32
   'Not yet!' roared Jason Bourne as the wall blew apart beyond the stately gardens filled with rows of lilacs and roses. 'I'll tell you when,' he added quietly, holding the small circular microphone in his free hand.
   The assassin grunted, his instincts roused to their primeval limits, his desire to kill equal to his desire to survive, the one dependent upon the other. He was on the edge of madness; only the barrel of Delta's gun stopped him from an insane assault. He was still human, and it was better to try to live than to accept death through default. But when, when! The nervous tic returned to Allcott-Price's face; his lower lip twitched as screams and shouts and the sound of men running in panic filled the gardens. The killer's hands trembled as he stared at Delta in the dim, pulsating light of the distant flames.
   'Don't even think about it,' said the man from Medusa . 'You're dead if you make a move. You've studied me so you know there's no reprieve. You make it, you make it on your own. Swing your leg over the wall and be ready to jump when I tell you. Not before. ' Without warning, Bourne suddenly brought the microphone to his lips and snapped a switch. When he spoke his amplified words echoed eerily throughout the grounds, a haunting, reverberating sound that matched the thunder of the explosion, made more ominous by its calm simplicity, its frigidity.
   'You marines. Take cover and stay out of this. It's not your fight. Don't die for the men who brought you here. To them expendable – as I was expendable. There's no legitimacy here, no territory to be defended, no honour of your country in question. You're here for the sole purpose of protecting killers. The only difference between you and me is the fact that they used me, too, but now they want to kill me because I know what they've done. Don't die for these men, they're not worth it. I give you my word I won't fire on you unless you shoot at me, and then I'll have no choice. But there's another man here who isn't going to make any deals-'
   A fusillade of gunfire erupted, shattering the source of the sound, blasting the unseen speaker randomly off the wall. Delta was ready; it was bound to happen. One of the faceless, nameless manipulators had given an order and it was carried out. He reached into the knapsack, removing a 15-inch preset tear gas launcher, the canister in place. It could smash heavy glass at fifty yards; he aimed and pulled the trigger. A hundred feet away a bay window was shattered, the fog of gas billowing throughout the room inside. He could see figures running beyond the fragmented glass. Lamps and chandeliers were extinguished, supplanted by a startling array of floodlights positioned in the eaves of the great house and the trunks of the surrounding trees. Suddenly the grounds were awash with blinding white light. The branches of the overhanging tree would be a magnet for pivoting eyes and levelled weapons and he understood that no appeal of his would countermand the orders. He had delivered that appeal both as an honest warning and a salve for what conscience remained to a barely-thinking, barely-feeling robot avenger. In the shadows of the mind he had left he did not want to take the lives of youngsters called to serve the paranoid egos of manipulators – he had seen too much of that in Saigon years ago. He wanted only the lives of those inside the sterile house, and he intended to have them. Jason Bourne would not be denied. They had taken everything from him, and his personal account was now going to be settled. For the man from Medusa the decision was made – he was a puppet on the strings of his own rage, and apart from that rage his life was over.
   'Jump!' whispered Delta, swinging his right leg over the wall, pummelling the assassin down to the ground. He followed while the commando was in mid-air and grabbed the impostor's shoulder as the startled killer – arms extended on his knees – righted himself on the grass. Bourne dragged him out of sight into a latticed arbour with a profusion of bougainvillaea that reached nearly 6 feet high. 'Here's your gun, Major,' said the original Jason Bourne. 'Mine's on you, and don't you forget it!'
   The assassin simultaneously grabbed the weapon and tore the cloth from his mouth, coughing and spitting out saliva as a savage burst of gunfire tore leaves and branches all along the wall. 'Your little lecture didn't do much fucking good, did it?
   'I didn't expect it to. The truth of the matter is that they want you, not me. You see, I'm really expendable now. That was their plan from the beginning. I bring you out and I'm dead. My wife's dead. We know too much. She because she learned who they were – she had to, she was the bait – me because they knew I'd put some figures together in Peking. You're messed up with a bloodbath, Major. A megabomb that can blow the whole Far East apart, and will if saner heads in Taiwan don't isolate and rip out those lunatic clients of yours. Only I don't give a shit any more. Play your goddamned games and blow yourselves up. I just want to get inside that house. '
   A squad of marines assaulted the wall, running alongside the stone, rifles poised, ready to fire. Delta pulled a second plastique from his knapsack, set the miniaturized digital timer for ten seconds, and threw the packet as far as he could towards the rear garden wall, away from the guards. 'Come on!' he ordered the commando, ramming his weapon into the killer's spine. 'You in front! Down this path. Nearer the house. '
   'Give me one of those! Give me a plastic!'
   'I don't think so. '
   'Christ, you gave me your word!'
   'Then either I lied or I changed my mind. '
   'Why! What do you care?
   'I care. I didn't know there were so many kids. Too many kids. You could take out ten of them with one of these, maim a lot more. '
   'It's a little late for you to become such a fucking Christian!'
   'The club's not that exclusive; it never was. I know who I want and who I don't want and I don't want kids in pressed GI pajamas. I want the men inside that-'
   The explosion came some forty yards away at the rear of the grounds. Trees and dirt, bushes and whole beds of flowers flamed into the air – a panorama of greens and browns and speckled dots of colour within the billowing grey smoke illuminated by the hot white floodlights. 'Move!' whispered Delta . 'To the end of the row. It's about sixty feet from the house and there's a pair of doors-' Bourne closed his eyes in angry futility as a series of seemingly unending spurts of rifle fire filled the rear gardens. They were children. They fired blindly out of fear, killing imaginary demons but no targets. And they would not listen.
   Another group of marines, these obviously led by an experienced officer, took up equidistant positions in front of the great house, circling it, legs bent, feet dug in for recoils, weapons angled forward. The manipulators had called for their Praetorian guard. So be it. Delta again reached into his knapsack, felt around his arsenal and removed one of the two manual firebombs he had purchased in the Mongkok. It was similar to a grenade at the top – circular but covered with a shield of heavy plastic. The base, however, was a handle, five inches long so that the thrower could hurl the explosive farther and with greater accuracy. The trick was in the throwing, the accuracy and the timing. For once the plastic was removed, the shell of the bomb itself would adhere to any surface by an instant steel-like adhesive activated by air, and with the explosion a chemical shot out in all directions, prolonging the flames, embedding itself into all porous surfaces, seeping and burning. From the removal of the plastic covering to the explosion took fifteen seconds. The
   sides of the great house, the sterile house, were weatherboard above an imposing lower border of stone. Delta shoved the assassin into a cluster of roses, stripped off the plastic and heaved the firebomb into the boarding far above and to the left of the french doors thirty-odd feet away. It stuck to the wood, the rest was waiting for the seconds to pass while the rifle fire – hesitant now, diminishing – ceased altogether.
   The wall of the house blew apart. A gaping hole revealed a formal Victorian bedroom, complete with a brass bedstead and ornate English furniture. The flames spread instantly, shooting spokes of fire from a central hub, spewing along the weatherboard and spitting inside the house.
   An order was given, and again there was an eruption of rifle fire, bullets spraying the flowerbeds away from the rear garden wall and the contingent of marines who had raced in the direction of the previous explosion. Commands and counter commands were shouted in anger and frustration as two officers appeared, sidearms in their hands. One rounded the circle of protecting guards, checking their positions and their weapons, peering in front of each. The other headed for the sidewall and began retracing the route of the first squad, his eyes constantly shifting to his inner flanks, to the succeeding rows of flowers. He stopped beneath the willow tree and studied the wall, then the grass. He raised his head and looked over at the arbour of bougainvillaea. His weapon now steadied by both hands, he started towards the arbour.
   Delta watched the soldier through the bushes, his own gun still pressed into the commando's back. He removed another plastique, set the timer, and threw it over the bushes far forward towards the sidewall. 'Go through there!' ordered Bourne, pivoting the assassin by the shoulder and sending him into the row of bushes on the left. Jason plunged through after the commando, cracking the barrel of his automatic into the killer's head, stopping him as he lurched for the knapsack. 'Just a few more minutes, Major, then you're on your own. '
   The fourth explosion tore away six feet of the sidewall and, as though they expected enemy troops to pour through, the marine guards opened fire on the collapsing stone. In the distance, on the roads of Victoria Peak, two-note sirens wailed in counterpoint to the sounds of carnage taking place within the grounds of the sterile house. Delta pulled out his next to last plastic packet, set the timer for ninety seconds and heaved it towards the corner of the rear wall where the grounds were deserted. It was the beginning of his final diversion, the rest would be cold mathematics. He removed the tear gas launcher, inserted a canister and spoke to the commando. Turn around. ' The assassin did so, the barrel of Bourne's gun in front of his eyes. Take this,' said Delta . 'You can hold it with one hand. When I tell you, fire it into the stone to the right of the french doors. The gas will spread, blinding most of those kids. They won't be able to shoot, so don't waste bullets, you haven't got that many. '
   The killer did not at first reply. Instead, he raised his weapon level with Bourne's and aimed it at Jason's head. 'Now we're one-on-one, Mr Original,' said the commando. 'I told you I could take a bullet in the head. I've been waiting for it for years. But somehow I don't think you can take the idea of not getting inside that house. ' There was a sudden roar of voices and yet another fusillade of gunfire as a squad of marines rushed the collapsed side wall. Delta watched, waiting for the instant when the assassin's concentration, would break for that split second. The instant did not come. Instead the commando continued quietly, his voice tense but controlled as he stared at Jason Bourne. They must be expecting an invasion, the silly geese. When in doubt attack, as long as your flanks are covered, isn't that right, Mr Original...? Empty your bag of tricks, Delta. It was "Delta", wasn't it?'
   There's nothing left. ' Bourne cocked the hammer of his automatic. The assassin did the same.
   Then let's have a feel around,' said the commando, his left hand slowly reaching out, softly touching the knapsack strapped on Delta's right hip, their eyes locked. The killer felt the canvas, squeezing the harsh cloth in several places. Again slowly, he withdrew his hand. 'With all the "shalt-nots" in the bloody big Book, none ever mentions a lie, does it? Except false witness, of course, which isn't the same. I guess you took the lapse to heart, sport. There's a shell-framed automatic repeater in there and two or three clips, I judge by the curves, holding at least fifty rounds a piece. '
   'Forty, to be exact. '
   That's a lot of firepower. That little beast could get me out of here. Give! Or one of us goes right here. Right now. '
   The fifth plastique explosion shook the ground; the startled assassin blinked. It was enough. Bourne's hand shot up, deflecting the killer's gun, crashing his heavy automatic into the commando's left temple with the force of a hammer.
   'Son of a bitch!' cried the impostor hoarsely as he fell to his left, Jason's knee on his wrist, the killer's gun wrenched free.
   'You keep begging for a quick demise, Major,' said Bourne as pandemonium reached its height within the grounds of the Victorian sterile house. The squad of marines that had charged the collapsed sidewall were ordered to assault the rear of the gardens. 'You really don't like yourself, do you? But you've got a good idea. I will empty my bag of tricks. It's almost time now. '

Bourne removed the straps and upturned his open knapsack. The contents fell on the grass, the flames from the ever-expanding fire on the first floor of the sterile house illuminating them. There was one firebomb and one plastique left, and, as accurately described by the assassin, a hand-held repeating MAC-10 machine pistol that needed only its stock frame and a clip to be inserted in order to fire. He inserted the frame of the lethal weapon, cracked in one of the four clips and shoved the remaining three into his belt. He then released the spring of the launcher, put the canister in place and reset the mechanism. It was ready to go – to save the lives of children, children called to die by the ageing egos of manipulators. The firebomb remained. He knew where to direct it. He lifted it up, tore off the shield, and threw it with all his strength towards the A-framed apex above the french doors. It clung to the wood. It was the moment. He pulled the trigger of the launcher, sending the canister of gas into the stone to the right of the french doors. It exploded, bouncing off the wall to the ground, the vapours spreading instantly, clouds of gas swirling, choking men within its billowing periphery. Weapons were clung to, but free hands rubbed swollen, watery eyes and covered inflamed nostrils.
   The second firebomb exploded, tearing away the elegant Victorian facade above the french doors, shattering the panes of glass, whole sections of the upper wall plummeting down into the tiled foyer beyond. Flames spread upward towards the eaves and inside, firing curtains and upholstery. The marine guards scrambled away from the thunderous explosion and the flames into the clouds of tear gas, A number now dropped their rifles, as all lurched in every direction, colliding with another, trying to get away from the fumes; gagging, coughing, seeking relief.
   Delta rose to a crouch, the machine pistol in his hand, yanking the assassin up beside him. It was time; the chaos was complete. The swirling gas in front of the shattered french doors was being sucked in by the heat of the flames; it would dissipate sufficiently for him to make headway. Once inside, his search would be quick, over in moments. The directors of a covert operation that required a sterile house in foreign territory would stay within the protective confines of the house itself for two reasons. The first was that the size and disposition of the attacking force could not be accurately estimated and the risk of capture or death outside was too great. The second was more practical: Papers had to be destroyed, burnt not shredded, as they had learned in Teheran. Directives, dossiers, operational progress reports, background materials, all had to go. The sirens in Victoria Peak were growing louder, nearer, the frantic race up the steep roads was nearly over.
   'It's the countdown,' said Bourne, setting the timer on the last plastique explosive. 'I'm not giving this to you, but I'll use it to advantage – both yours and mind. Thirty seconds, Major Allcott-Price. ' Jason arced the packet as far as he could towards the right front wall. 'My weapon!. For Christ's sake give me the gun!' 'It's on the ground. Under my foot. ' The assassin lurched down. 'Let go of it!' 'When I want to – and I will want to. But if you try to take it, the next thing you'll see is a cell in the Hong Kong garrison, and – according to you – a scaffold, a thick rope and a hangman in your immediate future. '
   The killer looked up in panic . 'You goddamned liar! You lied!
   'Frequently. Don't you?'
   'You said-'
   'I know what I said. I also know why you're here, and why instead of nine shells, you have three. '
   – 'What?'
   'You're my diversion, Major. When I let you free with the gun, you'll head for the gate or a blown-out section of the wall – whichever, it's your choice. They'll try to stop you. You'll fire back, naturally, and while they concentrate on you, I'll get inside.'
   'You bastard!'
   'My feelings are hurt, but then I don't have feelings any longer, so it doesn't matter. I simply have to get inside-'
   The last explosion blew up a sculptured tree, its roots smashing into a weakened section of the wall, stones falling out of place, the wall itself half crumbling, splitting rocks forming a V at the centre of secondary impact. Marines from the gate contingent rushed forward.
   Wow!' roared Delta, rising to his full height.
   'Give me the gun! Let go of it!'
   Jason Bourne suddenly froze. He could not move – except that by some instinct or other he crashed his knee up into the killer's throat, sending the assassin over on his side. A man had appeared beyond the shattered glass doors of the burning foyer. A handkerchief covered his face, but it could not cover his limp. His limp! With his club foot the silhouetted figure kicked down the left frame of the french doors and awkwardly walked down the three steps to the short flagstone patio fronting the once stately gardens. He dragged himself forward and yelled as loud as he could, ordering the guards who could hear him to hold their fire. The figure did not have to lower his handkerchief, Delta knew the face. It was the face of his enemy. It was Paris, a cemetery outside Paris. Alexander Conklin had come to kill him. Beyond-salvage was the order from on high.
   'David! It's Alex! Don't do what you're doing! Stop it! It's we, David! I'm here to help you!'
   'You're here to kill me! You came to kill me in Paris, you tried again in New York! Treadstone Seventy-one! You've got a short memory, you bastard!'
   'You don't have any memory, goddamn you! You became Delta, that's what they wanted! I know the whole story, David. I flew over here because we put it together! Marie, Mo Panov, and I! We're all here. Marie's safe!'
   'Lies! Tricks! All of you, you killed her! You would have killed her in Paris, but I wouldn't let you near her! I kept her away from you!'
   'She's not dead, David! She's alive! I can bring her to you!
   Now!'
   'More lies!' Delta crouched and pulled the trigger, spraying the patio, the bullets ricocheting up into the burning foyer, but for reasons unknown to him they did not cut down the man himself. 'You want to pull me out so you can give the order and I'm dead. Beyond-salvage carried out! No way, executioner!. I'm going inside! I want the silent, secret men behind you! They're there! I know they're there!' Bourne grabbed the fallen assassin and pulled him to his feet handing him the gun. 'You wanted a Jason Bourne, he's yours! I'm setting him loose among the roses. Kill him while I kill!' Half crazed, half survivor, the commando lunged through the flowering bushes away from Bourne. He raced first down the path, then instantly returned, seeing that the marine guards were at the north and south areas of the wall. If he showed himself on the east border of the garden he was caught between both contingents. He was dead, if he moved. 'I haven't any more time, Conklin!' yelled Bourne. Why couldn't he kill the man who had betrayed him? Squeeze the trigger! Kill the last of Treadstone Seventy-one! Kill. Kill! What stopped him!
