17
   Catherine Staples insisted that her dinner guest had another vodka martini, demurring for herself as her glass was still half full.
   'It's also half empty,' said the thirty-two-year-old American attaché, smiling wanly, nervously, pushing his dark hair away from his forehead. That's stupid of me, Catherine,' he added. 'I'm sorry, but I can't forget that you saw the photographs -never mind that you saved my career and probably my life -it's those goddamned photographs. '
   'No one else saw them except Inspector Ballantyne. '
   'But you saw them. '
   'I'm old enough to be your mother. '
   'That compounds it. I look at you and feel so ashamed, so damned dirty. '
   'My former husband, wherever he is, once said to me that there was absolutely nothing that could or should be considered dirty in sexual encounters. I suspect there was a motive for his making the statement, but I happen to think he was right. Look, John, put them out of your mind. I have. '
   'I'll do my best. ' A waiter approached; the drink was ordered by signal. 'Since your call this afternoon I've been a basket case. I thought more had surfaced. That was a twenty-four-hour period of pure outer space. '
   'You were heavily and insidiously drugged. On that level you weren't responsible. And I'm sorry, I should have told you it had nothing to do with our previous business. '
   'If you had I might have earned my salary for the last five hours. '
   'It was forgetful and cruel of me. I apologize. '
   'Accepted. You're a great girl, Catherine. '
   'I appeal to your infantile regressions. '
   'Don't bet too much money on that. '
   'Then don't you have a fifth martini. '
   'It's only my second. '
   'A little flattery never hurt anyone. '
   They laughed quietly. The waiter returned with John Nelson's drink; he thanked the man and turned back to Staples. 'I have an idea that the prospect of flattery didn't get me a free meal at The Plume. This place is out of my range. '
   'Mine, too, but not Ottawa's. You'll be listed as a terribly important person. In fact, you are. '
   'That's nice. No one ever told me. I'm in a pretty good job over here because I learned Chinese. I figured that with all those Ivy League recruits, a boy from Upper Iowa College in old Fayette, Big I, ought to have an edge somewhere. '
   'You have it, Johnny. The consulates like you. Our out-posted "Embassy Row" thinks very highly of you, and they should. '
   'If they do, it's thanks to you and Ballantyne. And only you two. ' Nelson paused, sipped his martini, and looked at Staples over the rim of the glass. He lowered his drink and spoke again. 'What is it, Catherine? Why am I important?'
   'Because I need your help. '
   'Anything. Anything I can do. '
   'Not so fast, Johnny. It's deep-water time and I could be drowning myself. '
   'If anyone deserves a lifeline from me, it's you. Apart from minor problems, our two countries live next door to each other and basically like each other – we're on the same side. What is it? How can I help youT
   'Marie St Jacques... Webb,' said Catherine, studying the attache's face.
   Nelson blinked, his eyes roving aimlessly in thought . 'Nothing,' he said. The name doesn't mean anything to me. '
   'All right, let's try Raymond Havilland. '
   'Oh, now that's another barrel of pickled herring. ' The attaché widened his eyes and cocked his head. 'We've all been scuttle-butting about him. He hasn't come to the consulate, hasn't even called our head honcho, who wants to get his picture in the papers with him. After all, Havilland's a class act – kind of metaphysical in this business. He's been around since the loaves and the fishes, and he probably engineered the whole scam. '
   'Then you're aware that over the years your aristocratic ambassador has been involved with more than diplomatic negotiations. '
   'Nobody ever says it, but only the naive accept his above-the-fray posture. '
   'You are good, Johnny. '
   'Merely observant. I do earn some of my pay. What's the connection between a name I do know and one that I don't?'
   'I wish I knew. Do you have any idea why Havilland is over here? Any rumours you've picked up?'
   'I've no idea why he's here, but I do know you won't find him at a hotel. '
   'I assume he has wealthy friends-'
   'I'm sure he does, but he's not staying with them, either. '
   'Oh?'
   'The consulate quietly leased a house in Victoria Peak, and a second marine contingent was flown over from Hawaii for guard duty. None of us in the upper-middle ranks knew about it until a few days ago when one of those dumb things happened. Two marines were having dinner in the Wanchai and one of them paid the bill with a temporary cheque drawn on a Hong Kong bank. Well, you know servicemen and cheques; the manager gave this corporal a hard time. The kid said neither he nor his buddy had had time to round up cash and that the cheque was perfectly good. Why didn't the manager call the consulate and talk to a military attaché?'
