minutes. Correct so far?
   'Correct,' answered Conklin, beads of sweat on his forehead as he limped beside the doctor.
   'I then wait by the last pillar, holding this foul-smelling stuffed animal under my arm while glancing through the pages of this extremely pornographic magazine, until a woman approaches me. '
   'Correct again,' said Alex, as they stepped down into the escalator. The panda's a perfectly normal gift; it's a favourite with Westerners. Think of it as a present to her kid. The porno magazine simply completes the recognition signal. Pandas and dirty pictures with naked women don't usually go together. ' 'On the contrary, the combination could be positively Freudian. '
   'Score one for the funny farm. Just do as I say. ' 'Say? You never told me what I was to say to the woman. ' Try "Nice to meet you", or "How's the kid?" It doesn't matter. Give her the panda and get back to this escalator as fast as you can without running. ' They reached the lower platform and Conklin touched Panov's elbow, angling the doctor to the right . 'You'll do fine, coach. Just do as I say and come back here. Everything's going to be all right. ' That's easier said from where I usually sit. ' Panov walked down to the end of the platform as the train from Lo Wu thundered into the station. He stood by the last pillar and as passengers by the hundreds poured out of the doors the doctor awkwardly held the black and white panda under his arm and raised the magazine in front of his face. And when it happened, he nearly collapsed. 'You must be Harold!' exclaimed the loud falsetto voice as a tall figure, heavily made up under a soft, wide-brimmed hat and dressed in a grey pleated skirt slapped his shoulder. 'I'd know you anywhere, darling!'
   'Nice to meet you. How's the kid?' Morris could barely speak.
   'How's Alex?' countered the suddenly bass male voice quietly. 'I owe him and I pay my debts, but this is crazy! Has he still got both his oars in the water?"
   'I'm not sure any of you have,' said the astonished psychiatrist.
   'Quickly? said the strange figure. They're closing in. Give me the panda, and when I start running fade into the crowd and get out of here! Give it to me!'
   Panov did as he was told, aware that several men were breaking through the straggling groups of passengers and converging on them. Suddenly the heavily rouged man in women's clothes ran behind the thick pillar and emerged on the other side. He kicked off his high heels, circled the pillar again and like a footballer back raced into the crowd nearest the train, passing a Chinese who tried to grab him, dodging through pummelled bodies and startled faces. Behind him other men took up the chase, thwarted by the increasingly hostile passengers who began using suitcases and knapsacks to ward off the bewildering assaults. Somehow, in the near riot, the panda was put in the hands of a tall Occidental female who was also holding an unfolded train timetable. The woman was grabbed by two well-dressed Chinese; she screamed; they looked at her, yelled at each other, and plunged ahead.
   Morris Panov again did as he had been instructed to do: He quickly mingled with the departing crowd on the opposite side of the platform and walked rapidly along the edge of Track 5 back to the escalator, where a line had formed. There was a queue but no Alex Conklin! Suppressing his panic, Mo slowed his pace but kept walking, looking around, scanning the crowds as well as those riding up on the escalator. What had happened! Where was the CIA man?
   'Allo'
   Panov spun to his left, the brief shout both a relief and a warning. Conklin had edged his way partially around a pillar thirty feet beyond the escalator. From his quick, rapid gestures he made it clear that he had to stay where he was, and for Mo to reach him, but slowly, cautiously. Panov assumed the air of a man annoyed with the queue, a man who would wait for the crowds to thin out before attempting to get on the escalator. He wished he smoked or at least had not thrown the pornographic magazine down onto the tracks; either would have given him something to do. Instead, he clasped his hands behind his back and strolled casually along the deserted area of the platform, glancing around twice, frowning at the waiting people. He reached the pillar, slid behind it and gasped.
   At Conklin's feet lay a stunned, middle-aged man in a raincoat with Conklin's club foot in the centre of his back. 'I'd like you to meet Matthew Richards, Doctor. Matt's an old Far East hand going back to the early Saigon days when we first knew each other. Of course, he was younger then and a lot more agile. But then, again, weren't we all. '
   'For Christ's sake, Alex, let me up!' pleaded the man named Richards, shaking his head as best he could in his prone position. 'My head hurts like hell! What did you hit me with, a crowbar?'
   'No, Matt. The shoe belonging to my non-existent foot. Heavy, isn't it? But then it has to take a lot of abuse. As to letting you up, you know I can't do that until you answer my questions. '
   'Goddamn it, I have answered them! I'm a lousy case officer, not the station chief. We picked you up from a DC directive that said to put you under surveillance. Then State moved in with another "direct" which I didn't see!'
   'I told you, I find that hard to believe. You've got a tight unit here; everybody sees everything. Be reasonable, Matt. We go back a long time. What did the State directive say?'
   'I don't know. It was eyes-only for the SC!'
   'That's "station chief", Doctor,' said Conklin, looking over at Panov. 'It's the oldest cop-out we have. We use it all the time when we get in rhubarbs with other government agencies. "What do I know? Ask the SC." That way our noses are clean because no one wants to hassle a station chief. You see, SCs have a direct line to Langley and, depending on the Oval Yo Yo, Langley has a direct line to the White House. It's very politicized, let me tell you, and has very little to do with gathering intelligence. '
   'Very enlightening,' said Panov, staring at the prone man, not knowing what else to say, grateful that the platform was now practically deserted and the pillar at the rear was in shadows.

Wo cop-out!' yelled Richards, struggling under the pressing weight of Conklin's heavy boot . 'Jesus, I'm telling you the truth! I get out next February! Why would I want any trouble from you or anybody else at headquarters?'
   'Oh, Matt, poor Matt, you never were the best or the brightest. You just answered your own question. You can taste that pension just like me, and you don't want any waves. I'm listed as a pick-up, a tight surveillance, and you don't want to louse up a directive where you're concerned. Okay, pal, I'll wire back an evaluation report that'll get you transferred to Central American demolitions until your time's up – if you last that long. '
   'Cut it out!'
   'Imagine, being skunk-trapped behind a pillar in a crowded train station by a lousy cripple. They'll probably let you mine a few harbours all by yourself. '
   'I don't know anything!'
   'Who are the Chinese?'
   'I don't-'
   'They're not the police, so who are-they?
   'Government. '
   'What branch? They had to tell you that – the SC had to tell you. He couldn't expect you to work blind. '
   That's just it, we are! The only thing he told us was that they were cleared by DC on the top floors. He swore that was all he knew! What the hell were we supposed to do? Ask to see their drivers' licences?'
   'So no one's accountable because no one knows anything. It'd turn out nice if they were Chin-comms picking up a defector, wouldn't it?'
   'The SCs accountable. We lay it on him. '
   'Oh, the higher morality of it all. "We just follow orders, Hen General."' Conklin employed the hard German G for the rank. 'And, naturally, Hen General doesn't know anything either because he's following his orders. ' Alex paused, squinting. 'There was one man, a big fellow who looked like a Chinese Paul Bunyan. ' Conklin stopped. Richards's head suddenly twitched, as did his body. 'Who is he, Matt?'
   'I don't know... for sure. '
   'Who?'
   'I've seen him, that's all. He's hard to miss. '
   'That isn't all. Because he is hard to miss and considering the places where you've seen him, you asked questions. What did you learn?'