   The assassin threw himself over the bed of flowers, clutching the warm barrel of Bourne's machine gun, wrenching it downward, levelling and firing his own gun at Jason. The bullet grazed Bourne's forehead and, in fury, he yanked back the trigger of the repeating weapon. Bullets thundered into the ground, the vibrations within their small, deadly arena earth-shattering. He grabbed the Englishman's gun, twisting it counterclockwise. The assassin's half-mutilated right arm was no match for the man from Medusa. The gun exploded as Bourne wrenched it free. The impostor fell back on the grass, his eyes glazed, within them the knowledge that he had lost.
   'David! For God's sake, listen to me! You have to-'
   There is no David here!' screamed Jason, his knee rammed into the assassin's chest . 'My rightful name is Bourne, sprung from Delta, spawned by Medusa! The snake lady! Remember?
   'We have to talk!'
   'We have to die! You have to die! The secret men inside are my contract with myself, with Marie! They have to die!' Bourne gripped the lapel of the assassin's jacket, pulling him up on his feet . 'I repeat! Here's your Jason Bourne! He's all yours!'
   'Don't shoot! Hold your fire!' roared Conklin, as bewildered segments of the three marine contingents began to close in and the deafening sirens of the Hong Kong police roared to a stop at the demolished gate.
   The man from Medusa slammed his shoulder into the commando's back, propelling the killer out into the light of the roaring flames and the floodlights. There hew! That's the prize you wanted^
   There was a burst of rifle fire as the assassin reeled out, then dove to the ground, rolling over and over to avoid the bullets.
   'Stop it! Not him! For Christ's sake, hold your fire. Don't kill him!'
   'Not him? roared Jason Bourne. 'Not him! Only me! Isn't that right, you son of a bitch? Now, you do die! For Marie, for Echo, for all of us!'
   He squeezed the trigger of the machine gun, but still the bullets would not hit their mark! He swung around and, swinging back and forth, aimed his deadly weapon at both converging squads of marines. Again, he fired several prolonged bursts, crouching, ducking, moving from place to place behind the roses. Yet he angled the barrel above their heads! Why? The children could not stop him. But then the children in their pressed GI issue should not die for the manipulators. He had to get inside the sterile house. Now! No moments were left. It was now!
   'David?' A woman's voice. Oh Christ, a woman's voice! 'David, David, David! A figure in a flowing skirt ran out of the sterile house. She grabbed Alexander Conklin and pushed him away. She stood alone on the patio. 'It's me, David! 'I'm here! I'm safe! Everything's all right, my darling!'
   Another trick, another lie. It was an old woman with grey hair, white hair! 'Get out of my way, lady, or I'll kill you. You're just another lie, another trick?
   'David, it's me! Can't you hear me-'
   'I can see you! A trick!'
   'No, David!'
   'My name's not David. I told your scum friend, there's no
   David here!'
   'Don't!' screamed Marie, desperately shaking her head and running in front of several marines who had crawled out on the grass, away from the swirling, vanishing clouds of gas. They were on their knees with a clear view of Bourne, getting their bearings, levelling their rifles unsteadily at him. Marie positioned herself between the recovering guards and their target . 'Haven't you done enough to him? For God's sake somebody stop them!'
   'And get blown away by some son of a bitch terrorist? yelled a youthful voice from the ranks by the front wall.
   'He's not what you think! Whatever he is the people inside made him that way! You heard him. He won't fire on you if you don't shoot!'
   'He's already fired,' roared an officer. 'You're still standing!' yelled back Alex Conklin from the edge of the patio. 'And he's a better marksman with more weapons than any man here! Account for it! I can!'
   'I don't need you!' thundered Jason Bourne, once again triggering a burst of machine gun fire into the burning wall of the sterile house.
   Suddenly, the assassin was on his feet, crouching, then lunging for the marine nearest him, a hatless youngster still coughing from the gas. The killer grabbed the guard's rifle, kicking him in the head, and firing the weapon into the next nearest marine, who lurched backwards grabbing his stomach. The killer spun around; he spotted an officer with a machine pistol not unlike Bourne's; he shot him in the neck, and grabbed the weapon from the falling body. He paused for only a split half-second evaluating his chances, then whipped the machine pistol up under his left arm. Delta watched, instinctively knowing what the commando would do, knowing, too, that his diversion was about to take place.
   The assassin did it. He fired again, one round after another into the closed ranks of the young, inexperienced marines by the front wall, racing, dodging his way across the short stretch of grass into the shoulder-high flowers on Bourne's left. It was his only escape route, the least illuminated collapsed right rear wall.
   'Stop him!' shouted Conklin, limping frantically across the patio. 'But don't shoot! Don't kill him! For Christ's sake, don't kill him!'
   'Bullshit!' came the reply from someone in the squad of marines by the left rear wall. The assassin, twisting, turning, crouching, his rifle on repeat fire, quickly worked his way towards the broken wall, pinning the guards down by his rapid bursts. The rifle chamber ran out of shells; he threw it down, swinging the murderous machine pistol into place, and started his last race towards the broken wall, spraying the prone contingent of marines. He was there! The darkness beyond was his escape!
   'You motherfucker!' It was a teenager's cry, the voice immature, in torment, but nevertheless lethal. 'You killed my buddy! You blew his fucking face off! You're going to buy it, you shithead!'
   A young black marine leaped away from his dead white companion and raced towards the wall as the assassin swung around, vaulting over the stone. Another burst from the killer caught the marine in the shoulder; he lunged to the ground, rolled over twice to his left, and fired four rounds of ammunition.
   They were followed by an agonizing, hysterical scream of defiance. It was the scream of death; the impostor, his eyes wide in hatred, fell into the jagged rocks. Major Allcott.
   Price, formerly of the Royal Commandos, was gone.
   Bourne started forward, his weapon raised. Marie ran to the border of the patio, the distance between them no more than a few feet . 'Don't do it, David!'
   'I'm not David, lady! Ask your scum-ball friend, we go back a long time. Get out of my way!' Why couldn't he kill her? One burst and he was free to do what he had to do! Why?
   'All right!' screamed Marie, holding her place. There is no David, all right! You're Jason Bourne! You're Delta!' You're anything you want to be, but you're also mine! You're my husband!' The revelation had the impact of a sudden bolt of lightning on the guards who heard it. The officers, their elbows bent, held up their hands – the universal command to hold fire – as they and the men stared in astonishment.
   'I don't know you!'
   'My voice is my own. You know it, Jason. '
   'A trick! An actress, a mimic! A lie! It's been done before. '
   'And if I look different, it's because of you, Jason Bourne?
   'Get out of my way or get killed?
   'You taught me in Paris! On the rue de Rivoli, the Hotel Meurice, the newsstand on the corner. Can you remember? The newspapers with the story out of Zurich, my photograph on all the front pages! And the small hotel in the Montparnasse when we were checking out, the concierge reading the paper, my picture in front of his face! You were so frightened you told me to run outside... The taxi! Do you remember the taxi? On the way to Issy-les-Moulineaux – I'll never forget that impossible name. "Change your hair," you said. "Pull it up or push it back!" You said you didn't care what I did so long as I changed it! You asked me if I had an eyebrow pencil – you told me to thicken my brows, make them longer! Your words, Jason! We were running for our lives and you wanted me to look different, to remove any likeness to the photograph that was all over Europe! I had to become a chameleon because Jason Bourne was a chameleon. He had to teach his lover, his wife! That's all I've done, Jason!'
   Wo!' cried Delta, drawing the word out into a scream, the mists of confusion enveloping him, sending his mind into the outer regions of panic. The images were there! rue de Rivoli, the Montparnasse, the taxi. Listen to me. I am a chameleon called Cain and I can teach you many things I do not care to teach you but I must. I can change my colour to accommodate the forest, lean shift with the wind by smelling it. I can find my way through natural and man-made jungles. Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, Delta ... Delta is for Charlie and Charlie is for Cain. I am Cain. I am death. And I must tell you who I am and lose you.
   'You do remember!' shouted David Webb's wife.
   'A trick! The chemicals – I said the words. They gave you the words! They have to stop me!'
   'They gave me nothing! I want nothing from them. I only want my husband! I'm Marie?
   'You're a lie! They killed her!' Delta squeezed the trigger, the fusillade of bullets exploding the earth at Marie's feet. Rifles quickly were brought up to firing positions.
   'Don't do it!' screamed Marie, whipping her head over at the marine guards, her eyes glaring, her voice a command. 'All right, Jason. If you don't know me, I don't want to live. I can't be plainer than that, my darling. It's why I understand what you're doing. You're throwing your life away because a part of you that's taken over thinks I'm gone and you don't want to live without me. I understand that very well because I don't want to live without you. ' Marie took several steps across the grass and stood motionless.
   Delta raised the machine gun, the snub-nosed sight on the barrel centering on the grey hair streaked with white. His index finger closed around the trigger. Suddenly, involuntarily, his right hand began to tremble, then his left. The murderous weapon began to waver, at first slowly– back and forth, then faster – in circles – as Bourne's head swayed in fitful jerks; the trembling spread; his neck began to lose control.
   There was a commotion within the gathering crowd at the smouldering ruins of the gate and the guardhouse several hundred feet away. A man struggled; he was held by two marines. 'Let me go, you goddamned fools! I'm a doctor, his doctor!' With a surge of strength, Morris Panov broke away and raced across the lawn into the glare of the floodlights. He stopped twenty feet from Bourne.
   Delta began to moan; the sound and the rhythm were barbaric. Jason Bourne dropped the weapon... and David Webb fell to his knees weeping. Marie started towards him.
   Woa' commanded Panov, his voice quietly emphatic, stopping Webb's wife. 'He has to come to you. He must. '
   'He needs me!'
   'Not that way. He has to recognize you. David has to recognize you and tell his other self to let him free. You can't do that for him. He has to do it for himself. '
   Silence. Floodlights. Fire.
   And like a cringing, beaten child, David Webb raised his head, the tears streaming down his cheeks. Slowly, painfully, he rose to his feet and ran into the arms of his wife.

33
   They were in the sterile house, in the white-walled communications centre – in an antiseptic cell belonging to some futuristic laboratory complex. Whitefaced computers rose above the white counters on the left, dozens of thin, dark rectangular mouths sporadically indented, their teeth digital readouts forming luminescent green numbers that constantly changed with inviolate frequency alterations and less sophisticated, less secure means of sending and receiving information. On the right was a large white conference table above the white-tiled floor, the only deviation to colour conformity and asepsis being several black ashtrays. The players were in place around the table. The technicians had been dismissed, all systems put on hold, only the ominous Red-Alert, a 3-inch by 10-inch panel in the central computer, remained active; an operator was outside the closed door should the alarming red lights appear. Beyond this sacrosanct, isolated room the Hong Kong firefighters were hosing down the last of the smouldering embers as the Hong Kong police were calming the panicked residents from the nearby estates on Victoria Peak – many of whom were convinced that Armageddon had arrived in the form of a mainland onslaught – telling everyone that the terrible events were the work of a deranged criminal killed by government emergency units. The skeptical Peak residents were not satisfied. The times were not on their side; their world was not as it should be and they wanted proof. So the corpse of the dead assassin was paraded on a stretcher past the curious onlookers, the punctured, blood-drenched body partially uncovered for all to see. The stately residents returned to their stately homes, having by this time contemplated all manner of insurance claims.
   The players sat in white, plastic chairs, living, breathing robots waiting for a signal to commence, none really possessing the courage or the energy to open the proceedings. Exhaustion, mingled with the fear of violent death, marked their faces – marked all but one face. His possessed the deep lines and dark shadows of extreme fatigue but there was no hollow fear in his eyes, only passive, bewildered acceptance of things still beyond his understanding. Minutes ago death had held no fear for him; it was preferable to living. Now, in his confusion, his wife gripping his hand, he could feel the swelling of distant anger, distant in the sense that it was far back in the recesses of his mind, relentlessly pushing forward like the faraway thunder over a lake in an approaching summer storm.
   'Who did this to us? said David Webb, his voice barely above a whisper.
   'I did,' answered Havilland, at the end of the rectangular white table. The ambassador leaned slowly forward, returning Webb's deathlike stare. 'If I were in a court of law seeking mercy for an ignominious act, I would have to plead extenuating circumstances. '
   'Which were? asked David in a monotone.
   'First there is the crisis,' said the diplomat . 'Second there was yourself. '
   'Explain that,' interrupted Alex Conklin at the other end of the table, facing Havilland. Webb and Marie were on his left in front of the white wall, Morris Panov and Edward McAllister opposite them. 'And don't leave anything out,' added the rogue intelligence officer.
   'I don't intend to,' said the ambassador, his eyes remaining on David. 'The crisis is real, the catastrophe imminent. A cabal has been formed deep in Peking by a group of zealots led by a man so deeply entrenched in the hierarchy of his government, so revered as a philosopher-prince that he cannot be exposed. No one would believe it. Anyone who attempted to expose him would become a pariah. Worse, any attempt at exposure would risk a backlash so severe that Peking would cry insult and outrage, and revert to suspicion and intransigence. But if the conspiracy is not aborted, it will destroy the Hong Kong Accords and blow the colony apart. The result will be the immediate occupation by the People's Republic. I don't have to tell you what that would mean -economic chaos, violence, bloodshed and undoubtedly war in the Far East. How long could such hostilities be contained before other nations are forced to choose sides? The risk is unthinkable. '
   Silence. Eyes locked with eyes.
   'Fanatics from the Kuomintang,' said David, his voice flat and cold. 'China against China. It's been the war cry of maniacs for the past forty years. '
   'But only a cry, Mr Webb. Words, talk, but no movement, no strikes, no ultimate strategy. ' Havilland cupped his hands on the table, breathing deeply. There is now. The strategy's in place, a strategy so oblique and devious, so long in the making, they believe it can't fail. But of course it will, and when it does the world will be faced with a crisis of intolerable proportions. It could well lead to the final crisis, the one we can't survive. Certainly the Far East won't. '
   'You're not telling me anything I haven't seen for myself. They've gone down deep in high places, and they're probably spreading, but they're still fanatics, a lunatic fringe. And if the maniac I saw who was running the show is anything like the others they'd all be hanged in Tian an men Square. It'd be televised and approved by every group opposed to capital punishment. He was – is a messianic sadist, a butcher. Butchers aren't statesmen. They're not taken seriously. '
   'Herr Hitler was in Nineteen-thirty-three,' observed Havilland. The Ayatollah Khomeini only a few years ago. But then you obviously don't know who their true leader is. He'd never show himself under any circumstances where you might even remotely see him. However, I can assure you he's a statesman and taken very seriously. However, again, his objective is not Peking. It's Hong Kong. '
   'I saw what I saw and heard what I heard and it'll all be with me for a long time... You don't need me, you never did! Isolate them, spread the word in the Central Committee, call in Taiwan to disown them – they will! Times change. They don't want that war any more than Peking does. '
   The ambassador studied the Medusan, obviously evaluating David's information, realizing that Webb had seen enough in Peking to draw conclusions of his own, but not enough to understand the essence of the Hong Kong conspiracy. 'It's too late. The forces have been set in motion. Treachery at the highest levels of China's government, treachery at the hands of the despised Nationalists, assumed to be in collusion with Western financial interests. Even the devoted followers of Deng Xiao ping could not accept that blow to Peking's pride, that loss of international face – the role of the duped cuckold. Neither would we if it was learned that General Motors, IBM and the New York Stock Exchange were being run by American traitors, trained in the Soviet, diverting billions to projects not in our nation's interests. '
   'The analogy is accurate,' broke in McAllister, his fingers at his right temple. 'Cumulatively that's what Hong Kong will be to the People's Republic – that and a hundred thousand times more. But there's another element and it's as alarming as anything else we've learned. I should like to bring it up now – in my position as an analyst, as someone who's supposed to calculate the reactions of adversaries and potential adversaries-'
   'Make it short,' interrupted Webb . 'You talk too much and you keep rubbing your head too much and I don't like your eyes. They belong to a dead fish. You talked too much in Maine. You're a liar. '
   'Yes. Yes, I understand what you're saying and why you're saying it. But I'm a decent man, Mr Webb. I believe in decency. '
   'I don't. Not any longer. Go on. This is all very enlightening and I don't understand a goddamned thing because nobody's said a goddamned thing that makes sense. What's your contribution, liar?'
   'The organized crime factor. ' McAllister swallowed at David's repeated insult, but still delivered the statement as if he expected everyone to understand. When faced with blank looks, he added. 'The triads!'
   'Mafia-structured groups, Oriental style,' said' Marie, her eyes on the undersecretary of state. 'Criminal brotherhoods. '
   McAllister nodded. 'Narcotics, illegal immigration, gambling, prostitution, loan sharking – all the usual pursuits. '
   'And some not so usual,' added Marie. 'They're deep into their own form of economics. They own banks– indirectly, of course – throughout California, Oregon, the state of Washington, and up into my country, in British Columbia. They launder money in the millions every day by way of international transfers. '
   'Which only serves to compound the crisis,' said McAllister emphatically.
   'Why?' asked David. 'What's your point?