   'Smart corporal,' broke in Staples:
   'Unsmart consulate,' said Nelson. The military boys had gone for the day, and our hotshot security personnel in their limitless paranoia about secrecy hadn't rostered the Victoria
   Peak contingent. The manager said later that the corporal showed a couple of IDs and seemed like a nice kid, so he took a chance. '
   'That was reasonable of him. He probably wouldn't have if the corporal had behaved otherwise. Again, smart marine. '
   'He did behave otherwise. The next morning down at the consulate. He read the riot act in all but barracks language in a voice so loud even I heard him, and my office is at the end of the corridor from the reception room. He wanted to know who the hell we civvies thought they were up there on that mountain and how come they weren't rostered, since they'd been there for a week. He was one angry marine, let me tell you. '
   'And suddenly the whole consulate knew there was a sterile house in the colony. '
   'You said that, Catherine, I didn't. But I'll tell you exactly what the memorandum to all personnel instructed us to say -the memo arrived on our desks an hour after the corporal had left, having spent twenty minutes with some very embarrassed security clowns. '
   'And what you were instructed to say is not what you believe. '
   'No comment,' said Nelson. 'The house in Victoria was leased for the convenience and security of travelling government personnel as well as representatives of US corporations doing business in the territory. '
   'Hogwash. Especially the latter. Since when does the American taxpayer pick up tabs like that for General Motors and ITT.
   'Washington is actively encouraging an expansion of trade in line with our widening open door policy with respect to the People's Republic. It's consistent. We want to make things easier, more accessible, and this place is crowded as hell. Try getting a decent reservation at two days' notice. '
   'It sounds like you rehearsed that. '
   'No comment. I've told you only what I was instructed to tell you should you bring the matter up – which I'm sure you did. '
   'Of course I did. I have friends in the Peak who think the
   neighbourhood's going to seed, what with all those corporal types hanging around. ' Staples sipped her drink. 'Havilland's up there?' she asked, placing the glass back on the table.
   'Almost guaranteed. '
   'Almost?'
   'Our information officer – her office is next to mine -wanted to get some PR mileage out of the ambassador. She asked the CG which hotel he was at, and she was told that he wasn't. Then whose residence? Same answer. "We'll have to wait until he calls us, if he does." said our boss. She cried on my shoulder, but the order was firm. No tracking him down. '
   'He's up in the Peak,' concluded Staples quietly. 'He's built himself a sterile house and he's mounted an operation. '
   'Which has something to do with this Webb, this Marie St Somebody Webb?'
   'St Jacques. Yes. '
   'Do you want to tell me about it?"
   'Not now – for your sake as well as mine. If I'm right and anyone thought you'd been given information, you could be transferred to Reykjavik without a sweater. '
   'But you said you didn't know what the connection was, that you wished you did. '
   'In the sense that I can't understand the reasons for it, if, indeed, it exists. I only know one side of the story and it's filled with holes. I could be wrong. ' Catherine again drank a small portion of her whisky. 'Look, Johnny,' she continued. 'Only you can make the decision, and if it's negative, I'll understand. I have to know if Havilland's being over here has anything to do with a man named David Webb and his wife, Marie St Jacques. She was an economist in Ottawa before her marriage. '
   'She's Canadian?'
   'Yes. Let me tell you why I have to know without telling you so much you could get into trouble. If the connection's there, I have to go one way, if it's not, I can turn a hundred and eighty degrees and take another route. If it's the latter, I can go public. I can use the newspapers, radio, television, anything that can spread the word and pull her husband in. '
   'Which means he's out in the cold,' broke in the attaché.
   'And you know where she is, but others don't. '
   'As I said before, you're very quick. '
   'But if it's the former – if there is a connection to Havilland, which you believe there is.'
   'No comment. If I answered you, I'd be telling you more than you should know.'
   'I see. It's touchy. Let me think. ' Nelson picked up his martini, but instead of drinking, he put it down. 'How about an anonymous phone call that I got?'
   'Such as?'
