27
   This woman is a courier, one of those to whom we gave our trust,' the orator went on, gradually raising his voice like a fundamentalist minister, preaching the gospel of love while his eye is on the work of the devil. The trust was not earned but given in faith, for she is the wife of one of our own, a brave soldier, a first son of an illustrious family of the true China. A man who as I speak now risks his life by infiltrating our enemies in the south. He, too, gave her his trust... and she betrayed that trust, she betrayed that gallant husband, she betrayed us all! She is no more than a whore who sleeps with the enemy! And while her lust is satiated how many secrets has she revealed, how much deeper is her betrayal? Is she the Occidental's contact here in Beijing? Is she the one who informs on us, who tells our enemies what to look for, what to expect? How else could this terrible day have happened? Our most experienced, dedicated men set a trap for our enemies that would have cut them down, ridding ourselves of Western criminals who see only riches to be won by grovelling in front of China's tormentors. It is related that she was at the airport this morning. The airport! Where the trap was in progress! Did she give her wanton body to a dedicated man, drugging him, perhaps? Did her lover tell her what to do, what to say to our enemies! What has this harlot done?
   The scene was set, thought Bourne. A case so flagrantly leap-frogging over facts and 'related' facts that even a court in Moscow would send a puppet prosecutor back to the drawing board. The reign of terror within the warlord tribe continued. Weed out the misfits among the misfits. Find the traitor. Kill anyone who might be he or she.
   A subdued but angry chorus of whore!' and 'traitor!' came from the audience as the bound woman struggled with the two guards. The orator held up his hands for silence. It was immediate.
   'Her lover was a despicable journalist for the Xinhua News Agency, that lying, discredited organ of the despicable regime. I say "was", for since an hour ago the loathsome creature is dead, shot through the head, his throat cut for all to know that he, too, was a traitor! I have spoken myself to this whore's husband for I accord him honour. He instructed me to do as our ancestral spirits demand. He wants nothing further to do with her-'
   'Aiyaaa!' With extraordinary strength and fury, the woman ripped the tightly bound cloth from her mouth. 'Liar!' she screamed. 'Killer of killers! You killed a decent man and I have betrayed no one! It is I who have been betrayed! I was not at the airport, and you know it! I have never seen this Occidental and you know that, too! I knew nothing of this trap for Western criminals and you can see the truth in my face! How could it
   'By whoring with a dedicated servant of the cause and corrupting him, drugging him! By offering him your breasts and misused tunnel-of-corruption, withholding, withdrawing, until the herbs make him mad!'
   ' You're mad! You say these things, these lies, because you sent my husband south and came to me for many days, first with promises and then with threats. I was to service you. It was my duty, you said! You lay with me and I learned things-'
   'Woman, you are contemptible! I came to you pleading with you to keep honour to your husband, with the cause! To abandon your lover and seek forgiveness.'
   'A lie! Men came to you, taipans from the south sent by my husband, men who could not be seen near your high offices. They came secretly to the shops below my flat, the flat of a so called honourable widow – another lie you left for me and my child!'
   ' Whore!' shrieked the wild-eyed man with the sword.
   'Liar to the depths of the northern lakes!' shouted the woman in reply. 'Like you, my husband has many women and cares nothing for me! He beats me and you tell me it is his right, for he is a great son of the true China! I carry messages from one city to another, which if found on me would bring me torture and death, and I receive only scorn, never paid for my rail fares, or the yuan withheld from my place of work, for you tell me it is my duty! How is any girl child to eat? The child your great son of China barely recognizes, for he wanted only sons!'
   The spirits would not grant you sons, for they would be women, disgracing a great house of China! You are the traitor! You went to the airport and contacted our enemies, permitting a great criminal to escape! You would enslave us for a thousand years-'
   'You would make us your cattle for ten thousand!'
   'You don't know what freedom is, woman. '
   'Freedom! From your mouth? You tell me – you tell us -you will give us back the freedoms our elders had in the true China, but what freedoms, liar! The freedom that demands blind obedience, that takes the rice from my child, a child dismissed by a father who believes only in lords – warlords, landlords, lords of the earth! Aiya!' The woman turned to the crowd, rushing forward, away from the orator. 'You!' she cried. 'All of you! I have not betrayed you, nor our cause, but I have learned many things. All was not as this great liar says! There is much pain and restriction, which we all know, but there was pain before, restriction before!... My lover was no evil man, no blind follower of the regime, but a literate man, a gentle man, and a believer in eternal China! He wanted the things we want! He asked only for time to correct the evils that had infected the old men in the committees that lead us. There will be changes, he told me. Some are showing the way. Now! ... Do not permit the liar to do this to me! Do not permit him to do it to you!'
   ' Whore! Traitor!' The blade came slashing through the air decapitating the woman. Her headless body lurched to the left, her head to the right, both spouting geysers of blood. The orator then swung the sword down, slicing into her remains, but the silence that had fallen on the crowd was heavy, awesome. He stopped; he had lost the moment. He regained it swiftly. 'May the sacred ancestral spirits grant her peace and purification!' he shouted, his eyes roving, stopping, staring at each member of his congregation. 'For it is not in hatred that I end her life, but in compassion for her weakness. She will find peace and forgiveness. The spirits will understand – but we must understand here in the motherland) We cannot deviate from our cause – we must be strong! We must-'
   Bourne had had enough of this maniac. He was hatred incarnate. And he was dead. Some time. Somewhere. Perhaps tonight – if possible, tonight!
   Delta unsheathed his knife and started to his right, crawling through the dense Medusan woods, his pulse strangely quiet, a furious core of certainty growing within him – David Webb had vanished. There were so many things he could not remember from those clouded faraway days, but there was much, too, that came back to him. The specifics were unclear but not his instincts. Impulses directed him, and he was at one with the darkness of the forest. The jungle was not an adversary; instead it was his ally for it had protected him before, saved him before in those distant, disordered memories. The trees and the vines and the underbrush were his friends; he moved through and around them like a wildcat, sure-footed and silent.
   He turned to his left above the ancient glen and began his descent, focusing on the tree where the assassin stood so casually. The orator had once again altered his strategy in dealing with his congregation. He was cutting his losses in place of cutting up another woman – a sight the sons of mothers could barely accept, regardless of any earthly cause. The impassioned pleas of a dead, mutilated female prisoner had to be put out of mind. A master of his craft – his art, perhaps – the orator knew when to revert to the gospel of love, momentarily omitting Lucifer. Aides had swiftly removed the evidence of violent death and the remaining woman was summoned with a gesture of the ceremonial sword. She was no more than eighteen, if that, and a pretty girl, weeping and vomiting as she was dragged forward.
   'Your tears and your illness are not called for, child,' said the orator in his most paternal voice. 'It was always our intent to spare you, for you were asked to perform duties beyond your competence at your age, privileged to learn secrets beyond your understanding. Youth frequently speaks when it should be silent ... You were seen in the company of two Hong Kong brothers – but not our brothers. Men who work for the disgraced English crown, that enfeebled, decadent government that sold out the Motherland to our tormentors. They gave you trinkets, pretty jewellery and lip rouge and French perfume from Kowloon. Now, child, what did you give them?'
   The young girl, hysterically coughing vomit through her gag, shook her head furiously, the tears streaming down her face.
   'Her hand was beneath a table, between a man's legs, in a caf6 on the Guangquem!' shouted an accuser.
   'It was one of the pigs who work for the British!' added another.
   ' Youth is subject to arousal,' said the orator, looking up at those who had spoken, his eyes glaring as if commanding silence. There is forgiveness in our hearts for such young exuberance – as long as betrayal is no part of that arousal, that exuberance. '
   'She was at the Qian men Gate...!'
   'She was not in the Tian an men. I, myself, have determined it!' shouted the man with the sword. 'Your information is wrong. The only question that remains is a simple one. Child! Did you speak of us? Could your words have been conveyed to our enemies here or in the south?'
   The girl writhed on the ground, her whole body swaying frantically back and forth, denying the implied accusation.
   'I accept your innocence as a father would, but not your foolishness, child. You are too free with your associations, your love of trinkets. When these do not serve us, they can be dangerous. '
   The young woman was put in the custody of a smug obese middle-aged member of the chorus for 'instruction and reflective meditation'. From the expression on the older man's face it was clear that his mandate would be far more inclusive than that prescribed. And when he was finished with her, a child-siren who had elicited secrets from the Beijing hierarchy who demanded young girls – in the belief that such liaisons extended their lifespans – would disappear.
   Two of the three remaining Chinese men were literally put on trial. The initial charge was trafficking in drugs, their network the Shanghai-Beijing axis. Their crime, however, was not in the distribution of narcotics but in constantly skimming off the profits, depositing huge sums of money into personal accounts in numerous Hong Kong banks. Several in the audience stepped forward to corroborate the damning evidence, stating that as subordinate distributors they had given the two'bosses' great sums of cash never recorded in the organization's secret books. That was the initial charge, but not the major one. It came with the orator's high-pitched singsong voice.
   'You travel south to Kowloon. Once, twice, often three times a month. The Kai Tak Airport... You! screamed the zealot with the sword, pointing to the prisoner on his left . 'You flew back this afternoon. You were in Kowloon last night. Last night! The Kai Tak! We were betrayed last night at the Kai Tak! The orator walked ominously out of the light of the torches to the two petrified men kneeling in front; 'Your devotion to money transcends your devotion to our cause,' he intoned like a sorrowful but angry patriarch. 'Brothers in blood and brothers in thievery. We've known for many weeks now, known because there was so much anxiety in your greed. Your money had to multiply like rodents in putrid sewers, so you went to the criminal triads in Hong Kong. How enterprising, industrious, and how grossly stupid! You think certain triads are unknown to us or we to them? You think there are not areas where our interests might converge? You think they have less loathing for traitors than we do?' The two bound brothers grovelled in the dirt, rising to their knees in supplication, shaking their heads in denial. Their muted cries were pleas to be heard, to be allowed to speak. The orator approached the prisoner on his left and yanked the gag downward, the rope scraping the man's flesh.
   'We betrayed no one, great sir!' he shrieked, ' I betrayed no one! I was at the Kai Tak, yes, but only in the crowds. To observe, sir! To be filled with joy!'
   'To whom did you speak?'
   'No one, great sir! Oh, yes, the clerk. To confirm my flight for the next morning, sir, that was all, I swear on the spirits of our ancestors. My young brother's and mine, sir. '
   'The money. What about the money you stole!'
   'Not stole, great sir. I swear it! We believed in our proud hearts – hearts made proud by our cause – that we could use the money to advantage for the true China! Every yuan of profit was to be returned to the cause?
   The crowd thundered its response. Derisive catcalls were hurled at the prisoners; dual thematic fugues of treachery and theft filled the glen. The orator raised his arms for silence. The voices trailed off.

'Let the word be spread,' he said slowly with gathering force. 'Those of our growing band who might harbour thoughts of betrayal be warned. There is no mercy in us, for none was shown us. Our cause is righteous and pure and even thoughts of treachery are an abomination. Spread the word. You don't know who we are or where we are – whether a bureaucrat in a ministry or a member of the Security Police. We are nowhere and we are everywhere. Those who waver and doubt are dead... The trial of these poisonous dogs is over. It's up to you, my children. '
   The verdict was swift and unanimous: Guilty on the first count, probable on the second. The sentence: One brother would die, the other would live, to be escorted south to Hong Kong, where the money would be retrieved. The choice was to be decided by the age-old ritual of Yi zang li, literally 'one funeral'. Each man was given an identical knife with blades that were serrated and razor sharp. The area of combat was a circle, the diameter ten paces. The two brothers faced each other and the savage ritual began as one made a desperate lunge and the other sidestepped away from the attack, his blade lacerating the attacker's face.
   The duel within the deadly circle, as well as the audience's primitive reactions to it, covered whatever noise Bourne made in his decision to move quickly. He raced down through the underbrush, snapping branches and slashing away the webbed reeds of high grass until he was twenty feet behind the tree where the assassin was standing. He would return and move closer, but first there was d'Anjou. Echo had to know he was there.
   The Frenchman and the last male Chinese prisoner were off to the right of the circle, the guards flanking them. Jason crept forward as the crowd roared insults and encouragement at the gladiators. One of the combatants, both now covered with blood, had delivered a near-fatal blow with his knife, but the life he wanted to end would not surrender. Bourne was no more than eight or nine feet from d'Anjou; he felt around the ground and picked up a fallen branch. With another roar from the crazed audience he snapped it twice. From the three sections he held in his hand he stripped the foliage and reduced the bits of wood into manageable sticks. He took aim and hurled the first end over end, keeping the trajectory low. It fell short of the Frenchman's legs. He threw the second; it struck the back of Echo's knees! D'Anjou nodded his head twice to acknowledge Delta's presence. Then the Frenchman did a strange thing. He began moving his head slowly back and forth. Echo was trying to tell him something. Suddenly, d'Anjou's left leg collapsed and he fell to the ground. He was yanked up harshly by the guard on his right, but the man's concentration was on the bloody battle taking place within the one-funeral circle.
   Again Echo shook his head slowly, deliberately, finally holding it steady and staring to his left, his gaze on the grey-haired bystander, who had moved away from the tree to watch the deadly combat. And then he turned his head once more, now directing his stare at the maniac with the sword.
   D'Anjou collapsed again, this time struggling to his feet before the guard could touch him. As he rose he moved his thin shoulders back and forth. And breathing deeply, Bourne closed his eyes in the only brief moment of grief he could permit himself. The message was clear. Echo was taking himself out, telling Delta to go after the impostor – and while doing so to kill the evangelical butcher. D'Anjou knew he was too battered, too weak to be any part of an escape. He would only be an impediment, and the impostor came first... Marie came first. Echo's life was over. But he would have his bonus in the maniacal butcher's death, the zealot who would surely take his life.
   A deafening scream filled the glen; the crowd was abruptly silent. Bourne snapped his head to the left, where he could see beyond the edge of the row of onlookers. What he saw was as sickening as anything he had observed during the past violent minutes. The messianic orator had sunk his ceremonial sword in the neck of a combatant; he pulled it out as the bloodied corpse rattled in death and sprawled on the ground. The minister of killing raised his head and spoke.
   'Surgeon?
   'Yes, sir?' said a voice from the crowd.
   'Tend to the survivor. Mend him as best you can for his imminent journey south. If I'd let this continue both would be dead and our money gone. These close-knit families bring years of hostility to the Yi zang li. Take his brother away and throw him into the swamps with the others. All will be sweet carrion for the more aggressive birds. '
   'Yes, sir. ' A man with a black medicine bag stepped forward into the dirt-ringed circle as the dead body was hauled away and a stretcher appeared out of the darkness from the far end of the crowd. Everything had been planned, everything considered. The doctor administered a hypodermic into the arm of the moaning, blood-covered brother who was carried out of the circle of brotherly death. Wiping his sword with a fresh silk cloth, the orator nodded his head in the direction of the two remaining prisoners.
   Stunned, Bourne watched as the Chinese beside d'Anjou calmly undid his bound wrists and reached up to the back of his neck, untying the supposedly strangling strip of cloth and rope that had apparently kept his gaping mouth incapable of any sound but throaty moans. The man walked over to the orator and spoke in a raised voice, addressing both his leader and the crowd of followers. 'He says nothing and he reveals nothing, yet his Chinese is fluent and he had every opportunity to speak to me before we boarded the truck and the gags were in place. Even then I communicated with him by loosening my own, offering to do the same for him. He refused. He is obstinate and corruptly brave, but I am sure he knows what he will not tell us. '
   'Tong ku, long ku!' came wild shouts from the crowd, demanding torture. To these were added fen hong guil narrowing the site of the pain to be inflicted to the testicles of the Occidental.
   'He is old and frail and will collapse into unconsciousness, as he has done before,' insisted the false prisoner. Therefore I suggest the following, with our leader's permission. '
   'If there's a chance of success, whatever you wish,' the orator said.
   'We have offered him his freedom in exchange for the information but he does not trust us. He's been dealing with the Marxists too long. I propose taking our reluctant ally to the Beijing airport and using my position to secure him passage on the next plane to Kai Tak. I will clear him through immigration and all he must do before boarding with his ticket is give me the information. What could be a greater show of trust? We will be in the midst of our enemies, and if his conscience is so offended, all he has to do is raise his voice. He has seen and heard more than any person who ever walked away from us alive. We might in time become true allies, but first there must be trust. '
   The orator studied the provocateur's face, then shifted his gaze to d'Anjou, who stood erect, peering out of his swollen eyes, listening without expression. Then the man with the sword turned and addressed the grey-haired man by the tree, suddenly speaking in English. 'We have offered to spare this insignificant manipulator if he tells us where his comrade can be found. Do you, agree?'
   'The Frenchman will lie to you!' said the killer in a clipped British accent, stepping forward.
   To what purpose?' asked the orator. 'He has his life, his freedom. He has little or no regard for others, his entire dossier is proof of that. '
   'I'm not sure,' said the Englishman. They worked together in an outfit called Medusa. He talked about it all the time. There were rules – codes, you might call them. He'll lie. '
   The infamous Medusa was made up of human refuse, men who would kill their brothers in the field if it could save their own lives. '
   The assassin shrugged. 'You asked for my opinion,' he said. That's it. '
   'Let us ask the one to whom we are prepared to offer mercy. ' The orator reverted to Mandarin, issuing orders as the impostor returned to the tree and lit a cigarette. D'Anjou was brought forward. 'Untie his hands; he's not going anywhere. And remove the rope from his mouth. Let him be heard. Show him we can extend... trust, as well as less attractive aspects of our nature. '
   D'Anjou shook his hands at his sides, then raised his right and massaged his mouth. 'Your trust is as compassionate and convincing as your treatment of prisoners,' he said in English.
   'I forgot. ' The orator raised his eyebrows. 'You understand us. '
   'Somewhat more than you think,' Echo replied.
   'Good. I prefer speaking English. In a sense, this is between us, isn't itT
   There's nothing between us. I try never to deal with madmen, they're so unpredictable. ' D'Anjou glanced over at the impostor by the tree. 'I've made mistakes, of course. But somehow I think that one will be rectified. '
   'You can live,' said the orator.
   'For how long?'
   'Longer than tonight. The remainder is up to you, your health and your abilities. '
   'No, it's not. It's all ended when I walk off that plane in Kai Tak. You won't miss as you did yesterday evening. There'll be no security forces, no bulletproof limousines, just one man walking in or out of the terminal, and another with a silenced pistol or a knife. As your rather unconvincing fellow "prisoner" put it, I've been here tonight. I've seen. I've heard.
   And what I've seen and heard marks me for death... Incidentally, if he wonders why I didn't confide in him, tell him he was far too obvious, too anxious – and that suddenly loosened mouthpiece. Really! He could never become a pupil of mine. Like you, he has unctuous words, but he's fundamentally stupid. '
   'Like me?'
   'Yes, and there's no excuse for you. You're a well-educated man, a world traveller – it's in your speech. Where did you study? Was it Oxford? Cambridge?'
   The London School of Economics,' said Sheng Chou Yang, unable to stop himself.
   'Well done. You're still proud of the old place, as the English say. Yet for all that you're hollow. A clown. You're not a scholar, not even a student, only a zealot with no sense of reality. You're a fool. '
   'You dare say this to me?'
   'Kai sai zuan,' said Echo, turning to the crowd. 'Shenjing bing! he added, laughing, explaining that he was conversing with a crazy corkscrew.
   'Stop that!'
   'Wei shemme?' continued the enfeebled Frenchman, asking Why – including the crowd as he spoke in Chinese. 'You're taking these people to their oblivion because of your lunatic theories of changing lead into gold! Piss into wine! But as that unfortunate woman said – whose gold, whose wine! Yours or theirsT D'Anjou swept his hand towards the crowd.
   'I warn you!' cried Sheng in English.
   'You see!' shouted Echo hoarsely, weakly in Mandarin. 'He will not talk with me in your language! He hides from you! This spindly-legged little man with the big sword – is it to make up for what he lacks elsewhere? Does he hack women with his blade because he has no other equipment and can do nothing else with them? And look at that balloon head with the foolish flat top-'
   'Enough?
   '... and the eyes of a screeching, disobedient, ugly child! As I say, he's nothing more than a crazy corkscrew. Why give him your time? He'll give you only piss in return, no wine at all!'
   I'd stop it if I were you,' said Sheng, stepping forward with his sword. They'll kill you before I do. '
   'Somehow I doubt that,' answered d'Anjou in English. 'Your anger clouds your hearing, Monsieur Windbag. Did you not detect a snicker or two? I did. '
   'Gou le!' roared Sheng Chou Yang, ordering Echo to be silent . 'You will give us the information we must have,' he continued, his shrill Chinese the bark of a man accustomed to being obeyed. The games are finished and we will not tolerate you any longer! Where is the killer you brought from Macao?'
   'Over there,' said d'Anjou casually, gesturing his head towards the impostor.
   'Not him! The one who came before. This madman you called back from the grave to avenge you! Where is your rendezvous? Where do you meet? Your base here in Beijing, where is it?'
   There is no rendezvous,' answered Echo, reverting to English. 'No base of operations, no plans to meet. '
   There were plans! You people always concern yourselves with contingencies, emergencies. It's how you survive!' 'Survived. Past tense, I fear. '
   Sheng raised his sword. 'You tell us or you die -unpleasantly, monsieur. '
   'I'll tell you this much. If he could hear my voice, I would explain to him that you are the one he must kill. For you are the man who will bring all Asia to its knees with millions drowning in oceans of their brothers' blood. He must tend to his own business, I understand that, but I would tell him with my last breath that you must be part of that business! I would tell him to move. Quickly?
   Mesmerized by d'Anjou's performance, Bourne winced as if struck. Echo was sending a final signal! Move! Now! Jason reached into his left front pocket and pulled out the contents as he crawled swiftly through the woods beyond the staging area of the savage rituals. He found a large rock rising several feet out of the ground. The air was still behind it and its size more than enough to conceal his work. As he started he could hear d'Anjou's voice; it was weak and tremulous, but nevertheless defiant. Echo was finding resources within himself not only to face his final moments but also to buy Delta the precious few he needed.