   'Crime, Mr Webb. The leaders of the People's Republic are obsessed with crime. Reports indicate that over a hundred thousand executions have taken place during the last three years with little distinction made between misdemeanors and felonies. It's consistent with the regime – the origins of the regime. All revolutions believe they are conceived in purity, the purity of the cause is everything. Peking will make ideological adjustments to benefit from the West's marketplace, but there'll be no accommodation for even the hint of organized crime. '
   'You make them sound like a collection of paranoids,' interjected Panov.
   They are. They can't afford to be anything else. '
   'Ideologically?' asked the psychiatrist, skeptically.
   'Sheer numbers, Doctor. The purity of the revolution is the cover but it's the numbers that frighten them. A huge, immensely populated country with vast resources – my God, if organized crime moved in, and with a billion people inside its borders, don't think for a minute the overlords aren't champing at the bit – it could become a nation of triads. Villages, towns, whole cities could be divided into "family" terrains, all profiting from the influx of Western capital and technology. There'd be an explosion of illegal exports flooding the contraband markets across the world. Narcotics from uncountable hills and fields that could not possibly be patrolled; weapons from subsidiary factories set up through graft; textiles from hundreds of underground plants using stolen machinery and peasant labour crippling those industries in the West. Crime. '
   That's a great leap forward no one over here's been able to accomplish in the last forty years,' said Conklin.
   'Who would dare try?' asked McAllister. 'If a person can be executed for stealing fifty yuan, who's going to go for a hundred thousand? It takes protection, organization, people in high places. This is what Peking fears, why it's paranoid. The leaders are terrified of corruptors in high places. The political infrastructure could be eroded. The leaders would lose control, and that they will not risk. Again, their fears are paranoid, but for them they're terribly real. Any hint that powerful criminal factions are in league with internal conspirators, infiltrating their economy, would be enough for them to disown the Accords and send their troops down into Hong Kong. '
   'Your conclusion's obvious,' said Marie. 'But where's the logic? How could it happen?'
   'It's happening, Mrs. Webb,' answered Ambassador Havilland. 'It's why we needed Jason Bourne. '
   'Somebody had better start at the beginning,' said David.
   The diplomat did. 'It began over thirty years ago when a brilliant young man was sent from Taiwan back to the land of his father's birth and given a new name, a new family. It was a long-range plan, its roots in zealotry and revenge... '
   Webb listened as the incredible story of Sheng Chou Yang unfolded, each block in place, each fact convincingly the truth for there was no reason any longer for lies. Twenty-seven minutes later, when he had finished, Havilland picked up a black-bordered file folder. He lifted the cover, revealing a clasped sheaf of some seventy-odd pages, closed it and reached over, placing it in front of David. This is everything we know, everything we've learned – the detailed specifics of everything I've told you. It can't leave this house except as ashes, but you're welcome to read it. If you have any doubts or questions, I swear to you I'll move every source in the United States government – from the Oval Office to the National Security Council – to satisfy you. I could do no less. ' The diplomat paused, his eyes fixed on Webb's. 'Perhaps we have no right to ask it, but we need your help. We need all the information you can give us. '
   'So you can send someone in to take out this Sheng Chou Yang. '
   'Essentially, yes. But it's far more complex than that. Our hand must be invisible. It can't be seen or even remotely suspected. Sheng's covered himself brilliantly. Peking looks upon him as a visionary, a great patriot who works slavishly for Mother China, you might say a saint. His security is absolute. The people around him, his aides, his guards, they're his protective shock troops, their allegiance is solely to him. '
   'Which is why you wanted the impostor,' interrupted Marie. 'He was your link to Sheng. '
   'We knew he had accepted contracts from him. Sheng had to – has to – eliminate his opposition, both those who oppose him ideologically and those he intends to exclude from his operations. '

'In this latter group,' broke in McAllister, 'are the leaders of rival triads Sheng doesn't trust, that the fanatics of the Kuomintang don't trust. He knows that if they're around to see that they're being squeezed out, a destabilizing gangland war would erupt which Sheng couldn't tolerate any more than the British can with Peking up the street. Within the past two months seven triad overlords have been killed, their organizations crippled. '
   The new Jason Bourne was Sheng's perfect solution,' continued the ambassador. The hired assassin with no political or national ties; for above all, the killings could never be traced back to China. '
   'But he went to Peking,' objected Webb . 'It's where I tracked him. Even if it started out as a trap for me, which it was-'
   'A trap for you?' exclaimed Havilland. They knew about you?'
   'I came face to face with my successor two nights ago at the airport. We each knew who the other was – it was impossible not to know. He wasn't going to keep it a secret and take the fall for a failed contract. '
   'It was you,' interrupted McAllister. 'I knew it!'
   'So did Sheng and his people. I was the new gun in town and had to be stopped, killed on a priority-one basis. They couldn't risk what I'd pieced together. The trap was conceived that night, set that night. '
   'Jesus' cried Conklin. 'I read about Kai Tak in Washington. The papers said it was assumed to be right-wing lunatics. Keep the commies out of capitalism. Instead, it was you?
   'Both governments had to come up with something for the world press,' added the undersecretary. 'Just as we have to say something about tonight-'
   'My point is,' said David, ignoring McAllister. 'This Sheng called for the commando, used him to mount a trap for me, and by doing so made him part of the inner circle. That's no way for a concealed client to keep his distance from a hired killer. '
   'It is as if he didn't expect him to walk out of that circle alive,' replied Havilland, glancing at the undersecretary of state. 'It's Edward's theory, and one to which I subscribe, that when the final contract was carried out or when it was deemed that he knew too much and was therefore a liability, the impostor was to be killed collecting a payment -believing, of course, that he was being given another assignment. Everything untraceable, the slate clean. The events at Kai Tak no doubt sealed his death warrant. '
   'He wasn't smart enough to see it,' said Jason Bourne. 'He couldn't think geometrically. '
   'I beg your pardon?' asked the ambassador.
   'Nothing,' answered Webb, again staring at the diplomat . 'So everything you told me was part truth, part lie. Hong
   Kong could blow apart, but not for the reasons you gave me. '
   'The truth was our credibility, you had to accept that, accept our deep, frightening concerns. The lies were to recruit you. ' Havilland leaned back in his chair. 'And I can't be any more honest than that. '
   'Bastards,' said Webb, his voice low, ice-like.
   'I'll grant you that,' agreed Havilland. 'But as I mentioned before, there were extenuating circumstances, specifically two. The crisis and yourself. '
   'And?' said Marie.
   'Let me ask you, Mr Webb-... Mrs. Webb. If we had come to you and stated our case, would you have joined forces with us? Would you willingly have become Jason Bourne again?5
   Silence. All eyes were on David as his own strayed blankly over the surface of the table, then rested on the file folder. 'No,' he said softly. 'I don't trust you. '
   'We knew that,' agreed Havilland, again nodding his head. 'But from our point of view we had to recruit you. You were able to do what no one else could do, and insofar as you did it, I submit that that judgement was correct. The cost was terrible, no one underestimates it, but we felt – I felt – that there was no other choice. Time and the consequences were against us – are against us. '
   'As much as before,' said Webb . 'The commando's dead. '
   The commando?' McAllister leaned forward.
   'Your assassin. The impostor. What you did to us was all for nothing. '
   'Not necessarily,' objected Havilland. 'It will depend on what you can tell us. News of a death up here will be in tomorrow's headlines, we can't stop it, but Sheng can't know whose death. No photographs were taken, no press was here at the time, and those who've arrived since have been cordoned off several hundred yards away by the police. We can control the information by simply providing it. '
   'What about the body? asked Panov. There are medical procedures-'
   'Overruled by MI6,' said the ambassador. This is still British territory and communications between London, Washington and Government House were swift. The impostor's face was too shattered for anyone who saw it to give a description and his remains are in custody, beyond scrutiny. It was Edward's thinking and he was damn quick about it. '
   'There's still David and Marie,' persisted the psychiatrist. Too many people saw them, heard them. '
   'Only several squads of marine guards were close enough to see and hear clearly,' said McAllister. The entire contingent is being flown back to Hawaii in an hour, including two dead and seven wounded. They've left the premises and are sequestered at the airport. There was a great deal of confusion and panic. The police and the firemen were occupied elsewhere; none were in the gardens. We can say anything we like. '
   That seems to be a habit with you,' commented Webb . 'You heard the ambassador,' said the undersecretary, avoiding David's gaze. 'We didn't feel we had a choice. '
   'Be fair to yourself, Edward. ' Again Havilland looked at Webb while addressing the undersecretary. 7 didn't feel we had a choice. You strenuously objected. '
   'I was wrong,' said McAllister firmly, as the diplomat snapped his eyes over at him. 'But that's irrelevant,' continued the undersecretary quickly. 'We've got to decide what we're going to say. The consulate's been swamped by calls from the press-'
   The consulate?' broke in Conklin. 'Some sterile house!' There wasn't time for a proper leasing cover,' said the ambassador. 'It was kept as quiet as possible and we prepared a plausible story. So far as we know there were no questions, but the police report had to list the owner and the lessee. How's Garden Road handling it, Edward?'
   'Simply that the situation hasn't been clarified. They're waiting for us but they can't stall much longer. It's better that we prepare something than leave the circumstances to speculation. '
   'Infinitely,' agreed Havilland. 'I suspect that means you have something in mind. '
   'It's stop-gap but it could serve, if I heard Mr Webb correctly. '
   'About what?'
   'You've used the word commando several times, I assume not as a figure of speech. The assassin was a commando?
   'Former. An officer and a mental case. Homicidal, to be accurate. '
   'Did you get an identity, learn his name?'
   David looked hard at the analyst, recalling Allcott-Price's words, spoken in a warped sense of sick triumph... If Hose and the story blows, how many practising anti-socials will 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, an idea – and they'll be off and running.. . 'I never found out who he was,' said Webb, simply.
   'But nevertheless he was a commando. '
   That's right. '
   'Not a Ranger or a Green Beret or Special Forces-'
   'No. '
   T assume therefore that you mean he was British. '
   'Yes. '
   Then we'll put out a story that implicitly denies those specifics. Not an Englishman, no military record – go in the opposite direction. '
   'A white, male American,' said Conklin quietly, with even a measure of respect, as he looked at the undersecretary of state. 'Give him a name and a history from a dead file. Preferably fourth-rate garbage, a psychopath with a hang-up so heavy he goes after someone up here. '
   'Something like that, but perhaps not entirely,' said McAllister, awkwardly shifting his position in the chair, as if he did not care to disagree with the experienced CIA man. Or something else. 'White male, yes. American, yes. Certainly a man with an obsession so compelling that he's driven to wholesale slaughter, his fury directed at a target – as you say -up here. '
   'Who? asked David.
   'Me,' replied McAllister, his eyes locked with Webb's.
   'Which means me,' said David. 'I'm that man, that obsessed man. '
   'Your name would not be used,' continued the undersecretary, calmly, coldly. 'We could invent an American expatriate who several years ago was hunted by the authorities throughout the Far East for crimes ranging from multiple murders to running narcotics. We'll say I cooperated with the police in Hong Kong, Macao, Singapore, Japan, Malaysia, Sumatra and the Philippines. Through my efforts his operations were effectively shut down and he lost millions. He learns I've returned and am posted here on Victoria Peak. He conies after me, the man who ruined him. ' McAllister paused, turning to David. 'Since I spent a number of years here in Hong Kong, I can't imagine that Peking overlooked me. I'm sure there's an extensive dossier on an analyst who made a number of enemies during his tour of duty here. I did make enemies, Mr Webb. It was my job. We were trying to increase our influence in this part of the world and wherever Americans were involved in criminal activities, I did my level best to help the authorities apprehend them or, at the least, force them out of Asia. It was the best way to show our good intentions, going after our own. It was also the reason State recalled me to Washington. And by using my name we lend a certain authenticity for Sheng Chou Yang. You see, we knew each other. He'll speculate on a dozen possibilities; I hope the right one, but none remotely connected to a British commando. '
   The right speculation,' interrupted Conklin, quietly, 'being the fact that no one over here has heard from the first Jason Bourne in a couple of years. '
   'Exactly. '
   'So I'm the corpse that's in custody,' said Webb, 'beyond scrutiny. '
   'You could be, yes,' said McAllister. 'You see, we don't know what Sheng knows, how deep his penetration went. The only thing we want to establish is that the dead man is not his assassin. '
   'Leaving the way open for another impostor to go back up and draw Sheng out for the kill,' added Conklin respectfully. 'You're something, Mr Analyst. A son of a bitch, but something. '
   'You'd be exposing yourself, Edward,' said Havilland, his gaze levelled at the undersecretary. 'I never asked that of you. You do have enemies. '
   'I want to do it this way, Mr Ambassador. You employ me to render the best judgements that I can, and in my judgement this is the most productive course. There's got to be a convincing smokescreen. My name can provide it – for Sheng. The rest can be couched in ambiguous language, language that everyone we want to reach will understand. '
   'So be it,' said Webb, suddenly closing his eyes, hearing the words Jason Bourne had spoken so often.
   'David-' Marie touched his face.
   'Sorry. ' Webb fingered the file folder in front of him, then opened it. On the first page was a photograph with a name printed underneath. It was identified as the face of Sheng Chou Yang, but it was far more than that. It was the face. It was the face of the butcher! The madman who hacked women and men to death with his jewelled ceremonial sword, who forced brothers to fight with razor sharp knives until one killed the other, who took a brave, tortured Echo's life with a slash to the head. Bourne stopped breathing, enraged by the unimaginable cruelty, as bloody images overcame him. As he stared at the photograph, the sight of Echo, throwing his life away to save Delta, brought him back to that clearing in the forest. Delta knew that it was Echo's death that had made the assassin's capture possible. Echo had died defiantly, accepting his unbearably painful execution so that a fellow Medusan could make good not only his escape, but with a final gesture telling him that the madman with the sword must be killed!
   "This? whispered Jason Bourne, 'is the son of your unknown taipan?
   'Yes,' said Havilland.
   'Your revered philosopher-prince? The Chinese saint no one can expose?"
   'Again, yes.'
   'You were wrong! He showed himself! Christ did he show himself!'
   Stunned, the ambassador shot forward. 'You're certain?'
   There's no way I couldn't be certain. '
   The circumstances must have been extraordinary,' said the astonished McAllister. 'And it certainly confirms that the impostor never would have got out of there alive. Still, the circumstances must have been earth-shaking for him!'
   'Considering the fact that no one outside China ever learned about them, they were. Mao's tomb became a shooting gallery. It was part of the trap and they lost. Echo lost. '
   'Who?' asked Marie, still gripping his hand.
   'A friend. '
   'Mao's tomb?' repeated Havilland. 'Extraordinary!'
   'Not at all,' said Bourne. 'How bright. The last place in China a target would expect an attack. He goes in thinking he's the pursuer following his quarry, expecting to pick him up outside, on the other side. The lights are dim, his guard down. And all the while he's the quarry, hunted, isolated, set up for the kill. Very bright. '
   'Very dangerous for the hunters,' said the ambassador. 'For Sheng's people. One mis-step and they could have been taken. Insanity'!'
   'No mis-steps were possible. They would have killed their own if I hadn't killed them. I understand that now. When everything went off the wire, they simply disappeared. With Echo. '
   'Back to Sheng, please, Mr Webb. ' Havilland was himself obsessed, his eyes pleading. Tell us what you saw, what you know. '
   'He's a monster,' said Jason quietly, his eyes glazed, staring at the photograph. 'He comes from hell, a Savonarola who tortures and kills – men, women, kids – with a smile on his face. He gives sermons like a prophet talking to children, but underneath he's a maniac who rules his gang of misfits by sheer terror. Those shock troops you mentioned aren't troops, they're goons, sadistic thugs who've learned their craft from a master. He's Auschwitz, Dachau and Bergen Belsen all rolled into one. God help us all if he runs anything over here. ' 'He can, Mr Webb,' said Havilland quietly, his terrified gaze fixed on Jason Bourne. 'He will. You've just described a Sheng Chou Yang the world has never seen, and at this moment he is the most powerful man in China. As Adolf Hitler marched victoriously into the Reichstag, so Sheng will march into the Central Committee, making it his puppet. What you've told us is far more catastrophic than anything we've conceived of – China against China... Armageddon to follow. Oh, my God!
   'He's a brute animal,' whispered Jason, hoarsely. 'He has to kill like a predator, but his only hunger is killing – not for food but for the kill. '
   'You're talking in generalities. ' McAllister's interruption was cold but intense. 'We have to know more – I have to know more!'
   'He called a conference. ' Bourne spoke dreamily, his head swaying, his eyes again riveted on the photograph. 'It was the start of – the nights of the great blade, he said. There was a traitor, he said. The conference was something only a madman could create, torches everywhere, held in the countryside, an hour out of Peking, in a bird sanctuary – can you believe it? A bird sanctuary – and he really did what I say he did. He killed a man suspended by ropes, hacking his sword into the screaming body. Then a woman who tried to argue her innocence, cutting her head off– her head! In front of everyone! And then two brothers-'
   'A traitor! whispered McAllister, ever the analyst . 'Did he find one? Did anyone confess? Is there any kind of counter insurgency?'
   'Stop it!' cried Marie.