   'Come on, Alex! It's just gossip, nothing set in concrete. '
   'I love gossip. Tattle, Matt, or this ugly, heavy thing on my leg may just have to pound your face. You see, I can't control it; it's got a mind of its own and it doesn't like you. It can be very hostile, even to me. ' With an effort, Conklin suddenly raised his club foot and pounded it down between Richards's shoulder blades.
   'Christ! You're breaking my back!'
   'No, I think it wants to break your face. Who is he, Matt? Again, grimacing, Alex raised his false foot and lowered it now on the base of the CIA man's skull.
   'All right! As I said, it's not gospel, but I've heard he's high up in Crown CI. '
   'Crown CI,' explained Conklin to Morris Panov, 'means British Counter Intelligence here in Hong Kong, which means a branch of MI6, which means they take their orders from London. '
   'Very enlightening,' said the psychiatrist, as bewildered as he was appalled.
   'Very' agreed Alex. 'May I have your necktie, Doctor?' asked Conklin as he began removing his own. 'I'll replace it out of contingency funds because we now have a new wrinkle. I'm officially at work. Langley is apparently funding – by way of Matthew's salary and time – something involving an ally's
   intelligence operation. As a civil servant under a like classification I should put my shoulder to the wheel. I need your necktie, too. Matt. '
   Two minutes later, Case Officer Richards lay behind the pillar, his feet and hands tied and his mouth drawn taut, all accomplished with three ties.
   'We're sterile,' said Alex, studying what remained of the crowd beyond the pillar. They've all gone after our decoy, who's probably halfway to Malaysia by now.'
   'Who was she – he! I mean, he certainly wasn't a woman. '
   'No sexism intended, but a woman probably couldn't have made it out of here. He did, taking the others with him – after him. He jumped over the escalator railing and worked his way up. Let's go. We're clear. '
   'But who is he? pressed Panov, as they walked around the pillar towards the escalator and the few stragglers forming a short line.
   'We've used him occasionally over here, mainly as a pair of eyes for out-of-the-way border installations, which he knows something about, since he has to get past them with his merchandise. '
   'Narcotics?"
   'He wouldn't touch them; he's a top notch jock. He runs stolen gold and jewels, operating between Hong Kong, Macao and Singapore. I think it has something to do with what happened to him a number of years ago. They took away his medals for conduct unbecoming just about everything. He posed for some raunchy photographs when he was in college and needed the money. Later, through the good offices of a sleazy publisher with the ethics of an alley cat, they surfaced and he was crucified, ruined. '
   That magazine I carried!' exclaimed Mo, as they both stepped on to the escalator.
   'Something like it, I guess. '
   'What medals?'
   'Nineteen seventy-six Olympics. Track and field. The high hurdles were his speciality. '
   Speechless, Panov stared at Alexander Conklin as they rose on the escalator, nearing the entrance to the terminal. A platoon of sweepers carrying wide brooms over their shoulders appeared on the opposite escalator heading down to the platform. Alex jerked his head towards them, snapped the fingers of his right hand, and with the thumb extended, jabbed the air in the direction of the terminal's exit doors above. The message was clear. Within moments a bound CIA agent would be found behind a pillar.
   That'd be the one they call the major,' said Marie, sitting in a chair opposite Conklin, while Morris Panov knelt beside her, examining her left foot . 'Ouch? she cried, pulling back her crossed leg. 'I'm sorry, Mo. '
   'Don't be,' said the doctor. 'It's a nasty bruise spread over the second and third metatarsals. You must have taken quite a spill. '
   'Several. You know about feet?
   'Right now I feel more secure with chiropody than psychiatry. You people live in a world that would drive my profession back to the Middle Ages – not that most of us aren't still there; the words are just cuter. ' Panov looked up at Marie, his eyes straying to her severely styled grey-streaked hair. 'You had fine medical treatment, dark-redhead-that-was. Except the hair. It's atrocious. '
   'It's brilliant,' corrected Conklin.
   'What do you know? You were a patient of mine. ' Mo returned to the foot. They're both healing nicely – the cuts and the blisters, that is, the bruise will take longer. I'll pick up some things later and change the dressings. ' Panov got up and pulled a straight-backed chair away from the small writing table.
   'You're staying here then?' asked Marie.
   'Down the hall,' said Alex. 'I couldn't get either of the rooms next door. '
   'How did you even manage that?'
   'Money. This is Hong Kong, and reservations are always getting lost by somebody who isn't around... back to the major. '
   'His name is Lin Wenzu. Catherine Staples told me he was with British Intelligence, speaks English with a UK accent. '
   'She was sure!'
   'Very. She said he was considered the best intelligence officer in Hong Kong, and that included everyone from the KGB to the CIA. '
   'It's not hard to understand. His name is Lin Wenzu, not Ivanovitch or Joe Smith. A talented native is sent to England, educated and trained, and brought back to assume a responsible position in government. Standard colonial policy, especially in the area of law enforcement and territorial security. '
   'Certainly from a psychological viewpoint,' added Panov, sitting down. There are fewer resentments that way, and another bridge is built to the governed foreign community. '
   'I understand that,' said Alex, nodding, 'but something's missing; the pieces don't fit. It's one thing for London to give a green light for an undercover DC operation – which everything we've learned tells us this is, only more bizarre than most – but it's another for MI6 to lend us their local people in a colony the UK is still running. '
   'Why? asked Panov.
   'Several reasons. First, they don't trust us – oh, it's not that they mistrust our intentions, just our brains. In some ways they're right, in others they're dead wrong, but that's their judgement. Second, why risk exposing their personnel for the sake of decisions made by an American bureaucrat with no expertise in on-the-scene deep cover administration. That's the sticking point, and London would reject it out of hand. '
   'I assume you're referring to McAllister,' said Marie.
   Till the cows come home from a field of new alfalfa. ' Conklin shook his head, exhaling as he did so. 'I've done my research, and I can tell you he's either the strongest or the weakest factor in this whole damned scenario. I suspect the latter. He's pure, cold brains, like McNamara before his conversion to doubt. '
   'Knock off the bullshit,' said Mo Panov. 'What do you mean in straight talk, not chicken soup? Leave that to me. '
   'I mean, Doctor, that Edward Newington McAllister is a rabbit. His ears spring up at the first sign of conflict or off-the-wire lapses and he scampers off. He's an analyst and one of the best, but he is not qualified to be a case officer, to say nothing of a station chief, and don't even consider his being the strategist behind a major covert operation. He'd be laughed off the scene, believe me. ' 'He was terribly convincing with David and me,' broke in
   Marie.
   'He was given that script. "Prime the subject," he was told. Stick to the convoluted narrative that would become clearer to the subject in stages once he made his first moves, which he had to make because you were gone. ' 'Who wrote the script?' asked Panov. 'I wish I knew. No one I reached in Washington knows, and that includes a number of people who should. They weren't lying; after all these years I can spot a swallow in a voice. It's so damn deep and filled with so many contradictions it makes Treadstone Seventy-one look like an amateur effort – which it wasn't. '
   'Catherine said something to me,' interrupted Marie. 'I don't know whether it will help or not, but it stuck in my mind. She said a man flew into Hong Kong, a "statesman", she called him, someone who was "far more than a diplomat", or something like that. She thought there might be a connection with everything that's happened. ' 'What was his name?'