   '... Don't be hasty, mon general Genghis Khan, or whoever you are. I am an old man and your minions have done their work. As you observed, I'm not going anywhere. On the other hand, I'm not sure I care for where you intend to send me... We were not clever enough to perceive the trap you set for us. If we had been, we would never have walked into it, so why do you think we were clever enough to agree on a rendezvous?'
   'Because you did walk into it,' said Sheng Chou Yang, calmly. 'You followed – he followed – the man from Macao into the mausoleum. The madman expected to come out. Your contingencies would include both chaos and a rendezvous. '
   'On the surface your logic might appear unassailable-'
   'Where?' shouted Sheng.
   'My inducement?'
   'Your lifer'.
   'Oh, yes, you mentioned that. '
   'Your time runs short. '
   'I shall know my time, monsieur!' A last message. Delta understood.
   Bourne struck a match, cupping the flame, and lit the thin wax candle, the fuse embedded an eighth of an inch below the top. He quickly crawled deeper into the woods, unravelling the string attached to the two double rolls of fireworks. He reached the end and started back towards the tree.
   '... What guarantee do I have for my life!' persisted Echo, perversely enjoying himself, a master of chess plotting his own inevitable death.
   The truth,' replied Sheng. 'It's all you need. '
   'But my former pupil tells you that I'll lie – as you have lied so consistently this evening. ' D'Anjou paused and repeated his statement in Mandarin. 'Liao jie?' he said to the onlookers, asking if they understood.
   'Stop that!'
   'You repeat yourself incessantly. You really must learn to control it. It's such a tiresome habit. '
   'And my patience is at an end! Where is your madman?
   'In your line of work, mon general, patience is not only a virtue but a necessity.'
   'Hold' shouted the impostor, springing away from the tree, astonishing everyone. 'He's stalling you! He's playing with you. I know him!'
   'For what reason?' asked Sheng, his sword poised.
   'I don't know,' said the British commando. 'I just don't like it, and that's reason enough for me!'
   Ten feet behind the tree, Delta looked at the radium dial of his watch, concentrating on the second hand. He had timed the burning candle in the car, and the time was now. Closing his eyes, pleading with something he could not understand, he grabbed a handful of earth and hurled it high to the right of the tree, arcing it farther to the right of d'Anjou. As he heard the first drops of the shower, Echo raised his voice to the highest roar he could command.
   'Deal with you!' he screamed. 'I would as soon deal with the archangel of darkness! I may yet have to, but then again I may not, for a merciful God will know that you have committed sins beyond any I have approached, and I leave this earth wanting only to take you with me! Apart from your obscene brutality, mon general, you are a fatuous, hollow bore, a cruel joke on your people! Come die with me, General Dung!'
   With his final words, d'Anjou flung himself at Sheng Chou Yang, clawing at his face, spitting into the wide, astonished eyes. Sheng leaped back swinging the ceremonial sword, slashing the blade into the Frenchman's head. Mercifully quick, it was over for Echo.
   It began! A staccato burst of fireworks filled the glen, resounding through the woods, swelling in intensity as the stunned crowd reacted in shock. Men threw themselves to the ground, others scrambled behind trees and into the underbrush, yelling in panic, frightened for their lives.
   The impostor lurched behind the treetrunk, crouching, a weapon in his hand. Bourne – the silencer affixed to his gun – strode up to the killer and stood over him. He took aim and fired, blowing the weapon out of the other man's hand, the flesh between the commando's thumb and forefinger erupting in blood. The killer spun around, his eyes wide, his mouth gaping in shock. Jason fired again, creasing his opponent's cheekbone.
   'Turn around!' ordered Bourne, shoving the barrel of his gun into the commando's left eye. 'Now, grab the tree! Grab it! Both arms, tight, tighter? Jason rammed the weapon into the back of the killer's neck as he peered around the trunk. Several of the torches that were stuck in the ground had been ripped up, their flames extinguished.
   Another series of explosions came from deeper within the woods. Panicked men began to fire their guns in the direction of sounds. The impostor's leg moved! Then his right hand! Bourne fired two shots directly into the tree; the bullets seared the wood, shattering the bark less than an inch from the commando's skull. He gripped the trunk, his body still, rigid.
   'Keep your head to the left!' said Jason harshly. 'You move once more and it's blown away!' Where was he? Where was the killer maniac with the sword? Delta owed that much to Echo. Where... there! The man with the fanatical eyes was rising from the ground, looking everywhere at once, shouting orders to those near him and demanding a weapon. Jason stepped away from the tree and raised his gun. The zealot's head stopped moving. Their eyes met. Bourne fired just as Sheng pulled a guard in front of him. The soldier arched backward, his neck snapping under the impact of the bullets. Sheng held on to the body, using it as a shield, as Jason fired twice more, jolting the guard's corpse. He could not do it! Whoever the maniac was, he was covered by a dead soldier's body! Delta could not do what Echo had told him to do! General Dung would survive! I'm sorry, Echo! No time! Move! Echo was gone... Marie!
   The impostor shifted his head, trying to see. Bourne squeezed the trigger. Bark exploded in the killer's face as he whipped his hands up to his eyes, then shook his head, blinking to regain his vision.
   'Get up!' ordered Jason, gripping the assassin's throat and pivoting the commando towards the path he had broken through the underbrush as he came down into the glen. 'You're coming with me!'
   A third series of fireworks, deeper still in the woods, exploded in rapid, overlapping bursts. Sheng Chou Yang screamed hysterically, commanding his followers to go in two directions – towards the vicinity of the tree and after the detonating sounds. The explosions stopped as Bourne propelled his prisoner into the brush, ordering the killer to lie prone, Jason's foot on the back of his neck. Bourne crouched, feeling the ground; he picked up three rocks and threw them in the air one after another past the men searching the area around the tree, each rock thrown farther away. The diversion had its effect.
   'Bu! Caodi nerr
   They began moving forward, weapons at the ready. Several rushed ahead, plunging into the scrub. Others joined them as the fourth and last cannonade of fireworks burst forth. In spite of the distance the reports were as loud or louder than the previous explosions. It was the final stage, the climax of the display, longer and more booming than the explosions preceding it.
   Delta knew that time was now measured in minutes, and if ever a forest was a friend, this one had to be now. In moments, perhaps seconds, men would find the hollow shells of exploded fireworks strewn on the ground and the tactical distraction would be exposed. A massive, hysterical race for the gate would follow.
   'Move! ordered Bourne, grabbing the assassin's hair, pulling him to his feet and shoving him forward. 'Remember, you bastard, there isn't a trick you've learned I haven't perfected, and that makes up for a certain difference in our ages! You look the wrong way, you've got two bullet holes for eye sockets. Move out?
   As they raced up the broken path through the wooded glen, Bourne reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of shells. While the assassin ran in front of him, breathlessly rubbing his eyes and wiping away the blood from his cheek, Jason removed the clip from his automatic, replaced his full complement of bullets, and cracked the magazine back into place. Hearing the sound of a weapon being dismantled, the commando whipped his head around but realized he was too late; the gun was reassembled. Bourne fired, grazing the killer's ear. 'I warned you,' he said, breathing loud but steadily. 'Where do you want it? In the centre of your forehead?' He levelled the automatic in front of him.
   'Good Christ, that butcher was right!' cried the British commando holding his ear. 'You are a madman!'
   'And you're dead unless you move. Faster?
   They reached the corpse of the guard who had been posted on the narrow path leading down to the deep glen. 'Go to the right!' ordered Jason.
   'Where, for Christ's sake? I can't see?'
   There's a path. You'll feel the space. Move!'
   Once on the bird sanctuary's series of dirt thoroughfares, Bourne kept jamming his automatic into the assassin's spine, forcing the killer to run faster, faster! For a moment David Webb returned, and a grateful Delta acknowledged him. Webb was a runner, a ferocious runner, for reasons that went back in time and tortured memories past Jason Bourne to the infamous Medusa. Racing feet and sweat and the wind against his face made living each day easier for David, and at the moment Jason Bourne was breathing hard but nowhere near as breathlessly as the younger, stronger man.
   Delta saw the glow of light in the sky – the gate was through a field and past three dark, twisting paths. No more than half a mile! He fired a shot between the commando's churning legs. 'I want you to run faster!' he said, imposing control on his voice as though the strenuous movement had little effect on him.
   'Jesus, I can't! I've got no wind left!'
   'Find it,' commanded Jason.
   Suddenly, in the distance behind them they heard the hysterical shouts of men ordered by their maniacal leader back to the gate, told to find and kill an intruder so dangerous that their very lives and fortunes were in the balance. The jagged, paper remnants of fireworks had been found; a radio had been activated with no response from a gatehouse. Find him! Stop him! Kill him!
   'If you have any ideas, Major, forget them!' yelled Bourne.
   'Major?' said the commando, barely able to speak, as he kept running.
   'You're an open book to me, and what I've read makes me sick! You watched d'Anjou die like a slaughtered pig. You grinned, you bastard. '
   'He wanted to die! He wanted to kill me!'
   'I'll kill you, if you stop running. But before I do I'll slice you up from your balls to your throat so slowly you'll wish you'd gone with the man who created you. '
   'Where's my choice? You'll kill me anyway!'
   'Maybe I won't. Ponder it. Maybe I'm saving your life. Think about it!'
   The assassin ran faster. They raced through the final dark path, running into the open space of the floodlit gate.
   'The parking lot!' shouted Jason. 'The far right end!' Bourne stopped. 'Hold it!' The bewildered assassin stood still in his tracks. Jason took out his penlight, then aimed his automatic. As he walked up to the killer's back he fired five shots, missing with one. The floodlights exploded; the gate fell into darkness and Bourne rammed the gun into the base of the commando's skull. He turned on the penlight, shining it into the side of the assassin's face. 'The situation is in hand, Major,' he said. 'The operation proceeds. Move, you son of a bitch?
   Racing across the darkened parking lot, the killer stumbled, sprawling prone on the gravel. Jason fired twice in the glow of the penlight; the bullets ricocheted away from the commando's head. He got to his feet and continued running past the cars and the truck to the end of the lot.
   'The fence!' cried Bourne in a loud whisper. 'Head over to it. ' At the edge of the gravel he gave another order. 'Get on your hands and knees – look straight ahead! You turn around, I'm the last thing you'll see. Now, crawl!' The assassin reached the broken opening in the fence. 'Start through it,' said Jason, once more reaching into his pocket for shells and quietly removing the automatic's magazine. 'Stop!' he whispered when the psychotic former commando was halfway through. He replaced the expended bullets in the darkness and cracked the magazine into its chamber. 'Just in case you were counting,' he said. 'Now get through there and crawl two lengths away from the fence. Hurry up!'
   As the assassin scrambled under the bent wire, Bourne crouched and surged through the opening inches behind him. Expecting otherwise, the commando whipped around, rising to his knees. He was met by the beam of the penlight, the glow illuminating the weapon levelled at his head. I'd have done the same,' said Jason, getting to his feet . 'I'd have thought the same. Now go back to the fence, reach under, and yank that section back into place. Quickly!'
   The killer did as he was told, straining as he pulled the thick wire mesh down. At the three-quarter mark Bourne spoke. 'That's enough. Get up and walk past me with your hands behind your back. Go straight ahead, shouldering your way through the branches. My light's on your hands. If you unclasp them I'll kill you. Am I clear?'
   'You think I'd snap a limb back in your face?'
   I would. '
   'You're clear. '
   They reached the road in front of the eerily dark gate. The distant shouts were clearer now, the advance party nearer. 'Down the road,' said Jason. 'Run!' Three minutes later, he snapped on the penlight . 'Stop!' he shouted. That pile of green over there, can you see it?'
   'Where?' asked the breathless assassin.
   'My beams on it. '
   'They're branches, parts of the pine trees. '
   'Pull them away. Hurry up!'
   The commando began throwing the branches aside, in moments revealing the black Shanghai sedan. It was time for the knapsack. Bourne spoke. 'Follow my light, to the left of the bonnet. '
   To what?
   The tree with the white notch on the trunk. See it?'
   'Yes. '
   'Under it, about eighteen inches in front, there's loose dirt. Beneath there's a knapsack. Dig it out for me. '
   'Fucking technician, aren't you?'
   'Aren't you?'
   Without replying, the sullen killer dug through the dirt and pulled the knapsack out of the ground. With the straps in his right hand, he stepped forward as if to hand the bag to his captor. Then suddenly he swung the knapsack, sweeping it diagonally up towards Jason's weapon and the penlight as he lunged forward, the fingers of-his hands spread like the extended claws of a huge, furious cat.
   Bourne was prepared. It was the precise moment he would have used to gain the advantage, however transient, for it would have given him the seconds he needed to race away into the darkness. He stepped back, smashing the automatic into the assassin's head as the lunging figure passed him.
   He crashed his knee down into the back of the splayed-out commando, grabbing the man's right arm while clenching the penlight between his teeth.
   'I warned you,' said Jason, yanking the killer up by his right arm. 'But I also need you. So instead of your life, we'll do a little bullet-surgery. ' He put the barrel of his automatic laterally against the flesh of the assassin's arm muscle and pulled the trigger.
   'Jesus!' screamed the killer as the spit echoed and blood erupted.
   'No bone was broken,' said Delta . 'Only muscle tissue, and now you can forget about using your arm. You're fortunate that I'm a merciful man. In that knapsack is gauze and tape and disinfectant. You can repair yourself, Major. Then you're going to drive. You'll be my chauffeur in the People's Republic. You see, I'll be in the back seat with my gun at your head, and I have a map. If I were you, I wouldn't make a wrong turn. '
   Twelve of Sheng Chou Yang's men raced to the gate, only four flashlights among them. 'Wei shemme? Cuo wu!'
   'Mafan! Feng kuang.r
   'You mao bing!'
   'Weifan!'
   A dozen screaming voices were raised against the unlit floodlights, blaming everything and everyone from inefficiency to treachery. The gatehouse was checked; the electric switches and the telephone were found to be inoperative, the guard nowhere in evidence. Several studied the coiled chain around the gate's lock and issued orders to the others. Since none could get out, they reasoned, the offenders had to be inside the sanctuary.
   'Biao? shouted the infiltrator who had been the false prisoner. 'Quart bu zai zheli? he shrieked, telling the others to share the lights and search the parking lot, the surrounding woods and the swamps beyond. The hunters spread out, guns extended, racing across the parking area in different directions. Seven additional men arrived, only one carrying a flashlight. The false prisoner demanded it and proceeded to explain the situation so to form another search party. He was countered by objections that one light among them was insufficient for the darkness. In frustration the organizer roared a series of profanities, ascribing incredible stupidity to everyone but himself.
   The dancing flames of torches grew brighter as the last of the conspirators arrived from the glen, led by the striding figure of Sheng Chou Yang, the ceremonial sword swinging at his side in its belted scabbard. The infiltrator showed him the coiled chain and repeated his argument.
   'You're not thinking correctly,' said Sheng, exasperated. 'Your approach is wrong! That chain was not placed there by one of our people to keep the criminal or criminals inside. Instead, it was put there by the offender or the offenders to delay us, to keep us inside!'
   'But there are too many obstacles-'
   'Studied and considered!' shouted Sheng Chou Yang. 'Must I repeat myself? These people are survivors. They stayed alive in that criminal battalion called Medusa because they considered everything! They climbed out!'
   'Impossible,' protested the younger man. The top rail and the extended panel of barbed wire are electrified, sir. Any weight in excess of thirty pounds activates them. That way the birds and animals are not electrocuted. '
   Then they found the source of the current and shut it off!'
   The switches are inside, and at least seventy-five metres from the gate, concealed in the ground. Even I am not sure where they are. '
   'Send someone up,' ordered Sheng.
   The subordinate looked around. Twenty feet away two men were talking quietly, rapidly, to each other; it was unlikely either had heard the heated conversation. 'You!' said the young leader, pointing to the man on the left.
   'Sir?
   'Scale the fence!'
   'Yes, sir!' The lesser subordinate ran to the fence and leaped up, his hands gripping the open, crisscrossing squares of wire mesh as his feet worked furiously below. He reached the top and started over the angled panel of coiled barbed wire. 'Aiyaaa!'
   A shattering cascade of static was accompanied by blinding, blue-white bolts of fired electricity. His body rigid, his hair and eyebrows singed to their roots, the climber fell backward, hitting the earth with the impact of a heavy flat rock. Flashlight beams converged. The man was dead.
   The truck? screamed Sheng. This is idiocy! Bring out the truck and break through! Do as I say! Instantly?
   Two men raced into the parking lot and within seconds the roar of the truck's powerful engine filled the night. The gears whined as reverse was found. The heavy truck lurched backward, its whole chassis shaking violently until it came to a sudden, leaden stop. The deflated tyres spun, smoke curling up from the burning rubber. Sheng Chou Yang stared in growing apprehension and fury.
   The others? he shrieked. 'Start the others! All of them!'
   One by one the vehicles were started, and one after another each lurched in reverse only to rattle and groan, sinking into the soft gravel unable to move. In a frenzy, Sheng ran up to the gate, pulled out a gun and fired twice into the coiled chain. A man on his right screamed, holding his bleeding forehead as he fell to the ground. Sheng raised his face to the dark sky and screamed a primeval roar of protest. He yanked out his ceremonial sword and began crashing it repeatedly down on the chained lock of the gate. It was an exercise in futility. The blade broke.

28
   There's the house, the one with the high stone wall,' said CIA Case Officer Matthew Richards as he drove the car up the hill in Victoria Peak. 'According to our information, there are marines all over the place, and it won't do me any goddamned good being seen with you. '
   'I gather you want to owe me a few more dollars,' said Alex Conklin, leaning forward and peering through the windshield. 'It's negotiable. '
   'I just don't want to be involved, for Christ's sake! And dollars I haven't got. '
   'Poor Matt, sad Matt. You take things too literally. '
   'I don't know what you're talking about. '
   'I'm not sure I do, either, but drive by the house as if you were going to somebody else's place. I'll tell you when to stop and let me out. '
   'You will?'
   'Under conditions. Those are the dollars. '
   'Oh, shit. '
   'They're not hard to take and I may not even call them in. The way I see it now, I'll want to stay on ice and out of sight. In other words, I want a man inside. I'll call you several times a day asking you if our lunch or dinner dates are still on, or whether I'll see you at the Happy Valley Race-'
   'Not there,' interrupted Richards.
   'All right, the Wax Museum – anything that comes to mind, except the track. If you say "No, I'm busy", I'll know I'm not being closed in on. If you say "Yes", I'll get out. '
   'I don't even know where the hell you're staying! You told me to pick you up on the corner of Granville and Carnarvon. '
   'My guess is that your unit will be called in to keep the lines straight, and the responsibility where it belongs. The British will insist on it. They're not going to take a solo fall if DC blows it. These are touchy times for the Brits over here so they'll cover their colonial asses. '
   They passed the gate. Conklin shifted his gaze and studied the large Victorian entrance.
   'I swear, Alex, I don't know what you're talking about. '
   'That's better yet. Do you agree? Are you my guru inside?'
   'Hell, yes. I can do without the marines. '
   'Fine. Stop here. I'll get out and walk back. As far as anyone's concerned I took the tram to the Peak, got a cab to the wrong house and made my way to the right address only a couple of hundred feet down the road. Are you happy, Matt?'
   'Ecstatic,' said the case officer, scowling as he braked the car.
   'Get a good night's sleep. It's been a long time since Saigon, and we all need more rest as we get older. '
   'I heard you were a lush. It's not true, is it?'
   'You heard what we wanted you to hear,' replied Conklin, flatly. This time, however, he was able to cross the fingers of both hands before he climbed awkwardly out of the car.
   A brief knock and the door was flung open. Startled, Havilland looked up as Edward McAllister, his face ashen, walked rapidly into the room. 'Conklin's at the gate,' said the undersecretary. 'He's demanding to see you and says he'll stay there all night if he has to. He also says if it gets chilly, he'll build a fire in the road to keep warm. '
   'Crippled or not, he hasn't lost his panache,' said the ambassador.
   This is totally unexpected,' continued McAllister, massaging his right temple. 'We're not prepared for a confrontation. '
   'It seems we haven't a choice. That's a public road out there, and it's the province of the colony's Fire Department in the event our neighbours become alarmed. '
   'Surely, he wouldn't-'
   'Surely, he would,' broke in Havilland. 'Let him in. This isn't only unexpected, it's extraordinary. He hasn't had time to assemble his facts or organize an attack that would give him leverage. He's openly exposing his involvement, and given his background in covert to black operations, he wouldn't do that lightly. It's far too dangerous. He himself once gave the order for beyond-salvage. '
   'We can presume he's in touch with the woman,' protested the undersecretary, heading for the telephone on the ambassador's desk. That gives him all the facts he needs!'
   'No, it doesn't. She hasn't got them. '
   'And you,' said McAllister, his hand on the phone. 'How does he know to come to you!
   Havilland smiled grimly. 'All he'd have to hear is that I'm in Hong Kong. Besides, we spoke, and I'm sure he's put it all together. '
   'But this house?
   'He'll never tell us. Conklin's an old Far East hand, Mr Undersecretary, and he has contacts we can't presume to know about. And we won't know what brings him here unless he's admitted, will we?'
   'No, we won't. ' McAllister picked up the phone; he dialled three digits. 'Officer of the Guard?... Let Mr. Conklin through the gate, search him for a weapon, and escort him yourself to the East Wing office... He what! ... Admit him quickly and put the damn thing out!'
   'What happened?' asked Havilland, as the undersecretary hung up the phone.
   'He started a fire on the other side of the road. '
   Alexander Conklin limped into the ornate Victorian room as the marine officer closed the door. Havilland rose from the chair and came around the desk, his hand extended.
   'Mr Conklin?'
   'Keep your hand, Mr Ambassador. I don't want to get infected. '
   'I see. Anger precludes civility?'
   'No, I really don't want to catch anything. As they say over here, you're rotten joss. You're carrying something. A disease, I think. '
   'And what might that be?'