   Wo, Mrs. Webb! He's going back. He's reliving it. Look at him. Can't you see? He's there. '
   'I'm afraid our irritating colleague is right, Marie,' said Panov softly, watching Webb . 'He's in and out, trying to find his own reality. It's okay. Let him ride it. It could save us all a lot of time. '
   'Bullshit!'
   'For ever accurate, my dear, and for ever debatable. Shut up.
   '... There was no traitor, no one who spoke, only the woman with doubts. He killed her and there was silence, an awful silence. He was warning everyone, telling everyone that they were everywhere and at the same time they were invisible. In the ministries, in the Security Police, everywhere... And then he killed Echo, but Echo knew he had to die. He wanted to die quickly because he couldn't live much longer anyway. After they tortured him he was in awful shape. Still, if he could give me time-'
   'Who is Echo, David? asked Morris Panov. Tell us, please. '
   'Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, Delta, Echo... Foxtrot-'
   'Medusa,' said the psychiatrist . 'It's Medusa, isn't it? Echo was in Medusa. '
   'He was in Paris. The Louvre. He tried to save my life but I saved his. That was okay, it was right. He saved mine before, years ago. "Rest is a weapon", he said. He put the others around me and made me sleep. And then we got out of the jungle. '
   '"Rest is a weapon"... ' Marie spoke quietly and closed her eyes, pressing her husband's hand, the tears falling down her cheeks. 'Oh, Christ!'
   '... Echo saw me in the woods. We used the old signals we used before, years ago. He hadn't forgotten. None of us ever forget. '
   'Are we in the countryside, in the bird sanctuary, David?' asked Panov, gripping McAllister's shoulder to stop him from intruding.
   'Yes,' replied Jason Bourne, his eyes now floating, unfocused. 'We both know. He's going to die. So simple, so clear. Die. Death. No more. Just buy time, precious minutes. Then maybe I can do it. '
   'Do what – Delta?' Panov drew out the name in quiet emphasis.
   'Take out the son of a bitch. Take out the butcher. He doesn't deserve to live, he has no right to live! He kills too easily – with a smile on his face. Echo saw it. I saw it. Now it's happening – everything's happening at once. The explosions in the forest, everybody running, shouting. I can do it now! He's a clean kill... He sees me! He's staring at me! He knows
   I'm his enemy! I am your enemy, butcher! I'm the last face you'll see! ... What's wrong? Something's wrong! He's shielding himself! He's pulling someone in front of him. I have to get out! I can't do it!'
   'Can't or won't," asked Panov, leaning forward. 'Are you Jason Bourne or are you David Webb? Who are you?'
   'Delta!' screamed the victim, stunning everyone at the table by his outburst . 'I am Delta! I am Bourn! Cain is for Delta and Carlos is for Cain!' The victim, whoever he was, collapsed back in the chair, his head snapped down into his chest. He was silent.
   It took several minutes – none knew how long, none counted until the man who was unable to establish an identity for himself raised his head. His eyes were now half free, half prisoner to the agony he was experiencing. 'I'm sorry,' said David Webb . 'I don't know what happened to me. I'm sorry. '
   'No apologies, David,' said Panov. 'You went back. It's understandable. It's okay. '
   'Yes, I went back. Screwy, isn't it?
   'Not at all,' said the psychiatrist . 'It's perfectly natural. '
   ' I have to go back, that's understandable, too, isn't it, Mo?'
   'David!' screamed Marie, reaching for him.
   'I have to,' said Jason Bourne, gently holding her wrists. 'No one else can do it, it's as simple as that. I know the codes. I know the way... Echo traded in his life for mine, believing I'd do it. I'd kill the butcher. I failed then. I won't fail now. '
   'What about us?' Marie clutched him, her voice reverberating off the white walls. 'Don't we matter?'
   'I'll come back, I promise you,' said David, removing her arms and looking into her eyes. 'But I have to go back, can't you understand?'
   'For these people? These liars?
   'No, not for them. For someone who wanted to live – above everything. You didn't know him; he was a survivor. But he knew when his life wasn't worth the price of my death. I had to live and do what I had to do. I had to live and come back to you, he knew that, too. He faced the equation and made his decision. Somewhere along the line we all have to make that decision. ' Bourne turned to McAllister. 'Is there anyone here who can take a picture of a corpse?
   'Whose?' asked the undersecretary of state.
   'Mine,' said Jason Bourne.

34
   The grisly photograph was taken on the white conference table by a sterile house technician under the reluctant supervision of Morris Panov. A bloodstained white sheet covered Webb's body; it was angled across his throat revealing a blood-streaked face, the eyes wide, the features clear.
   'Develop the roll as fast as you can and bring me the contacts,' instructed Conklin.
   Twenty minutes,' said the technician, heading for the door as McAllister entered the room.
   'What's happening?' asked David, sitting up on the table. Marie, wincing, wiped his face with a warm, wet towel.
   'The consulate press people called the media,' replied the undersecretary. 'They said they'd issue a statement in an hour or so, as soon as all the facts were in place. They're mocking one up now. I gave them the scenario with a go-ahead to use my name. They'll work it out with embassy obfuscation and read it to us before issuing it.'
   'Any word on Lin?' asked the CIA man.
   'A message from the doctor. He's still critical but holding on. '
   'What about the press down the road?' asked Havilland. 'We've got to let them in here sooner or later. The longer we wait the more they'll think it's a cover-up. We can't afford that, either. '
   'We've still got some rope in that area,' said McAllister. 'I sent word that the police – at great risks to themselves – were sweeping the grounds for undetonated explosives. Reporters can be very patient under those conditions. Incidentally, in the scenario I gave the press people, I told them to stress the fact that the man who attacked the house was obviously an expert in demolition. '
   Jason Bourne, one of the most proficient demolitions men to come out of Medusa, looked at McAllister. The undersecretary looked away. 'I've got to get out of here,' Jason said. 'I've got to get to Macao as quickly as possible. ' 'David, for God's sake!' Marie stood in front of her husband, staring at him, her voice low and intense.
   'I wish it didn't have to be this way,' said Webb, getting off the table. 'I wish it didn't,' he repeated softly, 'but it does. I have to be in place. I have to start the sequence to reach Sheng before the story breaks in the morning papers, before that photograph appears confirming the message I'm sending through channels he's convinced no one knows about. He's got to believe I'm his assassin, the man he was going to kill, not the Jason Bourne from Medusa who tried to kill him in that forest glen. He has to get word from me – from who he thinks I am – before he's given any other information. Because the information I'm sending him is the last thing he wants to hear. Everything else will seem insignificant. '
   'The bait,' said Alex Conklin. 'Feed him the critical information first and the cover falls in place because he's stunned, preoccupied, and accepts the printed official version, in particular the photograph in the newspapers. '
   'What are you going to tell him?' asked the ambassador, his voice conveying the fact that he disliked the prospect of losing control of this blackest of operations. 'What you told me. Part truth, part lie. ' 'Spell it out, Mr Webb,' said Havilland, firmly. 'We owe you a great deal but-'
   'You owe me what you can't pay me!' snapped Jason Bourne, interrupting. 'Unless you blow your brains out right here in front of me. ' 'I understand your anger but still I must insist. You'll do nothing to jeopardize the lives of five million people, or the vital interests of the United States government. '
   'I'm glad you got the sequence right – for once. All right. Mr Ambassador, I'll tell you. It's what I would have told you before, if you'd had the decency, the decency, to come to me and "state your case". I'm surprised it never occurred to you -no, not surprised, shocked – but I guess I shouldn't be. You believe in your rarefied manipulations, in the trappings of your quiet power... you probably think you deserve it all because of your great intellect, or something like that. You're all the same. You relish complexity – and jour explanations of it – so that you can't see when the simple route is a hell of a lot more effective. '
   'I'm waiting to be instructed,' said Havilland, coldly.
   'So be it,' said Bourne. 'I listened very carefully during your ponderous explanation. You took pains to explain why no one could officially approach Sheng and tell him what you knew. You were right, too. He'd have laughed in your face, or spat in your eye, or told you to pound sand – whatever you like. Sure, he would. He's got the leverage. You pursue your "outrageous" accusations, he pulls Peking out of the Hong Kong Accords. You lose. You try to go over his head, good luck. You lose again. You have no proof but the words of several dead men who've had their throats cut, members of the Kuomintang who'd say anything to discredit party officials in the People's Republic. He smiles and, without saying it, lets you know that you'd better go along with him. You figure you can't go along because the risks are too great -if the whistle blows on Sheng, the Far East blows. You were right about that, too – more for the reasons Edward gave us than you did. Peking might possibly overlook a corrupt commission as one of those temporary concessions to greed, but it won't permit a spreading Chinese Mafia to infiltrate its industry or its labour forces or its government. As Edward said, they could lose their jobs-'
   'I'm still waiting, Mr Webb,' said the diplomat.
   'Okay. You recruited me but you forgot the lesson of Treadstone Seventy-one. Send out an assassin to catch an assassin. '
   That's the one thing we did not forget,' broke in the diplomat, now astonished. 'We based everything on it. '
   'For the wrong reasons,' said Bourne sharply. There was a better way to reach Sheng and draw him out for the kill. I wasn't necessary. My wife wasn't necessary! But you couldn't see it. Your superior brain had to complicate everything. '
   'What was it I couldn't see, Mr Webb?
   'Send in a conspirator to catch a conspirator, not officially... It's too late for that now but it's what I would have told you. '
   'I'm not sure you've told me anything. '
   'Part truth, part lie – your own strategy. A courier is sent to Sheng, preferably a half-senile old man who's been paid by a blind and fed the information over the phone. No traceable source. He carries a verbal message, ears only, Sheng's only, nothing on paper. The message contains enough of the truth to paralyse Sheng. Let's say that the man sending it is someone in Hong Kong who stands to lose millions if Sheng's scheme falls apart, a man smart enough and frightened enough not to use his name. The message could allude to leaks, or traitors in the boardrooms, or excluded triads banding together because they've been cut out – all the things you're certain will happen. The truth. Sheng has to follow up, he can't afford not to. Contacts are made and a meeting is arranged. The Hong Kong conspirator is every bit as anxious to protect himself as Sheng, and every bit as leery, demanding a neutral meeting ground. It's set. It's the trap. ' Bourne paused, glancing at McAllister. 'Even a third-rate demolitions grunt could show you how to carry it off. '
   'Very quick and very professional,' said the ambassador. 'And with a glaring flaw. Where do we find such a conspirator in Hong Kong?
   Jason Bourne studied the elder statesman, his expression bordering on contempt . 'You make him up,' he said. That's the lie. '
   Havilland and Alex Conklin were alone in the white-walled room, each at either end of the conference table facing the other. McAllister and Morris Panov had gone to the undersecretary's office to listen on separate telephones to a mocked-up profile of an American killer created by the consulate for the benefit of the press. Panov had agreed to provide the appropriate psychiatric terminology with the correct Washington overtones. David Webb had asked to be alone with his wife until it was time to leave. They had been taken to a room upstairs; the fact that it was a bedroom had not occurred to anyone. It was merely a door to an empty room at the south side of the old Victorian house, away from the water-soaked men and ruins on the north side. Webb's departure had been estimated by McAllister to be in fifteen minutes or less. A car would drive Jason Bourne and the undersecretary to Kai Tak Airport. In the interest of speed and because the hydrofoils stopped running at 2100 hours, a medical helicopter would fly them to Macao, where all immigration permits would be cleared for the delivery of emergency supplies to the Kiang Wu Hospital on the Rua Coelho Do Amaral.
   'It wouldn't have worked, you know,' said Havilland, looking over at Conklin.
   'What wouldn't have?' asked the man from Langley, his own thoughts broken off by the diplomat's statement . 'What David told you?
   'Sheng would never have agreed to a meeting with someone he didn't know, with someone who didn't identify himself. '
   'It'd depend on how it was presented. That kind of thing always does. If the critical information is mind-blowing and the facts authentic, the subject doesn't have much of a choice. He can't question the messenger – he doesn't know anything -so he-has to go after the source. As Webb put it, he can't afford not to. '
   'Webb? asked the ambassador flatly, his brows arched. 'Bourne, Delta. Who the hell knows? The strategy's sound. '
   There are too many possible miscalculations, too many chances for a mis-step when one side invents a mythical party. '
   Tell that to Jason Bourne. '
   'Different circumstances. Treadstone had a willing agent provocateur to go after the Jackal. An obsessed man who chose extreme risk because he was trained for it and had lived with violence too long to let go. He didn't want to let go. There was no place else for him. '
   'It's academic,' said Conklin, 'but I don't think you're in a position to argue with him. You sent him out with all the odds against him and he comes back with the assassin in tow – and he finds you. If he said it could be done another way, he's probably right and you can't say he isn't. '
   'I can say, however,' said Havilland, resting his forearms on the table and fixing his eyes on the CIA man, 'that what we did really did work. We lost the assassin, but we gained a willing, even obsessed provocateur. From the beginning he was the optimum choice, but we never for a minute thought that he could be recruited to do the final job willingly by himself. Now he won't let anybody else do it; he's going back in, demanding his right to do it. So in the end we were right – I was right. One sets the forces in motion, on a collision course, always watching, ready to abort, to kill, if one has to, but knowing that as the complications mount and the closer they come to each other's throat, the nearer the solution is. Ultimately – in their hatreds, their suspicions, their passions -they create their own violence, and the job is done. You may lose your own people but you have to weigh that loss against what it's worth to disrupt the enemy, to expose him. '
   'You also risk exposing your own hand, the hand you insisted had to be kept out of sight. '
   'How so?'
   'Because it's not the end yet. Say Webb doesn't make it. Say he's caught, and you can bet your elegant ass the order will be to take him alive. When a man like Sheng sees that a trap is set to kill him, he'll want to know who's behind it. If pulling out a fingernail or ten doesn't do it – and it probably wouldn't -they'll needle him full of juice and find out where he comes from. He's heard everything you've told him-'
   'Even down to the point where the United States government cannot be involved,' interrupted the diplomat.
   'That's right, and he won't be able to help himself. The
   chemicals will bring it all out. Your hand's revealed. Washington is involved. '
   'By whom?'
   'By Webb, for Christ's sake! By Jason Bourne, if you like. '
   'By a man with a history of mental illness, with a record of random aggression and self-deception? A paranoid schizophrenic whose logged telephone calls show a man disintegrating into dementia, making insane accusations, wild threats aimed at those trying to help him?' Havilland paused, then added quietly. 'Come now, Mr Conklin, such a man does not speak for the United States government. How could he? We've been searching for him everywhere. He's an irrational, fantasizing time bomb who finds conspiracies wherever his sick, tortured mind takes him. We want him back in therapy. We also suspect that because of his past activities he left the country with an illegal passport-'
   'Therapy...? Alex broke in, stunned by the old man's words. 'Past activities?'
   'Of course, Mr Conklin. If it's necessary, especially over a hot line – Sheng's hot line – we're willing to admit that he once worked for the government and was severely damaged by that work. But in no way is it possible he would have any official standing. Again, how could he? This tragic, violent man may have been responsible for the death of a wife he claims disappeared. '
   'Marie? You'd use Marie?'
   'We'd have to. She's in the logs, in the affidavits volunteered by men who knew Webb as a mental patient, who tried to help him. '
   'Oh, Jesus!' whispered Alex, mesmerized by the cold, precise elder statesman of covert operations. 'You told him everything because you had your own back-ups. Even if he was taken, you could cover your ass with official logs, psychiatric evaluation – you could disassociate yourself! Oh, God, you bastard. '
   'I told him the truth because he would have known it if I tried to lie to him again. McAllister, of course, went farther, emphasizing the organized crime factor which is all too true,
   but a sensitive issue I'd prefer not to bring up. Nobody does. But then I didn't tell Edward everything. He hasn't yet put enough distance between his ethics and the demands of his job. When he does, he may join me on the heights, but I don't think he's capable. '
   'You told David everything in case he was taken,' went on Conklin, not listening to Havilland. 'If the kill doesn't happen you want him taken. You're counting on the amphetamines and the scopolamine. The drugs! Then Sheng will get the message that his conspiracy's known to us and he'll get it unofficially, not from us but from an unsanctioned mental case. Jesus! It's a variation of what Webb told you!'
   'Unofficially,' agreed the diplomat . 'So much is achieved that way. No confrontations, very smooth. Very cheap. No cost at all really. '
   'Except a man's lifer shouted Alex. 'He'll be killed. He has to be killed from everyone's point of view. '
   The price, Mr Conklin, if it must be paid. '
   Alex waited, as if he expected Havilland to finish his statement. Nothing was forthcoming, only the strong, sad eyes peering into his. That's all you've got to say? It's the price – if it has to be paid?
   The stakes are far higher than we imagined – far higher. You know that as well as I do, so don't look so shocked. 'The ambassador leaned back in his chair, somewhat stiffly. 'You've made such decisions before, such calculations. '
   'Not like this. Never like this! You send in your own and you know the risks, but you don't set up a field man sealing off his escape route! He was better off believing – believing -he was bringing in the assassin to get his wife back!'
   The objective is different. Infinitely more vital. '
   'I know that. Then you don't send him! You get the codes and send someone else! Someone who isn't half dead from exhaustion!'