   'A distraught Canadian woman looking for information about her missing American husband. '
   'Why would she have called you? She's experienced in government circles. Why not the consul general himself?'
   'He wasn't in. I was. '
   'I don't want to disabuse you, Johnny, but you're not next in line. '
   'You're right. And anyone could check the switchboard and find out I never got the call. '
   Staples frowned, then leaned forward. There is a way if you're willing to lie a bit further. It's based on reality. It happened, and no one could say that it didn't. '
   'What is it?'
   'A woman stopped you in Garden Road when you were leaving the consulate. She didn't tell you very much but enough to alarm you, and she wouldn't go inside because she was frightened. She's the distraught woman looking for her missing American husband. You could even describe her. '
   'Start with her description,' said Nelson.
   Sitting in front of McAllister's desk, Lin Wenzu read from his notebook as the undersecretary of state listened. 'Although the description differs, the differences are minor and easily achieved. Hair pulled back and covered by a hat, no makeup, flat shoes to reduce her height but not that much – it is she. '
   'And she claimed not to recognize the name of anyone in the directory who could be her so-called cousin?
   'A second cousin on her mother's side. Just far-fetched yet specific enough to be credible. According to the receptionist, she was quite awkward, even flustered. She also carried a purse that was so obviously a Gucci imitation that the receptionist took her for a backwoods hick. Pleasant but gullible. '
   'She recognized someone's name,' said McAllister.
   'If she did, why didn't she ask to see him? She wouldn't waste time under the circumstances. '
   'She probably assumed that we'd sent out an alert, that she couldn't take the chance of being recognized, not on the premises. '
   'I don't think that would concern her, Edward. With what she knows, what she's been through, she could be extremely convincing. '
   'With what she thinks she knows, Lin. She can't be sure of anything. She'll be very cautious, afraid to make a wrong move. That's her husband out there, and take my word for it -I saw them together – she's extremely protective of him. My God, she stole over five million dollars for the simple reason that she thought, quite correctly, he'd been wronged by his own people. By her lights he deserved it – they deserved it -and let Washington go to hell in a basket. '
   'She did that?'
   'Havilland cleared you for everything. She did that and got away with it. Who was going to raise his voice? She had clandestine Washington just the way she wanted it. Frightened and embarrassed, both to the teeth. '
   The more I learn, the more I admire her. '
   'Admire her all you like, just find her. '
   'Speaking of the ambassador, where is he?'
   'Having a quiet lunch with the Canadian high commissioner. '
   'He's going to tell him everything?'
   'No, he's going to ask for blind co-operation with a telephone at his table so he can reach London. London will instruct the commissioner to do whatever Havilland asks him to do. It's all been arranged. '
   'He moves and shakes, doesn't he?'
   'There's no one like him. He should be back any minute now, actually he's late. ' The telephone rang and McAllister picked it up. 'Yes? ... No, he's not here. Who? ... Yes, of course, I'll talk to him. ' The undersecretary covered the mouthpiece and spoke to the major. 'It's our consul general. '
   'Something's happened,' said Lin, nervously getting out of his chair.
   'Yes, Mr Lewis, this is McAllister. I want you to know how much we appreciate everything, sir. The consulate's been most co-operative. '
   Suddenly the door opened and Havilland walked into the room.
   'It's the American consul general, Mr Ambassador,' said Lin. 'I believe he was asking for you. '
   This is no time for one of his damned dinner parties!'
   'Just a minute, Mr Lewis. The ambassador just arrived. I'm sure you want to speak with him. ' McAllister extended; the phone to Havilland, who walked rapidly to the desk.
   'Yes, Jonathan, what is it?' His tall, slender body rigid, his eyes fixed on an unseen spot in the garden beyond the large bay window, the ambassador stood in silence, listening. Finally he spoke. Thank you, Jonathan, you did the right thing. Say absolutely nothing to anyone and I'll take it from here. ' Havilland hung up and looked alternately at McAllister and Wenzu. 'Our breakthrough, if it is a breakthrough, just came from the wrong direction. Not the Canadian but the American consulate. '
   'It's not consistent,' said McAllister. 'It's not Paris, not the street with her favourite tree, the maple tree, the maple leaf. That's the Canadian consulate, not the American. '
   'And with that analysis are we to disregard it?'