   'Death. '
   'So melodramatic? Come, Mr Conklin, you can do better than that. '
   'No, I mean it. Less than twenty minutes ago I saw someone killed, cut down in the street with forty or fifty bullets in her. She was blown into the glass doors of her apartment house, her driver shot up in the car. I tell you the place is a mess, blood and glass all over the pavement... '
   Havilland's eyes were wide with shock, but it was the hysterical voice of McAllister that stopped the CIA man. 'Her? She! Was it the woman?
   'A woman,' said Conklin, turning to the undersecretary whose presence he had not yet acknowledged. 'You McAllister?'
   'Yes. '
   'I don't want to shake your hand, either. She was involved with both of you. ' 'Webb's wife is dead? yelled the undersecretary, his whole body paralysed.
   'No, but thanks for the confirmation. '
   'Good God!' cried the longstanding ambassador of the State Department's clandestine activities. 'It was Staples.
   Catherine Staples?
   'Give the man an exploding cigar. And thanks again for the second confirmation. Are you planning to have dinner with the Canadian consulate's high commissioner soon? I'd love to be there – just to watch the renowned Ambassador Havilland at work. Gosh and golly, I betcha us low-level types could learn an awful lot. '
   'Shut up, you goddamned fool? shouted Havilland, crossing behind the desk and plummeting into his chair; he leaned back, his eyes closed.
   That's the one thing I'm not going to do,' said Conklin, stepping forward, his club foot pounding the floor. 'You are accountable... sir!' The CIA man leaned over, gripping the edge of the desk. 'Just as you're accountable for what's happened to David and Marie Webb! Who the fuck do you think you are? And if my language offends you, sir, look up the derivation of the offending word. It comes from a term in the Middle Ages meaning to plant a seed in the ground, and in a way that's your specialty! Only in your case they're rotten seeds – you dig in clean dirt and turn it into filth. Your seeds are lies and deception. They grow inside people, turning them into angry and frightened puppets, dancing on your strings to your goddamned scenarios! I repeat, you aristocratic son of a bitch, who the fuck do you think you are?'
   Havilland half opened his heavy-lidded eyes and leaned forward. His expression was that of an old man willing to die, if only to remove the pain. But those same eyes were alive with a cold fury that saw things others could not see. 'Would it serve your argument if I said to you that Catherine Staples said essentially the same thing to me?'
   'Serves it and completes it!'
   'Yet she was killed because she joined forces with us. She didn't like doing that, but in her judgement there was no alternative. '
   'Another puppet?'
   'No. A human being with a first-rate mind and a wealth of experience who understood what faced us. I mourn her loss -and the manner of her death – more than you can imagine. '

 'Is it her loss, sir, or is it the fact that your holy operation was penetrated!'
   'How dare you?' Havilland, his voice low and cold, rose from the chair and stared at the CIA man. 'It's a little late for you to be moralizing, Mr Conklin. Your lapses have been all too apparent in the areas of deception and ethics. If you'd had your way, there'd be no David Webb, no Jason Bourne. You put him beyond-salvage, no one else did. You planned his execution and nearly succeeded. '
   'I've paid for that lapse. Christ, how I've paid for it!'
   'And I suspect you're still paying for it, or you wouldn't be in Hong Kong now,' said the ambassador, nodding his head slowly, the coldness leaving his voice. 'Lower your cannons,
   Mr. Conklin, and I'll do the same. Catherine Staples really did understand, and if there's any meaning in her death, let's try and find it. '
   'I haven't the vaguest idea where to start looking. '
   'You'll be given chapter and verse... just as Staples was. '
   'Maybe I shouldn't hear it. '
   'I have no choice but to insist that you do. '
   'I guess you weren't listening. You've been penetrated! The Staples woman was killed because it was assumed she had information that called for her to be taken out. In short, the mole who's bored his way in here saw her in a meeting or meetings with both of you. The Canadian connection was made, the order given, and you let her walk around without protection!'
   'Are you afraid for your life?' asked the ambassador.
   'Constantly,' replied the CIA man. 'And right now I'm also concerned with someone else's. '
   'Webb's?'
   Conklin paused, studying the old diplomat's face. 'If what I believe is true,' he said quietly. There's nothing I can do for Delta that he can't do better for himself. But if he doesn't make it, I know what he'd ask me to do. Protect Marie. And I can do that best by fighting you, not listening to you. '
   'And how do you propose fighting me?'
   The only way I know how. Down and very dirty. I'll spread the word in all those dark corners in Washington that this time you've gone too far, you've lost your grip, maybe at your age even looney. I've got Marie's story, Mo Panov's-'
   ''Morris Panov?' interrupted Havilland cautiously. 'Webb's psychiatrist?'
   'You get another cigar. And, last of all, my own contribution. Incidentally, to jog your memory, I'm the only one who talked to David before he came over here. All together, including the slaughter of a Canadian foreign service officer, they'd make interesting reading– as affidavits, carefully circulated, of course. '
   'By so doing you'd jeopardize everything!'
   'Your problem, not mine. '
   Then, again, I'd have no choice,' said the ambassador, ice once more in his eyes and in his voice. 'As you issued an order for beyond-salvage, I'd be forced to do the same. You wouldn't leave here alive. '
   'Oh, my God!' whispered McAllister from across the room.
   That'd be the dumbest thing you could do,' said Conklin, his eyes locked with Havilland's. 'You don't know what I've left behind or with whom. Or what's released if I don't make contact by a certain time with certain people and so on. Don't underestimate me,'
   'We thought you might resort to that kind of tactic,' said the diplomat, walking away from the CIA man as if dismissing him, and returning to his chair. 'You also left something else behind, Mr Conklin. To put it kindly, perhaps accurately, you were known to have a chronic illness called alcoholism. In anticipation of your imminent retirement, and in recognition of your long-past accomplishments, no disciplinary measures were taken, but neither were you given any responsibility. You were merely tolerated, a useless relic about to go to pasture, a drunk whose paranoid outbursts were the talk and concern of your colleagues. Whatever might surface from whatever source would be categorized and substantiated as the incoherent ramblings of a crippled, psychopathic alcoholic. ' The ambassador leaned back in the chair, his elbow resting on the arm, the long fingers of his right hand touching his chin. 'You are to be pitied, Mr Conklin, not censured. The dovetailing of events might be dramatized by your suicide-'
   'Havilland? cried McAllister, stunned.
   'Rest easy, Mr Undersecretary,' said the diplomat . 'Mr Conklin and I know where we're coming from. We've both been there before. '
   There's a difference,' objected Conklin, his gaze never wavering from Havilland's eyes. 'I never took any pleasure from the game. '
   'You think I do?' The telephone rang. Havilland shot forward, grabbing it . 'Yes?' The ambassador listened, frowning, staring at the darkened bay window. 'If I don't sound shocked, Major, it's because the news reached me a few minutes ago... No, not the police but a man I want you to meet tonight. Say in two hours, is that convenient? ... Yes, he's one of us now. ' Havilland raised his eyes to Conklin. There are those who say he's better than most of us, and I dare say his past service record might bear that out... Yes, it's he... Yes, I'll tell him... What? What did you say?' The diplomat again looked at the bay window, the frown returning. They covered themselves quickly, didn't they? Two hours, Major. ' Havilland hung up the phone, both elbows on the table, his hands clasped. He took a deep breath, an exhausted old man gathering his thoughts, about to speak.
   'His name is Lin Wenzu,' said Conklin, startling both Havilland and McAllister. 'He's Crown CI which means MI6 orientated, probably Special Branch. He's Chinese and UK educated and considered about the best intelligence officer in the territory. Only his size works against him. He's easily spotted. '
   'Where-T McAllister took a step towards the CIA man.
   'A little bird, Cock Robin,' said Conklin.
   'A red-headed cardinal, I presume,' said the diplomat. ,
   'Actually, not any more,' replied Alex.
   'I see. ' Havilland unclasped his hands, lowering his arms on the desk. 'He knows who you are, too. '
   'He should. He was part of the detail at the Kowloon station. '
   'He told me to congratulate you, to tell you that your Olympian outraced them. He got away. '
   'He's sharp. '
   'He knows where to find him but won't waste the time. '
   'Sharper still. Waste is waste. He told you something else, too, and since I overheard your flattering assessment of my past, would you care to tell me what it was?
   Then you'll listen to me?
   'Or be carried out in a box? Or boxes? Where's the option?
   'Yes, quite true,' said the diplomat . 'I'd have to go through with it, you know. '
   'I know you know, Hen General?
   That's offensive. '
   'So are you. What did the major tell you?
   'A terrorist Tong from Macao telephoned the South China
   News Agency claiming responsibility for the killings. Only they said the woman was incidental, the driver was the target. As a native member of the hated British secret security arm, he had shot to death one of their leaders on the Wanchai waterfront two weeks ago. The information was correct. He was the protection we assigned to Catherine Staples. '
   'It's a lie!' shouted Conklin. 'She was the target!'
   'Lin says it's a waste of time to pursue a false source. '
   Then he knows?'
   That we've been penetrated?'
   'What the hell else!' said the exasperated CIA man.
   'He's a proud Zhongguo ren and has a brilliant mind. He doesn't like failure in any form, especially now. I suspect he's started his hunt... Sit down, Mr Conklin. We have things to talk about. '
   'I don't believe this!' cried McAllister in a deeply personal whisper. 'You talk of killings, of targets, of "beyond-salvage"... of a mocked-up suicide – the victim here, talking about his own death – as if you were discussing the Dow-Jones or a restaurant menu! What kind of people are you?'
   'I've told you, Mr. Undersecretary,' said Havilland gently. 'Men who do what others won't, or can't, or shouldn't. There's no mystique, no diabolical universities where we were trained, no driving compulsion to destroy. We drifted into these areas because there were voids to fill and the candidates were few. It's all rather accidental, I suppose. And with repetition you either find that you do or you don't have the stomach for it – because somebody has to. Would you agree, Mr Conklin?'
   This is a waste of time. '
   'No, it's not,' corrected the diplomat . 'Explain to Mr McAllister. Believe me, he's valuable and we need him. He has to understand us. '
   Conklin looked at the undersecretary of state, his expression without charity. 'He doesn't need any explanations from me, he's an analyst. He sees it all as clearly as we do, if not clearer. He knows what the hell is going on down in the tunnels, he just doesn't want to admit it, and the easiest way to remove himself is to pretend to be shocked. Beware the sanctimonious intellect in any phase of this business. What he gives in brains he takes away with phoney recriminations. He's the deacon in a whorehouse gathering material for a sermon he'll write when he goes home and plays with himself. '
   'You were right before,' said McAllister, turning towards the doon This is a waste of time. '
   'Edward? Havilland, clearly angry with the crippled CIA man, called out sympathetically to the undersecretary. 'We can't always choose the people we deal with, which is obviously the case now. ' 'I understand,' said McAllister coldly. 'Study everyone on Lin's staff,' went on the ambassador. There can't be more than ten or twelve who know anything about us. Help him. He's your friend. '
   'Yes, he is,' said the undersecretary, going out the door. 'Was that necessary? snapped Havilland when he and Conklin were alone.
   'Yes, it was. If you can convince me that what you've done was the only route you could take – which I doubt – or if I can't come up with an option that'll get Marie and David out with their lives, if not their sanity, then I'll have to work with you. The alternative of beyond-salvage is unacceptable on several grounds, basically personal but also because I owe the Webbs. Do we agree so far?'
   'We work together, one way or another. Checkmate. ' 'Given the reality, I want that son of a bitch, McAllister, that rabbit, to know where I'm coming from. He's in as deep as any of us, and that intellect of his had better go down into the filth and come up with every plausibility and every possibility. I want to know whom we should kill – even those marginally arrived at – to cut our losses and get the Webbs out. I want him to know that the only way he can save his soul is to bury it with accomplishment. If we fail, he fails, and he can't go back teaching Sunday school any more. ' 'You're too harsh on him. He's an analyst not an executioner. ' 'Where do you think the executioners get their input?
   Where do we get our input? From whom? The paladins of congressional oversight?
   'Checkmate, again. You're as good as they say you were. He's come up with the breakthroughs. It's why he's here. '
   Talk to me, sir' said Conklin, sitting in the chair, his back straight, his club foot awkwardly at an angle. 'I want to hear your story. '
   'First the woman. Webb's wife. She's all right? She's safe?'
   The answer to your first question is so obvious I wonder how you can ask it. No, she's not all right. Her husband's missing and she doesn't know whether he's alive or dead. As to the second, yes, she's safe. With me, not with you. I can move us around and I know my way around. You have to stay here. '
   'We're desperate,' pleaded the diplomat . 'We need her!'
   'You've also been penetrated, that doesn't seem to sink in. I won't expose her to that. '
   This house is a fortress!'
   'All it takes is one rotten cook in the kitchen. One lunatic on a staircase. '
   'Conklin, listen to me! We picked up a passport check -everything fits. It's him, we know it. Webb's in Peking. Now! He wouldn't have gone in if he wasn't after the target – the only target. If somehow, God knows how, your Delta comes out with the merchandise and his wife isn't in place, he'll kill the one connection we must have! Without it we're lost. We're all lost. '
   'So that was the scenario from the beginning. Reductio ad absurdum. Jason Bourne hunts Jason Bourne. '
   'Yes. Painfully simple, but without the escalating complications he never would have agreed. He'd still be in that old house in Maine, poring over his scholarly papers. We wouldn't have our hunter. '
   'You really are a bastard,' said Conklin slowly, softly, a certain admiration in his voice. 'And you were convinced he could still do it? Still handle this kind of Asia the way he did years ago as Delta?'
   'He has physical checkups every three months, it's part of the government protection programme. He's in superb condition – something to do with his obsessive running, I understand. '
   'Start at the beginning. ' The CIA man settled into the chair. 'I want to hear it step by step because I think the rumours are true. I'm in the presence of a master bastard. '
   'Hardly, Mr Conklin,' said Havilland. 'We're all groping. I'll want your comments, of course. '
   'You'll get them. Go ahead. '
   'All right. I'll begin with a name I'm sure you'll recognize. Sheng Chou Yang. Any comment?'
   'He's a tough negotiator, and I suspect that underneath his benevolent exterior there's a ramrod. Still, he's one of the most reasonable men in Peking. There should be a thousand like him. ' 'If there were, the chances of a Far East holocaust would be a thousand times greater. '
   Lin Wenzu slammed his fist down on the desk, jarring the nine photographs in front of him and making the attached summaries of their dossiers leap off the surface. Which? Which one! Each had been certified by London, each background checked and rechecked and triple checked again; there was no room for error. These were not simply well-schooled Zhongguo ren selected by bureaucratic elimination but the products of an intensive search for the brightest minds in government – and in several cases outside government -who might be recruited into this most sensitive of services. It had been Lin's contention that the writing was on the wall -the Great Wall, perhaps – and that a superior special intelligence force manned by the colony's own could well be its first line of defence in the years leading up to 1997, and, in the event of a takeover, its first line of cohesive resistance afterwards. The British had to relinquish leadership in the area of secret intelligence operations for reasons that were as clear as they were' unpalatable to London: the Occidental could never fully understand the peculiar subtleties of the Oriental mind, and these were not the times to render misleading or poorly evaluated information. London had to know – the West had to know– exactly where things stood... for Hong Kong's sake, for the sake of the entire Far East.
   Not that Lin believed that his growing task force of intelligence gatherers was pivotal to policy decisions, he did not. But he believed thoroughly, intensely, that if the colony was to have a Special Branch it should be staffed and run by those who could do the job best, and that did not include veterans, however brilliant, of the European-oriented British secret services. For a start, they all looked alike and were not compatible with either the environs or the language. And after years of work and proven-worth, Lin Wenzu had been summoned to London and for three days grilled by unsmiling Far East intelligence specialists. On the morning of the fourth day, however, the smiles had appeared along with the recommendation that the major be given command of the Hong Kong Branch with wide powers of authority. And for a number of years thereafter he had lived up to the commission's confidence, he knew that. He also knew that now, in the single most vital operation of his professional and personal life, he had failed. There were thirty-eight Special Branch officers in his command and he had selected nine -hand picked nine – to be part of this extraordinary, insane operation. Insane until he had heard the ambassador's extraordinary explanation. The nine were the most exceptional of the 38-man task force, each capable of assuming command if their leader was taken out; he had written as much in their evaluation reports. And he had failed. One of the handpicked nine was a traitor.
   It was pointless to re-study the dossiers. Whatever inconsistencies he might find would take too long to unearth for they – or it – had eluded his own experienced eyes as well as London's. There was no time for intricate analyses, the painfully slow exploration of nine individual lives. He had only one choice. A frontal assault on each man, and the word 'front' was intrinsic to his plan. If he could play the role of a taipan, he could play the part of a traitor. He realized that his plan was not without risk – a risk neither London nor the American, Havilland, would tolerate, but it had to be taken. If he failed, Sheng Chou Yang would be alerted to the secret war against him and his counter moves could be disastrous, but Lin Wenzu did not intend to fail. If failure was written on the northern winds nothing else would matter, least of all his life.
   The major reached for his telephone. He pushed the button on his console for the radio operator in the computerized communication centre of MI6, Special Branch.
   'Yes, sir?' said the voice from the white, sterilized room.
   'Who in Dragonfly is still on duty?' asked Lin, naming the elite unit of nine who reported in but never gave explanations.
   'Two, sir. In vehicles Three and Seven, but I can reach the rest in a few minutes. Five have checked in – they're at home -and the remaining two have left numbers. One is at the Pagoda Cinema until eleven-thirty, when he'll return to his flat, but he can be reached by beeper until then. The other is at the Yacht Club in Aberdeen with his wife and her family. She's English, you know. '
   Lin laughed softly. 'No doubt charging the British family's bill to our woefully inadequate budget from London. '
   'Is that possible, Major? If so, would you consider me for Dragonfly, whatever it is?'
   'Don't be impertinent. '
   'I'm sorry, sir-'
   'I'm joking, young man. Next week I'll take you to a fine dinner myself. You do excellent work and I rely on you. '
   'Thank you, sir!'
   The thanks are mine. '
   'Shall I contact Dragonfly and put out an alert?'
   'You may contact each and every one, but quite the opposite of an alert. They've all been overworked, without a clean day off in several weeks. Tell each of them that of course I want any changes of location to be reported, but unless informed otherwise we're secure for the next twenty-four hours, and the men in vehicles Three and Seven may drive them home but not up into the territories for drinks. Tell them I said they should all get a good night's sleep, or however they wish to pass the time. '
   'Yes, sir. They'll appreciate that, sir. '
   'I myself will be wandering around in vehicle Four. You may hear from me. Stay awake. '
   'Of course, Major. '
   'You've got a dinner coming, young man. '
   'If I may, sir,' said the enthusiastic radio operator, 'and I know I speak for all of us. We wouldn't care to work for anyone but you. '
   'Perhaps two dinners. '
   Parked in front of an apartment house on Yun Ping Road, Lin lifted the microphone out of its cradle below the dashboard. 'Radio, its Dragonfly Zero. '
   'Yes, sir?'
   'Switch me to a direct telephone line with a scrambler. I'll know we're on scrambler when I hear the echo on my part of the call, won't I?'
   'Naturally, sir. '
   The faint echo pulsated over the line, with the dial tone. The major punched in the numbers; the ringing began and a female voice answered.
   'Yes?'
   'Mr Zhou. Kuair said Lin, his words rushed, telling the woman to hurry.
   'Certainly,' she replied in Cantonese.
   'Zhou here,' said the man.
   'Xun su! Xiaoxir Lin spoke in a husky whisper; it was the sound of a desperate man pleading to be heard. 'Sheng! Contact instantly! Sapphire is gone!'
   'What? Who is this?'
   The major pressed down the bar and pushed a button to the right of the microphone. The radio operator spoke instantly.
   'Yes, Dragonfly?'
   'Patch into my private line, also on scrambler, and reroute all calls here. Right away! This will be standard procedure until I instruct otherwise. Understood?'
   'Yes, sir,' said a subdued radioman.
   The mobile phone buzzed and Lin picked it up, speaking casually. 'Yes?' he answered, feigning a yawn.
   'Major, this is Zhou! I just had a very strange call. A man phoned me – he sounded badly hurt – and told me to contact someone named Sheng. I was to say that Sapphire was gone. ' 'Sapphire? said the major, suddenly alert . 'Say nothing to anyone, Zhou! Damned computers – I don't know how it happened but that call was meant for me. This is beyond Dragonfly. I repeat, say nothing to anyone!'
   'Understood, sir. '
   Lin started the car and drove several blocks west to Tanlung Street. He repeated the exercise and again the call came over his private line.
   'Major?
   'Yes?'
   'I just got off the phone with someone who sounded like he was dying! He wanted me to... '
   The explanation was the same: a dangerous error had been made, beyond the purview of Dragonfly. Nothing was to be repeated. The order was understood.
   Lin called three more numbers, each time from in front of each recipient's apartment or boarding house. All were negative; each man reached him within moments after a call with his startling news and none had raced outside to a random sterile pay phone. The major knew only one thing for certain. Whoever the infiltrator was, he would not use his home phone to make contact. Telephone bills recorded all numbers dialled and all bills were submitted for departmental audit. It was a routine containment procedure that was welcomed by the agents. Excess charges were picked up by Special Branch as if they were related to business.
   The two men in vehicles Three and Seven, having been relieved of duty, had checked in with headquarters by the fifth telephone call. One was at a girlfriend's house and made it plain that he had no intention of leaving for the next twenty-four hours. He pleaded with the radioman to take all 'emergency calls from clients', telling everyone who tried to reach him that his superiors had sent him to the Antarctic. Negative. It was not the way of a double agent, including the humour. He neither cut himself off nor revealed the whereabouts or the identity of a drop. The second man was, if possible, more negative. He informed headquarters-communications that he was available for any and all problems, -major or minor, related or unrelated to Dragonfly, even to answering the phones. His wife had recently given birth to triplets, and he confided in a voice that bordered on panic -according to the radioman – he got more rest on the job than at home. Negative.