   'She never told me. Later when I saw McAllister down in the street with her, I assumed it was he. But maybe not. The analyst you just described and the nervous man who spoke to David and me is hardly a diplomat, much less a statesman. It must have been someone else. ' 'When did she say this to you?" asked Conklin. Three days ago when she was hiding me in her apartment in Hong Kong. '
   'Before she drove you up to Tuen Mun?' Alex leaned forward in the chair. 'Yes.'
   'She never mentioned him again?' 'No, and when I asked her, she said there was no point in either of us getting our hopes up. She said she had more digging to do. '
   'You settled for that?
   'Yes, I did, because at the time I thought I understood. I had no reason to question her then. She was taking a personal and professional risk helping me – accepting my word on her own without asking for consular advice, which others might have done simply to protect themselves. You mentioned the word "bizarre", Alex. Well, let's face it, what I told her was so bizarre it was outrageous – including a fabric of lies from the US State Department, vanishing guards from the Central Intelligence Agency, suspicions that led to the higher levels of your government. A lesser person might have backed away and covered herself. '
   'Gratitude notwithstanding,' said Conklin gently. 'She was withholding information you had a right to know. Christ, after everything you and David have been through-'
   'You're wrong, Alex,' interrupted Marie softly. 'I told you I thought I understood her, but I didn't finish. The cruellest thing you can do to a person who's living every hour in panic is to offer him or her a hope that turns out false. When the crash comes it's intolerable. Believe me, I've spent over a year with a man desperately looking for answers. He's found quite a few, but those he followed only to find them wrong nearly broke him. Dashed hopes are no fun for the one hoping. '
   'She's right,' said Panov, nodding his head and looking at Conklin. 'And I think you know it, don't you?
   T happened,' replied Alex, shrugging and looking at his watch 'At any rate, it's time for Catherine Staples. '
   'She'll be watched, guarded? It was Marie who now sat forward in her chair, her expression concerned, her eyes questioning. 'They'll assume you both came over here because of me, and that you reached me and I told you about her. They'll expect you to go after her. They'll be waiting for you. If they could do what they've done so far, they could kill you!'
   'No they couldn't,' said Conklin, getting up and limping towards the bedside telephone. 'They're not good enough,' he added simply.
   'You're a goddamned basket case!' whispered Matthew
   Richards from behind the wheel of the small car parked across the street from Catherine Staples's apartment.
   'You're not very grateful, Matt,' said Alex, sitting in the shadows next to the CIA man. 'Not only did I not send in that evaluation report, but I also let you get me back under surveillance. Thank me, don't insult me. '
   'Shit!'
   'What did you tell them back at the office?'
   'What else? I was mugged, for Christ's sake. '
   'By how many?'
   'At least five teenaged punks. Zhongguo ren. '
   'And if you fought back, making a lot of ruckus, I might have spotted you. '
   'That's the story board,' agreed Richards quietly.
   'And when I called you, naturally it was one of the street people you've cultivated who saw a white man with a limp. '
   'Bingo. '
   'You might even get a promotion. '
   'I just want to get out. '
   'You'll make it. '
   'Not this way. '
   'So it was old Havilland himself who blew into town. '
   'You didn't get that from me! It was in the papers. '
   The sterile house in Victoria Peak wasn't in the papers,
   Matt. '
   'Hey, come on, that was a trade off! You're nice to me, I'm nice to you. No lousy report about me getting clobbered by a shoe with no foot in it and you get an address. Anyway, I'd deny it. You got it from Garden Road. It's all over the consulate, thanks to a pissed-off marine. '
   'Havilland,' mused Alex out loud. 'It fits. He's tight-ass with the British, even talks like them... My God, I should have recognized the voice!'
   The voice?' asked a perplexed Richards.
   'Over the phone. Another page in the scenario. It was Havilland! He wouldn't let anyone else do it! "We've lost her." Oh, Jesus, and I was sucked right in!'
   'Into what?'
   'Forget it. '
   'Gladly. '
   An automobile slowed down and stopped across the street in front of Staples's apartment house. A woman got out of the rear kerbside door, and seeing her in the wash of the streetlights, Conklin knew who it was. Catherine Staples. She nodded to the driver, turned around and walked across the pavement to the thick glass doors of the entrance.
   Suddenly, an engine roaring at high pitch filled the quiet street by the park. A long black sedan swerved out of a space somewhere behind them and screeched to a stop beside Staples's car. Staccato explosions thundered from the second vehicle. Glass was shattered both in the street and across the pavement as the windows of the parked automobile were blown away along with the driver's head and the doors of the apartment house riddled, collapsing in bloody fragments as the body of Catherine Staples was nailed into the frame under the fusillade of bullets.
   Tyres spinning, the black sedan raced away in the dark street, leaving the carnage behind, blood and torn flesh everywhere.
   'Jesus Christ!' roared the CIA man.
   'Get out of here,' ordered Conklin.
   'Where? For Christ's sake, where?"
   'Victoria Peak. '
   'Are you out of your mind?'
   'No, but somebody else is. One blue-blooded son of a bitch has been taken. He's been had. And he's going to hear it first from me. Move!

26
   Bourne stopped the black Shanghai sedan on the dark, treelined, deserted stretch of road. According to the map he had passed the Eastern Gate of the Summer Palace – actually once a series of ancient royal villas set down on acres of sculptured countryside dominated by a lake known as Kunming. He had followed the shoreline north until the coloured lights of the vast pleasure ground of emperors past faded, giving way to the darkness of the country road. He extinguished the headlights, got out and carried his purchases, now in a waterproof knapsack, to the wall of trees lining the road, and dug his heel into the ground. The earth was soft, making his task easier, for the possibility that his rented car might be searched was real. He reached inside the knapsack, pulled out a pair of workman's gloves and a long-bladed hunting knife. He knelt down and dug a hole deep enough to conceal the sack; he left the top of it open, picked up the knife and cut a notch in the trunk of the nearest tree to expose the white wood beneath the bark. He replaced the knife and gloves in the knapsack, pressed it down into the earth and covered it with dirt. He returned to the car, checked the odometer, and started the engine. If the map was as accurate about distances as it was in detailing those areas in and around Beijing where it was prohibited to drive, the entrance to the Jing Shan Sanctuary was no more than three-quarters of a mile away around a long curve up ahead.
   The map was accurate. Two floodlights converged on the high green metal gate beneath huge panels depicting brightly coloured birds; the gate was closed. In a small glass-enclosed structure on the right sat a single guard. At the sight of Jason's approaching headlights he sprang up and ran out. It was difficult to tell whether the man's jacket and trousers were a uniform or not; there was no evidence of a weapon.
   Bourne drove the sedan up to within feet of the gate, climbed out and approached the Chinese behind it, surprised to see that the man was in his late fifties or early sixties.
   'Bei long, bei long?' began Jason before the guard could speak, apologizing for disturbing him. 'I've had a terrible time,' he continued rapidly, pulling out the list of the French assigned negotiators from his inside pocket . 'I was to be here three and a half hours ago, but the car didn't arrive and I couldn't reach Minister... ' He picked out the name of a textile minister from the list . 'Wang Xu, and I'm sure he's as upset as I am!'
   'You speak our language,' said the bewildered guard. 'You have a car with no driver. '
   'The minister cleared it. I've been to Beijing many, many times. We were going to have dinner together. '
   'We are closed, and there is no restaurant here. '
   'Did he leave a note for me, perhaps?'