   'Of course not. What happened?'
   'An attaché named Nelson was stopped in Garden Road by a Canadian woman trying to find her American husband. This Nelson offered to help her, to accompany her to the police, but she was adamant. She wouldn't go to the police, and neither would she go back with him to his office. '
   'Did she give any reasons?' asked Lin. 'She appeals for help and then refuses it.'
   'Just that it was personal. Nelson described her as high-strung, overwrought. She identified herself as Marie Webb and said that perhaps her husband had come to the consulate looking for her. Could Nelson ask around and she'd call him back. '
   'That's not what she said before,' protested McAllister. 'She was clearly referring to what had happened to them in Paris, and that meant reaching an official of her own government, her own country. Canada. '
   'Why do you persist?' asked Havilland. That's not a criticism I simply want to know why. '
   'I'm not sure. Something's not right. Among other things, the major here established the fact that she did go to the Canadian consulate. '
   'Oh?' The ambassador looked at the man from Special Branch.
   The receptionist confirmed it. The description was close enough, especially for someone trained by a chameleon. Her story was that she had promised her family she would look up a distant cousin whose last name she had forgotten. The receptionist gave her a directory and she went through it. '
   'She found someone she knew,' interrupted the undersecretary of state. 'She made contact. '
   Then there's your answer,' said Havilland firmly. 'She learned that her husband had not gone to a street with a row of maple trees, so she took the next best course of action. The American consulate. '
   'And identified herself when she has to know people are looking for her all over Hong Kong?'
   'Giving a false name would serve no purpose,' the ambassador replied.
   They both speak French. She could have used a French word – toile, for instance. It means web. '
   'I know what it means, but I think you're reaching. '
   'Her husband would have understood. She would have done something less obvious. '
   'Mr. Ambassador,' interrupted Lin Wenzu, slowly taking his eyes off McAllister. 'Hearing your words to the American consul general, that he should say absolutely nothing to anyone, and now fully understanding your concerns for secrecy, I assume Mr. Lewis has not been apprised of the situation. '
   'Correct, Major. '
   Then why did he call you? People frequently get lost here in Hong Kong. A missing husband or a missing wife is not so uncommon. '
   For an instant Havilland's expression was creased with self doubt . 'Jonathan Lewis and I go back a long time,' he said, his voice lacking its usual authority. 'He may be something of a bon vivani but he's no fool – he wouldn't be here if he were. And the circumstances under which the woman stopped his attaché – well, Lewis knows me and he drew certain conclusions. ' The diplomat turned to McAllister; when he continued his authority gradually returned. 'Call Lewis back, Edward. Tell him to instruct this Nelson to stand by for a call from you. I'd prefer a less direct approach, but there isn't time. I want you to question him, question him on anything and everything you can think of. I'll be listening on the line in your office. '
   'You agree, then,' said the undersecretary. 'Something's wrong. '
   'Yes,' answered Havilland, looking at Lin. The major saw it and I didn't. I'd phrase it somewhat differently but it's essentially what disturbs him. The question is not why Lewis called me, it's why an attaché went to him. After all, a highly agitated woman says her husband's missing but she won't go to the police, won't enter the consulate. Normally such a person would be dismissed as a crank. Certainly on the surface it's not a matter to bring to the attention of an overworked CG. Call Lewis. '
   'Of course. But, first, did things go smoothly with the Canadian commissioner? Will he co-operate?'