   Seven down and seven negative. That left one man at the Pagoda Cinema for another forty minutes, and the other at the Yacht Club in Aberdeen.
   His mobile phone hummed emphatically it seemed, or was it his own anxiety? 'Yes!'
   'I just received a message for you, sir,' said the radio operator. '"Eagle to Dragonfly Zero. Urgent. Respond."'
   'Thank you. ' Lin looked at the clock in the centre of the dashboard. He was thirty-five minutes late for his appointment with Havilland and the legendary crippled agent from years past, Alexander Conklin. 'Young man, said the major, bringing the microphone back to his lips, the line unbroken.
   'Yes, sir?'
   'I have no time for the anxious if somewhat irrelevant "Eagle", but I don't wish to offend him. He'll call again when I don't respond and I want you to explain that you've been unable to reach me. Of course, when you do, you'll give me the message immediately. '
   'It will be a delight, Major. '
   'I beg your pardon?'
   'The "Eagle" who called was very disagreeable. He shouted about appointments that should be kept when they were confirmed and that ... '
   Lin listened to the second-hand diatribe and made a mental note that if he survived the night he would talk to Edward McAllister about telephone etiquette, especially during emergencies. Sugar brought gentle expressions, salt only grimaces. 'Yes, yes, I understand, young man. As our ancestors might say, May the eagle's beak be caught in its elimination canal. Just do as I say, and in the meantime – in fifteen minutes from now – raise our man at the Pagoda Cinema. When he calls in, give him my unlisted fourth level number and patch it into this frequency, scrambler continuing, of course. ' 'Of course, sir. '
   Lin sped east on Hennessy Road past Southern Park to Fleming, where he turned south into Johnston and east again on Burrows Street to the Pagoda Cinema. He swerved into the parking lot taking the spot reserved for the Assistant Manager. He stuck a police card in the front window, got out, and ran up to the entrance. There were only a few people at the window for the midnight showing of Lust in the Orient, an odd choice for the agent inside. Nevertheless, to avoid calling attention to himself, since he had six minutes to go, he stood behind three men who were waiting in front of the booth. Ninety seconds later he had paid for and received his ticket. He went inside, gave it to the girl at the door, and adjusted his eyes to the darkness and to the pornographic motion picture on the distant screen. It was an odd choice of entertainment for the man he was testing, but he had vowed to himself he would permit no prejudgements, no balancing of one suspect against another.
   It was admittedly difficult in this case, however. Not that he particularly liked the man who was somewhere in that darkened theatre, watching along with the feverishly attentive audience the sexual gymnastics of the wooden 'actors'. In truth he did not like the man; he simply recognized the fact that he was among the best in his command. The agent was arrogant and unpleasant but he was also a brave soul whose defection from Beijing was eighteen months in the making, his every hour in the Communist capital a threat to his life. He had been a high-ranking officer in the security forces, with access to invaluable intelligence information. And in a heartrending gesture of sacrifice he had left behind a beloved wife and girl child when he escaped south, protecting them with a charred, bullet-ridden corpse that he made sure was identified as himself – a hero of China shot and then burned by a roving band of hoodlums in the recent crime wave that had swept through the mainland. Mother and daughter were secure, pensioned by the government, and, like, all high-level defectors, he was subjected to the most rigorous examinations designed to trap potential infiltrators. Here his arrogance had actually helped him. He had made no attempt to ingratiate himself; he was what he was and he had done what he had done for the good of Mother China. The authorities could either accept him with all he had to offer or he would look elsewhere. Everything checked, except the well-being of his wife and child. They were not being taken care of in the manner the defector had expected. Therefore money was filtered through to her place of work without explanation. She could be told nothing; if there was the slightest suspicion that her husband was alive, she could be tortured for information she did not possess. The in-depth profile of such a man was not the profile of a double agent, regardless of his taste in films.
   That left the man in Aberdeen, and he was something of a puzzle to Lin. The agent was older than the others, a small man who always dressed impeccably, a logician and former accountant who professed such loyalty that Lin almost made him a confidant, but had pulled himself up short when he was close to revealing things he should not reveal. Perhaps because the man was nearer his own age he felt a stronger kinship... On the other hand what an extraordinary cover for a mole from Beijing! Married to an English woman, a member of the rich and social Yacht Club by way of marriage. Everything was in place for him; he was respectability itself. It seemed incredible to Lin, his closest colleague, that the irascible older man who imposed such order but still wanted to arrest an Australian brawler for causing Dragonfly to lose face, could have been reached by Sheng Chou Yang and corrupted... No, impossible Perhaps, thought the major, he should go back and examine further a comical off-duty agent who wanted all clients to be told he was in the Antarctic, or the overworked father of triplets who was willing to answer phones to escape his domestic chores.
   These speculations were not in order! Lin Wenzu shook his head as if ridding his mind of such thoughts. Now. Here. Concentrate! His sudden decision to move came from the sight of a stairway. He walked over to it and climbed the steps to the balcony; the projection room was directly in front of him. He knocked once on the door and went inside, the weight of his body breaking the cheap, thin bolt on the door. 'Ting zhil yelled the projectionist; a woman was on his lap, his hand under her skirt. The young woman leaped away from her perch, turning to the wall.
   'Crown Police,' said the major, showing his identification. 'And I mean no harm to either of you, please believe that. ' 'You shouldn't!' replied the projectionist. This isn't exactly a place of worship. '
   'That might be disputed, but it certainly isn't a church. ' 'We operate with a fully paid licence-' 'You have no argument from me, sir,' interrupted Lin. The Crown simply needs a favour, and it could hardly be against your interests to provide it. '
   'What is it?' asked the man, getting up, angrily watching the woman slip through the door.
   'Stop the film for, say, thirty seconds and turn up the lights. Announce to the audience that there was a break and that it will be repaired quickly. '
   The projectionist winced. 'It's almost over! There'll be screaming!'
   'As long as there are lights. Do it I' The projector ground down with a whir, the lights came up, and the announcement was made over the loudspeaker. Trie projectionist was right. Catcalls echoed throughout the motion picture house, accompanied by waving arms and numerous extended third fingers. Lin's eyes scanned the audience – back and forth, row by row.
   There was his man... Two men – the agent was leaning forward talking to someone Lin Wenzu had never seen before. The major looked at his watch, then turned to the projectionist . 'Is there a public phone downstairs?' 'When it works, there is. When it isn't broken. ' 'Is it working now?' 'I don't know. ' ' 'Where is it?' 'Below the staircase. ' Thank you. Start the film again in sixty seconds. '
   'You said thirty!'
   'I've changed my mind. And you do enjoy the privileges of a good job because of a licence, don't you?
   They're animals down there!'
   'Put a chair against the door,' said Lin, going outside. The lock's broken. '
   In the lobby beneath the staircase the major passed the exposed pay phone. Barely pausing, he yanked the spiral cord out of the box and proceeded outside to his car, stopping at the sight of a phone booth across the road. He raced over and read the number, instantly memorizing it and ran back to the car. He climbed into the seat and looked at his watch; he backed up the car, drove out into the street and double parked several hundred feet beyond the cinema's marquee. He turned his headlights off and watched the entrance.
   A minute and fifteen seconds later the defector from Beijing emerged, looking first to his right, then to his left, obviously agitated. He then looked straight ahead, seeing what he wanted to see, what Lin expected him to see, since the telephone in the theatre was not working. It was the phone booth on the other side of the road. Lin dialled as his subordinate ran over to it, spinning into the plastic shell that faced the street. It rang before the man could insert his coins.
   'Xun su! Xiao Xi!' Lin coughed as he whispered. 'I knew you would find the phone! Sheng! Contact instantly! Sapphire is gone!' He replaced the microphone, but left his hand on the instrument, expecting to remove it with the agent's incoming call on his private line.
   It did not come. He turned in his seat and looked back at the open, plastic shell of the pay phone across the road. The agent had dialled another number, but the defector was not speaking to him. There was no need to drive to Aberdeen.
   The major silently got out of the car, walked across the street into the shadows of the far pavement and started towards the pay phone. He stayed in the relative darkness, moving slowly, calling as little attention to his bulk as he could, cursing, as he often did, the genes that had produced his outsized figure. Remaining well back in the shadows he approached the phone. The defector was eight feet away, his back to Lin, talking excitedly, exasperation in every sentence.
   'Who is Sapphire! Why this telephone! Why would he reach me"!... No, I told you, he used the leader's name!... Yes, that's right, his name! No code, no symbol! It was insane?
   Lin Wenzu heard all he had to hear. He pulled out his service automatic and walked rapidly out of the darkness.
   'The film broke and they turned up the lights! My contact and I were-'
   'Hang up the phone!' ordered the major.
   The defector spun around. 'You!' he screamed.
   Lin rushed the man, his immense body crushing the double agent into the plastic shell as he grabbed the phone, smashing it into the metal box. 'Enough? he roared.
   Suddenly, he felt the blade slicing with ice-cold heat into his abdomen. The defector crouched, the knife in his left hand, and Lin squeezed the trigger. The explosion filled the quiet street as the traitor dropped to the pavement, his throat ripped open by the bullet, blood streaming down his clothes, staining the concrete below.
   'M made!'' screamed a voice on the major's left, cursing him. It was the second man, the contact who had been inside the theatre talking with the defector. He raised a gun and fired as the major lunged, his huge bleeding torso falling into the man like a wall. Flesh blew apart in Lin's upper right chest, but the killer's balance was shaken. The major fired his automatic; the man fell clutching his right eye. He was dead.
   Across the street, the pornographic film had ended and the crowd began to emerge on the street, sullen, angry, ungratified. And with what remained of his enormous strength, the badly wounded Lin picked up the bodies of the two dead conspirators and half dragged, half carried them back to his car. A number of people from the Pagoda's audience watched him with glazed or distinterested stares. What they saw was a reality they could not contend with or comprehend. It was, beyond the narrow confines of their fantasies.
   Alex Conklin rose from the chair and limped awkwardly, noisily to the darkened bay window. 'What the hell do you want me to say?' he asked, turning and looking at the ambassador.
   That given the circumstances, I took the only road open to me, the only one that would have recruited Jason Bourne. ' Havilland held up his hand. 'Before you answer, I should tell you in all fairness that Catherine Staples did not agree with me. She felt I should have appealed to David Webb directly. He was, after all, a Far East scholar, an expert who would understand the stakes, the tragedy that could follow. '
   'She was nuts,' said Alex. 'He would have told you to shove it. '
   Thank you for that. ' The diplomat nodded his head.
   'Just hold it,' Conklin broke in. 'He would have said that to you not because he thought you were wrong, but because he didn't think he could do it. What you did– by taking Marie away from him – was to make him go back and be someone he wanted to forget. '
   'Oh?'
   'You really are one son of a bitch, you son of a bitch. '
   Sirens suddenly erupted, ringing throughout the enormous house and the grounds as searchlights began spinning through the windows. Gunfire accompanied the sound of smashing metal as tyres screeched outside. The ambassador and the CIA man lurched to the floor; in seconds it was all over. Both men got to their feet as the door was crashed open. His chest and stomach drenched in blood, Lin Wenzu staggered in carrying two dead bodies under his arms.
   'Here is your traitor, sir,' said the major, dropping both corpses. 'And a colleague. With these two, I believe we've cut off Dragonfly from Sheng-' Wenzu's eyes rolled upward until the sockets were white. He gasped and fell to the floor.
   'Call an ambulance? shouted Havilland to the people who had gathered at the door.
   'Get gauze, tape, towels, antiseptic – for Christ's sake, anything you can find? yelled Conklin, limping, racing over to the fallen Chinese. 'Stop the goddamned bleeding?

29
   Bourne sat in the racing shadows of the back seat, the intermittent moonlight bright, creating brief explosions of light and dark inside the car. At sudden, irregular, unexpected moments he leaned forward and pressed the barrel of his gun into the back of his prisoner's neck. Try crashing off the road and there's a bullet in your head. Do you understand me?'
   And always there was the same reply, or a variation of it, spoken in a clipped British accent . 'I'm not a fool. You're behind me and you've got a weapon and I can't see you. '
   Jason had ripped the rearview mirror from its bracket, the bolt having cracked easily in his hand. Then I'm your eyes back here, remember that. I'm also the end of your life. '
   'Understood,' the former commando officer repeated without expression.
   The government road map spread out on his lap, the penlight cupped in his left hand, the automatic in his right, Bourne studied the roads heading south. As each half hour passed and landmarks were spotted, Jason understood that time was his enemy. Although the assassin's right arm was effectively immobilized, in sheer stamina Bourne knew he was no match for the younger, stronger man. The concentrated violence of the last three days had taken its toll physically, mentally and – whether he cared to acknowledge it or not – emotionally, and while Jason Bourne did not have to acknowledge it, David Webb proclaimed it with every fibre of his emotional being. The scholar had to be kept at bay, deep down inside, his voice stilled.
   Leave me alone! You're worthless to me!
   Every now and then Jason felt the dead weight of his lids closing over his eyes. He would snap them open and abuse some part of his body, pinching hard the soft sensitive flesh of his inner thigh or digging his nails into his lips, creating instant pain to dispel the exhaustion. He recognized his condition – only a suicidal fool would not – and there was no time or place to remedy it with– an axiom he had stolen from Medusa's Echo. Rest is a weapon, never forget it. Forget it, Echo... brave Echo... there's no time for rest, no place to find it.
   And while he accepted his own assessment of himself, he also had to accept his evaluation of his prisoner. The killer was totally alert; his sharpness was in his skill at the wheel, for Jason demanded speed over the strange, unfamiliar roads. It was in his constantly moving head, and it was in his eyes whenever Bourne saw them, and he saw them frequently whenever he directed the assassin to slow down and watch for an off-shooting road on the right or the left. The impostor would turn in the seat – the sight of his so familiar features always a shock to Jason – and ask whether the road ahead was the one his 'eyes' watched. The questions were superfluous; the former commando was continuously making his own assessment of his captor's physical and mental condition. He was a trained killer, a lethal machine who knew that survival depended on gaining the advantage over his enemy. He was waiting, watching, anticipating the moment when his adversary's eyelids might close for that brief instant or when the weapon might suddenly drop to the floor, or his enemy's head might recline for a second into the comfort of the back seat. These were the signs he was waiting for, the lapses he could capitalize on to violently alter the circumstances. Bourne's defence, therefore, depended upon his mind, in doing the unexpected so that the psychological balance remained in his favour. How long could it last – could he last?
   Time was his enemy, the assassin in front of him a secondary problem. In his past – that vaguely remembered past – he had handled killers before, manipulated them before, because they were human beings subject to the wiles of his imagination. Christ, it came down to that! So simple, so logical – and he was so tired... His mind. There was nothing else left! He had to keep thinking, had to keep prodding his imagination and make it do its work. Balance, balance! He had to keep it on his side! Think. Act. Do the unexpected!
   He removed the silencer from his weapon, levelled the gun at the closed right front window, and pulled the trigger. The explosion was ear-shattering, reverberating throughout the enclosed car, as the glass splintered, blowing out into the rushing night air.
   'What the hell was that for?' screamed the impostor-killer, clutching the wheel, holding an involuntary swerve in control.
   'To teach you about balance,' answered Jason. 'You should understand that I'm unbalanced. The next shot could blow your head away. '
   'You're a fucking lunatic, that's what you are!'
   'I'm glad you understand. '
   The map. One of the more civilized things about a PRC road map – and consistent with the quality of its vehicles -was the system of stars to indicate garages which were open 24 hours a day along the major routes!One had only to think of the confusion that might result from military and official vehicles breaking down to understand the necessity; it was heaven-sent for Bourne.
   'There's a gas station about four miles down this road,' he said to the assassin – to Jason Bourne, he reflected. 'Stop and refill and don't say a word – which would be foolish if you tried, because you can't speak the language. '
   'You do?'
   'It's why I'm the original and you're the fake. '
   'You can bloody well have it, Mr Original?
   Jason fired the gun again, blowing the rest of the window away. 'The face!' he yelled, raising his voice over the sound of the wind. 'Remember that. '
   Time was the enemy.
   He took a mental inventory of what he had and it was not all that much. Money was his primary ammunition; he had more than a hundred Chinese could make in a hundred lifetimes, but money in itself was not the answer. Only time was the answer. If he had a prayer of a chance to get out of the vast land of China it had to be by air, not on the ground. He would not last that long. Again, he studied the map. It would take thirteen to fifteen hours to reach Shanghai – the car held up and if he held up, and if they could get by the provincial checkpoints where he knew there would be alarms out for a Westerner, or two Westerners, attempting to pass through. He would be taken – they would be taken. And even if they reached Shanghai, with its relatively lax airport, how many complications might arise?
   There was an option – there were always options. It was crazy and outrageous, but it was the only thing left.
   Time was the enemy. Do it. There is no other choice.
   He circled a small symbol on the outskirts of the city of Jinan. An airport.
   Dawn. Wetness everywhere. The ground, the tall grass and the metal fence glistened with morning dew. The single runway beyond was a shining black shaft cutting across the close-cropped field, half green with today's moisture, half dullish brown from the pounding of yesterday's broiling sun. The Shanghai sedan was far off the airport road, as far off as the assassin could drive it, again concealed by foliage. The impostor was once more immobilized, now by the thumbs. Pressing the gun into his right temple, Jason had ordered the assassin to wind the spools of wire into double slipknots around each thumb, and then he had snapped the spools away with his cutter, ran the wire back and coiled the two remaining strands tightly around the killer's wrists. As the commando discovered, with any slight pressure, such as twisting or separating his hands, the wire dug deeper into his flesh.
   'If I were you,' said Bourne, 'I'd be careful. Can you imagine what it would be like having no thumbs? Or if your wrists were cut?"
   'Fucking technician!'
   'Believe it. '
   Across the airfield a light was turned on in a one-storey building with a row of small windows along the side. It was a barracks of sorts, simple in design and functional. Then there were other lights – naked bulbs, the glows more like glares. A barracks. Jason reached for the coiled roll of clothing he had removed from the small of his back; he undid the straps, unfurled the garments over the grass and separated them. There was a large Mao jacket, a pair of rumpled outsized trousers, and a visored cloth hat that was standard peasant wear. He put on the hat and the jacket, buttoning the latter over his dark sweater, then stood up and pulled the large trousers over his own. A webbed cloth belt held them in place. He smoothed the drab, bulky jacket over the trousers and turned to the impostor who was watching him with astonishment and curiosity.
   'Get over to the fence,' said Jason, bending down and digging into his knapsack. 'Get on your knees and lean into it,' he continued, pulling out a five-foot length of thin nylon rope. 'Press your face into the links. Eyes front! Hurry up!' The killer did as he was told, his bound hands awkwardly, painfully in front of him between his body and the fence, his head pressed into the wire mesh. Bourne walked rapidly over and quickly threaded the rope through the fence on the right side of the killer's neck, and with his fingers reaching through the open squares he swung the line across the commando's face and pulled the rope back through. He yanked it taut and knotted it at the base of the impostor's skull. He had worked so swiftly and so unexpectedly that the former officer could barely get out the words before he realized what had happened.
   'What the hell are you – oh, Christ?
   'As that maniac remarked about d'Anjou before he hacked into his head, you're not going anywhere, Major. '
   'You're going to leave me here?' asked the killer, stunned.
   'Don't be foolish. We're on the buddy system. Where I go, you go. Actually, you're going first. '
   'Where!'
   Through the fence,' said Jason, taking the wirecutter from the knapsack. He began cutting a pattern around the assassin's torso, relieved that the wire links were nowhere near as thick as those at the bird sanctuary. The outline complete, Bourne stepped back and raised his right foot, placing it between the impostor's shoulder blades. He shoved his leg forward. Killer and fence fell collapsing into the grass on the other side.
   'Jesus? cried the commando in pain. 'Pretty fucking funny, aren't you?
   'I don't feel remotely amusing,' replied Jason. 'Every move I make is very unfunny, very serious. Get up and keep your voice down. '
   'For Christ's sake, I'm tied to the damn fence!'
   'It's free. Get up and turn around. ' Awkwardly, the assassin staggered to his feet. Bourne surveyed his work; the sight of the outline of wire mesh attached to the killer's upper body, as though held in place by a protruding nose, was funny. But the reason for its being there was not funny at all. Only with the assassin secure in front of his eyes was all risk eliminated. Jason could not control what he could not see, and what he could not see could cost him his life... far more important, the life of David Webb's wife – even David Webb. Stay away from me! Don't interfere! We're too close!
   Bourne reached over and yanked the bowknot free, holding on to one end of the line. The fence fell away and before the assassin could adjust, Jason whipped the rope around the commando's head, raising it so that the line was caught in the killer's mouth. He pulled it tight, tighter, stretching the assassin's jaw open until it was a gaping dark hole surrounded by a border of white teeth, the flesh creased in place, unintelligible sounds emerging from the commando's throat.
   'I can't take credit for this, Major,' said Bourne, knotting the thin nylon rope, the remaining thirty-odd inches hanging loose. 'I watched d'Anjou and the others. They couldn't talk, they could only gag on their own vomit. You saw them, too, and you grinned. How does it feel, Major? ... Oh, I forgot, you can't answer, can you?' He shoved the assassin forward, then gripped his shoulder, sending him to the left . 'We'll skirt the end of the runway,' he said. 'Move!'
   As they rounded the airfield grass, staying in the darkness of the borders, Jason studied the relatively primitive airport. Beyond the barracks was a small circular building with a profusion of glass but no lights shining except a single glare in a small square structure set in the centre of the roof. The building was Jinan's terminal, he thought, the barely-lit square on top the control tower. To the left of the barracks, at least two hundred feet to the west, was a dark, open, high-ceilinged maintenance hangar with huge wheeled ladders near the wide doors reflecting the early light. It was apparently deserted, the crews still in their quarters. Down in the southern perimeter of the field, on both sides of the runway and barely discernible, were five aircraft, all props and none imposing. Jinan Airport was a secondary, even tertiary, landing field, undoubtedly being upgraded, as were so many airports in China in the cause of foreign investment, but still a long way from international status. Then again, the air corridors were channels in the sky and not subject to the cosmetic or technological whims of airports. One simply had to enter those channels and stay on course. The sky acknowledged no borders; only earthbound men and machines did. Combined they were another problem.