   'No one leaves anything here but lost articles. I have very nice Japanese binoculars I could sell you cheap. '
   It happened. Beyond the gate, about thirty yards down the dirt road, Bourne saw a man in the shadows of a tall tree, a man wearing a long tunic – four buttons – an officer. Around his waist was a thick holster belt. A weapon.
   'I'm sorry, I have no use for binoculars. '
   'A present, perhaps?'
   'I have few friends and my children are thieves. '
   'You are a sad man. There is nothing but children and friends – and the spirits, of course. '
   'Now, really, I simply want to find the minister. We are discussing renminbi in the millions!'
   'The binoculars are but a few yuan. '
   'All right! How much?'
   'Fifty. '
   'Get them for me,' said the chameleon impatiently, reaching into his pocket, his gaze casually straying beyond the green fence as the guard rushed back to the gatehouse. The Chinese officer had retreated farther into the shadows but was still watching the gate. The pounding in Jason's chest once again felt like kettledrums – as it so often had in the days of Medusa. He had turned a trick, exposed a strategy. Delta knew the Oriental mind. Secrecy. The lone figure did not, of course, confirm it, but he did not deny it either.
   'Look how grand they are!' cried the guard, running back to the fence and holding out the binoculars. 'One hundred yuan. '
   'You said fifty!'
   'I didn't notice the lenses. Far superior. Give me the money and I'll throw them over the gate. '
   'Very well,' said Bourne, about to push the money through the criss-crossing mesh of the fence. 'But under one condition, thief. If by any chance you are questioned about me, I choose not to be embarrassed. ' 'Questioned? That's foolish. There's no one here but me. ' Delta was right.
   'But in case you are, I insist you tell the truth! I am a French businessman urgently seeking this minister of textiles because my car was unpardonably delayed. I will not be embarrassed!' 'As you wish. The money, please. ' Jason shoved the yuan bills through the fence; the guard clutched them and threw the binoculars over the gate. Bourne caught them and looked pleadingly at the Chinese. 'Have you any idea where the minister might have gone?'
   'Yes, and I was about to tell you without additional money. Men so grand as you and he would no doubt go to the dining house named Ting Li Guan. It is a favourite of rich foreigners and powerful men of our heavenly government. ' 'Where is it?'
   'In the Summer Palace. You passed it on this road. Go back fifteen, twenty kilometres, and you will see the great Dong an men gate. Enter it and the guides will direct you, but show your papers, sir. You travel in a very unusual way. '
   Thank you!' yelled Jason, running to the car. 'Vive la France?
   'How beautiful,' said the guard, shrugging, heading back to his post and counting his money.
   The officer walked quietly up to the gatehouse and tapped on the glass. Astonished, the night watchman leaped out of his chair and opened the door.
   'Oh, sir, you startled me! I see you were locked inside. Perhaps you fell asleep in one of our beautiful resting places. How unfortunate. I will open the gate at once!'
   'Who was that man?' asked the officer calmly.
   'A foreigner, sir. A French businessman who has had much misfortune. As I understood him, he was to meet the minister of textiles here hours ago and then proceed to dinner, but his automobile was delayed. He's very upset. He does not wish to be embarrassed. '
   'What minister of textiles?'
   'Minister Wang Xu, I believe he said. '
   'Wait outside, please. '
   'Certainly, sir. The gate?'
   'In a few minutes. ' The soldier picked up the telephone on the small counter and dialled. Seconds later he spoke again. 'May I have the number of a minister of textiles named Wang Xu...? Thank you. ' The officer pressed down the centre bar, released it, and dialled again. 'Minister Wang Xu, please?'
   'I am he,' said a somewhat disagreeable voice at the other end of the line. 'Who is this?'
   'A clerk at the Trade Council Office, sir. We're doing a routine check on a French businessman who has you listed as a reference-'
   'Great Christian Jesus, not that idiot Ardisson! What's he done now?'
   'You know him, sir?'
   'I wish I didn't! Special this, special that! He thinks that when he defecates the odour of lilacs fills the stalls. '
   'Were you to have dinner with him tonight, sir?'
   'Dinner? I might have said anything to keep him quiet this afternoon! Of course, he hears only what he wants to hear.
   On the other hand, it's perfectly possible that he would use my name to obtain a reservation when he didn't have one. I told you, special this, special that! Give him whatever he wants. He's a lunatic but harmless enough. We'd send him back to Paris on the next plane if the fools he represents weren't paying so much for such third-rate material. He's cleared for the best illegal whores in Beijing! Just don't bother me, I'm entertaining. ' The minister abruptly hung up.
   His mind at ease, the army officer replaced the phone and walked outside to the night watchman. 'You were accurate,' he said.
   The foreigner was most agitated, sir. And very confused. ' 'I'm told both conditions are normal for him. ' The army man paused for a moment, then added, 'You may open the gate now. '
   'Certainly, sir. ' The guard reached into his pocket and pulled out a ring of keys. He stopped, looking over at the officer. 'I see no automobile, sir. It is many kilometres to any transportation. The Summer Palace would be the first-'
   'I've telephoned for a car. It should be here in ten or fifteen minutes. '
   'I'm afraid I will not be here then, sir. I can see the light of my relief's bicycle down the road now. I am off duty in five minutes. '
   'Perhaps I'll wait here,' said the officer, dismissing the watchman's words. 'There are clouds drifting down from the north. If they bring rain, I could use the gatehouse for shelter until my car arrives. ' 'I see no clouds, sir. ' 'Your eyes are not what they once were. ' 'Too true. ' The repeated ringing of a bicycle bell broke the outer silence. The relief guard approached the fence as the current watchman started to unlock the gate. These young ones announce themselves as though they were descending spirits from heaven. '
   'I should like to say something to you,' said the officer sharply, stopping the watchman in his tracks. 'Like the foreigner, I, too, do not wish to be embarrassed for catching an hour of much needed sleep in a beautiful resting place. Do you enjoy your job?
   'Very much, sir. '
   'And the opportunity to sell such things as Japanese binoculars turned over to you for safekeeping?'
   'Sir?'
   'My hearing's acute and your shrill voice is loud. '
   'Sir?'
   'Say nothing about me and I will say nothing about your unethical activities, which would undoubtedly send you into a field with a pistol put to your head. Your behaviour is reprehensible. '
   'I have never seen you, sir! I swear on the spirits in my soul!'
   'We in the party reject such thoughts. '
   Then on anything you like?
   'Open the gate and get out of here. '
   'First my bicycle, sir!' The watchman ran to the far edge of the fence, wheeled out his bicycle and unlocked the gate. He swung it back, nodding with relief as he literally threw the new man the ring of keys. Mounting the saddle of his bicycle, he sped off down the road.
   The second guard walked casually through the gate holding his bicycle by the handlebars. 'Can you imagine?' he said to the officer. The son of a Kuomintang warlord taking the place of a feeble-minded peasant who would have served us in the kitchens. '
   Bourne spotted the white notch in the tree trunk and drove the sedan off the road between two pine trees. He turned off the lights and got out. Rapidly he broke numerous branches to camouflage the car in the darkness. Instinctively, he had worked quickly – he would have done so in any event – but to his alarm, within seconds after he finished concealing the sedan, headlights appeared far down on the road to Beijing. He bent down, kneeling in the underbrush, and watched the car pass by, fascinated by the sight of a bicycle strapped to its roof, then concerned when moments later the noise of the engine was abruptly cut off; the car had stopped around the r bend ahead. Wary that some part of his own car had been seen by an experienced field man who would park out of sight and return on foot, Jason raced across the road into the tangled brush beyond the trees. He ran in spurts to his right, from pine to pine to the mid-point of the curve, where again he knelt in the shadowed greenery, waiting, studying every foot of the thoroughfare's borders, listening for any sound that did not belong to the hum of the deserted country road.