   The answer to your first question is no, things did not go smoothly. As to the second, he has no choice. '
   'I don't understand. '
   Havilland exhaled in weary irritation. Through Ottawa he'll provide us with a list of everyone on his staff who's had any dealings whatsoever with Marie St Jacques – reluctantly. That's the co-operation he's been instructed to deliver, but he was damned testy about it. To begin with, he himself went through a two-day seminar with her four years ago, and he ventured that probably a quarter of the consulate had done the same. Not that she'd remember them, but they certainly would remember her. She was "outstanding", that was the way he put it. She's also a Canadian who was thoroughly messed up by a group of American assholes – mind you, he had no compunction at all using the word – in some kind of mentally deranged black operation – yes, that was the phrase he used, mentally deranged – an idiotic operation mounted by these same assholes – indeed, he repeated it – that has never been satisfactorily explained. ' The ambassador stopped briefly, smiling briefly as he coughed a short laugh. 'It was all very refreshing. He didn't pull a single punch, and I haven't been talked to like that since my dear wife died. I need more of it. '
   'But you did tell him it was for her own good, didn't you? That we've got to find her before any harm's done to her. '
   'I got the distinct impression that our Canadian friend had serious doubts as to my mental faculties. Call Lewis. God knows when we'll get that list. Our maple leaf will probably have it sent by train from Ottawa to Vancouver and then on a slow freighter to Hong Kong where it'll get lost in the mailroom. In the meantime, we've got an attaché who behaves very strangely. He leaps over fences when no such jumps are required. '
   'I've met John Nelson, sir,' said Lin. 'He's a bright lad and speaks a fair Chinese. He's quite popular with the consulate crowd. '
   'He's also something else, Major. '
   Nelson hung up the phone. Beads of perspiration had broken out on his forehead; he wiped them off with the back of his hand, satisfied that he had handled himself as well as he did, all things considered. He was especially pleased that he had turned the thrust of McAllister's questions against the questioner, albeit diplomatically.
   Why did you feel compelled to go to the consul general?
   Your call would seem to answer that, Mr McAllister. I sensed that something out of the ordinary had happened. I thought the consul should be told.
   But the woman refused to go to the police; she even refused to come inside the consulate.
   As I said, it was out of the ordinary, sir. She was nervous and tense, but she wasn't a ding dong.
   A what?
   She was perfectly lucid, you could even say controlled, in spite of her anxiety.
   I see.
   I wonder if you do, sir. I have no idea what the consul general told you, but I did suggest to him that what with the house in Victoria Peak, the marine guards, and then the arrival of Ambassador Havilland, he might consider calling someone up there.
   You suggested it?
   Yes, I did.
   Why?
   I don't think it would serve any purpose for me to speculate on these matters, Mr McAllister. They don't concern me.
   Yes, of course, you're right. I mean -yes, all right. But we must find that woman, Mr Nelson. I've been instructed to tell you that if you can help us it would be greatly to your advantage.
   I want to help in any event, sir. If she reaches me, I'll try to set up a meeting somewhere and call you. I knew I was right to do what I did, to say what I did.
   We'll wait for your call.

Catherine was on target, thought John Nelson, there was one hell of a connection. So much of a connection that he did not dare use his consulate phone to call Staples. But when he did reach her, he would ask her some very hard questions. He trusted Catherine, but the photographs and their consequences notwithstanding, he was not for sale. He got up from his desk and headed for the door of his office. A suddenly remembered dental appointment would suffice. As he walked down the corridor towards the reception room his thoughts returned to Catherine Staples. Catherine was one of the strongest people he had ever met, but the look in her eyes last night had conveyed not strength, but a kind of desperate fear. It was a Catherine he had never seen before.
   'He diverted your questions to his own ends,' said Havilland, coming through the door, the immense Lin Wenzu behind him. 'Do you agree, Major?'
   'Yes, and that means he anticipated the questions. He was primed for them. '
   'Which means someone primed him!'
   'We never should have called him,' said McAllister quietly, sitting behind the desk, his nervous fingers once again massaging his right temple. 'Nearly everything he brought up was meant to provoke a response from me. '
   'We had to call him,' insisted Havilland, 'if only to learn that. '
   'He stayed in control. I lost it. '
   'You could not have behaved differently, Edward,' said Lin. 'To react other than you did would have been to question his motives. In essence, you would have threatened him. '
   'And at the moment, we don't want him to feel threatened,' agreed Havilland. 'He's getting information for someone, and we've got to find out who it is. '
   'And that means Webb's wife did reach someone she knew and told that person everything. ' McAllister leaned forward, his elbows on the desk, his hands tightly clasped.
   'You were right, after all,' said the Ambassador, looking down at the undersecretary of state. 'A street with her favourite maple trees. Paris. The inevitable repetition. It's quite clear. Nelson is working for someone in the Canadian consulate – and whoever it is, is in touch with Webb's wife. '
   McAllister looked up. Then Nelson's either a damn fool or a bigger damn fool. By his own admission he knows – at least he assumes – that he's dealing with highly sensitive information involving an adviser to presidents. Dismissal aside, he could be sent to prison for conspiring against the government. '
   'He's not a fool, I can assure you,' said Lin.