   'We're going into the hangar,' whispered Jason, jabbing the commando's back. 'Remember, if you make any noise, I won't have to kill you – they will. And I'll have my chance to get away because you'll be giving it to me. Don't doubt it. Get down?
   Thirty yards away a guard walked out of the cavernous structure, a rifle slung over his shoulder, his arms stretching as his chest swelled with a yawn. Bourne knew it was the moment to act; a better one might not present itself. The assassin was prone, his wire-bound hands beneath him, his gaping mouth pressed into the earth. Grabbing the loose nylon rope, Jason gripped the killer's hair, yanking up his head, and looped the line twice around the commando's neck. 'You move, you choke,' whispered Bourne, getting to his feet.

He ran silently to the hangar's wall, then quickly walked to the corner and peered around the edge. The guard had barely moved. Then Jason understood – the man was urinating. Perfectly natural and perfectly perfect. Bourne stepped away from the building, dug his right foot into the grass and rushed forward, his weapon a rigid right hand preceded by an arcing left foot striking the base of the guard's spine. The man collapsed, unconscious. Jason dragged him back to the corner of the hangar, then across the grass to where the assassin lay immobile, afraid to move.
   'You're learning, Major,' said Bourne, again grabbing the commando's hair and pulling the nylon rope from around his neck. The fact that the looped rope would not have choked the impostor any more than a loose clothesline wound around a person's neck would, told Delta something. His prisoner could not think geometrically; stresses were not a strong point in the killer's imagination, only the spoken threat of death. It was something to bear in mind. 'Get up,' ordered Jason. The assassin did so, his gaping mouth swallowing air, his eyes furious, hatred in his stare. Think about Echo,' said Bourne, his own eyes returning the killer's loathing. 'Excuse me, I mean d'Anjou. The man who gave you your life back – a life, at any rate, and one you apparently took to. Your Pygmalion, old chap! ... Now, hear me, and hear me well. Would you like the rope removed?'
   'Auggh!' grunted the assassin, nodding his head, his eyes reduced from hatred to pleading.
   'And your thumbs released?'
   'Auggh, auggh!'
   'You're not a guerrilla, you're a gorilla,' said Jason, pulling the automatic from his belt . 'But as we used to say in the old days – before your time, chap – there are "conditions". You see, we both either get out of here alive, or we disappear, our mortal remains consigned to a Chinese fire, no past, no present – certainly no retrospective regarding our sub-zero contributions to society... I see I'm boring you. Sorry, I'll forget the whole thing. '
   'Auggh!'
   'Okay, if you insist. Naturally, I won't give you a weapon, and if I see you trying to grab one – which I will if you try -you're dead. But if you behave, we might – just might – get away. What I'm really saying to you, Mr Bourne, is that whoever your client is over here can't allow you to live anymore than he can me. Understand? Dig? Capisce?'
   'Auggh!'
   'One thing more,' added Jason, tugging at the rope that fell over the commando's shoulder. This is nylon, or polyurethane, or whatever the hell they call it. When it's burned it just swells up like a marshmallow; there's no way you can untie it. It'll be attached to both your ankles, both knots curled up into cement. You'll have a step-span of approximately five feet – only – because I'm a technician. Do I make myself clear?'
   The assassin nodded, and as he did so Bourne sprang to his right, kicking the back of the commando's knees, sending the impostor to the ground, his bound thumbs bleeding. Jason knelt down, the gun in his left hand pressed into the killer's mouth, the fingers of his right undoing the bowknot behind the commando's head.
   'Christ almighty? cried the assassin, as the rope fell away.
   'I'm glad you're of a religious persuasion,' said Bourne, dropping the weapon and rapidly lashing the rope around the commando's ankles, forming a square knot on each; he ignited his lighter and fired the ends. 'You may need it. ' He picked up the gun, held it against the killer's forehead, and uncoiled the wire around his prisoner's wrists. Take off the rest,' he ordered. 'Be careful with the thumbs, they're damaged. '
   'My right arm's no piece of cake, either!' said the Englishman, struggling to remove the slipknots. His hands freed, the assassin shook them, then sucked the blood from his wounds. 'You got your magic box, Mr Bourne"? he asked.
   'Always an arm's length away, Mr Bourne,' replied Jason. 'What do you need?
   Tape. Fingers bleed. It's called gravity. '
   'You're so well schooled. ' Bourne reached behind him for the knapsack and pulled it forward, dropping it in front of the commando, his gun levelled at the killer's head. 'Feel around. It's a spool near the top. '
   'Got it,' said the assassin, removing the tape and rapidly winding it around his thumbs. This is one rotten fucking thing to do to anybody,' he added when he had finished.
   Think of d'Anjou,' said Jason flatly.
   'He wanted to die, for Christ's sake! What the hell was I supposed to do?'
   'Nothing. Because you are nothing. '
   'Well then, that kind of puts me on your level, doesn't it, sport? He made me into you!'
   'You don't have the talent,' said Jason Bourne. 'You're lacking. You can't think geometrically. '
   'What does that mean?'
   'Ponder it. ' Delta rose to his feet . 'Get up,' he commanded.
   Tell me,' said the assassin, pushing himself off the ground and staring at the weapon aimed at his head. 'Why me?' Why did you ever get out of the business?'
   'Because I was never in it. '
   Suddenly, floodlights – one after another – began to wash over the field, and with a single brilliant illumination, yellow marker lights appeared along the entire length of the runway. Men ran out of the barracks, a number towards the hangar, others behind their quarters where the engines of unseen vehicles abruptly roared. The lights of the terminal were turned on; activity was at once everywhere.
   Take his jacket off and the hat,' ordered Bourne, pointing the gun at the unconscious guard. 'Put them on. '
   They won't fit!'
   'You can have them altered in Savile Row. Move?
   The impostor did as he was told, his right arm so much a problem that Jason had to hold the sleeve for him. With Bourne prodding the commando with the gun, both men ran to the wall of the hangar, then moved cautiously towards the end of the building.
   'Do we agree?' asked Bourne, whispering, looking at the face that was so like his own years ago. 'We get out or we die?'
   'Understood,' answered the commando. That screaming bastard with his bloody fancy sword is a fucking lunatic. I want out!'
   That reaction wasn't on your face. '
   'If it had been the maniac might have turned on me!'
   'Who is her
   'Never got a name. Only a series of connections to reach him. The first was a man at the Guangdong garrison named Soo Jiang-'
   'I've heard the name. They call him "The Pig". '
   'It's probably accurate, I don't know. '
   Then what?'
   'A number is left at table five at a casino in-'
   The Kam Pek, Macao,' interrupted Jason. 'What then?
   'I call the number and speak French. This Soo Jiang is one of the few Slants who speak the language. He sets the time of the meet; it's always the same place. I go across the border to a field up in the hills where a chopper comes in and someone gives me the name of the target. And half the money for the kill... Look! Here it conies! He's circling into his approach. '
   'My gun's at your head. '
   'Understood. '
   'Did your training include flying one of those things?'
   'No. Only jumping out of them. '
   That won't do us any good. '
   The incoming plane, its lights blinking, swept down, out of the brightening sky towards the runway. The jet landed smoothly. It taxied to the end of the asphalt, swung to the right, and headed back to the terminal.
   'Kai guan qi you? shouted a voice from in front of the hangar, the man pointing at three fuel trucks off to the side, explaining which one was to be used.
   They're gassing up,' said Jason. The plane's taking off again. Let's get on it. '
   The assassin turned, his face – that face – pleading. 'For Christ's sake, give me a knife, something?
   'Nothing. '
   'I can help?
   This is my show, Major, not yours. With a knife you'd slice my stomach apart. No way, chap. '
   'Da long xia!' cried the same voice from in front of the hangar, describing government officials in terms of large crayfish. 'Fang song,' he continued, telling everyone to relax, that the plane would taxi away from the terminal and the first of the three fuel trucks should be driven out to meet it.
   The officials disembarked; the jet circled in place and began charging back over the runway while the tower instructed the pilot where he would refuel. The truck raced out; men leaped from the carriage and began pulling the hoses from their recesses.
   'It'll take about ten minutes,' said the assassin. 'It's a Chinese version of an upgraded DC-Three. '
   The aircraft came to a stop, the engines cut as rolling ladders were pushed to the wings and men scaled them. The fuel tanks were opened, the nozzles inserted amid constant chatter between the maintenance crews. Suddenly, the hatch door in the centre of the fuselage was reopened, the metal steps slapping down to the ground. Two men in uniform walked out.
   The pilot and his flight officer,' said Bourne, 'and they're not stretching their legs. They're checking every damn thing those people are doing. We'll time this very carefully, Major, and when I say move, you move. '
   'Straight to the hatch,' agreed the assassin. 'When the second bloke hits the first step. '
   That's about it. '
   'Diversion?'
   'In what way?'
   'You had a pretty fancy one last night. You had your own Yank Fourth of July, you did. '
   'Wrong way. Besides, I used them all up... Wait a minute. The fuel truck. '
   'You blow it, there goes the plane. Also, you couldn't time it to the blokes getting back on board. '
   'Not that truck,' said Jason, shaking his head and staring beyond the commando. The one over there. ' Bourne gestured at the nearer of the two red trucks directly in front of them, about a hundred feet away. 'If it went up, the first order of business would be to get the plane out of there. '
   'And we'd be a lot closer than we are now. Let's do it. '
   'No,' corrected Jason. 'You'll do it. Exactly the way I tell you with my gun inches from your head. Move!'
   The assassin in front, they raced out to the truck, covered by the dim light and the commotion around the plane. The pilot and his flight officer were shining flashlights over the engines and barking impatient orders to the maintenance crews. Bourne ordered the commando to crouch down in front of him as he knelt over the open knapsack and withdrew the roll of gauze. He removed the hunting knife from his belt, pulled a coiled hose off its rack, dropping it to the ground, and slid his left hand to the base where it entered the tank. ''Check them,' he told the commando. 'How much longer? And move slowly, Major. I'm watching you. ' 'I said I wanted out. I'm not going to screw up!' 'Sure you want out, but I've got a hunch you'd rather go it alone. '
   'The thought never occurred to me. ' Then you're not my man. ' Thanks a lot. '
   'No, I meant it. The thought would have occurred to me... How much longer?'
   'Between two and three minutes, as I judge. ' 'How good is your judgement?'
   Twenty-odd missions in Oman, Yemen and points south. Aircraft similar in structure and mechanism. I know it all, sport. It's old hat. Two to three minutes, no more than that. ' 'Good. Get back here. ' Jason pricked the hose with his knife and made a small incision, enough to permit a steady stream of fuel to flow out, but little enough so that the pump barely operated. He rose to his feet, covering the assassin with his gun as he handed him the roll of gauze. 'Pull out about six feet and drench it with the fuel that's leaking down there. ' The killer knelt down and followed Bourne's instructions. 'Now,' continued Jason, 'stuff the end into the slit where I've cut the hose. Farther -farther. Use your thumb!' 'My arm's not what it used to be!' 'Your left hand is! Press harder? Bourne looked quickly over at the refuelling -refuelled – aircraft. The commando's judgement had been accurate. Men were climbing off the wings and winding the hoses back into the fuel truck. Suddenly, the pilot and the flight officer were making their final check. They would head for the hatch door in less than a minute! Jason reached into his pocket for matches and threw them down in front of the assassin, his weapon levelled at the killer's head. 'Light it. Now?
   'It'll go up like a goddamned stick of nitro! It'll blow us both into the sky, especially me!'
   'Not if you do it right! Lay the gauze on the grass, it's wet-'
   'Retarding the fire-?'
   'Hurry up! Do it!'
   'Done!' The flame leaped up from the end of the cloth strip, then instantly fell back and began its gradual march up the gauge. 'Bloody technician,' said the commando under his breath as he rose to his feet.
   'Get in front of me,' ordered Bourne as he strung the knapsack to his belt . 'Start walking straight forward. Lower your height and shrink your shoulders like you did in Lo Wu. '
   'Jesus Christ! You were-?'
   'Move!'
   The fuel truck began backing away from the plane, then circled forward, swinging around the rolling ladders, heading to its left beyond where the first red truck was parked... and circling again, now to the right behind both stationary trucks to take up its position next to the one with the lighted gauze heading into its fuel tank. Jason whipped his head around, his eyes riveted on the fired tape. It had burst into its final flame! One spark entering the leaking valve and the exploding tank would send hot metal into its sister trucks' vulnerable shells. Any second!
   The pilot gestured to his flight officer. They marched together towards the hatch door.
   'Faster!' yelled Bourne. 'Be ready to run!'
   When?'
   'You'll know. Keep your shoulders low! Bend your spine, goddamn it!' They turned right towards the plane, passing through an oncoming crowd of maintenance personnel heading back to the hangar. 'Gongju ne?' cried Jason, admonishing a colleague for having left behind a valuable set of tools by the aircraft.
   'Gongju?' shouted a man at the end of the crowd, grabbing Bourne's arm and holding up a toolbox. Their eyes met and the crewman was stunned, his face contorted in shock. 'Tian a!' he screamed.
   It happened. It was too late for even consequential revelations. The fuel truck exploded, sending erratic pillows of fire pulsating into the sky as deadly shards of twisted metal pierced the space above and to the sides of the flaming vehicle. The crews screamed en masse; men raced in all directions, most to the protection of the hangar.
   'Run!' shouted Jason. The assassin did not have to be told; both men raced to the plane and the hatch door, where the pilot, who had climbed inside, was peering out in astonishment, while the flight officer remained frozen on the ladder. 'Kuair yelled Bourne, keeping his face in the shadows and forcing the commando's head down on the metal steps. 'Wei fengi' he added, screaming, telling the pilot to get out of the fire zone for the safety of the plane – that he was maintenance and would secure the hatchway.
   A second truck blew up, the opposing walls of explosives forming a volcanic eruption of fire and spewing metal.
   'You're right!' shouted the pilot in Chinese, grabbing his officer co-pilot by the shirt and pulling him inside; both raced up the short aisle to the flight deck.
   It was the moment, thought Jason. He wondered. 'Get in!' he ordered the commando as the third fuel truck blasted over the field and into the early light.
   'Right!' yelled the assassin, raising his head and straightening his body for the leap up the steps. Then suddenly, as another deafening explosion took place and the plane's engines roared, the killer spun round on the ladder, his right foot plunging towards Bourne's groin, his hand lashing out to deflect the weapon.
   Jason was ready. He crashed the barrel of his gun into the commando's ankle, then swung it up, smashing it across his temple; blood flowed as the killer fell back into the fuselage. Bourne leaped up the steps, kicking the unconscious body of the impostor back, across the metal floor. He yanked the hatchway into place, slamming the latches down, and securing the door. The plane began to taxi, instantly swerving to the left away from the flaming centre of danger. Jason ripped the knapsack from his belt, pulled out a second length of nylon rope and tied the assassin's wrists to two widely separated seat clamps. There was no way the commando could free himself– none that Bourne could think of– but just in case he was mistaken, Jason cut the rope attached to the assassin's ankles, separated his legs and tied each foot to the opposite clamps across the aisle.
   He got up and started towards the flight deck. The aircraft was now on the runway, racing down the blacktop; suddenly the engines were cut. The plane was stopping in front of the terminal, where the group of government officials was gathered, watching the ever-growing conflagrations taking place less than a quarter of a mile away to the north.
   'Kai bar said Bourne, placing the barrel of his automatic against the back of the pilot's head. The co-pilot whirled around in his seat. Jason spoke in clear Mandarin as he shifted his arm. 'Watch your dials, and prepare for takeoff, then give me your maps. '
   'They will not clear us!' yelled the pilot . 'We are to pick up five outgoing commissioners!'
   To where?
   'Baoding. '
   'That's north,' said Bourne.
   'Northwest,' insisted the co-pilot.
   'Good. Head south. '
   'It will not be permitted!' shouted the pilot.
   'Your first duty is to save the aircraft. You don't know what's going on out there. It could be sabotage, a revolt, an uprising. Do as I tell you, or you're both dead. I really don't care. '
   The pilot snapped his head around and looked up at Jason. 'You are a Westerner! You speak Chinese but you are a Westerner. What are you doing?'
   'Commandeering this aircraft. You've got plenty of runway left. Take off South! And give me the maps. '
   The memories came back. Distant sounds, distant sights, distant thunder.
   'Snake lady, snake lady! Respond! What are your sector co-ordinates?'
   They were heading towards Tarn Quan and Delta would not break silence. He knew where they were and that was all that mattered. Command Saigon could go to hell, he wasn't about to give the North Viet monitoring posts an inkling as to where they were going.
   'If you won't or can't respond, Snake Lady, stay below six hundred feet! This is a friend talking, you assholes! You don't have many down here! Their radar will pick you up over six-fifty. '
   I know that, Saigon, and my pilot knows it, even if he doesn't like it, and I still won't break silence.
   'Snake Lady, we've completely lost you! Can any retard on that mission read an air map?'
   Yes, I can read one very well, Saigon. Do you think he'd go up with my team trusting any of you? Goddamnit, that's my brother down there! Fm not important to you but he is!
   'You're crazy, Western man!' yelled the pilot . 'In the name of the spirits, this is a heavy aircraft and we're barely over the treetops!' 'Keep your nose up,' said Bourne, studying a map. 'Dip and grab altitude, that's all. '
   That is also foolishness!' shouted the co-pilot . 'One downdraught at this level and we are into the forests! We are gone!
   'The weather reports on your radio say there's no turbulence anticipated-'
   'That is above? screamed the pilot . 'You don't understand the risks! Not down here?
   'What was the last report out of Jinan?' asked Jason, knowing full well what it "was.
   'They have been trying to track this flight to Baoding,' said the officer. They have been unable to do so for the past three hours. They are now searching the Hengshui mountains... Great spirits, why am I telling you! You heard the reports yourself! You speak better than my parents, and they were educated!'
   Two points for the Republic's Air Force... Okay, take a hundred and sixty degree turn in two and a half minutes and climb to an altitude of a thousand feet. We'll be over water. '
   'We'll be in range of the Japanese! They'll shoot us down!'
   'Put out a white flag – or better still, I'll get on the radio. I'll think of something. They may even escort us to Kowloon. '
   'Kowloon? shrieked the flight officer. 'We'll be shot?
   'Entirely possible,' agreed Bourne, 'But not by me,' he added. 'You see, in the final analysis, I have to get there without you. As a matter of fact, you can't even be a part of my scene. I can't allow that. '
   'You're making positively no sense!' said the exasperated pilot.
   'You just make a hundred and sixty degree turn when I tell you. ' Jason studied the airspeed, calibrating the knots on the map and calculating the estimated distance he wanted. Below, through the window, he saw the coast of China fall behind them. He looked at his watch; ninety seconds had passed. 'Make your turn, Captain,' he said.
   'I would have made it anyway!' cried the pilot . 'I am not the divine wind of the Kamikaze. I do not fly into my own death. '
   'Not even for your heavenly government?'
   'Least of all. '
   Times change,' said Bourne, his concentration once more on the air map. Things change. '
   'Snake lady, snake lady! Abort! If you can hear me get out of there and return to base camp. It's a no-win! Do you readme? Abort!'
   'What do you want to do, Delta?'
   'Keep flying, Mister. In three more minutes you can get out of here. '
   'That's me. What about you and your people?'
   'We'll make it. '
   'You're suicidal, Delta. '
   'Tell me about it... All right, everyone check your chutes and prepare for cast off. Someone help Echo, put his hand on the cord. '
   'Deraisonnable!'
   The airspeed held steady at close to 370 miles per hour. The route Jason chose, flying at low altitude through the
   Formosa Strait – past Longhai and Shantou on the Chinese coast, and Hsinchu and Fengshan on Taiwan – was something over 1435 miles. Therefore the estimate of four hours, plus or minus minutes, was reasonable. The out islands north of Hong Kong would be visible in less than half an hour.
   Twice during the flight they had been challenged by radio, once from the Nationalist garrison on Quemoy, the other from a patrol plane out of Raoping. Each time Bourne took over communications, explaining in the first instance that they were on a search mission for a disabled ship bringing Taiwanese goods into the mainland, for the second a somewhat more ominous declaration that as part of the People's Security Forces they were scouting the coast for contraband vessels that had undoubtedly eluded the Raoping patrols. For this last communication he was not only unpleasantly arrogant but also used the name and the official – highly classified – identification number of a dead conspirator who lay underneath a Russian limousine in the Jing Shan Bird Sanctuary. Whether either interrogator believed him or not was, as he expected, irrelevant. Neither cared to disturb the status quo ante. Life was complicated enough. Let things be, let them go. Where was the threat? 'Where's your equipment?' asked Jason, addressing the pilot.
   'I'm flying it!' replied the man, studying his instruments, visibly snaking at each eruption of static from the radio, each reporting communication from commercial aircraft . 'As you may or may not know, I have no flight plan. We could be on a collision course with a dozen different planes!'
   'We're too low,' said Bourne, 'and the visibility's fine. I'll trust your eyes not to bump into anybody. '
   'You're insane? shouted the co-pilot.
   'On the contrary. I'm about to walk back into sanity. Where's your emergency equipment? The way you people build things, I can't imagine that you don't have any.'
   'Such as?' asked the pilot.
   'Life rafts, signalling devices... parachutes. '
   'Great spirits'
   'Where?'
   The compartment in the rear of the plane, the door to the right of the galley. '
   'It's all for the officials,' added the co-pilot dourly. 'If there are problems they are supplied. '
   'That's reasonable,' said Bourne. 'How else would you attend to business?'
   'Madness. '
   Tin going aft, gentlemen, but my gun will be pointed right back here. Keep on course, Captain. I'm very experienced and very sensitive. I can feel the slightest variation in the air, and if I do, we're all dead. Understood?'
   'Maniac!'
   'Tell me about it. ' Jason got up from the deck and walked back through the fuselage, stepping over his roped-up, splayed-out prisoner, who had given up the struggle to free himself, the layers of dried blood covering the wound at his left temple. 'How are things, Major?'