   Nothing. Then finally something, and when he saw what it was, it simply did not make sense. Or did it? The man on the bicycle with a friction light on the front fender was pedalling up the road as if his life depended on a speed he could not possibly attain. As he drew closer Bourne saw that it was the watchman... on a bicycle... and a bicycle had been strapped to the roof of the car that had stopped around the bend. Had it been for the watchman? Of course not; the car would have proceeded to the gate... A second bicycle? A second watchman – arriving on a bicycle? Of course. If what he believed was true, the guard at the gate would be changed, a conspirator put in his place.
   Jason had waited until the watchman's light was barely a speck in the distant darkness, then ran in the road back to his car and the tree with the notch in the bark. He now dug up the knapsack and began sorting out the articles of his trade. He removed his jacket and white shirt and put on a black turtleneck sweater; he secured the sheath of the hunting knife to the belt of his dark trousers and shoved the automatic with a single shell in it on the other side. He picked up two spools connected by a three-foot strand of thin wire, and thought that the lethal instrument was far better than the one he had fashioned in Hong Kong. Why not? He was much closer to his objective, if anything he had learned in that distant Medusa had any value. He rolled the wire on to both spools equally, and carefully pushed them down inside his trousers right back pocket, then picked up a small penlight and clipped it to the lower edge of his right front pocket. He placed a long double strand of outsized Chinese firecrackers, which was folded and held in place by an elastic band, in his left front pocket along with three books of matches and a small wax candle. The most awkward item was a hand-held medium-gauge wirecutter, the size of a pair of pliers. He inserted it head down into his left back pocket, then sprang the release so that the two short handles were pressed against the cloth, thus locking the instrument in its shell. Finally, he reached for a wrapped pile of clothing that was coiled so tight its dimensions were no more than that of a rolling pin. He centred it on his spine, pulled the elastic band around his waist, and snapped the clips into place. He might never use the clothes but then he could leave nothing to chance – he was too close!
   'I'll take him, Marie! I swear 'I'll take him and we'll have our life again. It's David and I love you so! I need you so!
   Stop it! There are no people, only objectives. No emotions, only targets and kills and men to be eliminated who stand in the way. I have no use for you, Webb. You're soft and I despise you. Listen to Delta – listen to Jason Bourne!
   The killer who was a killer by necessity buried the knapsack with his white shirt and tweed jacket and stood up between the pine trees. His lungs swelled at the thought of what was before him, one part of him frightened and uncertain, the other furious, ice-cold.
   Jason started walking north into the curve, going from tree to tree as he had done before. He reached the car that had passed him with the bicycle strapped to its roof; parked on the side of the road, it had a large sign taped under the front window. He edged closer and read the Chinese characters, smiling to himself as he did so.
   This is a disabled official vehicle of the government. Tampering with any part of the mechanism is a serious crime. Theft of this vehicle will result in the swift execution of the offender.
   In the lower left-hand corner there was a column in small print
   People's Printing Plant Number 72. Shanghai. Bourne wondered how many hundreds of thousands of such signs had been made by Printing Plant 72. Perhaps they took the place of a warranty, two with each vehicle.
   He backed into the shadows and continued around the bend until he reached the open space in front of the floodlit gate. His eyes followed the line of the green fence. On the left it disappeared into the forest darkness. On the right it extended perhaps two hundred feet beyond the gatehouse, running the length of a parking lot with numbered areas for tour buses and taxis, where it angled sharply south. As he expected, a bird sanctuary in China would be enclosed, a deterrent to poachers. As d'Anjou had phrased it: 'Birds have been revered in China for centuries. They're considered delicacies for the eyes and the palate. ' Echo. Echo was gone. He wondered if d'Anjou had suffered... no time.
   Voices! Bourne snapped his head back towards the gate, lurching into the nearest foliage. The Chinese army officer and a new, much younger watchman – no, now definitely a guard – walked out from behind the gatehouse. The guard was wheeling a bicycle while the officer held a small radio to his ear.
   They'll start arriving shortly after nine o'clock,' said the army man, lowering the radio and shoving down the antenna . 'Seven vehicles each three minutes apart. '
   The truck?'
   'It will be the last. '

The guard looked at his watch. 'Perhaps you should get the car then. If there's a telephone check, I know the routine. '
   'A good thought,' agreed the officer clamping the radio to his belt and taking the bicycle's right handlebar. 'I have no patience with those bureaucratic females who bark like chows. '
   'But you must have,' insisted the guard, laughing. 'And you must take out the lonely ones, the ugly ones, and perform at your best between their legs. Suppose you received a poor report? You could lose this heavenly job. ' 'You mean that feeble-headed peasant you relieved-' 'No, no,' broke in the guard, releasing the bicycle. They seek out the younger ones, the handsome ones, like me. From our photographs, of course. He's different; he pays them yuan from his sales of lost items. I sometimes wonder if he makes a profit. '
   'I have trouble understanding you civilians. '
   'Correction, if I may, Colonel. In the true China I am a captain in the Kuomintang. '
   Jason was stunned by the younger man's remark. What he had heard was incredible! In the true China I am a captain in the Kuomintang. The true China? Taiwan? Good God, had it started? The war of the two Chinas? Was that what these men were about? Madness! Wholesale slaughter! The Far East would be blown off the face of the earth! Christ! In his hunt for an assassin had he stumbled on the unthinkable'
   It was too much to absorb, too frightening, too cataclysmic. He had to move quickly, putting all thought on hold, concentrating only on movement. He read the radium dial of his watch. It was 8:54, and he had very little time to do what had to be done. He waited until the army officer bicycled past, then made his way cautiously, silently through the foliage until he saw the fence. He approached it, taking out the penlight from his pocket, flashing it twice to judge the dimensions. They were extraordinary. Its height was no less than 12 feet, and the top angled outwards like the inner barricade of a prison fence with coils of barbed wire strung along the parallel strands of steel. He reached into his back pocket, squeezed the handles together and removed the wirecutter. He then probed with his left hand in the darkness and when he found the criss-crossing wires closest to the ground, he placed the head of the cutter to the lowest.
   Had David Webb not been desperate, and Jason Bourne not furious, the job would not have been accomplished. The fence was no ordinary fence. The gauge of the metal was far, far stronger than that of any barricade enclosing the most violent criminals on earth. Each strand took all the strength Jason had as he manipulated the cutter back and forth until the metal snapped free. And each snap came, but only with the passing of precious minutes.
   Again Bourne looked at the glowing dial of his watch. 9:06. Using his shoulder, his feet digging into the ground, he bent the barely two-foot vertical rectangle inward through the fence. He crawled inside, sweat drenching his body, and lay on the ground breathing heavily. No time. 9:08.
   He rose unsteadily to his knees, shook his head to clear it and started to his right, holding the fence for support until he came to the corner that fronted the parking area. The floodlit gate was 200 feet to his left.