   'Then either someone is forcing him to do this against his win – blackmail most likely – or he's being paid to find out if
   there's a connection between Marie St Jacques and this house in Victoria Peak. It can't be anything else. ' Frowning, Havilland sat down in the chair in front of the desk.
   'Give me a day,' continued the major from MI6 . 'Perhaps I can find out. If I can, we'll pick up whoever it is in the consulate. '
   'No,' said the diplomat whose expertise lay in covert operations. 'You have until eight o'clock tonight. We can't afford that, but if we can avoid a confrontation and any possible fallout, we must try. Containment is everything. Try, Lin. For God's sake, try. '
   'And after eight o'clock, Mr Ambassador? What then?'
   Then, Major, we pull in our clever and evasive attaché and break him. I'd much prefer to use him without his knowing it, without risking alarms, but the woman comes first. Eight o'clock, Major Lin. '
   'I'll do everything I can. '
   'And if we're wrong,' went on Havilland, as if Lin Wenzu had not spoken, 'if this Nelson has been set up as a blind and knows nothing, I want all the rules broken. I don't care how you do it or how much it costs in bribes or the garbage you have to employ to get it done. I want cameras, telephone taps, electronic surveillance – whatever you can manage – on every single person in that consulate. Someone there knows where she is. Someone there is hiding her. '
   'Catherine, it's John,' said Nelson into the pay phone on Albert Road.
   'How good of you to call,' answered Staples quickly. 'It's been a trying afternoon, but do let's have drinks one of these days. It'll be so good to see you after all these months, and you can tell me about Canberra. But do tell me one thing now. Was I right in what I told you?'
   'I have to see you, Catherine. '
   'Not even a hint?'
   'I have to see you. Are you free?'
   'I have a meeting in forty-five minutes. '
   Then later, around five. There's a place called the Monkey Tree in the Wanchai, on Gloucester-'
   'I know it. I'll be there. '
   John Nelson hung up. There was nothing else to do but go back to the office. He could not stay away for three hours, not after his conversation with Undersecretary of State Edward McAllister; appearances precluded such an absence. He had heard about McAllister; the undersecretary had spent seven years in Hong Kong, leaving only months before Nelson had arrived. Why had he returned? Why was there a sterile house in Victoria Peak with Ambassador Havilland suddenly in residence? Above all, why was Catherine Staples so frightened? He owed Catherine his career, but he had to have a few answers. He had a decision to make.
   Lin Wenzu had all but exhausted his sources. Only one gave him pause for thought. Inspector Ian Ballantyne, as he usually did, answered questions with other questions rather than delivering concise answers himself. It was maddening, for one never knew whether the man from Scotland Yard knew something or not about a given subject, in this case an American attaché named John Nelson.
   'Met the chap several times,' Ballantyne had said. 'Bright sort. Speaks your lingo, did you know that?'
   'My "lingo", Inspector?'
   'Well, damn few of us did, even during the Opium Wars. Interesting period of history, wasn't it, Major?'
   'The Opium Wars? I was talking about the attache, John Nelson. '
   'Oh, is there a connection?'
   'With what, Inspector?'
   'The Opium Wars. '
   'If there is, he's a hundred and fifty years old and his dossier says thirty-two. '
   'Really? That young.
   But Ballantyne had employed several pauses too many to satisfy Lin. If the old warhorse did know something he was not going to reveal it. Everyone else, from the Hong Kong and Kowloon police to the 'specialists' who worked the American consulate gathering information for payment gave Nelson as clean a bill of health as was respectable in the territory. If Nelson had a vulnerable side, it was in his extensive and not too discriminate search for sex, but insofar as it was heterosexual, and he was single, it was to be applauded, not condemned. One 'specialist' told Lin that he heard Nelson had been warned to have himself medically checked on a fairly regular basis. No crime; the attache was a cocksman. Ask him to dinner.
   The telephone rang; Lin grabbed it . 'Yes?'
   'Our subject walked to the Peak Tram and took a taxi to the Wanchai. He is in a cafe called the Monkey Tree. I am with him. I can see him. '
   'It's out of the way and very crowded,' said the major. 'Has anyone joined him?'