   'Exhausted or not, he's the best man for the job and he insists on doing it. '
   'Because he doesn't know what you've done! How you've boxed him in, made him the messenger who has to be killed!'
   'I had no choice. As you say, he found me. I had to tell him the truth. '
   Then, I repeat, send in someone else! A hit team recruited on the outside by a blind, no connection to us, just payment for a professional kill, the target Sheng. Webb knows how to reach Sheng, he told you that. I'll convince him to give you the codes or the sequence or whatever the hell it is, and you buy a hit team!'
   'You'd put us on a level with the Qaddafis of this world?"
   That's so puerile I can't find words to-'
   'Forget it,' broke in Havilland. If it was ever traced back to us – and it could be – we'd have to launch against China before they dropped something on us. Unthinkable. '
   'What you're doing here is unthinkable!'
   There are more important priorities than the survival of a single individual, Mr Conklin, and again you know that as well as I do. It's been your life's work – if you'll forgive me -but the present case is on a higher level than anything you ever experienced. Let's call it a geopolitical level. '
   'Son of a bitch!'
   'Your own guilt is showing now, Alex – if I may call you Alex – since you call in question my immediate family line. I never put Jason Bourne beyond-salvage. My most fervent hope is that he'll succeed, that the kill will take place. If that happens, he's free; the Far East is rid of a monster and the world will be spared an Oriental Sarajevo. That's my job, Alex. '
   'At least tell him! Warn him!'
   'I can't. Any more than you would in my position. You don't tell a tueur a gages-'
   'Come again, elegant ass?
   'A man sent in to kill must have the confidence of his convictions. He can't, for a second, reflect on his motives or his reasons. He must have no doubts at all. None. The obsession must be intact. It's his only chance to succeed. '
   'Suppose he doesn't succeed? Suppose he's killed?
   Then we start again as quickly as possible, putting someone else in place. McAllister will be with him in Macao
   and learn the sequence codes to reach Sheng. Bourne's agreed to that. If the worst happens, we might even try his conspirator-for-a-conspirator theory. He says it's too late but he could be wrong. You see, I'm not above learning, Alex. '
   'You're not above anything,' Conklin said angrily, getting out of the chair. 'But you forgot something – you forgot what you said to David. ' There's a glaring flaw. '
   'What's that?'
   'I won't let you get away with it. ' Alex limped towards the door. 'You can ask so much of a man but there comes a point when you don't ask any more. You're out, elegant ass. Webb's going to be told the truth. The whole truth. '
   Conklin opened the door. He faced the back of a tall marine, who upon hearing the sound of the door opening did a precise about-face, his rifle at port-arms.
   'Get out of my way, soldier,' said Alex.
   'Sorry, sir!' barked the marine, his eyes distant, staring straight ahead.
   Conklin turned back to the diplomat seated behind the desk. Havilland shrugged. 'Procedures,' he said.
   'I thought these people were out of here. I thought they were sequestered at the airport.

 'The ones you saw are. These are a squad from the consulate contingent. Thanks to Downing Street's bending a few rules, this is officially US territory now. We are entitled to a military presence. '
   'I want to see Webb!'
   'You can't. He's leaving. '
   'Who the hell do you think you are?'
   'My name is Raymond Oliver Havilland. I am ambas-sador-at-large for the government of the United States of America. My decisions are to be carried out without debate during periods of crisis. This is a period of crisis. Fuck off, Alex. '
   Conklin closed the door and walked awkwardly back to his chair. 'What's next, Mr Ambassador! Do the three of us get bullets in our heads or are we given lobotomies?'
   'I'm sure we can all come to a mutual understanding. '
   They held each other, Marie knowing that he was only partly there, only partly himself. It was Paris all over again, when she knew a desperate man named Jason Bourne, who was trying to stay alive, but not sure he would, or even should, his self-doubts in some ways as lethal to him as those who wanted him killed. But it was not Paris. There were no self-doubts now, no tactics feverishly improvised to elude pursuers, no race to trap the hunters. What reminded her of Paris was the distance she felt between them. David was trying to reach her – generous David, compassionate David – but Jason Bourne would not let him go. Jason was now the hunter, not the hunted, and this strengthened his will. It was summed up in a word he used with staccato regularity. Move!
   'Why, David? Why?'
   'I told you. Because I can. Because I have to. Because it has to be done. '
   'That's not an answer, my darling. '
   'All right. ' Webb gently released his wife and held her by the shoulders, looking into her eyes. 'For us then. '
   'Us?'
   'Yes. I'd see those images for the rest of my life. They'd keep coming back and they'd tear me apart because I'd know what I left behind and I wouldn't be able to handle it. I'd go into tailspins and take you with me because for all your brains you haven't the sense to bail out. '
   'I'd rather go into senseless tailspins with you than without you. Read that as seeing you alive. '
   'That's not an argument. '
   'I think it's considerable. '
   'I'll be calling the moves, not making them. '
   'What the hell does that mean?'
   'I want Sheng taken out, I mean that. He doesn't deserve to live, but I won't be doing the taking-'
   'The God image doesn't suit you!' interrupted Marie, sharply. 'Let others make that decision. Walk away from it. Stay safe. '
   'You're not listening to me. I was there and I saw him -heard him. He doesn't deserve to live. In one of his screeching diatribes he called life a precious gift. That may be debatable, depending on the life, but life doesn't mean a thing to him. He wants to kill – maybe he has to, I don't know; ask Panov – it's in his eyes. He's Hitler and Mengele and Genghis Khan... the chainsaw killer – whatever – but he has to go. And I have to make sure he goes. '
   'But why?' pleaded Marie. 'You haven't answered me!'
   'I did, but you didn't hear me. One way or another I'd see him every day, hear that voice. I'd be watching him toy with terrified people before killing them, butchering them. Try to understand. I've tried and I'm no expert but I've learned a few things about myself. Only an idiot wouldn't. It's the images, Marie, the goddamned pictures that keep coming back, opening doors – memories I don't want to know about, but have to. The clearest and simplest way I can put it is that I can't take any more. I can't add to that collection of bad surprises. You see, I want to get better – not entirely cured, I can accept that, live with it – but I can't slide back, either. I won't slide back. For both our sakes. '
   'And you think by engineering a man's death you'll get rid of those images?'
   'I think it'll help, yes. Everything's relative and I wouldn't be here if Echo hadn't thrown his life away so I could live. It's not always fashionable to say it, but like most people I have a conscience. Or maybe it's guilt because I survived. I simply have to do it because I can. '
   'You've convinced yourself?
   'Yes, I have. I'm best equipped. '
   'And you say you're calling the moves, not making them?
   'I wouldn't have it any other way. I'm coming back because I want a long life with you, lady. '
   'What's my guarantee? Who's going to make the moves?
   'The whore who got us into this. '
   'Havilland?'
   'No, he's the pimp. McAllister's the whore, he always was. The man who believes in decency, who wears it on his sleeve until the power boys ask him to put out. He'll probably call in the pimp and that's fine. Between them they can do it. '
   'But how?'
   'There are men – and women – who will kill if the price is high enough. They may not have the egos of the mythical Jason Bourne or the very real Carlos the Jackal, but they're everywhere in that goddamned filthy shadow world. Edward, the whore, told us he made enemies throughout the Far East, from Hong Kong to the Philippines, from Singapore to Tokyo, all in the name of Washington who wanted influence over here. If you make enemies you know who they are, know the signals to send out to reach them. That's what the whore and the pimp are going to do. I'll set up the kill, but someone else will do the killing, and I don't care how many millions it costs them. I'll watch from a distance to make sure that the butcher's killed, that Echo gets what's coming to him, that the Far East is rid of a monster who can plunge it into a terrible war – but that's all I'll do. Watch. McAllister doesn't know it but he's coming with me. We're extracting our pound of flesh. '
   'Who's talking now? asked Marie. 'David or Jason?'
   The husband paused, his silent thoughts deep. 'Bourne,' he said finally. 'It has to be Bourne until I'm back. '
   'You know that?'
   'I accept it. I don't have a choice. '
   There was a soft, rapid knocking at the bedroom door. 'Mr Webb. It's McAllister. It's time to leave. '

35
   The Emergency Medical Service helicopter roared across Victoria Harbour past the out islands of the South China Sea towards Macao. The patrol boats of the People's Republic had been appraised by way of the naval station in Gongbei; there would be no firing at the low-flying aircraft on an errand of mercy. As McAllister's luck would have it, a visiting party official from Peking had been admitted to the Kiang Wu Hospital with a bleeding duodenal ulcer. He required RH-negative blood which was continuously in short supply. Let them come, let them go. If the official were a peasant from the hills of Zhuhai, he'd be given the blood of a goat and let him hope for the best.
   Bourne and the undersecretary of state wore the white, belted coveralls and caps of the Royal Medical Corps, with no rank of substance indicated on their sleeves; they were merely grousing subordinates ordered to carry blood to a Zhongguo ren belonging to a regime that was in the process of further dismantling the Empire. Everything was being done properly and efficiently in the new spirit of co-operation between the colony and its soon-to-be new masters. Let them come, let them go. It's all a lifetime away and for us without meaning. We will not benefit. We never benefit. Not from them, not from those above.
   The hospital's rear parking area had been cleared of vehicles. Four searchlights outlined the threshold. The pilot shuttered the aircraft into vertical-hold, then began his descent, clammering down towards the concrete landing zone. The sight of the lights and the sound of the roaring helicopter had drawn crowds on the street beyond the hospital's gates on the Rua Coelho Do Amaral. That was all to the good, thought Bourne, looking down from the open hatchway. He trusted that even more onlookers would be attracted for the chopper's departure in roughly five minutes as the slapping blades continued to rotate at slow speed, the searchlights remained on and the cordon of police stayed in place – all signs of this most unusual activity. Crowds were the best that he and McAllister could hope for; in the confusion they could become part of the curious onlookers as two other men in the white coveralls of paramedics took their places by rushing to the aircraft, their bodies bent beneath the rotors, for the return trip to Hong Kong.
   Grudgingly, Jason had to admire McAllister's ability to move his chess pieces. The analyst had the convictions of his connivance. He knew which buttons to press to shift his pawns. In the current crisis the pawn was a doctor at the Kiang Wu Hospital who several years ago had diverted IMF medical funds to his own clinic on the Almirante Sergio. Since Washington was a sponsor of the International Monetary Fund, and since McAllister had caught the doctor with his hands in the till, he was in a position to expose him and had threatened to do so. Yet the doctor had prevailed. The physician had asked McAllister how he expected to replace him – there was a dearth of competent doctors in Macao. Would it not be better for the American to overlook his indiscretion if his clinic serviced the indigent? With records of such service? The choirboy in McAllister had capitulated, but not without remembering the doctor's indiscretion – and his debt. It was being paid tonight.
   'Come on!' yelled Bourne, rising and gripping one of the two canisters of blood. 'Move!'
   McAllister clung to a wall bar on the opposite side of the aircraft as the helicopter thump-crashed on to the cement. He was pale, his face frozen into a mask of itself. These things are an abomination? he mumbled. 'Please wait till we're settled.'
   'We're settled. It's your schedule, analyst. Move."
   Directed by the police, they raced across the parking area to a pair of double doors held open by two nurses. Inside, a white-jacketed Oriental doctor, the eternal stethoscope hanging from a pocket, grabbed McAllister's arm.
   'Good to see you again, sir,' he said in fluent but heavily accented English. 'Although it is under curious circumstances-'
   'So were yours three years ago,' broke in the analyst sharply, breathlessly, peremptorily cutting off the once-errant doctor. 'Where do we go?'
   'Follow me to the blood laboratory. It is at the end of the corridor. The head nurse will check the seals and sign the receipts, after which you will also follow me into another room where the two men who will take your places are waiting. Give them the receipts, change clothes, and they will leave. '
   'Who are they?' asked Bourne. 'Where did you find them?' 'Portuguese interns,' replied the doctor. 'Unmonied young doctors sent out from Lisbon to complete their residencies here. ' 'Explanations?' pressed Jason as they started down the hallway.
   'None, actually,' answered the Macaoan. 'What you call in English a "trade". Perfectly legitimate. Two British medics who wish to spend a night over here and two overworked young doctors who deserve a night in Hong Kong. They will return on the hydrofoil in the morning. Neither of them speaks English. They'll know nothing, suspect nothing. They will simply be pleased that an older doctor recognized their needs and deserts. '
   'You found the right man, analyst. '
   'He's a thief. '
   'You're a whore. '
   'I beg your pardon?'
   'Nothing. Let's go. '
   Once the canisters were delivered, the seals inspected and the receipts signed, Bourne and McAllister followed the doctor into a locked adjacent office that held drug supplies and had its own door to the corridor, also locked. The two Portuguese interns were waiting in front of the glass cabinets; one was taller than the other and both were smiling. There were no introductions, just nods and a short statement by the doctor, addressing the undersecretary of state. v
   'On the basis of your descriptions – not that I needed yours – I'd say their sizes are about right, wouldn't you?'
   They'll do,' replied McAllister, as he and Jason began removing the white coveralls. These are outsize. If they run fast enough and keep their heads down, they'll be okay. Tell them to leave the garments and the receipts with the pilot. He's to sign us in once he gets to Hong Kong. ' Bourne and the analyst changed into dark, rumpled trousers and loose-fitting jackets. Each handed his counterpart his coveralls and cap. McAllister said. Tell them to hurry. Departure's scheduled for less than two minutes. '
   The doctor spoke in broken Portuguese, then turned back to the undersecretary. The pilot can't go anywhere without them, sir. '
   'Everything's timed and officially cleared down to the minute,' the analyst snapped, fear now in his voice. There's no room for someone to become any more curious than necessary. Everything has to be clockwork. Hurry?
   The interns dressed; the caps were pulled low and the receipts for the canisters of blood were in their pockets. The doctor issued his last instructions to the Americans as he handed them two orange hospital passes. 'We'll go out together; the door locks automatically. I will immediately escort our young doctors, thanking them loudly and profusely past the police ranks until they can dash to the aircraft. You head to the right, then left into the front lobby and the entrance. I hope – I really do hope – that our association, as pleasant as it has been, is now finished. '
   'What are these for?' asked McAllister, holding up his hospital pass.
   'Probably – hopefully – nothing. But in case you are stopped they explain your presence and will not be questioned. '
   'Why? What do they say? There was no fact, no fragment of data that the analyst could leave unexplained.
   'Quite simply,' said the doctor, looking calmly at McAllister. They describe you as indigent expatriates, totally without funds, whom I generously treat at my clinic without charge. For gonorrhea, to be precise. Naturally, there are the usual identifying features – height, approximate weight, hair and eye colouring, nationality. Yours are more complete, I'm afraid, as I had not met your friend. Naturally again, there are duplicates in my files, and no one could mistake it was you, sir. '
   'What?
   'Once you are out on the streets I believe my longstanding debt is cancelled. Wouldn't you agree?
   ''Gonorrhea?''
   'Please, sir, as you say, we must hurry. Everything clockwork. ' The doctor opened the door, ushered out the four men and instantly headed to the left with the two young Portuguese towards the side entrance and the medical helicopter.
   'Let's go,' whispered Bourne, touching McAllister's arm and starting to the right. '
   'Did you hear that man?
   'You said he was a thief. '
   'He was.'
   'There are times when a person shouldn't take that bromide about stealing from a thief too literally. '
   'What does that mean?
   'Simply this,' said Jason Bourne, looking down at the analyst at his side. 'He's got you on several counts. Collusion, corrupt practices, and gonorrhea. '
   'Oh, my God. '
   They stood at the rear of the crowds by the high fence watching the helicopter roar up from the landing zone and then soar off into the night sky. One by one the searchlights were turned off, and the parking lot was once again lit by its dim lamps. Most of the police climbed into a van; those remaining walked casually back to their previous posts while several of them lighted cigarettes, as if to proclaim the excitement over. The crowds began to disperse amid questions hurled at anyone and everyone. Who was it? Someone very important, no? What do you think happened? Do you think we II ever be told? Who cares? We had our show so let's have a drink, yes? Will you look at that woman? A first-class whore, I think, don't you agree? She's my first cousin, you bastard. '
   The excitement was over.
   'Let's go,' said Jason. 'We have to move. '
   'You know, Mr Webb, you have two commands you use with irritating frequency. "Move" and "Let's go". '
   They work. ' Both men started across the Do Amaral.
   'I'm as aware as you are that we must move quickly, only you haven't explained where we're going. '
   'I know I haven't,' said Bourne.
   'I think it's time you did. ' They kept walking, Bourne picking up the pace. 'You called me a whore,' continued the undersecretary.
   'You are. '
   'Because I agreed to do what I thought was right, what had to be done?
   'Because they used you. The boys in power used you and they'll throw you away without thinking twice. You saw limousines and high-level conferences in your future and you couldn't resist. You were willing to throw away my life without looking for an alternative – which is what you're paid to do. You were willing to risk the life of my wife because the pull was too great. Dinners with the Forty Committee, perhaps even a member; quiet, confidential meetings in the Oval Office with the celebrated Ambassador Havilland. To me that's being a whore. Only, I repeat, they'll throw you out without a second thought. '
   Silence. For nearly a long Macao block. 'You think I don't know that, Mr Bourne?