   Suddenly, the first vehicle arrived. It was a Russian Zia limousine, vintage late sixties. It circled into the parking lot and took the first position on the right beside the gatehouse. Six men got out and walked in martial unison towards what was apparently the main path of the bird sanctuary. They disappeared in the dark, the beams of flashlights illuminating their way. Jason watched closely; he would be taking that path.
   Three minutes later, precisely on schedule, a second car drove through the gate and parked alongside the Zia. Three men got out of the back while the driver and the front seat passenger talked. Seconds later the two men emerged and it was all Bourne could do to control himself as his stare centred on the passenger, the tall, slender passenger who moved like a cat as he walked to the rear of the automobile to join the driver. It was the assassin! The chaos at Kai Tak Airport had demanded the elaborate trap in Beijing. Whoever was stalking this assassin had to be caught quickly and silenced. Information had to be leaked, reaching the assassin's creator – for who else knew the hired killer's tactics better than the one who had taught them to him? Who else wanted revenge more than the Frenchman? Who else was capable of unearthing the other Jason Bourne? D'Anjou was the key, and the impostor's client knew it.
   And Jason Bourne's instincts – born of the gradually, painfully remembered Medusa – were accurate. When the trap had so disastrously collapsed inside Mao's tomb, a desecration that would shake the republic, the elite circle of conspirators had to regroup swiftly, secretly, beyond the scrutiny of their peers. An unparalleled crisis faced them; there was no time to lose in determining their next moves. Paramount, however, was secrecy. Wherever they met, secrecy was their most crucial weapon. In the true China lam a captain in the Kuomintang. Christ! Was it possible!
   Secrecy. For a lost kingdom? Where better could it be found than in the wild acreages of idyllic government bird sanctuaries, official parks controlled by powerful moles from the Kuomintang in Taiwan. A strategy that came out of desperation had led Bourne to the core of an incredible revelation. No time! It's not your business! Only he is!
   Eighteen minutes later the six cars were in place, the passengers dispersed, joining their colleagues somewhere within the dark forest of the sanctuary. Finally, twenty-one minutes after the arrival of the Russian limousine, a canvas-covered truck lumbered through the gate, making a wide circle and parking next to the last entry, no more than 30 feet from Jason. Shocked, he watched as bound and gagged men and women with gaping mouths held in place by strands of cloth were pushed out of the van; without exception they fell, rolling on the ground, moaning in protest and in pain. Then just within the covered opening a man was struggling, twisting his short, thin body and kicking at the two guards, who held him off and finally threw him down on the gravelled parking lot. It was a white man... Bourne froze. It was d"Anjou! In the glow of the distant floodlights he could see that Echo's face was battered, his eyes swollen. When the Frenchman pulled himself to his feet, his left leg kept bending and collapsing, yet he would not give in to his captors' taunting; he remained defiantly on his feet.
   Move! Do something! What? Medusa – we had signals. What were they? Oh God, what were they? Stones, sticks, rocks... gravel! Throw something to make a sound, a small distracting sound that could be anything – away from an area, ahead, as far ahead as possible! Then follow it up quickly. Quickly!
   Jason dropped to his knees in the shadows of the right-angled fence. He reached down and grabbed a small handful of gravel and threw it in the air over the heads of prisoners struggling to their feet. The brief clatter on the roofs of several cars was by and large lost amid the stifled cries of the bound captives. Bourne repeated the action, now with a few more stones. The guard standing next to d'Anjou glanced over in the direction of the splattering gravel, then dismissed it when his attention was suddenly drawn to a woman who had got to her feet and had started to run towards the gate. He raced over, grabbed her by the hair and threw her back into the group. Again Jason reached for more stones.
   He stopped all movement. D'Anjou had fallen to the ground, his weight on his right knee, his bound hands supporting him on the gravel. He watched the distracted guard, then slowly he turned in Bourne's direction. Medusa was never far away from Echo – he had remembered. Swiftly, Jason shoved the palm of his hand out, once, twice. The dim reflected light off his flesh was enough; the Frenchman's gaze was drawn to it. Bourne moved his head forward in the shadows. Echo saw him! Their eyes made contact. D'Anjou nodded, then turned away and awkwardly, painfully rose to his feet as the guard returned.
   Jason counted the prisoners. There were two women and five men including Echo. They were herded by the guards, both of whom had removed heavy night sticks from their belts and used them as prods, driving the group towards the path outside the parking lot. D'Anjou fell. He collapsed on his left leg, twisting his body as he dropped to the ground. Bourne watched closely; there was something strange about the fall. Then he understood. The fingers of the Frenchman's hands, which were tied together in front, were spread apart. Covering the movement with his body, Echo scooped up two fistfuls of gravel, and as a guard approached, pulling him to his feet, d'Anjou again stared briefly in Jason's direction. It was a signal. Echo would drop the tiny stones as long as they lasted so that his fellow Medusan would have a path to follow.
   The prisoners were directed to the right, out of the gravelled area, as the young guard, the 'captain in the Kuomintang', locked the gate. Jason ran out of the shadows of the fence into the shadows of the truck, pulling the hunting knife from its sheath as he crouched by the bonnet, looking at the gatehouse. The guard was just outside the door, speaking into the hand-held radio that connected him to the meeting ground. The radio would have to be taken out. So would the man.
   Tie him up. Use his clothes to gag him. Kill him! There can't be any additional risks. Listen to me! Bourne dropped to the ground, plunging the hunting knife into the truck's left front tyre, and as it deflated he ran to the rear and did the same. Rounding the back of the truck he raced into the space between it and the adjacent car. Pivoting back and forth as he moved forward, he slashed the remaining tyres of the truck and those on the left side of the car. He repeated the tactic down the line of vehicles until he had slashed all the tyres except those of the Russian Zia, only 10 yards or so away from the gatehouse. It was time for the guard. Tie him-
   Kill him! Each step has to be covered, and each step leads back to your wife!
   Silently, Jason opened the door of the Russian automobile, reached inside and released the hand brake. Closing the door as quietly as he had opened it, he judged the distance from the bonnet to the fence; it was approximately eight feet. Gripping the windowframe, he pressed his full weight forward, grimacing as the huge car began to roll. Giving the vehicle a final, surging shove, he dashed in front of the car next to the Zia, as the limousine crashed into the fence. He lowered himself out of sight and reached into his right back pocket.
   Hearing the crash, the startled guard ran around the gatehouse and into the parking lot, shifting his eyes in all directions, then staring at the stationary Zia. He shook his head as if accepting a vehicle's unexplained malfunction and walked over to the door.
   Bourne sprang out of the darkness, the spools in both hands, the wire arcing over the guard's head. It was over in less than three seconds, no sound emitted other than a sickening expulsion of air. The garrotte was lethal; the captain from the Kuomintang was dead.
   Removing the radio from the man's belt, Jason searched the clothes. There was always the possibility that something might be found, something of value. There was – were! The first was a weapon, not surprisingly, an automatic. The same calibre as the one he had taken from another conspirator in
   Mao's tomb. Special guns for special people, another recognition factor, the armaments consistent. Instead of one shell, he now had the full complement of nine in addition to a silencer that precluded disturbing the revered dead in a revered mausoleum. The second was a wallet that contained money and an official document proclaiming the bearer to be a member of the People's Security Forces. The conspirators had colleagues in high places. Bourne rolled the corpse under the limousine, slashed the left tyres and raced around the car, plunging his hunting knife into those on the right. The huge automobile settled into the ground. The captain from the Kuomintang was provided with a secure, concealed resting place.