   'I made a mistake. What else do you want?'
   'Your warm body in Kowloon, that's what I want. '
   'So some son of a bitch can put me in front of a firing squad?'
   That's up to you. Since I'm beginning to put things together, some son of a bitch might even give you a medal if you play your cards the way you should play them. '
   'You're very big with the cryptics, Bourne. What does that mean?'
   'With luck, you'll find out. '
   Thanks a lot!' shouted the Englishman.
   'No thanks to me. You gave me the idea, sport. I asked you if, in your training, you'd learned how to fly one of these things. Do you remember what you told me?'
   'What!'
   'You said you only knew how to jump out of them. '
   'Holy shit!'
   The commando, the parachute securely strapped to his back, was bound upright between two seats, legs and hands tied together, his right hand lashed to the release cord.
   'You look crucified, Major, except that the arms should be extended. '
   'For God's sake, will you make sense!'
   'Forgive me. My other self keeps trying to express himself. Don't do anything stupid, you bastard, because you're going out that hatch! Hear me? Understood?'
   'Understood. '
   Jason walked to the flight deck, sat on the deck, picked up the map and spoke to the flight officer. 'What's the check?' he asked. 'Hong Kong in six minutes if we don't "bump into anybody". '
   'I have every confidence in you, but defection notwithstanding, we can't land at Kai Tak. Head north into the New
   Territories. '
   'Aiya!' screamed the pilot . 'We cross radar! The mad Gurkhas will fire on anything remotely mainland!'
   'Not if they don't pick you up, Captain. Stay below six hundred feet up to the border, then climb over the mountains at Lo Wu. You can make radio contact with Shenzhen. '
   'And what in the name of the spirits do I say?
   'You were hijacked, that's all. You see, I can't allow you to be part of me. We can't land in the colony. You'd draw attention to a very shy man – and his companion.'
   The parachutes snapped open above them, the sixty-foot rope connecting them by their waists stretched in the winds as the aircraft sped north towards Shenzhen.
   They landed in the waters of a fish hatchery south of Lok Ma Chau. Bourne hauled in the rope, pulling the bound assassin towards him as the owners of the hatchery screamed on the banks of their squared-off pond. Jason held up money – more money than the husband and wife could earn in a year. 'We are defectors? he cried. 'Rich defectors! Who cares! No one cared, least of all the owners of the hatchery. 'Mgoi! Mgoissaair they kept repeating, thanking the strange pink creatures who fell from the sky as Bourne dragged the assassin out of the water.
   The Chinese garments discarded and the commando's wrists lashed behind his back, Bourne and his captive reached the road that headed south into Kowloon. Their drenched clothes were drying rapidly under the heat of the sun, but their appearance would not attract what few vehicles there were on the road, fewer still willing to pick up hitchhikers. It was a problem that had to be solved. Solved quickly, accurately. Jason was exhausted; he could barely walk and his concentration was fading. One mis-step and he could lose – but he could not lose! Not now!
   Peasants, mainly old women," trudged along the borders of the pavement, their outsized, wide-brimmed black hats shielding withered faces from the sun, yokes spread across ancient shoulders supporting baskets of produce. A few looked curiously at the dishevelled Westerners, but only briefly; their world did not invite surprises. It was enough to survive; their memories were strong.
   Memories. Study everything. You'll find something you can use.
   'Get down,' said Bourne to the assassin. 'On the side of the road. '
   'What? Why?'
   'Because if you don't you won't see three more seconds of daylight. '
   'I thought you wanted my warm body in Kowloon!'
   'I'll take a cold body if I have to. Down! On your backl Incidentally, you can shout as loud as you want, no one will understand you. You might even be helping me. '
   'Christ, now?'
   'You're in trauma. '
   What?'
   'Down! Now!'
   The killer lowered himself to the pavement, rolled over on his back and stared into the bright sunlight, his chest heaving with awkward gulps of breath. 'I heard the pilot,' he said. 'You are a fucking maniac!'
   To each his own interpretation, Major. ' Suddenly, Jason turned in the road and began shouting to the peasant women. 'Jiuming!' he screamed. 'Ring bang mang!' He pleaded with the ancient survivors to help his hurt companion, who had either a broken back or crushed ribs. He reached into his knapsack and pulled out money, explaining that every minute counted, that medical help was required as soon as possible. If they could give assistance, he would pay a great deal for their kindness.
   As one, the peasants rushed forward, their eyes not on the patient, but on the money, their hats flying in the wind, their yokes forgotten.
   Wo gunzi lai! yelled Bourne, asking for splints or sticks of wood that would hold the damaged man rigid.
   The women ran into the fields, returning with long bamboo shoots, slicing away the fibres that would give the poor man in pain a measure of relief when he was strapped in place. And having done so amid much shrieking expressions of sympathy and in spite of the patient's protestations in English, they accepted Bourne's money and went on their way.
   Except one. She spotted a truck coming down from the north.
   ''Duo shao qian?' she said, leaning into Jason's ear, asking him how much he would pay.
   'Ni shuo ne,' answered Bourne, telling her to name a price.
   She did and Delta accepted. With her arms outstretched, the woman walked out onto the road, and the truck stopped. A second negotiation was made with the driver, and the assassin was loaded onto the van, supine, strapped to the bamboo. Jason climbed on behind him.
   'How are you doing, Major?'
   'This thing is filled with lousy, fucking ducks!' screamed the commando, staring around at the banks of wooden cages on all sides, the odour overpowering, sickening.
   A particular bird, in its infinite wisdom, chose the moment to squirt a stream of excrement into the assassin's face.
   'Next stop, Kowloon,' said Jason Bourne, closing his eyes.

30
   The telephone rang. Marie spun around in the chair, stopped by Mo Panov's raised hand. The doctor walked across the hotel room, picked up the bedside phone, and spoke. 'Yes!' he said quietly. He frowned as he listened, then as if he realized that his expression might alarm the patient, he looked over at Marie and shook his head, his hand now dismissing whatever urgency she might have attached to the call. 'All right,' he continued after nearly a minute. 'We'll stay put until we hear from you, but I have to ask you, Alex, and forgive my directness. Did anyone feed you drinks?' Panov winced as he pulled the phone briefly away from his ear. 'My only response is that I'm entirely too kind and experienced to speculate on your antecedents. Talk to you later. ' He hung up.
   'What's happened"? asked Marie, half out of the chair.
   'Far more than he could go into, but it was enough. ' The psychiatrist paused, looking down at Marie. 'Catherine Staples is dead. She was shot down in front of her apartment house several hours ago-'
   'Oh, my God,' whispered Marie.
   That huge intelligence officer,' continued Panov. 'The one we saw in the Kowloon station whom you called the major and Staples identified as a man named Lin Wenzu-'
   'What about him?'
   'He's severely wounded and in critical condition at the hospital. That's where Conklin called from, a pay phone in the hospital. '
   Marie studied Panov's face. 'There's a connection between Catherine's death and Lin Wenzu, isn't there?'
   'Yes. When Staples was killed it was apparent that the operation had been penetrated-'
   'What operation? By whom?'
   'Alex said that'll all come later. In any event, things are coming to a boil and this Lin may have given his life to rip out the penetration – "neutralizing it," was the way Conklin put it. '
   'Oh, God,' cried Marie her eyes wide, her voice on the edge of hysteria . 'Operations! Penetrations... neutralizing, Lin, even Catherine – a friend who turned on me – I don't care about those things! What about David?
   'They say he went into China. '
   'Good Christ, they've killed him!' screamed Marie, leaping out of the chair.
   Panov rushed forward and grabbed her by the shoulders. He gripped her harder, forcing her spastically shaking head to stop its movement, insisting in silence that she look at him. 'Let me tell you what Alex said to me... Listen to me!'
   Slowly, breathlessly, as if trying to find a moment of clarity in her confusion and exhaustion, Marie stood still, staring at her friend. 'What?' she whispered.
   'He said that in a way he was glad David was up there – or out there – because in his judgement he had a better chance to survive. '
   'You believe that?' screamed David Webb's wife, tears filling her eyes.
   'Perhaps,' said Panov, nodding and speaking softly. 'Conklin pointed out that here in Hong Kong David could be shot or stabbed in a crowded street – crowds, he said, were both an enemy and a friend. Don't ask me where these people find their metaphors, I don't know. '
   'What the hell are you trying to tell me?'
   'What Alex told me. He said they made him go back, made him be someone he wanted to forget. Then he said there never was anyone like "Delta". "Delta" was the best there ever was... David Webb was "Delta", Marie. No matter what he wanted to put out of his mind, he was "Delta". Jason Bourne was an afterthought, an extension of the pain he had to inflict on himself, but his skills were honed as "Delta" ... In some respects I know your husband as well as you do. '
   'In those respects, far better, I'm sure,' said Marie, resting her head against the comforting chest of Morris Panov. 'There were so many things he wouldn't talk about. He was too frightened, or too ashamed... Oh, God, Mo! Will he come back to me?"
   'Alex thinks "Delta" will come back. '
   Marie leaned away from the psychiatrist and looked into his eyes; through the tears her stare was rigid. 'What about David?' she asked in a plaintive whisper. 'Will he come back?'
   'I can't answer that. I wish I could, but I can't. '
   'I see. ' She released Panov and walked to a window, looking down at the crowds below in the congested, garishly lighted streets. 'You asked Alex if he'd been drinking. Why did you do that, Mo?'
   The moment the words came out I regretted them. '
   'Because you offended him?' asked Marie, turning back to the psychiatrist.
   'No. Because I knew you'd heard them and you'd want an explanation. I couldn't refuse you that. '
   'Well'
   'It was the last thing he said to me – two things, actually. He said you were wrong about Staples-'
   'Wrong? I was there. I saw. I heard her lies!'
   'She was trying to protect you without sending you into panic. '
   'More lies! What was the other?'
   Panov held his place and spoke simply, his eyes locked with Marie's. 'Alex said that crazy as things seemed, they weren't really so crazy after all. '
   'My God, they've turned him!'
   'Not all the way. He won't tell them where you are – where we are. He told me we should be ready to move within minutes after his next call. He can't take the chance of coming back here. He's afraid he'll be followed. '
   'So we're running again – with nowhere to go but back into hiding. And all of a sudden there's a rotten growth in our armour. Our crippled St George who slays dragons now wants to lie with them. '
   That's not fair, Marie. That's not what he said, not what I said. '
   'Bullshit, Doctor! That's my husband out there, or up there! They're using him, killing him, without telling us why! Oh, he may – just may – survive because he's so terribly good at what he does – did – which was everything he despised, but what's going to be left of the man and his mind! You're the expert, Doctor! What's going to be left when all the memories come back? And they damn well better come back, or he won't survive!'
   'I told you, I can't answer that. '
   'Oh, you're terrific, Mo! All you've got is carefully qualified positions and no answers, not even well couched projections. You're hiding! You should have been an economist! You missed your calling!'
   'I miss a lot of things. Almost including the plane to Hong Kong. '
   Marie stood motionless, as if struck. She burst into a new wave of tears as she ran to Panov, embracing him. 'Oh, God, I'm sorry, Mo! Forgive me, forgive me!'
   'I'm the one who should apologize,' said the psychiatrist . 'It was a cheap shot. ' He tilted her head back, gently stroking the grey hair streaked with white. 'Lord, I can't stand that wig. '
   'It's not a wig, Doctor. '
   'My degrees, by way of Sears Roebuck, never included cosmetology. '
   'Only taking care of feet. '
   'They're easier than heads, take my word for it. '
   The telephone rang. Marie gasped and Panov stopped breathing. He slowly turned his head towards the hateful ringing.
   'You try that again or anything like it and you're dead!' roared Bourne, gripping the back of his hand where the flesh was darkening from the force of the blow. The assassin, his wrists tied in front of him beneath the sleeves of his jacket, had lunged against the door of the cheap hotel, jamming
   Jason's left hand into the doorframe.
   'What the hell do you expect me to do?' the former British commando yelled. 'Walk gently into that good night smiling at my own firing squad?'
   'So you're a closet reader too,' said Bourne, watching the killer clutch his ribcage, where Jason's right foot had landed an agonizing blow. 'Maybe it's time I asked you why you're in the business I was never actually a part of. Why, Major?"
   'Are you really interested, Mr Original?' grunted the impostor, falling into a worn-out armchair against the wall. 'Then it's my turn to ask why. ' •
   'Perhaps because I never understood myself,' said David Webb . 'I'm quite rational about that. '
   'Oh, I know all about you! It was part of the Frenchman's training. The great Delta was bonkers! His wife and kiddies were blown up in the water in a place called Phnom Penh by a stray jet. This oh-so-civilized scholar went crazy and it's a fact nobody could control him and nobody gave a damn because he and the teams he led did more damage than most of the search-and-destroys put together. Saigon said you were suicidal and from its point of view the more so the better. They wanted you and the garbage you commanded to buy it. They never wanted you back. You were an embarrassment!'
   Snake lady, snake lady... this is a friend talking, you assholes. You don't have many down here... Abort! It's a no-win!
   'I know, or I think I know that part of it,' said Webb . 'I asked about you. '
   The assassin's eyes grew wide as he stared at his bound wrists. When he spoke, it was barely above a whisper, the voice that emerged an echo of itself, and unreal. 'Because I'm psycho, you son of a bitch! I've known it since I was a kid. The nasty dark thoughts, the knives into animals just to watch their eyes and their mouths. Raping a neighbour's daughter, a vicar's kid, because I knew she couldn't say anything, and then catching up with her on the street afterwards and walking her to school. I was eleven years old. And later, at Oxford, during club hazing, holding a lad under water, just below the surface, until he drowned – to watch his eyes, his mouth. Then going back to classes and excelling in that nonsense any damn fool could do who had the wits to get out of a thunder shower. There I was the right sort of fellow, as befitted the son of the father. '
   'You never sought help?
   'Help? With a name like Allcott-Price?'
   'Allcott-?' Stunned, Bourne stared at his prisoner. 'General Allcott-Price? Montgomery's boy genius in World War Two? "Slaughter" Allcott, the man who led the flank attack on Tobruk, and later barrelled through Italy and Germany? England's Patton?'
   'I wasn't alive then, for Christ's sake! I was a product of his third wife – perhaps his fourth, for all I know. He was very large in that department – women, I mean. '
   'D'Anjou said you never told him your real name. '
   'He was bloody well right! The general, swilling his brandy in his oh-so-superior club in St James's, has passed the word. "Kill him! Kill the rotten seed and never let the name out. He's no part of me, the woman was a whore!" But I am part of him and he knows it. He knows where I get my kicks from, the sadistic bastard, and we both have a slew of citations for doing what we like doing best. '
   'He knew, then? About your sickness?'
   'He knew... he knows. He kept me out of Sandhurst – our West Point, in case you don't know – because he didn't want me anywhere near his precious army. He figured they'd find me out and it'd dim his precious image. He damn near had apoplexy when I joined up. He won't have a decent night's sleep until he's told quietly that I'm out – dead out with all the traces buried. '
   'Why are you telling me who you are? 'Simple,' replied the former commando, his eyes boring into Jason's. The way I read it, whichever way it goes, only one of us is going to make it through. I'll do my damndest to see that it's me, I told you that. But it may not be – you're no slouch – and if it isn't, you'll have a name you can shock the goddamn world with, probably make a bloody fortune in the bargain what with literary and cinema rights, that sort of thing. '
   'Then the general will spend the rest of his life sleeping peacefully. '
   'Sleep?' He'll probably blow his brains out! You weren't listening. I said he'd be told quietly, all the traces buried, no name surfacing. But this way nothing's buried. It's all hanging out like Maggie's drawers, the whole sick sordid mess with no apologies on my part, chap. I know what I am, I accept it. Some of us are just plain different. Let's say we're anti-social, to put it one way; hard-core violent is another -rotten, still another. The only difference within my being different is that I'm bright enough to know it. '
   'And accept it,' said Bourne, quietly.
   'Wallow in it! Positively intoxicated by the highs! And let's look at it this way. If I lose and the story blows, how many practising anti-socials might be fired up by it? How many other different men are out there who'd be only too happy to take my place, as I took yours? This bloody world is crawling with Jason Bournes. Give them direction, give them an idea, and they'll flock to the source and be off and running. That was the Frenchman's essential genius, can't you see?'
   'I see garbage, that's all I see. '
   'Your eyesight's not too shabby. That's what the general will see – a reflection of himself – and he'll have to live with the exposure, choke with it. '
   'If he wouldn't help you, you should have helped yourself, commit yourself. You're bright enough to know that. '
   'And cut off all the fun, all the highs? Unthinkable, sport! You go your way and find the most expendable outfit in the service, hoping the accident will happen that will put an end to it before they peg you for what you are. I found the outfit, but the accident never happened. Unfortunately, competition brings out the best in all of us, doesn't it? We survive because somebody else doesn't want us to... And then, of course, there's drink. It gives us confidence, even the courage to do the things we're not sure we can do. '
   'Not when you're working. '
   'Of course not, but the memories are there. The whisky bravado that tells you you can do it. '
   'False,' said Jason Bourne.
   'Not entirely,' countered the assassin. 'You draw strength from what you can. '
   'There are two people,' said Jason. 'One you know, the other you don't – or you don't want to. '
   'False!' repeated the commando. 'He wouldn't be there unless I wanted my kicks, don't kid yourself. And don't delude yourself, either, Mr Original. You'd be better off putting a bullet in my head, because I'll take you, if I can. I'll kill you, if I can. '
   'You're asking me to destroy what you can't live with. '
   'Cut the crap, Bourne! I don't know about you, but I get my kicks! I want them! I don't want to live without them!'
   'You just asked me again. '
   'Stow it, you fucker!'
   'And again. '
   'Stop it!' The assassin lurched out of the chair. Jason took two steps forward, his right foot again lashing out, again pounding the killer's ribs, sending him back into the chair. Allcott-Price screamed in pain.
   'I won't kill you, Major,' said Bourne quietly. 'But I'll make you wish you were dead. '
   'Grant me a last wish,' coughed the killer through an open mouth, holding his chest with his bound hands. 'Even I've done that for targets... I can take the unexpected bullet but I can't take the Hong Kong garrison. They'd hang me late at night when no one's around, just to make it official, according to the regs. They'd put a thick rope around my neck and make me stand on a platform. I can't take that?
   Delta knew when to switch gears. 'I told you before,' he said calmly. That may not be in store for you. I'm not dealing with the British in Hong Kong. '
   'You're not what?'
   'You assumed it, but I never said it. '
   'You're lying?
   Then you're less talented than I thought, which wasn't much to begin with. '
   'I know. I can't think geometrically?
   'You certainly can't. '
   Then you're a premium man – what you Americans call a bounty hunter – but you're working privately. '
   'In a sense, yes. And I have an idea that the man who sent me after you may want to hire you, not kill you. '
   'Jesus Christ-'
   'And my price was heavy. Very heavy. '
   Then you are in the business. '
   'Only this once. I couldn't refuse the reward. Lie down on the bed. '
   'What?
   'You heard me. '
   'I have to go to the loo. '
   'Be my guest,' replied Jason, walking to the bathroom door and opening it . 'It's not one of my favourite sports, but I'll be watching you. ' The assassin relieved himself with Bourne's gun trained on him. Finished, he walked out into the small, shabby room in the cheap hotel south of the Mongkok. The bed,' said Bourne again, gesturing with his weapon. 'Get prone and spread your legs. '
   That fairy behind the desk downstairs would love to hear this conversation. '
   'You can phone him later in your own time. Down. Quickly!'
   'You're always in a hurry-'
   'More than you'll ever understand. ' Jason lifted his knapsack from the floor and put it on the bed, pulling out the nylon cords as the deranged killer crawled oh top of the soiled spread. Ninety seconds later the commando's ankles were lashed to the bed's rear metal springs, his neck circled with the thin, white line, the rope stretched and knotted to the springs in front. Finally, Bourne slipped off the pillowcase and tied it around the major's head, covering his eyes and ears, leaving his mouth free to breathe. His wrists bound beneath him, the assassin was again immobilized. But now his head began to twitch in sudden jerks and his mouth stretched with each spasm. Extreme anxiety had overcome former Major Allcott-Price. Jason recognized the signs dispassionately.
   The squalid hotel he had managed to find had no such conveniences as a telephone. The only communication with the outside world would be a knock on the door, which meant either the police or a wary desk clerk informing the guest that if the room was to be occupied another hour, an additional day's rent was required. Bourne crossed to the door, slipped silently out into the dingy corridor and headed for the pay phone he had been told was at the far end of the hallway.

He had committed the telephone number to memory, waiting – praying, if it were possible – for the moment when he would dial it. He inserted a coin and did so now, his breath short, the blood racing to his head. 'Snake lady!' he said into the phone, drawing out the two words in harsh, flat emphasis. 'Snake lady, snake-'
   'Qing, qing,' broke in an impersonal voice over the line, speaking rapidly in Chinese. 'We are experiencing a temporary disruption of service for many telephones on this exchange. Service should be resumed shortly. This is a recording... Qing, qing-'
   Jason replaced the phone. A thousand fragmented thoughts, like broken mirrors, collided in his mind. He walked rapidly back down the dimly-lit corridor, passing a whore in a doorway counting money. She smiled at him, raising her hands to her blouse; he shook his head and ran to the room. He waited fifteen minutes, standing quietly by the window, hearing the guttural sounds that emerged from his prisoner's throat. He returned to the door and once more stepped outside noiselessly. He walked to the phone, again inserted money and dialled.
   'Qing-' He slammed the telephone down, his hands trembling, the muscles of his jaw working furiously as he thought about the prostrate 'merchandise' he had brought back to exchange for his wife. He picked up the phone for a third time and dialled O. 'Operator,' he began in Chinese, 'this is an emergency! It's most urgent I reach the following number. ' He gave it to her, his voice rising in barely controlled panic . 'A recording explained that there was difficulty on the line, but this is an emergency-'
   'One minute, please. I will attempt to be of assistance. ' Silence followed, every second filled with a growing echo in his chest, reverberating like an accelerating kettledrum. His temples throbbed; his mouth was dry, his throat parched -burning.