   'What?
   That they'll throw me out. '
   Again Jason looked down at the meticulous bureaucrat at his side. 'You know that?
   'Of course I do. I'm not in their league and they don't want me in it. Oh, I've got the credentials and the mind, but I don't have that extraordinary sense of performance that they have. I'm not prepossessing. I'd freeze in front of a television camera – although I watch idiots who do perform consistently make the most ridiculous errors. So, you see, I recognize my limitations. And since I can't do what these men can do, I have to do what's best for them and for the country. I have to think for them. '
   'You thought for Havilland! You came to us in Maine and took my wife from me! There weren't any other options in that swollen brain of yours?
   'None that I could come up with. None that covered everything as thoroughly as Havilland's strategy. The assassin was the untraceable link to Sheng. If you could hunt him down and bring him in, it was the short-cut we needed to draw Sheng out. '
   'You had a hell of a lot more confidence in me than I did. '
   'We had confidence in Jason Bourne. In Cain – in the man from Medusa called Delta. You had the strongest motive possible: To get your wife back, the wife you love very much. And there would be no connection whatsoever to our government-'
   'We smelled a covert scenario from the beginning!' exploded Bourne. 7 smelled it, and so did Conklin. '
   'Smelling isn't tasting,' protested the analyst, as they rushed down a dark cobble stoned alley. 'You knew nothing concrete that you could have divulged, no intermediary who pointed to Washington. You were obsessed with finding a killer who was posing as you so that an enraged taipan would return your wife to you – a man whose own wife had supposedly been murdered by the assassin who called himself Jason Bourne. At first I thought it was madness, but then I saw the serpentine logic of it all. Havilland was right. If there was one man alive who could bring in the assassin, and in that way neutralize Sheng, it was you. But you couldn't have any connection to Washington. Therefore you had to be manoeuvred within the framework of an extraordinary lie. Anything less, and you might have reacted more normally. You might have gone to the police, or government authorities, people you knew in the past – what you could remember of the past, which was also to our advantage. '
   'I did go to people I knew before. '
   'And learned nothing except that the more you threatened to break silence, the more likely it was that the government would put you back in therapy. After all, you came from Medusa and had a history of amnesia, even schizophrenia. '
   'Conklin went to others-'
   'And was initially told only enough for us to find out what he knew, what he'd pieced together. I gather he was once one of the best we had. '
   'He was. He still is. '
   'He put you beyond-salvage. '
   'History. Under the circumstances, I might have done the same. He learned a lot more than I did in Washington. '
   'He was led to believe exactly what he wanted to believe. It was one of Havilland's really more brilliant strokes and done at a moment's notice. Remember, Alexander Conklin is a burned-out, bitter man. He has no love for the world he spent his adult life in or for the people with whom he shared that life. He was told that a possible black operation might have gone off the wire, that the scenario might have been taken over by hostile elements. ' McAllister paused as they emerged from the alley and rounded a corner in the late-night Macao crowds; coloured lights were flashing everywhere. 'It was back to the square-one lie, don't you see?' continued the analyst . 'Conklin was convinced that someone else had moved in, that your situation was hopeless and so was your wife's unless you followed the new scenario run by the hostile elements that had taken over. '
   That's what he told me,' said Jason, frowning, remembering the lounge at Dulles Airport and the tears that had come to his eyes. 'He told me to play out the scenario. '
   'He had no choice. ' McAllister suddenly gripped Bourne's arm, nodding towards a darkened storefront up ahead on the right . 'We have to talk. '
   'We are talking,' said the man from Medusa, sharply. 'I know where we're going and there's no time to lose. '
   'You have to take the time,' insisted the analyst. The desperation in his voice forced Bourne to stop and look at him, and then to follow him into the recessed storefront . 'Before you do anything, you have to understand. ' 'What do I have to understand? The lies?' 'No, the truth. '
   'You don't know what the truth is,' said Jason. 'I know, perhaps better than you do. As you said, it's my job. Havilland's strategy would have proved sound had it not been for your wife. She escaped; she got away. She caused the strategy to fall apart. ' 'I'm aware of that. '

Then surely you're aware of the fact that whether or not he's identified her, Sheng knows about her and understands her importance. '
   'I hadn't thought about it one way or the other. ' Think about it now. Lin Wenzu's unit was penetrated when it and all of Hong Kong were searching for her. Catherine Staples was killed because she was linked to your wife and it was correctly perceived that through this mystery woman she either had learned too much or was closing in on some devastating truths. Sheng's orders obviously are to eliminate all opposition, even potential opposition. As you saw in Peking, he's a fanatic and sees substance where there are only shadows – enemies in every dark corner. ' 'What's your point? asked Bourne, impatiently. 'He's also brilliant and his people are all over the colony. '
   'So?'
   'When the story breaks in the morning papers and on television, he'll make certain assumptions and have the house in Victoria Peak as well as MI6 scrutinized every minute of every hour, even if he has to hold hostage the estate next door and once again infiltrate British Intelligence. '
   'Goddamn it, what are you driving at?
   'He'll find Havilland and then he'll find your wife. '
   'And?'
   'Suppose you fail? Suppose you're killed? Sheng won't rest until he learns everything there is to learn. The key is undoubtedly the woman with Havilland, the tall woman everyone was looking for. She has to be because she's the enigma at the centre of the mystery and is connected to the ambassador. If anything happens to you, Havilland will be forced to let her go and Sheng will have her picked up – at Kai Tak, or Honolulu or Los Angeles or New York. Believe me, Mr Webb, he won't stop until he's caught her. He has to know what's been mounted against him, and she is the key. There's no one else. '
   'Again, your point?'
   'Everything could happen all over again with far more horrible results. '
   The scenario?' asked Jason, bloody images of the glen in the bird sanctuary assaulting him.
   'Yes,' said the analyst firmly. 'Only this time your wife is taken for real, not simply as part of the strategy to recruit you. Sheng would make certain of it. '
   'Not if he's dead!'
   'Probably not. However, there's the very real risk of failure that he'll remain alive. '
   'You're trying to say something but you're not saying it!'
   'All right, I'll say it now. As the assassin, you're the link to Sheng, the one to reach him, but I'm the one who can draw him out. '
   'You?'
   'It was the reason I told the embassy to use my name in the press release. You see, Sheng knows me and I listened carefully when you outlined your conspirator-for-a-con-spirator theory to Havilland. He didn't buy it and frankly I didn't either. Sheng wouldn't accept a conference with an unknown person, but he will with someone he knows. '
   'Why with you?'
   'Part truth, part lie,' said the analyst, repeating Bourne's words.
   Thanks for listening so carefully. Now explain that. '
   The truth first, Mr Webb, or Bourne, or whatever you want to be called. Sheng is aware of both my contributions to my government and my obvious lack of progress. I'm a bright but unseen, unknown bureaucrat who's been passed over because I lack those qualities that could elevate me, lead me to a degree of prominence and to lucrative jobs in the private sector. In a way, I'm like Alexander Conklin without his drinking problem, but not without a degree of his bitterness. I was as good as Sheng and he knew it, but he made it and I didn't. '
   'A touching confession,' said Jason, impatiently again. 'But why would he meet you? How could you draw him out -for a kill, Mr Analyst, and I trust you know what that means?' 'Because I want a piece of that Hong Kong pie of his. I was nearly killed last night. It was the final indignity and now after all these years I want something for myself, for my family. That's the lie. ' 'You're on tenth base. I can't find you. ' 'Because you're not listening between the lines. That's what I'm paid to do, remember?... I've had it. I'm at the end of my professional rope. I was sent over here to trace down and analyse a rumour out of Taiwan. This rumour about an economic conspiracy in Peking seemed to me to have substance and if it was true, there could be only one source in Peking: my old counterpart from the Sino-American trade conferences, the power behind China's new trade policies. Nothing like this could be done without him, not even contemplated. So I assumed there was at best enough substance for me to contact him, not to blow the whistle but officially to dispose of the rumour for a price. I could even go so far as to say I see nothing against my government's interests, and certainly not against mine. The main point is that he'd have to meet me. ' 'Then what?'
   'Then you'd tell me what to do. You said a demolitions "grunt" could do it so why can't I? Except not with explosives, I couldn't handle that. A weapon instead. ' 'You'd get killed. ' 'I'll accept the risk. ' 'Why?'
   'Because it has to be done. Havilland's right about that. And the instant Sheng sees you're not the impostor, that you're the original assassin, the one who tried to kill him in that bird sanctuary, his guards would cut you down. '
   'I never intended him to see me,' said Bourne, quietly. 'You were going to take care of that, but not this way. '
   In the shadows of the dark storefront, McAllister stared at the Medusan. 'You're taking me with you, aren't you?' asked the analyst finally. 'You'll force me if you have to. '
   'Yes. '
   'I thought so. You wouldn't have agreed so readily to my coming with you to Macao. You could have told me how to reach Sheng back at the airport-and demanded that we give you a certain amount of time before we acted. We wouldn't have violated it; we're too frightened. Regardless, you can see now that you don't have to force me. I even brought along my diplomatic passport. ' McAllister paused for a single beat, then added. 'And a second one that I removed from the technicians' file – it belongs to that tall fellow who took the picture of you on the table. '
   'You what?
   'All State Department technical personnel dealing in classified matters must surrender their passports. It's a security measure and for their own protection-'
   'I have three passports,' interrupted Jason. 'How the hell do you think I get around?
   'We knew you had at least two based on old Bourne records. You used one of the previous names flying into Peking, the one that said you had brown eyes, not hazel. How did you manage that?
   'I wore glasses – clear glass. By way of a friend who uses an odd name and is better than anyone you've got. '
   'Oh, yes. A black photographer and ID specialist who calls himself Cactus. Actually, he worked secretly for Treadstone, but then you obviously remembered that, or the fact that he used to come and visit you in Virginia. According to the records he had to be let go because he deals with criminal elements. '
   . 'If you touch him I'll blow you out of the bureaucratic water?'
   There's no intention of doing so. Right now, however, we'll simply transfer the photograph that best suits the features described in the technician's passport. ' 'It's a waste of time. '
   'Not at all. ' Diplomatic passports have considerable advantages, especially over here. They eliminate the time-consuming process of a temporary visa, and although I'm sure you have sources to buy one, this is easier. China wants our money, Mr Bourne, and our technology. We'll be passed through quickly and Sheng will be able to check immigration and ascertain that I am who I say I am. We'll also be provided with priority transportation if we want it and that might be important, depending upon our sequential telephone conversations with Sheng and his aides. '
   'Our sequential what?'
   'You'll talk with his subordinates in whatever sequence is required. I'll tell you what to say but when the final clearance is given, I 'll speak with Sheng Chou Yang. '
   'You're & flake? yelled Jason, as much into the dark glass of the storefront as at McAllister. 'You're an amateur in this kind of thing!'
   'In what you do, I am, indeed. But not in what I do. '
   'Why didn't you tell Havilland about this grand plan of yours?'
   'Because he wouldn't have permitted it. He would have placed me under house arrest because he thinks I'm inadequate. He'll always think so. I'm not a performer. I don't have those glib answers that ring with sincerity but are also woefully uninformed. This, however, is different, and the performers see it so clearly because it's all part of their global, macho theatrics. Economics aside, this is a conspiracy to undermine the leadership of a suspicious, authoritarian regime. And who's at the core of this conspiracy that has to fail? Who are these infiltrators whom Peking trusts as its own? China's most deeply committed enemies – their own brothers from the Kuomintang on Taiwan. Again, to use the vernacular, when the shit hits the fan – as it surely will – the performers on all sides will step up to the podiums and scream their screams of treason and righteous "internal revolt" because there's nothing else the performers can do. The embarrassment's total, complete and, on the world stage, massive embarrassment leads to massive violence. '
   It was Bourne's turn to stare at the analyst. As he did, Marie's words came to him, from a different context but not irrelevant in the present case. That's not an answer,' he said. 'It's a point of view, but it's not an answer. Why now? I hope it's not to prove your decency. That would be very foolish. Very dangerous. '
   'Oddly enough,' said McAllister, frowning, briefly looking at the ground. 'Where you and your wife are concerned, I suppose that's part of it – a minor part. ' The undersecretary of state raised his eyes and continued calmly. 'But the basic reason, Mr Bourne, is that I'm rather tired of being Edward Newington McAllister, maybe a brilliant but surely an inconsequential analyst. I'm the mind in the back room that's brought out when things get too complicated and then sent back after he's rendered a judgement. You might say I'd like that chance for a moment in the sun – out of the back room, as it were. '
   Jason studied the undersecretary in the shadows. 'A couple of moments ago you said there was the risk of my failing, and I'm experienced. You're not. Have you considered the consequences if you fail?
   'I don't think I will. '
   'You don't think you will,' repeated Bourne flatly. 'May I ask why?'
   'I've thought it out. '
   That's nice. '
   'No, I mean it,' protested McAllister. The strategy is fundamentally simple: To get Sheng alone with me. I can do that but you can't do it for me. And you certainly can't get him alone with you. All I need is a few seconds and a weapon. '
   'If I allowed it I don't know which would frighten me more. Your succeeding or your failing. May I remind you that you're an undersecretary of state for the United States government? Suppose you're caught? It's good-bye, Charlie,
   for everyone. ' 'I've considered that since the day I arrived back in Hong
   Kong. ' 'You what?'
   'For weeks I've thought that this might be the solution, that I might be the solution. The government's covered. It's all written down in my papers back on Victoria Peak, with a copy for Havilland and another set to be delivered to the Chinese consulate in Hong Kong in seventy-two hours. The ambassador may even have found his set by now. So, you see, there's no turning back. ' 'What the hell have you done?
   'Described what amounts to a blood feud between Sheng and myself. Given my record and the time I spent over here, as well as Sheng's well-known penchant for secrecy, it's actually quite plausible. Certainly his enemies in the Central Committee will leap at it. If I'm killed or captured, so much attention will be focused on Sheng, so many questions regardless of his denials, he won't dare move – if he survives. ' 'Good Christ, save me,' said Bourne, stunned. 'It's not necessary for you to know the particulars, but you'll recognize the main point of your conspirator-for-a-conspirator theory. In essence I accuse him of going back on his word, of cutting me out of his Hong Kong manipulations after I spent years secretly helping him develop the structure. He's cutting me out because he doesn't need me any longer and he knows I can't possibly say anything because I'd be ruined. I wrote that I was even frightened for my life. ' 'Forget it!' shouted Jason. 'Forget the whole goddamned thing! It's crazy! 'You're assuming I'll fail. Or be captured. I'm assuming neither – with your help, of course. '
   Bourne took a deep breath and lowered his voice. 'I admire your courage, even your latent sense of decency, but there's a better way and you can provide it. You'll have your moment in the sun, Mr Analyst, but not this way. '
   'What way, then?' asked the undersecretary of state, now bewildered. 'I've seen you operate and Conklin was right. You may be a son of a bitch but you're something. You reach into the Foreign Office in London and know who can change the rules. You spent six years over here digging around the dirty-tricks business, tracking killers and thieves and the pimps of the Far East in the name of neighbourly government policy. You know which button to press and where the bodies are buried. You even remembered a squirrelly doctor here in Macao who owed you a favour and you made him pay. '
   That's all second nature. One doesn't easily forget such people. '
   'Find me others. Find me killers for a price. Between you and Havilland the two of you can do it. You're going to get on the phone to him and tell him these are my demands. He's to transfer a million – five million if he has to – over here to Macao in the morning, and by mid-afternoon I want a killer unit here ready to go up into China. I'll make the arrangements. I know a rendezvous that's been used before in the hills of Guangdong; there are fields that can easily be reached by helicopter, where Sheng or his lieutenants used to meet with the commando. Once he gets my message he'll make the trip, take my word for it. You just do your part. Dig around that head of yours and come up with three or four experienced scumbags. Tell them the risk is minimal and the price high. That's your moment in the sun, Mr Analyst. It should be irresistible. You'll have something on Havilland for the rest of his life. He'll make you his chief aide, probably Secretary of State, if you want it. He can't afford not to. '
   'Impossible,' said McAllister quietly, his eyes locked with Jason's.
   'Well, maybe Secretary of State's a bit much-'
   'What you have just suggested is impossible,' broke in the undersecretary.
   'Are you telling me there aren't such men, because if you are you're lying again.'
   'I'm sure there are. I might even know of several and I'm sure others are on that list of names Wenzu gave you when he was playing the role of the white-suited taipan in the Walled City. But I wouldn't touch them. Even if Havilland ordered me to I'd refuse. '
   Then you don't want Sheng! Everything you said was just another lie. Liar!'
   'You're wrong, I do want Sheng. But to use your words, not this way. '
   'Why not?'
   'Because I won't put my government, my country, in that kind of compromised position. Actually, I think Havilland would agree with me. Hiring killers is too traceable, the transferring of money too traceable. Someone gets angry or boastful or drunk; he talks and an assassination is laid at Washington's feet. I couldn't be a part of that. I refer you to the Kennedys' attempts on Castro's life using the Mafia. Insanity... No, Mr Bourne, I'm afraid you're stuck with me. '
   'I'm not stuck with anyone! I can reach Sheng; you can't?