   Jason ran to the gatehouse, debating whether or not to shoot out the floodlights and decided against it. If he survived he would need the illumination of the landmark. If! he had to survive! Marie! He went inside, kneeling below the window, and removed the shells from the guard's automatic, inserting them into his own. He then looked around for schedules or instructions; there was a roster tacked to the wall next to the ring of keys hanging on a nail. He grabbed the keys.
   A telephone rang! The ear-splitting bell reverberated off the glass walls of the small gatehouse. If there's a telephone check, I know the routine. A captain from the Kuomintang. Bourne rose, picked up the phone from the counter and crouched again, spreading his fingers over the mouthpiece.
   'Jing Shan," he said hoarsely. 'Yes?'
   'Hello, my thrusting butterfly,' answered a female voice in what Jason could hear was decidedly uncultured Mandarin. 'How are all your birds tonight?'
   'They're fine but I'm not. '
   'You don't sound like yourself. This is Wo, isn't it?'
   'With a terrible cold and vomiting and running back to the toilets every two minutes. Nothing stays down or inside. '
   'Will you be all right in the morning? I don't wish to be contaminated. '
   Take out the lonely ones, the ugly ones.. . 'I wouldn't want to miss our date-'
   'You'll be too weak. I'll call you tomorrow night. '
   'My heart withers like the dying flower. '
   'Cow dung!' The woman hung up.
   As he talked, Jason's eyes strayed to a pile of heavy coiled chain in the corner of the gatehouse; and he understood. In China, where so many mechanical things failed, the chain was a back-up should the lock in the centre of the gate refuse to close. On top of the coiled chain was an ordinary steel padlock. One of the keys on the ring should fit it, he thought as he inserted several until the lock sprang open. He gathered up the chain and started outside, then stopped, turned around and ripped the telephone out of the wall. One more piece of malfunctioning equipment.
   At the gate, he uncoiled the chain and wound the entire length around the mid-point of the two centre posts until there was a bulging mass of coiled steel. He pressed four links of the chain together so that the open spaces were clear, inserted the curved bar and secured the lock. Everything was stretched taut and contrary to generally accepted belief, firing a bullet into the mass of hard metal would not blow it apart, only heighten the possibility that a deflected bullet might kill the one firing and endanger the lives of anyone else in the area. He turned and started down the centre path, once more staying in the shadows of the border.
   The path was dark. The glow from the floodlit gate was blocked by the dense woods of the bird sanctuary, the light, however, still visible in the sky. Cupping his penlight in the palm of his left hand, his arm stretched downwards towards the ground, he could see every six or seven feet a small piece of gravel. Once he saw the first two or three he knew what to look for: tiny discolorations on the dark earth, the distance relatively consistent between each. D'Anjou had squeezed up each stone, probably between his thumb and forefinger, rubbing it as hard as he could to remove the grime of the parking lot and impart the oils of his flesh so that each might stand out. The battered Echo had not lost his presence of mind.
   Suddenly, there were two stones, not one, and only inches apart. Jason looked up, squinting in the tiny glow of the concealed penlight. The two stones were no accident but another signal. The main path continued straight ahead, but the one taken by the herded prisoners veered sharply to the right. Two stones meant a turn.
   Then, abruptly, there was a change in the relative distances between the pebbles. They were farther and farther apart, and just when Bourne thought there were no more, he saw another. Suddenly, there were two on the ground, marking another intersecting path. D'Anjou knew he was running out of stones and so had begun a second strategy, a tactic that quickly became clear to Jason. As long as the prisoners remained on a single path, there would be no stones, but when they turned into other paths two pieces of gravel indicated the direction.
   He skirted the edges of marshes and went deep into fields and' out of them, everywhere hearing the sudden fluttering of wings and the screeches of disturbed birds as they winged off into the moonlit sky. Finally there was only one narrow path and it led down into a glen of sorts-
   He stopped, instantly extinguishing the cupped penlight. Below, about a hundred feet down the narrow path, he saw the glow of a cigarette. It moved slowly, casually, up and down, an unconcerned man smoking, but still a man placed where he was for a reason. Then Jason studied the darkness beyond – because it was a different darkness; specks of light flickered now and then through the dense woods of the descending glen. Torches, perhaps, for there was nothing constant about the barely discernible light. Of course, torches. He had reached it. Below in the distant glen, beyond the guard with his cigarette, was the meeting ground.
   Bourne lurched into the tangled brush on the right side of the path. He started down only to find that the serpentine reeds were like fish nets, stalks woven together by years of erratic winds. To rip them apart or to break them would create noise inconsistent with the normal sounds of the sanctuary. Snaps and zipper-like scratchings were not the sudden fluttering of wings or the screeches of disturbed inhabitants. They were man-made and signified a different intrusion. He reached for his knife, wishing the blade were longer, and began a journey that had he remained on the path would have taken him no more than thirty seconds. It took him now nearly twenty minutes to slice his way silently to within sight of the guard.
   'My God! Jason held his breath, suppressing the cry in his throat. He had slipped; the slithering, hissing creature beneath his left foot was at least a yard and a half in length. It coiled around his leg, and in panic he clutched a part of the body, pulling it away from his flesh and severing it in mid-air with his knife. The snake thrashed violently about for several seconds, then the spasms stopped; it was dead, uncoiled at his foot. He closed his eyes and shivered, letting the moment pass. Again he crouched and crept closer to the guard, who was now lighting another cigarette or trying to light it with one match after another that failed to ignite. The guard seemed furious with his government subsidized book of matches.
   'Ma de shizi, shizi?' he said under his breath, the cigarette in his mouth.
   Bourne crawled forward, slicing the last few reeds of thick grass until he was six feet from the man. He sheathed the hunting knife and again reached into his right back pocket for the garrotte. There could be no misplaced blade that permitted a scream; there could only be utter silence broken by an unheard expulsion of air.
   He's a human being! A son, a brother, a father!
   He is the enemy. He's our target. That's all we have to know. Marie is yours, not theirs.
   Jason Bourne lunged out of the grass as the guard inhaled his first draft of tobacco. The smoke exploded from his gaping mouth. The garrotte was arced in place, the trachea severed as the patrol fell back in the underbrush, his body limp, his life over.
   Whipping out the bloody wire, Jason shook it in the grass, then rolled the spools together and shoved them back into his pocket. He pulled the corpse deeper into the foliage, away from the path, and began searching the pockets. He first found what felt like a thick wad of folded toilet tissue, not at all uncommon in China where such paper was continuously in short supply. He unsnapped his penlight, cupped it and looked at his find, astonished. The paper was folded and soft but it was not tissue. It was renminbi, thousands of yuan, more than several years' income for most Chinese. The guard at the gate, the 'captain of the Kuomintang', had money -somewhat more than Jason thought usual – but nowhere near this amount. A wallet was next. There were photographs of children, which Bourne quickly replaced, a driving permit, a housing allocation certificate and an official document proclaiming the bearer to be... a member of the People's Security Forces! Jason pulled out the paper he had taken from the first guard's wallet and placed both side by side on the ground. They were identical. He folded both and put them into his pocket. A last item was as puzzling as it was interesting. It was a pass allowing the bearer access to Friendship Stores, those shops that served foreign travellers and which were prohibited to the Chinese except for the highest government officials. Whoever the men were below, thought Bourne, they were a strange and rarefied group. Subordinate guards carried enormous sums of money, enjoyed official privileges light years beyond their positions, and bore documents identifying them as members of the government's secret police. If they were conspirators – and everything he had seen and heard from Shenzhen to Tian an men Square to this wildlife preserve would seem to confirm it – the conspiracy reached into the hierarchy of Beijing. No time! It's not your concern!