   'The line is temporarily in disuse, sir,' said a second female voice.
   The line! That line?
   'Yes, sir. '
   'Not "many telephones" on the exchange?
   'You asked the operator about a specific number, sir. I would not know about other numbers. If you have them I will gladly check for you. '
   'The recording specifically said many telephones yet you're saying one line! Are you telling me you can't confirm a... a multiple malfunction?'
   'A what?'
   'Whether a whole lot of phones aren't working! You've got computers. They spell out trouble spots. I told the other operator this is an emergency!'
   'If it is medical I will gladly summon an ambulance. If you will give me your address-'
   'I want to know whether a lot of phones are out or whether it's just one! I have to know that!'
   'It will take me some time to gather such information, sir. It's past nine o'clock in the evening and the repair stations are on reduced crews-'
   'But they can tell you if there's an area problem, goddamn it!'
   'Please, sir, I am not paid to be abused. '
   'Sorry, I'm sorry I... Address? Yes, the address! What's the address of the number I gave you?'
   'It is unpublished, sir. '
   'But you have it!'
   'Actually, I do not, sir. The laws of confidentiality are most strict in Hong Kong. My screen shows only the word "unpublished". '
   'I repeat! This really is a matter of life and death!'
   'Then let me reach a hospital... Oh, sir, please wait. You were correct, sir. My screen now shows that the last three digits of the number you gave me are electronically crossing over into one another, so the repair station is attempting to correct the problem. '
   'What's the geographical location?'
   The prefix is "five", therefore it is on the island of Hong Kong. '
   'Narrower! Whereabouts on the island?
   'Digits on telephone numbers have nothing to do with specific streets or locations. I'm afraid I cannot help you any further, sir. Unless you care to give me your address so that I might send an ambulance. '
   'My address.. .? said Jason bewildered, exhausted, on the edge of panic . 'No,' he continued. 'I don't think I'll do that. '
   Edward Newington McAllister bent over the desk as the woman replaced the phone. She was visibly shaken, her Oriental face pale from the strain of the call. The undersecretary of state hung up a separate phone on the other side of the desk, a pencil in his right hand, an address on a notepad beneath him. 'You were absolutely wonderful,' he said, patting the woman's arm. 'We have it. We've got him. You kept him on long enough – longer than he would have permitted in the old days – the trace is confirmed. At least the building, and that's enough. A hotel. '
   'He speaks very fine Chinese. The dialect is rather northern, but he adjusts to Guangzhou. He also did not trust me. '
   'It doesn't matter. We'll put people around the hotel. Every entrance and exit. It's on a street called Shek Lung. '
   'Below the Mongkok, in the Yau Ma Ti, actually,' said the woman interpreter. 'There's probably only one entrance, through which the garbage is taken every morning, no doubt. '
   'I have to reach Havilland at the hospital. He shouldn't have gone there!'
   'He appeared to be most anxious,' offered the interpreter.
   'Last statements,' said McAllister, dialling. 'Vital information from a dying man. It's permitted. '
   'I don't understand any of you. ' The woman got up from the desk as the undersecretary moved around and sat in the chair. 'I can follow instructions, but I don't understand you. '
   'Good Lord, I forgot. You have to leave now. What I'm discussing is highly classified... We're extremely appreciative and I can assure you you have our gratitude and I'm quite certain a bonus, but I'm afraid I must ask you to leave. '
   'Gladly, sir,' said the interpreter. 'And you may forget the gratitude, but please include the bonus. I learned that much in Economics Eight at the University of Arizona. ' The woman left.
   'Emergency, police facilities!' McAllister fairly shouted into the phone. The ambassador please. It's urgent! No, no names are required, thank you, and bring him to a telephone where we can talk privately. ' The undersecretary massaged his left temple, digging deeper and deeper into his scalp until Havilland got on the line.
   'Yes, Edward?
   'He called. It worked. We know where he is! A hotel in the Yau Ma Ti. '
   'Surround it, but don't make any moves! Conklin has got to understand. If he smells what he thinks is rotten bait, he'll pull back. And if we don't have the wife, we don't have our assassin. For God's sake, don't blow this, Edward! Everything must be tight – and very, very delicate! Beyond-salvage could well be the next order of business. '
   Those aren't words I'm used to, Mr Ambassador. '
   There was a pause on the line; when Havilland spoke his voice was cold. 'Oh, yes they are, Edward. You protest too much, Conklin was right about that. You could have said no at the beginning, at Sangre de Cristo in Colorado. You could have walked away but you didn't, you couldn't. In some ways you're like me – without my accidental advantages, of course. We think and out-think; we take sustenance from our manipulations. We swell with pride with every progressive move in the human chess game – where every move can have terrible consequences for someone – because we believe in something. It all becomes a narcotic, and the sirens' songs are really appeals to our egos. We have our minor powers because of our major intellects. Admit it, Edward. I have. And if it makes you feel any better, I'll say what I said before. Someone has to do it. '
   'Nor do I care for out-of-context lectures,' said McAllister.
   'You'll receive no more from me. Just do as I tell you. Cover all the exits at that hotel, but inform every man that no overt moves are to be made. If Bourne goes anywhere, he's to be discreetly followed, not touched under any circumstances. We must have the woman before contact is made. '
   Morris Panov picked up the phone. 'Yes?'
   'Something's happened. ' Conklin spoke rapidly, quietly. 'Havilland left the waiting room to take an emergency call. Is anything going on over there?'
   'No, nothing. We've just been talking. '
   'I'm worried. Havilland's men could have found you. '
   'Good Lord, how?'
   'Checking every hotel in the colony for a white man with a limp, that's how. '
   'You paid the clerk not to say anything to anyone. You said it was a confidential business conference – perfectly normal. '
   They can pay, too, and say it's a confidential government matter that brings generous rewards or equally generous harassment. Guess who takes precedence?'
   'I think you're over-reacting,' protested the psychiatrist.
   'I don't care what you think, Doctor, just get out of there. Now. Forget Marie's luggage – if she has any. Leave as quickly as you can. '
   'Where should we go?'
   'Where it's crowded, but where I can find you. '
   'A restaurant?'
   'It's been too many years and they change names every twenty minutes over here. Hotels are out; they're too easily covered. '
   'If you're right, Alex, you're taking too much time-'
   'I'm thinking!... All right. Take a cab to the foot of Nathan Road at Salisbury – have you got that? Nathan and Salisbury. You'll see the Peninsula Hotel, but don't go inside. The strip heading north is called the Golden Mile. Walk up and down on the right side, the east side, but stay within the first four blocks. I'll find you, as soon as I can. '
   'All right,' said Panov. 'Nathan and Salisbury, the first four blocks north on the right... Alex, you're quite certain you're right, aren't you?
   'On two counts,' answered Conklin. 'For starters, Havilland didn't ask me to go with him to find out what the "emergency" was – that's not our arrangement. And if the emergency isn't you and Marie, it means Webb's made contact. If that's the case, I'm not trading away my only bargaining chip, which is Marie. Not without on-sight guarantees. Not with Ambassador Raymond Havilland. Now, get out of there!'
   Something was wrong! What was it? Bourne had returned to the filthy hotel room and stood at the foot of the bed watching his prisoner whose twitch was more pronounced now, his stretched body spastically reacting to each nervous movement. What was it? Why did the conversation with the Hong Kong operator bother him so? She was courteous and helpful; she even tolerated his abuse. Then what was it... Suddenly, words from a long forgotten past came to him. Words spoken years ago to an unknown operator without a face, with only an irritable voice.
   I asked you for the number of the Iranian consulate.
   It is in the telephone book. Our switchboards are full and we have no time for such inquiries. Click. Line dead.
   That was it! The operators in Hong Kong – with justification – were among the most peremptory in the world. They wasted no time, no matter how persistent the customer. The workload in this congested, frenetic financial megalopolis would not permit it. Yet the second operator was the soul of tolerance... I would not know about other numbers. If you have them I will gladly check for you... If you will give me your address... Unless you care to give me your address... The address! And without really considering the question he had instinctively answered. No, I don't think HI do that. From deep within him an alarm had gone off.
   A trace! They had bounced him around, keeping him on the line long enough to put an electronic trace on his call! Pay phones were the most difficult to track down. The vicinity was determined first; next the location or premises, and finally the specific instrument, but it was only a matter of minutes and fractions of minutes between the first step and the last. Had he stayed on long enough? And if so, to what degree of progress? The vicinity? The hotel? The pay phone itself? Jason tried to reconstruct his conversation with the operator – the second operator when the trace would have begun. Maddeningly, frantically, but with all the precision he could summon, he tried to recapture the rhythm of their words, their voices, realizing that when he had accelerated she had slowed down. It will take me some time... Actually, I do not, sir. The laws of confidentiality are most strict in Hong Kong – a lecture! Oh, sir, please wait. You were correct ...my screen now shows – a mollifying explanation, taking up time. Time! How could he have allowed it? How long...?
   Ninety seconds – two minutes at the outside. Timing was an instinct for him, rhythms remembered. Say two minutes. Enough to determine a vicinity, conceivably to pinpoint a location, but given the hundreds of thousands of miles of trunk lines probably inadequate to pick up a specific phone. For some elusive reason images of Paris came to him, then the blurred outlines of telephone booths as he and Marie raced from one to another through the blinding Paris streets, making blind, untraceable calls, hoping to unravel the enigma that was Jason Bourne. Four minutes. It takes that long, but we have to get out of the area! They've got that by now!
   The taipan's men – if there was a huge, obese taipan to begin with – might have traced the hotel, but it was unlikely they would have tracked the pay phone or the floor. And there was another time span to be considered, one that could work for him if he in turn worked quickly. If the trace had been made and the hotel unearthed, it would take the hunters some time to reach the southern Mongkok, presuming they were in Hong Kong, which the telephone prefix indicated. The key at the moment was speed. Quickly.
   The blindfold stays, Major, but you're moving,' he said to the assassin, as he swiftly undid the gag and the knots on the mattress springs, coiling the three nylon ropes and stuffing them into the commando's jacket.
   'What? What did you say?'
   That's better yet,' said Bourne, raising his voice. 'Get up. We're going for a walk. ' Jason grabbed his knapsack, opened the door and checked the hallway. A drunk staggered into a room on the left and slammed the door. The right corridor was clear, all the way up to the pay phone and the fire exit beyond it . 'Move,' ordered Bourne, shoving his prisoner.
   The fire escape would have been rejected by underwriters at a glance. The metal was corroded and the railings bent under pressure. If one was escaping a fire, a smoke-filled staircase might have been preferable. Still, if it descended in the darkness without collapsing that was all that mattered. Jason grabbed the commando's lapel, leading him down the creaking metal steps until they reached the first landing. Beneath there was a broken ladder extended in its track half way to the alley below. The drop to the pavement was no more than six or seven feet, easily negotiated going down and – more important – coming back up.
   'Sleep well,' said Bourne, taking aim in the dim light and crashing his knuckles into the base of the commando's skull. The assassin collapsed on the staircase as Bourne whipped out the cords and secured the killer to the steps and the railing, at the last yanking down the pillowcase, covering the impostor's mouth and tying the cloth tighter. The nocturnal sounds of Hong Kong's Yau Ma Ti and the nearby Mongkok would easily cover whatever cries Allcott-Price might manage – if he awoke before Jason awakened him, which was doubtful.
   Bourne climbed down the ladder, dropping into the narrow alleyway only seconds before three young men appeared, running around the corner from the busy street. Out of breath, they huddled in the shadows of a doorway as Jason remained on his knees – he hoped out of sight. Beyond the alley's entrance another group of youths raced by in pursuit, shouting angrily. The three young men lurched from the darkened doorway and ran out, heading in the opposite direction, away from their pursuers. Bourne got up and walked quickly to the mouth of the alley, looking back up at the fire escape. The impostor could not be seen.
   He collided simultaneously with two running bodies.
   Bouncing off them and into the wall, he could only assume that the young men were part of the crowd chasing the previous three who had hidden in the doorway. One of these, however, held a knife menacingly in his hand. Jason did not need this confrontation, he could not permit it! Before the youth realized what had happened, Bourne lashed out and gripped the young man's wrist, twisting it clockwise until the blade fell from the youngster's hand while he screamed in pain.
   'Get out of here!' shouted Jason in harsh Cantonese. 'Your gang is no match for your elders and betters! If we see any of you around here, your mothers will get corpses for their labours. Get out!'
   'Aiya!'
   'We look for thieves! For eye-eyes from the north! They steal, they-'
   "Out!'
   The young men fled from the alleyway, disappearing into the busy street in the Yau Ma Ti. Bourne shook his hand, the hand the assassin had tried to crush in the hotel doorframe. In his anxiety he had forgotten about the pain; it was the best way to tolerate it.
   He looked up at the sound – sounds. Two dark sedans came racing down Shek Lung Street and stopped in front of the hotel. Both vehicles had official written all over them. Jason watched in anguish as men climbed out of each car, two from the first, three from the one behind it.
   Oh, God, Marie! We're going to lose! I've killed us – oh, Christ, r\e killed us!
   He fully expected the five men to rush into the hotel, question the desk clerk, take up positions and make their moves. They would learn that the occupants of Room 301 had not been seen leaving the premises; therefore presumably they were still upstairs. The room would be broken into in less than a minute, the fire escape discovered seconds later! Could he do it? Could he climb back up, cut loose the killer, get him down into the alley and escape! He had to! He took a last look before racing back to the ladder.
   Then he stopped. Something was wrong – something unexpected, totally unexpected. The first man from the lead car had removed his suit coat – his official dress code – and unloosened his tie. He ran his hand through his hair, dishevelling it, and walked – unsteadily? – towards the entrance of the run-down hotel. His four companions were spreading out away from the cars, looking up at the windows, two over to the right, two to the left, towards the alleyway -towards him. What was happening! These men were not acting officially. They were behaving like criminals, like Mafiosi closing in on a kill they could not be associated with, a trap laid for others, not themselves. Good God, had Alex Conklin been wrong back at Dulles Airport in Washington?
   Play the scenario. It's deep down and it's there. Play it out. You can do it, Delta.
   No time. There was no time to think any longer. There were no precious instants to lose thinking about the existence or the non-existence of a huge, obese taipan, too operatic to be real. The two men heading towards him had spotted the alleyway. They began running – towards the alley, towards the 'merchandise', towards the destruction and death of everything Jason held dear in this rotten world he would gladly leave but for Marie.
   The seconds were ticked off in milliseconds of premeditated violence, at once accepted and reviled. David Webb was silenced, as Jason Bourne again assumed complete command. Get away from me! This is all we've got left!
   The first man fell, his ribcage shattered, his voice stilled by the force of a blow to his throat. The second man was accorded preferential treatment. It was vital that he remain cognizant, even alert, for what followed. He dragged both men into the deepest shadows of the alley, ripping their clothes with his knife, binding their feet, their arms and their mouths with strips of their own clothing.
   His arms pinned beneath Jason's knees, the blade of the knife breaking the flesh around the socket of his left eye, the second man received Bourne's ultimatum. 'My wife! Where is she? Now! Or lose your eye, then the other one! I'll carve you up, junggwo, believe me!' He ripped the gag from the man's mouth.
   'We are not your enemy, Zhangfu!' cried the Oriental in English, using the Cantonese word for husband. 'We have been trying to find her! We hunt everywhere!'
   Jason stared down at the man, the knife trembling in his hand, his temples throbbing, his personal galaxy about to explode, the heavens to rain down fire and pain beyond his imagination. 'Marie!' he screamed in agony. 'What have you done with her? I was given a guarantee! I bring out the merchandise and my wife is returned to me! I was to hear her voice on the phone but the phone doesn't work! Instead, a trace is put on me and suddenly you're here but my wife isn't! Where is she?'
   'If we knew, she would be here with us. '
   'Liar!' cried Bourne, drawing out the word.
   'I'm not lying to you, sir, nor should I be killed for not lying to you. She escaped from the hospital-'
   "The hospital?
   'She was ill. The doctor insisted. I was there, outside her room, watching over her! She was weak but she got away-'
   'Oh, Christ! Sick? Weak! Alone in Hong Kong! My God, you've killed her. '
   'No, sir! Our orders were to see to her comfort-'
   'Your orders,' said Jason Bourne, his voice flat and cold. 'But not your taipan's. He followed other orders, orders given before in Zurich and Paris and on Seventy-first Street in New York. I've been there – we've been there. And now you've killed her. You used me, as you used me before and when you thought it was over you took her away from me. What's the "death of one more daughter"? Silence is everything. ' Jason suddenly gripped the man's face with his left hand, the knife poised in his right . 'Who's the fat man? Tell me, or the blade goes in! Who's the taipan?'
   'He's not a taipan! He is British schooled and trained, an officer much respected in the territory. He works with your countrymen, the Americans. He's with the intelligence service. '
   'I'm sure he is... From the beginning it was the same. Only this time it wasn't the Jackal but me. I was moved around the chessboard until I had no choice but to hunt myself – an extension of myself, a man called Bourne. When he brings him in, kill him. Kill her. They know too much. '
   'No!' cried the Oriental, perspiring, his eyes wide, staring at the blade pressing into his flesh. 'We are told very little but I have heard nothing like that!'
   'What are you doing here then? asked Jason harshly.
   'Surveillance, I swear it! That's all!'
   'Until the guns move in? said Bourne icily. 'So your three-piece suits can stay clean, no blood on your shirts, no traces back to those nameless, faceless people you work for. '
   'You're wrong! We are not like that, our superiors are not like that!'
   'I told you, I've been there. You're like that, believe me... Now you're going to tell me something. Whatever this is, it's down and dirty and totally secure. Nobody runs an operation like that without a camouflaged base. Where is it?'
   T don't understand you. '
   'Headquarters or Base Camp One, a sterile house or a coded Command Centre – whatever the hell you want to call it. Where is it?'
   'Please, I cannot-'
   'You can. You will. If you don't you're blind, your eyes cut out of your head. Now!'
   'I have a wife, children?
   'So did I. Both counts. I'm losing patience. ' Jason stopped, only slightly reducing the pressure of the blade. 'Besides, if you're so sure you're right – that your superiors aren't what I say they are, where's the harm? Accommodations can be reached. '
   'Fes!' yelled the frightened man. 'Accommodations! They are good men. They won't harm you!'
   They won't have a chance,' whispered Bourne.
   'What, sir?'
   'Nothing. Where is it? Where's this oh-so-quiet headquarters? Now!'
   'Victoria Peak!' said the petrified intelligence subordinate. The twelfth house down on the right, with high walls... '
   Bourne listened to the description of a sterile house, a quiet, patrolled estate among other estates in a wealthy district. He heard what he had to hear; there was nothing else he needed. He smashed the heavy bone handle of the knife into the man's skull, replaced the gag and rose to his feet. He looked up at the fire escape, at the barely discernible outline of the impostor's body.
   They wanted Jason Bourne and were willing to kill for him. They would get two Jason Bournes and die for their lies.

31
   Ambassador Havilland confronted Conklin in the hospital corridor outside the police emergency room. The diplomat's decision to speak to the CIA man in the busy, white-walled hallway was predicated on the fact that it was busy – nurses and ancillaries, doctors and specialists, roamed the halls conferring and answering phones that seemed to ring continuously. Under the circumstances Conklin would be unlikely to indulge in a loud, heated argument. Their discussion might be charged, but it would be quiet; the ambassador could make his case better under those conditions.
   'Bourne's made contact,' said Havilland.
   'Let's go outside,' said Conklin.
   'We can't,' replied the diplomat . 'Lin is in grave danger but we may be able to see him any minute. We can't miss that opportunity and the doctor knows we're here. '
   'Then let's go back inside. '
   'There are five other people in the emergency room. You don't want them overhearing us any more than I do. '
   'Christ, you cover your ass, don't you?
   'I have to think of all of us. Not one or two or three of us, but all of us. '
   'What do you want from me?'
   The woman, of course. You know that. '
   'I know that – of course. What are you prepared to offer?
   'My God, Jason Bourne?
   'I want David Webb. I want Marie's husband. I want to know that he's alive and well in Hong Kong. I want to see him with my own eyes. ' 'That's impossible. ' 'Then you'd better tell me why. '
   'Before he shows himself he expects to speak with his wife within thirty seconds of contact. That's the agreement. ' 'But you just said he made contact!' 'He did. We didn't. We couldn't afford to without having Marie Webb near the phone. ' 'You've lost me!' said Conklin angrily. 'He had his own conditions, not unlike yours, which is certainly understandable. You were both-' 'What were they?' broke in the CIA man. 'If he made the call, it meant that he had the impostor – it was the bilateral agreement. ' 'Jesus! "Bilateral" 'Both sides agreed to it. ' 'I know what it means! You just send me into space, that's all. ' 'Keep your voice down... His condition was that if we did not produce his wife within thirty seconds, whoever was on the phone would hear a gunshot, meaning that the assassin was dead, that Bourne had killed him. '
   'Good old Delta. ' Conklin's lips formed a thin, half-smile. 'He never missed a trick. And I suspect he had a follow-up, right?
   'Yes,' said Havilland grimly. 'A point of exchange is to be mutually agreed upon-'
   'Not bilaterally?'
   'Shut up! ... He'll be able to see his wife walking alone, under her own power. When he's satisfied, he'll come out with his prisoner, under a gun we presume, and the exchange will be made. From the initial contact to the switch, everything is to take place in a matter of minutes, certainly no more than half an hour. '
   'Double time with no one orchestrating any extraneous moves. ' Conklin nodded. 'But if you didn't respond, how do you know he made contact?'
   'Lin put a flag on the telephone number with a second relay to Victoria Peak. Bourne was told that the line was temporarily out of service, and when he tried to get a verification – which under the circumstances he had to do -he was relayed to the Peak. We kept him on the line long enough to trace the location of the pay phone he was using. We know where he is. Our people are on the way there now with orders to stay out of sight. If he smells or sees anything, he'll kill our man. '
   'A trace? Alex studied the diplomat's face, not kindly. 'He let you keep him talking long enough for that?'