   'Complicated issues can usually be reduced to simple equations if certain facts are remembered. '
   'What does that mean?'
   'It means I insist we do things my way. '
   'Why?'
   'Because Havilland has your wife. '
   'She's with Conklin! With Mo Panov! He wouldn't dare-'
   'You don't know him,' McAllister interrupted. 'You insult him but you don't know him. He's like Sheng Chou Yang. He'll stop at nothing. If I'm right – and I'm sure I am – Mrs. Webb, Mr Conklin and Dr Panov are guests at the house in Victoria Peak for the duration. '
   'Guests?'
   That house arrest I mentioned a few minutes ago. '
   'Son of a bitch' whispered Jason, the muscles in his face pulsating.
   'Now, how do we reach Peking?
   With his eyes closed, Bourne answered. 'A man at the Guangdong garrison named Soo Jiang. I speak to him in French and he leaves a message for us here in Macao. At a table in a casino. '
   'Move!' said McAllister.

36
   The telephone rang, startling the naked woman who quickly sat up in the bed. The man lying next to her was suddenly wide awake; he was wary of any intrusion, especially one in the middle of the night, or, more accurately, the early hours of the morning. The expression on his soft, round Oriental face, however, showed that such intrusions were not infrequent, only unnerving. He reached for the phone on the bedside table.
   'Wei?' he said softly.
   'Macao lai dianhua' replied the switchboard operator at Headquarters, Guangdong garrison.
   'Connect me on scrambler and remove all recording devices. '
   'It is done, Colonel Soo. '
   'I will conduct my own study of that,' said Soo Jiang, sitting up and reaching for a small, flat, rectangular object with a raised circle at one end.
   'It's not necessary, sir. '
   'I would hope not for your sake. ' Soo placed the circle over the mouthpiece and pressed a button. Had there been an intercept on the line, the piercing whistle that suddenly erupted for one second would have continued pulsating until the listening device was removed or a listener's eardrum was punctured. There was only silence, magnified by the moonlight streaming through the window. 'Go ahead, Macao,' said the colonel.
   'Bonsoir, man ami,' said the voice from Macao. The French instantly accepted as being spoken by the impostor. ''Comment fa va?'
   'Vous?' gasped Jiang, stunned, swinging his short fat legs from under the sheet and planting them on the floor. 'Attendez? The colonel turned to the woman. 'You. Out. Get out of here,' he ordered in Cantonese. Take your clothes and put them on in the front room. Keep the door open so I can see you leave. '
   'You owe me money!' whispered the woman stridently. 'For two times you owe me money, and double for what I did for you below!'
   'Your payment is in the fact that I may not have your husband fired. Now get out! You have thirty seconds or you have a penniless husband. '
   'They call you the Pig,' said the woman, grabbing her clothes and rushing to the bedroom door, where she turned, glaring at Soo. 'Pig? 'Out:
   Seconds later Soo returned to the phone, continuing in French. 'What happened?. The reports from Beijing are incredible! No less so the news from the airfield in Shenzhen. He took you prisoner!' 'He's dead,' said the voice from Macao.
   'Dead?'
   'Shot by his own people, at least fifty bullets in his body. '
   'And you?
   'They accepted my story. I was an innocent hostage picked up in the streets and used as a shield as well as a decoy. They treated me well and, in fact, kept me from the press at my insistence. Of course, they're trying to minimize everything but they won't have much success. The newspaper and television people were all over the place, so you'll read about it in the morning papers. '
   'My God, where did it happen?
   'An estate on Victoria Peak. It's part of the consulate and damned secret. That's why I have to reach your leader-one. I learned things that he should know about. '
   Tell me.
   The 'assassin' laughed derisively. 'I sell this kind of information. I don't give it away – especially not to pigs. '
   'You'll be well taken care of,' insisted Soo.
   Too well in my book. '
   'What do you mean by "leader-one'? asked Colonel Soo Jiang, dismissing the remark.
   'Your head man, the chief, the big rooster – whatever you want to call him. He was the man in that forest preserve who did all the talking, wasn't he? The one who used his sword with such efficiency, the wild-eyed corkscrew with the short hair, the one I tried to warn about the Frenchman's delaying tactics-'
   'You dare...? You did that?'
   'Ask him. I told him something was wrong, that the Frenchman was stalling him. Christ, I paid for his not listening to me! He should have hacked that French bastard when I told him to! Now you tell him I want to talk to him!'
   'Even I do not talk to him,' said the colonel. 'I reach only subordinates by their code names. I don't know their real ones-'
   'You mean the men who fly down to the hills in Guangdong to meet me and deliver the assignments?' interrupted Bourne.
   'Yes. '
   'I won't talk to any of them!' exploded Jason, now posing as his own impostor. 'I want to talk to the man. And he'd better want to talk to me. '
   'You will speak with others first, but still, even for them, there must be very strong reasons. They do the summoning, others do not. You should know that by now. '
   'All right, you can be the courier. I was with the Americans for almost three hours, mounting the best cover I ever mounted in my life. They questioned me at length and I answered them openly – I don't have to tell you that I have back-ups all over the territory, men and women who'll swear I'm a business associate, or that I was with them at a specific time, no matter who calls-'
   'You don't have to tell me that,' Soo broke in. 'Please, just give me the message I'm to convey. You talked with the Americans. Then what?
   'I listened, too. The colonials have a stupid habit of talking too freely among themselves in the presence of strangers. '
   'I hear a British voice now. The voice of superiority. We've all heard it before. '
   'You're damned right. The wogs don't do that, and God knows you slants don't either. '
   'Please, sir, continue. '
   'The one who took me prisoner, the man who was killed by the Americans, was an American himself. '
   'So?
   'I leave a signature with my kills. The name has a long history. It's Jason Bourne. '
   'We know that. And?
   'He was the original! He was an American and they've been hunting him for nearly two years. '
   'And?
   They think Beijing found him and hired him. Someone in Beijing who needed the most important kill of his life, who needed to kill a man in that house. Bourne's for sale to anybody, an equal-opportunity employee, as the Americans might say. '
   'Your language is elusive. Please be clearer!'
   There were several others in that room with the Americans. Chinese from Taiwan who said outright that they oppose most of the leaders of the secret societies in the Kuomintang. They were angry. Frightened too, I think. ' Bourne stopped. Silence.
   'Yes? pressed the colonel apprehensively.
   They said a number of other things. They also kept mentioning the name of someone called Sheng. '
   'Aiya?
   That's the message you'll convey and I'll expect a response at the casino within three hours. I'll send someone to pick it up and don't try anything foolish. I have people there who can start a riot as easily as they can roll a seven. Any interference and your men are dead. '
   'We remember the Tsim Sha Tsui a few weeks ago,' said
   Soo Jiang. 'Five of our enemies killed in a back room while a cabaret erupts in violence. There'll be no interference; we're not fools where you are concerned. We often wondered if the original Jason Bourne was as proficient as his successor. '
   'He wasn't. ' Bring up the possibility of a riot at the casino in case Sheng's people try to trap you. Say their men will be killed. You don't have to elaborate. They'll understand... The analyst knew whereof he spoke. 'A question,' said Jason, genuinely interested. 'When did you and the others decide I wasn't the original?
   'At first sight,' replied the colonel. The years leave their marks, don't they? The body may remain agile, even improve with care, but the face reflects time; it is inescapable. Your face could not possibly be the face of the man from Medusa, that was over fifteen years ago and you are, at best, a man in your early thirties. The Medusa did not recruit children. You were the Frenchman's reincarnation. '
   The code word is "crisis" and you have three hours, said Bourne, hanging up the phone.
   'This is crazy!' Jason stepped out of the open glass booth in the all-night telephone complex and looked angrily at McAllister.
   'You did it very well,' said the analyst, writing on a small notepad. 'I'll pay the bill. ' The undersecretary started towards the raised platform where the operators accepted payments for international calls.
   'You're missing the point,' continued Bourne at McAllister's side, his voice low, harsh. 'It can't work. It's too unorthodox, too obvious for anyone to buy it. '
   'If you were demanding a meeting I'd agree with you, but you're not. You're only asking for a telephone conversation. '
   'I'm asking him to acknowledge the core of his whole goddamned scam! That he is the core!'
   To quote you again,' said the analyst, picking up the bill on the counter and holding out money, 'he can't afford not to respond. He has to. '
   'With preconditions that'll throw you out of the box. '
   'I'll want your input in such matters, of course. ' McAllister took his change, nodding thanks to the weary female operator, and started for the door, Jason beside him.
   'I may not have any input to give. '
   'Under the circumstances, you mean,' said the analyst, as they stepped out onto the crowded pavement.
   'What?
   'It's not the strategy that upsets you, Mr Bourne, because it's basically your strategy. What makes you furious is that I'm the one implementing it, not you. Like Havilland you don't think I'm capable. '
   'I don't think this is the time or the occasion for you to prove you're Machine Gun Kelly! If you fail, your life's the last thing that concerns me. Somehow the Far East comes first, the world comes first. '
   'There's no way I can fail. I told you, even if I fail, I don't. Sheng loses no matter whether he lives or not. In seventy-two hours the consulate in Hong Kong will make sure of it. '
   'Premeditated self-sacrifice isn't something I approve of,' said Jason, as they started up the street . 'Self-deluding heroics always get in the way and screw things up. Besides, your so-called strategy reeks of a trap. They'll smell it!'
   'They would if you negotiated with Sheng and not me. You tell me it's unorthodox, too obvious, the movements of an amateur. That's fine. When Sheng hears me on the phone, everything will fall into place for him. I am the embittered amateur, the man who's never been in the field, the first-rate bureaucrat who's been passed over by the system he's served so well. I know what I'm doing, Mr Bourne. You just get me a weapon. '
   The request was not difficult to fulfil. Over in Macao's Porto Interior, on the Rua das Lorchas, was d'Anjou's flat which was a minor arsenal of weapons, the tools of the Frenchman's trade. It was simply a matter of getting inside and selecting those arms most easily dismantled so as to cross the relatively lax border at Guangdong with diplomatic passports. But it took something over two hours, the process of selection being the most time-consuming as Jason put gun after gun in McAllister's hand, with each watching the analyst's grip and the expression on his face. The weapon finally chosen was the smallest, lowest calibrated pistol in d'Anjou's arsenal, a Charter Arms.22 with a silencer.
   'Aim for the head, at least three bullets in the skull. Anything else would be a bee-sting. '
   McAllister swallowed, staring at the gun, as Jason studied the weapons, deciding which had the greatest firepower in the smallest package. He chose for himself three Interdynamic KG-9 machine pistols that used outsized clips holding thirty rounds of ammunition.
   With their weapons concealed beneath their jackets, they entered the half-filled Kam Pek casino at 3:35 in the morning and walked to the end of the long mahogany bar. Bourne went to the seat he had occupied previously. The undersecretary sat four stools away. The bartender recognized the generous customer who had given him close to a week's salary less than a week ago. He greeted him like a patron with a long history of dispensing largess.
   'Nei hou a!'
   'Mchoh La. Mgoi,' said Bourne, saying that he was fine, in good health.
   'The English whisky, isn't it?' asked the bartender, sure of his memory, hoping it would produce a reward.
   'I told friends at the casino in the Lisboa that they should talk to you. I think you're the best man behind a bar in Macao. '
   The Lisboa! That's where the true money is! I thank you, sir. ' The bartender rushed to pour Jason a drink that would have crippled Caesar's legions. Bourne nodded without comment and the man turned reluctantly to McAllister four chairs away. Jason noted that the analyst ordered white wine, paid with precision and wrote the amount in his notebook. The bartender shrugged, performed the unpleasant service and walked to the centre of the sparsely occupied bar, keeping his eyes on his favoured customer.
   Step one.
   He was there! The well-dressed Chinese in the tailored dark suit, the martial arts veteran who did not know enough dirty moves, the man he had fought in an alley and who had led him up into the hills of Guangdong. Colonel Soo Jiang was taking no risks under the circumstances. He wanted only the most proven conduits working tonight. No impoverished old men, no whores.
   The man walked slowly past several tables as if studying the action, appraising the dealers and the players, trying to determine where he should test his luck. He arrived at Table Five and after observing the play of the cards for nearly three minutes casually sat down and withdrew a roll of bills from his pocket. Among them, thought Jason, was a message marked Crisis.
   Twenty minutes later the impeccably dressed Chinese shook his head, put his money back in his pocket and got up from the table. He was the short cut to Sheng! He knew his way around both Macao and the border at Guangdong, and Bourne knew he had to reach this man, and reach him quickly! He glanced first at the bartender, who had gone to the end of the bar to prepare drinks for a waiter serving the tables, then over at McAllister. 'Analyst!' he whispered sharply. 'Stay here!' 'What are you doing?'
   'Saying hello to my mother, for Christ's sake!' Jason got off the stool and started for the door after the conduit. Passing the bartender, he said in Cantonese. 'I'll be right back. ' 'It's no problem, sir. '

Out on the pavement, Bourne followed the well-dressed man for several blocks until he turned into a narrow, dimly lit side street and approached an empty parked car. He was meeting no one; he had delivered the message and was getting out of the area. Jason rushed forward, and as the conduit opened the car door he touched the man's shoulder. The conduit spun around, crouching, his experienced left foot lashing out viciously. Bourne jumped back, raising his hands in a gesture of peace.
   'Let's not go through this again,' he said in English, for he remembered the man spoke English, taught him by Portuguese nuns. 'I still hurt from the beating you gave me last week. ' 'Aiya! You!' The conduit raised his hands in a like gesture of noncombat . 'You do me honour when I do not deserve it. You bested me that night, and for that reason I have practised six hours a day to improve myself... You bested me then. Not now. '
   'Considering your age and then considering mine, take my word for it, you weren't bested. My bones ached far more than yours did, and I'm not about to check out your new training schedule. I'll pay you a lot of money but I won't fight you. The word for it is cowardice. '
   'Not you, sir,' said the Oriental, lowering his hands and grinning. 'You are very good. ' •
   'Yes, me, sir,' replied Jason. 'You scare the hell out of me. And you did me a great favour. '
   'You paid me well. Very well. '
   'I'll pay you better now. '
   'The message was for you?'
   'Yes. '
   Then you have taken the Frenchman's place?
   'He's dead. Killed by the people who sent the message. '
   The conduit looked bewildered, perhaps even sad. 'Why?' he asked. 'He serviced them well and he was an old man, older than you. '
   Thanks a lot. '
   'L"id he betray those he serviced?'
   'No, he was betrayed. '
   The Communists?'
   'Kuomintang,' said Bourne, shaking his head.
   'Dong wu! They are no better than the Communists. What do you want from me?'
   'If everything goes right, pretty much what you did before, but this time I want you to stay around. I want to hire a pair of eyes. '
   'You go up into the hills in Guangdong?'
   'Yes. '
   'You need assistance crossing the border, then?'
   'Not if you can find me someone who can shift a photograph from one passport to another. '
   'It is done every day. The children can do it. '
   'Good. Then we're down to my hiring your eyes. There's a degree of risk but not much. There's also twenty thousand dollars, American. Last time I paid you ten, this time it's twenty. '
   "Aiya, & fortune? The conduit paused, studying Bourne's face. 'The risk must be great. '
   'If there's trouble I'll expect you to get out. We'll leave the money here in Macao, accessible only to you. Do you want the job or do I look elsewhere?'
   These are the eyes of the hawk bird. Look no farther. '
   'Come back with me to the casino. Wait outside, down the street, and I'll have the message picked up. '
   The bartender was only too pleased to do as Jason requested, although he was confused by the odd word 'crisis' that was to be used until Bourne explained that it was the name of a race horse. He carried a'special' drink to a bewildered player at Table Five and returned with the sealed envelope under his tray. Jason had scanned the nearby tables looking for turning heads and shifting eyes amid the spiralling clouds of smoke; he saw none. The sight of the maroon-jacketed bartender among the maroon-jacketed waiters was too common to draw attention. As instructed, the tray was placed between Bourne and McAllister. Jason shook a cigarette out of his pack and shoved a book of matches down the bar towards the nonsmoking analyst. Before the perplexed undersecretary could understand, Bourne got off his stool and walked over to him.
   'Have you got a light, mister?'
   McAllister looked at the matches, quickly picked them up, tore one out and struck it, holding the flame up for the cigarette. When Jason returned to his seat, the sealed envelope was in his hand. He opened it, removed the paper inside and read the typewritten English script: Telephone Macao – 32-61-443.
   He looked around for a pay phone and then realized that he had never used one in Macao, and even if there were instructions, he was not familiar with the Portuguese colony's coins. It was always the little things that loused up the bigger things. He signalled the bartender, who reached him before his hand was back on the bar.
   'Yes, sir? Another whisky, sir?
   'Not for a week,' said Bourne, placing Hong Kong money in front of him. 'I have to make a phone call to someone here in Macao. Tell me where a pay phone is and let me have the proper coins, will you, please?'