   'No, but he asked for a table for two. '
   'I'll be there as soon as I can. If you have to leave, I'll contact you by radio. You're driving Vehicle Seven, are you not?'
   'Vehicle Seven, sir... Wait! A woman is walking towards his table. He's getting up. '
   'Do you recognize her?'
   'It's too dark here. No. '
   'Pay the waiter. Disrupt the service. But not obviously, only for a few minutes. I'll use our ambulance and the siren until I'm a block away. '
   'Catherine, I owe you so much, and I want to help you in any way I can, but I have to know more than what you've told me. '
   There's a connection, isn't there? Havilland and Marie St Jacques. '
   'I won't confirm that – I can't confirm it – because I haven't spoken to Havilland. I did, however, speak to another man, a man I've heard a lot about who used to be stationed here -one hell of a brain – and he sounded as desperate as you did last night. '
   'I seemed that way to you last night?' said Staples, smoothing her grey-streaked hair. 'I wasn't aware of it. '
   'Hey, come on. Not in your words, maybe, but in the way you talked. The stridency was just below the surface. You sounded like me when you gave me the photographs. Believe me, I can identify. '
   'Johnny, believe me. We may be dealing with something neither of us should get near, something way up in the clouds on which we – I – don't have the knowledge to make a proper decision. '
   'I have to make a decision, Catherine. ' Nelson looked up for the waiter. 'Where are those goddamned drinks?'
   I'm not panting. '
   'I am. I owe you everything and I like you and I know you wouldn't use the photographs against me, which makes it all worse-'
   'I gave you all there were, and we burned the negatives together. '
   'So my debt's real, don't you see that? Jesus, the kid was what – twelve years old!
   'You didn't know that. You were drugged. '
   'My passport to oblivion. No secretary of state in my future, only secretary of kiddie-porn. One hell of a trip!'
   'It's over and you're being melodramatic. I just want you to tell me if there's a connection between Havilland and Marie St Jacques – which I think you can do. Why is that so difficult? I will know what to do then. '
   'Because if I do, I have to tell Havilland that I told you. '
   'Then give me an hour. '
   'Why?'
   'Because I do have several photographs in my vault at the consulate,' lied Catherine Staples.
   Nelson shot back in his chair, stunned. 'Oh, God. I don't believe this!'
   'Try to understand, Johnny. We all play hardball now and then because it's in the best interests of our employers – our individual countries, if you like. Marie St Jacques was a friend of mine – is a friend of mine – and her life became nothing in the eyes of self-important men who ran a covert operation that didn't give a holy damn about her and her husband. They used them both and then tried to kill them both! Let me tell you something, Johnny. I detest your Central Intelligence Agency and your State Department's so-grandly named Consular Operations. It's not that they re bastards, it's that they're such stupid bastards. And if I sense that an operation is being mounted, again using these two people who've been through so much pain, I intend to find out why and act accordingly. There can be no more blank cheques with their lives. I'm experienced and they're not and I'm angry enough – no, furious enough – to demand answers. '
   'Oh, Christ-
   The waiter arrived with their drinks, and as Staples looked up to signify thanks, her eyes were drawn to a man by a telephone booth in the crowded outside corridor watching them. She looked away.
   'What's it going to be, Johnny?' she continued. 'Confirm or deny?'
   'Confirmed,' whispered Nelson, reaching for his glass.
   'The house in Victoria Peak?'
   'Yes. '
   'Who was the man you spoke with, the one who had been stationed here?'
   'McAllister. Undersecretary of State McAllister. '
   'Good Lord?
   There was excessive movement in the outside corridor. Catherine shielded her eyes and turned her head slightly, which widened her peripheral vision. A large man entered and walked towards the telephone against the wall. There was only one man like him in all of Hong Kong. It was Lin Wenzu, MI6, Special Branch! The Americans had enlisted the best, but it could be the worst for Marie and her husband.
   'You've done nothing wrong, Johnny,' said Staples, rising from her chair. 'We'll talk further, but right now I'm going to the ladies' room. '
   'Catherine?'
   'What?'
   'Hard ball?'