   'He's in a state of extreme anxiety, we counted on it. '
   'Webb, maybe,' said Conklin. 'Not Delta. Not when he thinks about it. '
   'He'll keep calling,' insisted Havilland. 'He has no choice. '
   'Maybe, maybe not. How long has it been since his last call?
   Twelve minutes,' answered the ambassador looking at his watch.
   'And the first one?'
   'About a half hour. '
   'And every time he calls you know about it?
   'Yes. The information's relayed to McAllister. '
   'Phone him and see if Bourne's tried again. '
   'Why?
   'Because, as you put it, he's in a state of extreme anxiety and will keep calling. He can't help himself. '
   'What are you trying to say?'
   That you may have made a mistake. '
   'Where? How?
   'I don't know, but I do know Delta. '
   'What could he do without reaching us?
   'Kill,' said Alex, simply.
   Havilland turned, looked down the busy hallway, and started walking towards the floor's reception desk. He spoke briefly to a nurse; she nodded and he picked up a telephone. He talked for a moment and hung up. He returned to Conklin, frowning. 'It's odd,' he remarked. 'McAllister feels the way you do. Edward expected Bourne to call every five minutes, if he waited that long. '
   'Oh?
   'He was led to believe that telephone service might be restored at any moment. ' The ambassador shook his head, as if dismissing the improbable. 'We're all too tense. There could be a number of explanations, from coins for a pay phone to unsettled bowels. '
   The emergency room door opened and the British doctor appeared. 'Mr Ambassador?'
   'Lin?'
   'A remarkable man. What he's been through would kill a horse but then they're about the same size and a horse can't manifest a will to live. '
   'Can we see him?'
   'There'd be no point, he's still unconscious – stirring now and then but nowhere near coherent. Every minute he rests without a reversal is encouraging. '
   'You understand how urgent it is that we talk to him, don't you?'
   'Yes, Mr Havilland, I do. Perhaps more than you realize. You know that I was the one responsible for the woman's escape-'
   'I do know,' said the diplomat . 'I was also told that if she could fool you she could probably fool the best specialist at the Mayo Clinic. '
   'That's dubious, but I like to think I'm competent. Instead, I feel like an idiot. I'll do everything in my power to help you and my good friend, Major Lin. The judgement was medical and mine, the error mine, not his. If he makes it through the next hour or so, I believe he has a chance to live. If that happens, I'll bring him to and you can question him as long as you keep your questions brief and simple. If I think a reversal is too severe and that he's slipping away, I'll also call you. '
   'That's fair, Doctor. Thank you. '
   'I could do no less. It's what Wenzu would want. I'll go back to him now. '
   The waiting began. Havilland and Alex Conklin reached their own bi-lateral agreement. When Bourne next tried to reach the number for Snake Lady, he was to be told that the line would be clear in twenty minutes. During that time Conklin would be driven to the sterile house on Victoria Peak, prepared to take the call. He would set up the exchange, telling David that Marie was safe and with Morris Panov. The two men returned to the police emergency room and sat in opposite chairs, each silent minute compounding the strain.
   The minutes, however, stretched into quarter hours and these into over an hour. Three times the ambassador called the Peak to learn if there was any word from Jason Bourne. There was none. Twice the English doctor came out to report on Wenzu's condition. It was unchanged, a fact that allowed for hope rather than diminishing it. Once the emergency room telephone rang, as both Havilland and Conklin snapped their heads towards it, their eyes riveted on the nurse who calmly answered. The call was not for the ambassador. The tension mounted between the two men, as every now and then they looked at each other, the same message in their eyes. Something was wrong. Something had gone off the wire. A Chinese doctor came out and approached two people in the back of the room, a young woman and a priest; he spoke quietly. The woman screamed, then sobbed and fell into the enveloping arms of the priest. A new police widow had been created. She was led away to say a last good-bye to her husband.
   Silence.
   The telephone rang again, and again the diplomat and the CIA man stared at the counter.
   'Mr Ambassador,' said the nurse, 'it's for you. The gentleman says it's most urgent. ' Havilland got up and strode to the desk, nodding his thanks, and he took the phone.
   Whatever it was, it had happened. Conklin watched, never thinking he would see what he saw now. The consummate diplomat's face became suddenly ashen; his thin, usually tight lips were now parted, his dark brows arched, his eyes wide and hollow. He turned and spoke to Alex, his voice barely audible; it was the whisper of fear.
   'Bourne's gone. The impostor's gone. Two of the men were found bound and severely injured. ' He returned to the phone, his eyes narrowing as he listened. 'Oh, my God!' he cried, turning back to Conklin. The CIA man was not there.
   David Webb had disappeared, only Jason Bourne remained. Yet he was both more and less than the hunter of Carlos the Jackal. He was Delta, the predator, the animal wanting only vengeance for a priceless part of his life that had been taken from him once again. And as an avenging predator, he went through the motions – the instinctive logistics – in a trancelike state, each decision precise, each movement deadly. His eye was on the kill, and his human brain had become an animal. He wandered the squalid streets of the Yau Ma Ti, his prisoner in tow, wrists still in traction, finding what he wanted to find, paying thousands of dollars for items worth a fraction of the amounts paid. Word spread up into the Mongkok about the strange man and his even stranger silent companion, who was bound and feared for his life. Other doors were opened to him, doors reserved for the runners of contraband – drugs, exported whores, jewels, gold and materials of destruction, deception, death – and exaggerated warnings accompanied the word about this obsessed man carrying thousands on his person.
   He is a maniac and he is white and he will kill quickly. It is said two throats were slit by those dishonest to him. It is heard that a Zhongguo ren was shot to death because he cheated on a delivery. He is mad. Give him what he wants. He pays hard cash. Who cares? It is not our problem. Let him come. Let him go. Just take his money.
   By midnight Delta had the tools of his lethal trade. And success was uppermost in the Medusan's mind. He had to succeed. The kill was everything.
   Where was Echo? He needed Echo. Old Echo was his good luck charm!
   Echo was dead, slain by a madman with a ceremonial sword in a peaceful forest of birds. Memories.
   Echo.
   Marie.
   I'll kill them for what they did to you!
   He stopped a dilapidated taxi in the Mongkok and, showing money, asked the driver to step outside.
   'Yes, what is, sir? asked the man in broken English.
   'What's your car worth? said Delta.
   'I not understand. '
   'How much! Money! For your car!'
   'Youfeng kuangl'
   'Bul' shouted Delta, telling the driver he was not unbalanced. 'How much will you take for your car? he continued in Chinese. Tomorrow morning you can say it was stolen. The police will find it. '
   'It's my only source of livelihood and I have a large family! You are crazy!'
   'How's four thousand, American?'
   'Aiya. Take it!'
   ''Kuair said Jason, telling the man to hurry. 'Help me with this diseased one. He has the shaking sickness and must be tied down so he can't hurt himself. '
   The owner of the taxi, his eyes on the large bills in Bourne's hand, helped Jason throw the assassin into the back seat, holding the killer down as the man from Medusa whipped the nylon ropes around the commando's ankles, knees and elbows, once again gagging and blindfolding him with the strips of cloth ripped from the cheap hotel's pillowcase. Unable to understand what was being said – shouted in Chinese – the prisoner could only passively resist. It was not merely the punishment inflicted on his wrists with each protesting movement, it was something he saw as he stared at his captor. There was a change in the original Jason Bourne; he had gone into another world, a far darker world. The kill was in the Medusa's extended periods of silence. It was in his eyes.
   As he drove through the congested tunnel from Kowloon to the island of Hong Kong, Delta primed himself for the assault, imagining the obstacles that would face him, conjuring up the counter measures he would employ. All were overstated and excessive, thus preparing himself for the worst.
   He had done the same in the jungles of Tarn Quan. There was nothing he had not considered and he had brought them out – all of them but one. Apiece of garbage, a man who had no soul but the want of gold, a traitor who would sell the lives of his comrades for small advantage. It was where it had all begun. In the jungles of Tarn Quan. Delta had executed the piece of garbage, blown his temple out with a bullet, as this garbage was on a radio relaying their position to the Cong. The garbage was a man from Medusa named Jason Bourne, left to rot in the jungles of Tarn Quan. He was the beginning of the madness. Yet Delta had brought them all out, including a brother he could not remember. He had brought them out through two hundred miles of enemy territory because he had studied the probabilities and imagined the improbabilities – the latter far more important to their escape, for they had happened, and his mind was prepared for the unexpected. It was the same now. There was nothing a sterile house in Victoria Peak could mount that he could not surmount. Death would be answered with death.
   He saw the high walls of the estate and drove casually past them. Slowly, as a guest or a tourist might, unsure of his way down the stately road. He spotted the glass of the concealed searchlights, noted the barbed wire coiled above the wall. He zeroed in on the two guards in back of the enormous gate. They were in shadows, but the cloth of their marine field jackets reflected what light there was – bad form; the cloth should have been dulled or replaced by less military apparel. The high wall ended at the front; it was the corner; the stone stretched to the right as far as the eye could see. The sterile house was obvious to the trained eye. To the innocent it was clearly the residence of an important diplomat, an ambassador, perhaps, who required protection because of the dangerous times. Terrorism was everywhere; hostages were prized, deterrents the order of the day. Cocktails were served at sundown amid the quiet laughter of the elite who moved governments, but outside the guns were ready, cocked with the darkness, ready to fire. Delta understood. It was why he carried his bulging knapsack.
   He drove the battered car off the side of the road. There
   was no need to conceal it; he would not be coming back. He did not care to come back. Marie was gone and it was over. Whatever lives he had led were finished. David Webb. Delta. Jason Bourne. They were the past. He wanted only peace. The pain had exceeded the limits of his endurance. Peace. But first he must kill. His enemies, Marie's enemies, all the enemies of the men and women everywhere who were driven by the nameless, faceless manipulators would be taught a lesson. A minor lesson, of course, for sanitized explanations would come from the experts, made plausible by complicated words and distorted half-truths. Lies. Stave off doubts, eliminate the questions, be as outraged as the people themselves and march to the drums of consensus. The objective is everything, the insignificant players nothing but necessary digits in the deadly equations. Use them, drain them, kill them if you must, just get the jobs done because we say so. We see things others cannot see. Do not question us. You have no access to our knowledge.
   Jason climbed out of the car, opened the rear door, and with his knife sliced the ropes away from the assassin's ankles and knees. He then removed the blindfold, keeping the gag in place. He grabbed his prisoner by the shoulder and-

The blow was paralysing! The killer spun in place, crashing his right knee up into Bourne's left kidney, swinging his clasped bound hands up into Jason's throat as Delta buckled over. A second knee caught Bourne's rib cage; he fell to the ground as the commando raced into the road. No. It can't happen! I need his gun, his fire power. It's part of the strategy! Delta rose to his feet, his chest and side bursting with pain, and plunged after the running figure in the road. In seconds the killer would be enveloped in darkness! The man from Medusa ran faster, the pain forgotten, concentrating only on the assassin in the part of his mind that still functioned. Faster ,faster! Suddenly headlights shot up from the bottom of the hill, catching the assassin in their beams. The commando lurched to the side of the road to avoid the light. Bourne stayed on the right side of the pavement until the last instant, knowing he was gaining precious yards as the car raced past. His arms useless, the impostor stumbled on the soft shoulder of the road; he crawled quickly, awkwardly back to the asphalt, getting to his feet and began to run again. It was too late. Delta hurled his shoulder into the base of his prisoner's spine; both men went down. The commando's guttural roars were the sounds of an animal in fury. Jason turned the assassin over and jammed his knee brutally into his prisoner's stomach.
   'You listen to me, scum? he said breathlessly, the sweat rolling down his face. 'Whether you die or not makes no difference to me. A few minutes from now you won't concern me any longer, but until then you're part of the plan, my plan! And whether or not you die then will be up to you, not me. I'm giving you a chance, which is more than you ever did for a target. Now, get up! Do everything I tell you or your one chance will be blown away with your head – which is exactly what I promised them. '
   They stopped back at the car. Delta picked up his knapsack and removed a gun he had taken in Beijing, showing it to the commando. 'You begged me for a weapon at the airport in Jinan, remember?' The assassin nodded, his eyes wide, his mouth stretched under the tension of the cloth gag. 'It's yours,' continued Jason Bourne, his voice flat, without emotion. 'Once we're over that wall up there – you in front of me – I'll hand it to you. ' The killer frowned, his eyes narrowing. 'I forgot,' said Delta . 'You couldn't see it. There's a sterile house about five hundred feet up the road. We're going in. I'm staying, taking out everyone I can. You? You've got nine shells and I'll give you a bonus. One "bubble". ' The Medusan lifted a packet of plastique from the Mongkok out of the knapsack and showed it to his prisoner. 'As I read it, you'd never get back over the wall; they'd cut you down. So your only way out is through the gate; it'll be somewhere diagonally to the right. To get there you'll have to kill your way through. The timer on the plastic can be set as low as ten seconds. Handle it any way you like, I don't care. Capisce?'
   The assassin raised his bound hands, then gestured at the gag. The sounds from this throat indicated that Jason should free his arms and remove the cloth.
   'At the wall,' said Delta . 'When I'm ready, I'll cut the ropes.
   But when I do, if you try to take the gag off before I tell you, there goes your chance. ' The killer stared at him and nodded once.
   Jason Bourne and the lethal pretender walked up the road on Victoria Peak towards the sterile house.
   Conklin limped down the hospital steps as rapidly as he could, holding on to the centre rail, looking frantically for a taxi in the drive below. There was none; instead a uniformed nurse stood alone reading the South China Times in the glow of the outdoor lights. Every now and then she glanced up towards the parking lot entrance.
   'Excuse me, Miss,' said Alex, out of breath. 'Do you speak English?'
   'A little,' replied the woman, obviously noticing his limp and his agitated voice. 'You are with difficulty?'
   'Much difficulty. I have to find a taxi. I have to reach someone right away and I can't do it by phone. '
   They will call one for you at the desk. They call for me every night when I leave. '
   'You're waiting.. ?
   'Here it comes,' said the woman as approaching headlights shone through the parking lot entrance.
   'Miss!' cried Conklin. 'This is urgent. A man is dying and another may die if I don't reach him! Please. May I-'
   'Bie zhaoji? exclaimed the nurse, telling him to calm down. 'You have urgency, I have none. Take my taxi. I will ask for another. '
   'Thank you,' said Alex, as the cab pulled up to the kerb . ''Thank you!' he added, opening the door and climbing inside. The woman nodded pleasantly and shrugged as she turned and started back up the steps. The glass doors above crashed open and Conklin watched through the rear window as the nurse nearly collided into two of Lin's men. One stopped her and spoke; the other reached the kerb and squinted, peering out of the light into the receding darkness beyond. 'Hurry!' said Alex to the driver as they passed through the gate. 'Kuai diar, if that's right. '
   'It will do,' answered the driver wearily in fluent English.
   '"Hurry" is better, however. '
   The base of Nathan Road was the galactic entrance to the luminescent world of the Golden Mile. The blazing coloured lights, the dancing, flickering, shimmering lights, were the walls of this congested, urban valley of humanity where seekers sought and sellers shrieked for attention. It was the bazaar of bazaars, a dozen tongues and dialects vying for the ears and the eyes of the ever-shifting crowds. It was here, in this gauntlet of freewheeling commercial chaos, that Alex Conklin got out of the cab. Walking painfully, his limp pronounced, the veins of his footless leg swelling, he hurried up the east side of the street, his eyes roving like those of an angry wildcat seeking its young in the territory of hyenas.
   He reached the end of the fourth block, the last block. Where were they? Where was the slender, compact Panov and the tall, striking, auburn-haired Marie? His instructions had been clear, absolute. The first four blocks north on the right side, the east side. Mo Panov had recited them back to him... Oh, Christ I He had been looking for two people, one whose physical appearance could belong to hundreds of men in those four crowded blocks. But his eyes had been searching for the tall, dark-red-headed woman – which she was no longer! Her hair had been dyed grey with streaks of white! Alex started back down towards Salisbury Road, his eyes now attuned to what he should look for, not what his painful memories told him he would find.
   There they were! On the outskirts of a crowd surrounding a street vendor whose cart was piled high with silks of all descriptions and labels – the silks relatively genuine, the labels as ersatz as the distorted signatures.
   'Come on with me!' said Conklin, his hands on both their elbows.
   'Alex!' cried Marie.
   'Are you all right? asked Panov.
   'No,' said the CIA man. 'None of us is. '
   'It's David, isn't it?' Marie grabbed Conklin's arm, gripping it.
   'Not now. Hurry up. We have to get out of here. '
   They're here?' Marie gasped, her grey-haired head turning right and left, fear in her eyes.
   'Who?
   'I don't know? she shouted over the din of the crowds.
   'No, they're not here,' said Conklin. 'Come on. I've got a taxi holding down by the Pen. '
   'What pen? asked Panov.
   'I told you. The Peninsula Hotel. '
   'Oh, yes, I forgot. ' All three started walking down Nathan Road, Alex – as was obvious to Marie and Morris Panov -with difficulty. 'We can slow down, can't we?' asked the psychiatrist.
   'No, we can't!'
   'You're in pain,' said Marie.
   'Knock it off! Both of you. I don't need your horseshit. '
   'Then tell us what's happened?' yelled Marie, as they crossed a street filled with carts they had to dodge, and buyers and sellers and tourist-voyeurs who made for the exotic congestion of the Golden Mile.
   'There's the taxi,' said Conklin, as they approached Salisbury Road. 'Hurry up. The driver knows where to go. '
   'Inside the cab, Panov between Marie and Alex, she once again reached out, clutching Conklin's arm. 'It is David, isn't it?
   'Yes. He's back. He's here in Hong Kong. '
   'Thank God?
   'You hope. We hope. '
   'What does that mean? asked the psychiatrist sharply.
   'Something's gone wrong. The scenario's off the wire. '
   'For Christ's sake!' exploded Panov. 'Will you speak English?
   'He means,' said Marie, staring at the CIA man, 'that David either did something he wasn't supposed to do, or didn't do something he was expected to do. '
   'That's about it. ' Conklin's eyes drifted to the right, towards the lights of Victoria Harbour and the island of Hong Kong beyond. 'I used to be able to read Delta's moves, usually before he made them. Then later, when he was Bourne, I was able to track him when others couldn't because I understood his options and knew which ones he would take.
   That is until things happened to him, and no one could predict anything because he'd lost touch with the Delta inside him. But Delta's back now and, as happened so often so long ago, his enemies have underestimated him. I hope I'm wrong – Jesus, I hope I'm wrong?
   His gun against the back of the assassin's neck, Delta moved silently through the underbrush in front of the high wall of the sterile house. The killer balked; they were within 10 feet of the darkened entrance. Delta jammed the weapon into the commando's flesh and whispered. There aren't any trip lights in the wall or on the ground. They'd be set off by tree rats every thirty seconds. Keep going! I'll tell you when to stop. '
   The order came four feet from the gate. Delta grabbed his prisoner by the collar and swung him around, the barrel of the gun still touching the assassin's neck. The man from Medusa then reached into his pocket, pulled out a globule of plastique and stretched his arm out as far as he could towards the gate. He pressed the adhesive side of the packet against the wall; he had pre-set the small digital timer in the soft centre of the explosive for seven minutes, the number chosen both for luck and to give him time to get the killer and himself in place several hundred feet away. 'Move!' he whispered.
   They rounded the corner of the wall and proceeded along the side to the mid-point, from where the end of the stone was visible in the moonlight . 'Wait here,' said Delta, reaching into his knapsack which was strapped across his chest like a bandolier, the bag on his right side. He pulled out a square black box, 5 inches wide, 3 high, and 2 deep. At its side was a coiled 40-foot line of thin, black plastic tubing. It was a battery-amplified speaker; he placed it on top of the wall and snapped a switch in the back; a red light glowed. He uncoiled the thin tubing as he shoved the killer forward. 'Another twenty or thirty feet,' he said.
   Above them the branches of a cascading willow tree were spread out above the wall, arcing downward. Concealment . 'Here!' Bourne whispered harshly, and stopped the commando by gripping his shoulder. He removed the wirecutters from the knapsack and pushed the assassin against the wall; they faced each other. 'I'm cutting you loose now, but not free. Do you understand that?' The commando nodded, and Delta snipped the ropes between his prisoner's wrists and elbows while levelling his gun at the assassin's head. He stepped back and bent his right leg forward in front of the killer as he handed him the cutters. 'Stand on my leg and cut the coils. You can reach them if you jump a bit and slide your hand under for a grip. Don't try anything. You haven't got a gun yet, but I have, and as I'm sure you've gathered, I don't care any more. '
   The prisoner did as he was told. The leap from Delta's leg was minimal; the assassin's left arm expertly slithered between the coils, his hand gripping the opposite side of the top of the wall. He severed the coiled wire noiselessly, holding the cutters against the metal on one side to reduce the sound of snapping tension. The open space above was now five feet wide. 'Climb up there,' said Delta.
   The killer did so, and as his left leg swung over the wall, Delta leaped up to grab the assassin's trousers and pulled himself up against the stone, swinging his own left leg over the top. He straddled the wall simultaneously with the commando.
   'Nicely done, Major Allcott-Price,' he said, a small circular microphone in his hand, his weapon again aimed at the assassin's head. 'Not much longer now. If I were you, I'd study the grounds. '
   Under Conklin's urgent pleas to the driver, the taxi sped up the road in Victoria Peak. They passed a broken down car off the side of the road; it seemed out of place in the elegant surroundings, and Alex swallowed as he saw it, wondering in dread if it was really disabled. There's the house!' cried the CIA man. 'For God's sake, hurry! Go up to the-'
   He did not – could not – finish. Up ahead a shattering explosion filled the road and the night. Fire and stone flew in all directions as first a large part of the wall collapsed and then the huge iron gates fell forward in eerie slow motion beyond the flames.
   'Oh, my God, I was right,' said Alexander Conklin softly to himself. 'Delta's come back. He wants to die. He will die. '