   'I could not permit so fine a gentleman as yourself to use a common telephone, sir. Between us, I believe many of the customers here may be diseased. ' The bartender smiled. 'Allow me, sir. I have a telephone on my counter – for very special people. '
   Before Jason could protest or give thanks, a telephone was put in front of him. He dialled as McAllister stared at him.
   'Wei?' said a female voice.
   'I was instructed to call this number,' replied Bourne in English. The dead impostor had not known Chinese.
   'We will meet. '
   'We won't meet. '
   'We insist. '
   'Then Resist. You know me better than that, or you should. I want to talk to the man, and only the man. '
   'You are presumptuous. '
   'You're less than an idiot. So's the skinny preacher with the big sword unless he talks to me. '
   'You dare-'
   'I've heard that once before tonight,' interrupted Jason sharply. 'The answer is yes, I do dare. He's got a hell of a lot more to lose than I do. He's only one client, and my list is growing. I don't need him, but right now I think he needs me. '
   'Give me a reason that can be confirmed. '
   'I don't give reasons to corporals. I was once a major, or didn't you know that?'
   There's no need for insults. '
   There's no need for this conversation. I'll call you back in thirty minutes. Offer me something better, offer me the man. And I'll know if it's himself because I'll ask a question or two that only he can answer. Ciao, lady. ' Bourne hung up.
   'What are you doing?' whispered an agitated McAllister four chairs away.
   'Arranging your day in the sun, and I hope you've got some lotion. We're getting out of here. Give me five minutes, then follow me. Turn right out of the door and keep walking. We'll pick you up. '
   'We?
   There's someone I want you to meet. An old friend -young friend – whom I think you'll approve of. He dresses like you do. '
   'Someone else! Are you insane!'
   'Don't blow your cool, analyst, we're not supposed to know each other. No, I'm not insane. I just hired a back-up in case I'm out-thought. Remember, you wanted my input in such matters. '
   The introductions were short and no names were used, but it was evident that McAllister was impressed by the stocky, broad shouldered, well-dressed Chinese.
   'Are you an executive with one of the firms over here?' asked the analyst as they walked towards the side street where the conduit's car was parked.
   'In a manner of speaking, yes, sir. My own firm, however. I run a courier service for very important people. '
   'But how did he find you?'
   'I'm sorry, sir, but I'm sure you can understand. Such information is confidential. '
   'Good Lord' muttered McAllister, glancing at the man from Medusa.
   'Get me to a phone in twenty minutes,' said Jason in the front seat. The bewildered undersecretary sat in the back.
   'They are using a relay then?" asked the conduit. They did so many times with the Frenchman. '
   'How did he handle them?' asked Bourne.
   'With delays. He would say, "Let them sweat." May I suggest an hour?'
   'You're on. Is there a restaurant open around here?'
   'Over in the Rua Mercadores. '
   'We need food, and the Frenchman was right – he was always right. Let them sweat. '
   'He was a decent man to me,' said the conduit.
   'At the end he was some kind of eloquent if perverted saint. '
   'I do not understand, sir. '
   'It's not necessary that you do. But I'm alive and he's not because he made a decision. '
   'What kind of decision, sir?
   That he should die so that I could live. '
   'Like the Christian scriptures. The nuns taught them to us. '
   'Hardly,' said Jason, amused at the thought . 'If there'd been another way out we would have taken it. There wasn't. He simply accepted the fact that his death was my way out. '
   'I liked him,' said the conduit.
   Take us to the restaurant. '
   It was all Edward McAllister could do to contain himself. What he did not know and what Bourne would not discuss at the table was choking him with frustration. Twice he tried to broach the subject of relays and the current situation and twice Jason cut him off, admonishing the undersecretary with a stare, as the conduit, in gratitude, looked away. There were certain facts the Chinese knew about and there were other facts he did not care to know about for his own safety.
   'Rest and food,' mused Bourne, finishing the last of his tian-suan ran. The Frenchman said they were weapons. He was right, of course. '
   'I suggest he needed the first more than you did, sir,' said the conduit.
   'Perhaps, but he was a student of military history. He claimed more battles were lost from fatigue than from inferior fire power. '
   This is all very interesting,' McAllister interrupted sharply, 'but we've been here for some time and I'm sure there are things we should be doing. '
   'We will, Edward. If you're uptight, think what they're going through. The Frenchman also used to say that the enemy's exposed nerves were our best allies. '
   'I'm becoming rather tired of your Frenchman,' said McAllister testily.
   Jason looked at the analyst and spoke quietly. 'Don't ever say that to me again. You weren't there. ' Bourne checked his watch. 'It's over an hour. Let's find a phone. ' He turned to the conduit . 'I'll need your help,' he added. 'You just put in the money. I'll dial. '
   'You said you'd call back in thirty minutes? spat out the woman at the other end of the line.
   'I had business to take care of. I have other clients and I'm not too keen on your attitude. If this is going to be a waste of time, I've got other things to do and you can answer to the man when the typhoon comes. '
   'How could that happen?'
   'Come on, lady! Give me a trunk filled with more money than you've ever thought about and I might tell you. On the other hand I probably wouldn't. I like to be owed favours by men in high places. You've got ten seconds until I hang up. '
   Please. You will meet a man who will take you to a house on the Guia Hill where there is highly sophisticated communications equipment-'
   'And where half a dozen of your goons crack my skull and throw me into a room where a doctor fills me with juice and you get it all for nothing? Bourne's anger was only partly feigned; Sheng's troops were the ones behaving like amateurs. 'I'll tell you about another piece of sophisticated equipment. It's called a telephone and I didn't think there'd be communications from Macao to the Guangdong garrison if you didn't have scramblers. Of course, you bought them in Tokyo because if you made them yourselves they probably wouldn't work! Use one. I'm calling you just once more, lady. Have a number for me. The man's number. ' Jason hung up.
   'That's interesting,' said McAllister several feet away from the pay phone, glancing briefly at the Chinese conduit who had returned to the table. 'You used the stick when I would have used the carrot. '
   'Used the what?'
   'I would have emphasized what extraordinary information I had to reveal. Instead you threatened, as if you were dismissing whoever it was. '
   'Spare me,' answered Bourne, lighting a cigarette, grateful that his hand was not shaking. 'For your edification I did both. The threat emphasizes the revelation and the dismissal reinforces both. '
   'Your input is showing,' said the undersecretary of state, a hint of a smile on his face. Thank you. '
   The man from Medusa looked hard at the man from Washington. 'If this damn thing works, can you do it, analyst? Can you whip out the gun and pull the trigger? Because if you can't, we're both dead. '
   'I can do it,' said McAllister calmly. 'For the Far East. For the world. '
   'And for your day in the sun. ' Jason started towards the table. 'Let's get out of here. I don't want to use this phone again. '
   The serenity of Jade Tower Mountain was belied by the frantic activity inside the villa of Sheng Chou Yang. The turmoil was not caused by the number of people for there were only five, but by the intensity of the players. The minister listened as his aides came and went from the garden bringing news of the latest developments and timidly offered advice, which was withdrawn instantly at the first sign of displeasure.
   'Our people have confirmed the story, sir!' cried a uniformed middle-aged man rushing from the house. They've talked to the journalists. Everything was as the assassin described and a photograph of the dead man was distributed to the newspapers. '
   'Get it,' ordered Sheng. 'Have it wired here at once. This is incredible. '
   'It's being done,' said the soldier. The consulate sent an attache to the South China News. It should be arriving within minutes. '
   'Incredible,' repeated Sheng softly, his eyes straying to the lily pads in the nearest of the four man-made ponds. The symmetry is too perfect, the timing too perfect, and that means something is imperfect. Someone has imposed order. '
   The assassin?' asked another aide.
   'For what purpose? He has no idea that he would have been a corpse before the night was over in the sanctuary. He thought he was privileged, but we were only using him to trap his predecessor, unearthed by our man in Special Branch. '
   'Then who?' questioned another.
   That's the dilemma. Who! Everything is at once tempting yet clumsy. It's all too apparent, fraught with unprofessional ego. The assassin, if he's telling the truth, must believe he has nothing to fear from me, but still he threatens, conceivably throwing over a most profitable client. Professionals don't do that and that's what bothers me. '
   'You are suggesting a third party, Minister?' asked the third aide.
   'If so,' said Sheng, his eyes now riveted on a single lily pad, 'someone with no experience or with the intelligence of an ox. It's a dilemma. '
   'It's here, sir!' shouted a young man, racing into the garden, holding a teletyped photograph.
   'Give it to me. Quickly!' Sheng grabbed the paper and angled it into the glare of a floodlight . 'It is he I'll never forget that face as long as I breathe! Clear everything! Tell the woman in Macao to give our assassin the number and electronically sweep all conceivable interceptions. Failure is death. '
   'Instantly, Minister!' The operator ran back to the house.
   'My wife and my children,' said Sheng Chou Yang, reflectively. They may be upset by all this disturbance. Will one of you please go inside and explain that affairs of state keep me from their beloved presence?'
   'It is my honour, sir,' said an aide.
   They suffer so from the demands of my work. They are all angels. One day they will be rewarded. '
   Bourne touched the conduit's shoulder, then pointed to the lighted marquee of a hotel on the right side of the street . 'We'll check in here then head for a phone booth on the other side of the city. Okay?
   'It's wise,' said the Chinese. They are all over the telephone company. '
   'And we've got to get some sleep. The Frenchman never stopped telling me that rest was also a weapon. Christ, why do I keep repeating myself?'
   'Because you're obsessed,' said McAllister from the back seat.
   Tell me about it. No, don't. '
   Jason dialled the number in Macao that tripped a relay in China into a swept telephone in Jade Tower Mountain. As he did so he looked at the analyst . 'Does Sheng speak French? he asked quickly.
   'Of course,' said the undersecretary. 'He deals with the Quai d'Orsay and speaks the language of everyone he negotiates with. It's one of his strengths. But why not use Mandarin? You know it. '
   The commando didn't, and if I speak English he might wonder where the British accent went. French'll cover it, as it did with Soo Jiang, and I'll also know whether or not it's Sheng. ' Bourne stretched a handkerchief across the mouthpiece as he heard a second, echoing ring fifteen hundred miles away. The scramblers were in place.
   'Wei?'
   'Comme le colonel, je prefere parler francais. '
   'Shemma?' cried the voice, bewildered.
   'Fawen,' said Jason, the Mandarin for French.
   'Fawen? Wo buhui!' replied the man excitedly, stating that he did not speak French. The call was expected. Another voice intruded; it was in the background and too low to be heard. And then it was there on the line.
   ''Mats pourquoi parlez-vous francaisT It was Sheng! No matter the language, Bourne would never forget the orator's singsong delivery. It was the zealous minister of an unmerciful God seducing an audience before assaulting it with fire and brimstone.
   'Let's say I feel more comfortable. '
   'Very well. What is this incredible story you bring? This madness during which a name was mentioned?'
   'I was also told you speak French,' interrupted Jason.
   There was a pause in which only Sheng's steady breathing could be heard. 'You know who I am?'
   'I know a name that doesn't mean anything to me. It does to someone else, though. Someone you knew years ago. He wants to talk to you. '
   'What?' screamed Sheng. 'Betrayal!'
   'Nothing of the sort, and if I were you I'd listen to him. He saw right through everything I told them. The others didn't, but he did. ' Bourne glanced at McAllister beside him; the analyst nodded his head as if to say that Jason was convincingly using the words the undersecretary had given him. 'He took one look at me and put the figures together. But then the Frenchman's original boy was pretty well shot up; his head was a bloody cauliflower. '
   'What have you done?
   'Probably the biggest favour you ever received, and I expect to be paid for it. Here's your friend. He'll use English. ' Bourne handed the phone to the analyst, who spoke instantly.
   'It's Edward McAllister, Sheng. '
   'Edward...?' The stunned Sheng Chou Yang could not complete the name.
   This conversation is off the record, with no official sanction. My whereabouts are unlogged and unknown. I'm speaking solely for my own benefit – and yours. '
   'You... astonish me, my old friend,' said the minister slowly, fearfully collecting himself.
   'You'll read about it in the morning papers and it's undoubtedly on all the newscasts from Hawaii already. The consulate wanted me to disappear for a few days – the fewer questions the better – and I knew just whom I wanted to go with. '
   'What happened, and how did you-'
   The similarity in their appearance was too obvious to be coincidental,' broke in the undersecretary of state. 'I suppose d'Anjou wanted to trade on the legend as much as possible, and that included the physical characteristics for those who had seen Jason Bourne in the past. An unnecessary fillip, in my opinion, but it was effective. In the panic on Victoria Peak – and from the nearly unrecognizable face – no one else noticed that striking resemblance. But then none of the others knew Bourne. I did. '
   'You?'
   'I drove him out of Asia. I'm the one he came to kill, and in keeping with his perverse sense of irony and revenge, he decided to do it by leaving the corpse of your assassin on Victoria Peak. Fortunately for me, his ego didn't permit him to evaluate your man's abilities correctly. Once the firing started, our now mutual associate overpowered him and threw him into the guns. '
   'Edward, the information is coming too fast, I cannot assimilate it. Who brought Jason Bourne back?
   'Obviously the Frenchman.– His pupil and immensely successful meal ticket had defected. He wanted revenge and knew where to find the one man who could give him that: his colleague from Medusa, the original Jason Bourne. '
   'Medusa!' whispered Sheng with loathing.
   'Despite their reputations, in certain units there were intense loyalties. You save a man's life, he doesn't forget. '
   'What led you to the preposterous conclusion that I have had anything to do with the man you call an assassin-'
   'Please, Sheng,' interrupted the analyst . 'It's too late for protestations. We're talking. But I'll answer your question. It was in the pattern of several killings. It started with a Vice-Premier of China in the Tsim Sha Tsui and four other men. They all were your enemies. And at Kai Tak the other night, two of your most vocal critics in the Peking delegation -targets of a bomb. There were also rumours; there always are in the underworld. The whispers spoke of messages between Macao and Guangdong, of powerful men in Beijing– of one man with immense power. And finally there was the file... The figures added up. You. '
   The file! What is this, Edward? asked Sheng, feigning strength. 'Why is this an unofficial, unreported communication between us?
   'I think you know. '
   'You're a brilliant man. You know I would not ask if I did. We're above such pavanes. '
   'A brilliant bureaucrat kept in the back room, wouldn't you also say?'
   'In truth, I expected better things for you. You provided most of the words and the moves for your so-called negotiators during the trade conferences. And everyone knows you did exemplary work in Hong Kong. By the time you left, Washington had every major influence in the territory in its orbit. '
   'I've decided to retire, Sheng. I've given twenty years of my life to my government but I won't give it my death. I won't be ambushed and shot at or truck-bombed. I won't become a target for terrorists, whether it's here or in Iran or Beirut. It's time I got something for myself, for my family. Times change, people change and living's expensive. My pension and my prospects are far less than I deserve. '
   'I agree with you completely, Edward, but what has it got to do with mel We were compromisers together – adversaries, to be sure, as in a courtroom – but certainly not enemies in the arena of violence. And what in the name of heaven is this foolishness about my name being mentioned by jackals of the Kuomintang?'
   'Spare me. ' The analyst glanced over at Bourne. 'Whatever was said by our mutual associate, the words were provided by me; they weren't his. Your name was never mentioned in Victoria Peak and there were no Taiwanese at our interrogation of your man. I gave him those words because there's a certain validity in them for you. As to your name, it's for a restricted few, their eyes only. It's in the file I mentioned, a file locked in my office in Hong Kong. It's marked "Ultra-Maximum-Security". There is only one copy of this file and it's buried in a vault in Washington to be released or destroyed only by me. However, should the unexpected happen, say a plane crash, or if I disappeared – or was killed -the file would be turned over to the National Security Council. The information in this file, in the wrong hands, could prove catastrophic for the entire Far East. '
   'I am intrigued, Edward, by your candid, if incomplete, information. '
   'Meet me, Sheng. And bring money, a great deal of money – American money. Our mutual associate tells me there are hills in Guangdong where your people flew down to see him. Meet me there tomorrow, between ten o'clock and midnight. '
   'I must protest, my adversarial friend. You have not provided me with an incentive. '
   'I can destroy both copies of that file. I was sent over here to track down a story originating in Taiwan, a story so detrimental to all our interests that a hint of its contents could start a chain of events that terrifies everyone. I believe there's considerable substance to the story, and if I'm right, it can be traced directly to my old counterpart during the Sino-American conferences. It couldn't be happening without him... It's my last assignment, Sheng, and a few words from me can remove that file from the face of the earth. I simply determine the information to be totally false and dangerously inflammatory, compiled by your enemies in Taiwan. The few who know about it want to believe that, take my word for it. The file is then sent to the shredder. So is the copy in Washington. '
   'You still have not told me why I should listen to you!'
   'The son of a Kuomintang taipan would know. The leader of a cabal in Beijing would know. A man who could be disgraced and decapitated tomorrow morning certainly would know. '
   The pause was long, the breathing erratic over the line. Finally, Sheng spoke.
   The hills in Guangdong. He knows where. '
   'Only one helicopter,' said McAllister. 'You and the pilot, no one else. '