   The weapon strapped to the man's waist was, as he expected, similar to the one in his belt, as well as the gun he had thrown into the woods at the Jing Shan gate. It was a superior weapon, and weapons were symbols. A sophisticated weapon was no less a mark of status than an expensive watch, which might have many imitators, but those who had a schooled eye for the merchandise would know the genuine article. One might merely show it to confirm one's status, or deny it as government issue from an army that bought its weapons from every available source in the world. It was a subtle point of recognition; only one superior kind allocated to one elite circle. No time! It's no concern of yours! Move!
   Jason extracted the shells, put them in his pocket and threw the gun into the forest. He crawled out to the path and started slowly, silently, down towards the flickering light beyond the wall of high trees below.
   It was more than a glen, it was a huge well dug out of prehistoric earth, a rupture dating from the Ice Age that had not healed. Birds flapped above in fear and curiosity; owls hooted in angry dissonance. Bourne stood at the edge of the precipice looking down through the trees at the gathering below. A pulsating circle of torches illuminated the meeting ground. David Webb gasped, wanting to vomit, but the ice-cold command dictated otherwise.
   Stop it. Watch. Know what we're dealing with.
   Suspended from the limb of a tree by a rope attached to his bound wrists, his arms stretched out above him, his feet barely inches off the ground, a male prisoner writhed in panic, muted cries coming from his throat, his eyes wild and pleading above his gagged mouth.
   A slender, middle-aged man dressed in a Mao jacket and trousers stood in front of the violently twisting body. His right hand was extended, clasping the jewelled hilt of an upended sword, its blade long and thin, its point resting in the earth. David Webb recognized the weapon – weapon and not a weapon. It was a ceremonial sword of a fourteenth-century warlord, a ruthless class of militarists who destroyed villages and towns and whole countrysides even suspected of opposing the will of the Yuan emperors, Mongols who left nothing but fire and death and the screams of children in their wake. The sword was also used for ceremonies far less symbolic, far more brutal than appearances at the dynasty's courts. David felt a wave of nausea and apprehension gripping him as he watched the scene below.
   'Listen to me!' shouted the slender man in front of the prisoner as he turned to address his audience. His voice was highpitched but deliberate, instructive. Bourne did not know him, but his was a face that would be hard to forget. The close-cropped grey hair, the gaunt, pale features – above all, the stare. Jason could not see the eyes clearly but it was enough that the fires of the torches danced off them. They, too, were on fire. Behind him, silent, almost passive, stood the impostor. The man who looked like David – No, like
   Jason Bourne.
   'The nights of the great blade begin? the slender man screamed suddenly. 'And they will continue night after night until all those who would betray us are sent to helll Each of these poisonous insects has committed crimes against our holy cause, crimes we are aware of, all of which could lead to the great crime demanding the great blade. ' The speaker turned to the suspended prisoner. ' You! Indicate the truth and only the truth! Do you know the Occidental?'
   The prisoner shook his head, throated moans accompanying the wild movement.
   'Liar!' shrieked a voice from the crowd. 'He was in the Tian
   an men this afternoon!'
   Again the prisoner shook his head spastically in panic . 'He spoke against the true China!' shouted another. 'I heard him in the Hua gong Park among the young people!' 'And in the coffee house on the Xidan bei!' The prisoner moved convulsively, his wide, stunned eyes fixed in shock on the crowd. Bourne began to understand. The man was hearing lies and-he did not know why, but Jason knew. A Star Chamber inquisition was in session; a troublemaker, or a man with doubts, was being eliminated in the name of a greater crime, in the remote possibility that he might have committed it. The nights of the great blade begin -night after night! It was a reign of terror inside a small, bloody kingdom within a vast land where centuries of bloodstained warlords had prevailed.
   'He did these things?' shouted the gaunt-faced orator. 'He said these things?'
   A frenzied chorus of affirmatives filled the glen.
   'In the Tian an men...!'
   'He talked to the Occidental...!'
   'He betrayed us all...!'
   'He caused the trouble at the hated Mao's tomb...!'
   'He would see us dead, our cause lost...!'
   'He speaks against our leaders and wants them killed...!'
   'To oppose our leaders,' said the orator, his voice calm but rising, 'is to vilify them, and, by so doing, to remove the care one must accord the precious gift called life. When these things occur, the gift must be taken away. '
   The suspended man writhed more furiously, his cries growing louder and matching the moans of the other prisoners who were forced to kneel in front of the speaker in full view of the imminent execution. Only one kept refusing, continuously trying to rise in disobedience and disrespect, and continuously beaten down by the guard nearest him. It was Philippe d'Anjou. Echo was sending another message to Delta, but Jason Bourne could not understand it.
   '...this diseased, ungrateful hypocrite, this teacher of the young who was welcomed like a brother into our dedicated ranks because we believed the words he spoke – so courageously, we thought – in opposition to our motherland's tormentors, is no more than a traitor. His words are hollow. He is a sworn companion of the treacherous winds and they would take him to our enemies, the tormentors of Mother China! In his death may he find purification!' The now shrill-voiced orator pulled the sword out of the ground. He raised it above his head.
   And so that his seed may not be spread, recited the scholar David Webb to himself, recalling the words of the ancient incantation and wanting to close his eyes, but unable to, ordeted by his other self not to. We destroy the well from which the seed springs, praying to the spirits to destroy all it has entered here on earth.
   The sword arced vertically down, hacking into the groin and genitalia of the screaming, twisting body.
   And so that his thoughts may not be spread, diseasing the innocent and the weak, we pray to the spirits to destroy them wherever they may be, as we here destroy the well from which they spring.
   The writhing body fell to the ground under a shower of blood from the severed head, which the slender man with the eyes of fire continued to abuse with the blade until there was no remnant of a human face.
   The rest of the terrified prisoners filled the glen with wails of horror as they grovelled on the ground, soiling themselves, begging for mercy. Except one. D'Anjou rose to his feet and stared in silence at the messianic man with the sword. The guard approached. Hearing him, the Frenchman turned and spat in his face. The guard, mesmerized, perhaps sickened by what he had seen, backed away. What was Echo doing! What was his message!
   Bourne looked back to the executioner, the man with the gaunt face and close-cropped grey hair. He was wiping the long blade of the sword with a white silk scarf as aides removed the body and what was left of the prisoner's skull. He pointed to a striking, attractive woman who was being dragged by the two guards over to the rope. Her posture was erect, defiant. Delta studied his face. Beneath the maniacal eyes, the man's thin mouth was stretched into a slit. He was smiling.
   He was dead. Some time. Somewhere. Perhaps tonight. A butcher, a bloodstained, blind fanatic who would plunge the Far East into an unthinkable war – China against China, the rest of the world to follow.
   Tonight!