   'Very hard, my darling. '
   Staples walked past a shrinking Wenzu who turned away. She went into the ladies' room, waited several seconds then walked out with two other women and broke away, continuing down the corridor and into the Monkey Tree's kitchen. Without saying a word to the startled waiters and cooks, she found the exit and went outside. She ran up the alley into Gloucester Road; she turned left, her stride quickening until she found a phone booth. Inserting a coin she dialled.
   'Hello?'
   'Marie, get out of the flat! My car's in a garage a block to your right as you leave the building. It's called Ming's; the sign's in red. Get there as quickly as you can! I'll meet you. Hurry
   Catherine Staples hailed a taxi.
   'The woman's name is Staples, Catherine Staples? said Lin Wenzu sharply into the phone on the corridor wall of the Monkey Tree, raising his voice to be heard over the din. 'Insert the consulate disk and search it through the computer. Quickly! I want her address and make damn-damn sure it's current!' The muscles of the major's jaw worked furiously as he waited, listening. The answer was delivered, and he issued another order. 'If one of our team's vehicles is in the area, get on the radio and tell him to head over there. If not, dispatch one immediately. ' Lin paused, again listening. 'The American woman,' he said quietly into the phone. They're to watch for her. If she's spotted, close in and take her. We're on our way. '
   'Vehicle Five, respond? repeated the radio operator, speaking into a microphone, his hand on a switch in the lower right-hand corner of the console in front of him. The room was white and without windows, the hum of the air conditioning low but constant, the whir of the filtering system even quieter. On three walls there were banks of sophisticated radio and computer equipment above spotless white counters made of the smoothest Formica. There was an antiseptic quality about the room; hardness was everywhere. It might have been an electronics laboratory in a well-endowed medical centre, but it was not. It was another kind of centre. The communications centre of MI6, Special Branch, Hong Kong. 'Vehicle Five responding? shouted an out-of-breath voice over the speaker. 'I received your signal, but I was a street away covering the Thai. We were right. Drugs. '
   'Go on scrambler!' ordered the operator, throwing the switch. There was a whistling sound that stopped as abruptly as it had started. 'You're off the Thai,' continued the radioman. 'You're nearest. Get over to Arbuthnot Road, the Botanical Gardens entrance is the quickest way. ' He gave the address of Catherine Staples's building and ended with a final command. 'The American woman. Watch for her. Take her. '
   'Aiya,' whispered the breathless agent from Special Branch.
   Marie tried not to panic, imposing a control over herself she did not feel. The situation was ludicrous. It was also deadly serious. She was dressed in Catherine's ill-fitting robe, having taken a long hot bath and, far worse, having washed her clothes in Staples's kitchen sink. They were hanging over the plastic chairs on Catherine's small balcony and were still wet. It had seemed so natural, so logical, to wash away the heat and the dirt of Hong Kong from herself as well as from the stranger's clothes. And the cheap sandals had raised blisters on the soles of her feet; she had broken an ugly one with a needle and walking was difficult. But she dared not walk, she had to run.
   What had happened? Catherine was not the sort of person to issue peremptory commands. Any more than she herself was, especially with David. People like Catherine avoided the imperative approach because it only clouded a victim's thinking – and her friend Marie St Jacques was a victim now, not to the degree that poor David was, but a victim nevertheless. Move! How often had Jason said that in Zurich and Paris? So frequently she still tensed at the word.
   She dressed, the wet clothes clinging to her body, and rummaged through Catherine's closet for a pair of slippers. They were uncomfortable but softer than the sandals. She could run; she had to run.
   Her hair! Oh, Christ, the hair! She ran to the bathroom, where Catherine kept a porcelain jar filled with hairpins and clasps. In seconds, she secured her hair on the top of her head, walked rapidly back into the flat's tiny living room, found her foolish hat, and jammed it on.
   The wait for the elevator was interminable! According to the lighted numbers above the panels, both elevators jogged between floors 1,3, and 7, neither venturing above to the 9th floor. Preceding residents going out for the evening had programmed the vertical monsters, delaying her descent.
   Avoid elevators whenever you can. They're traps. Jason Bourne. Zurich.
   Marie looked up and down the hallway. She saw the fire exit staircase door and ran to it.
   Out of breath, she lunged into the short lobby, composing herself as best she could to deflect the glances directed at her by five or six tenants, some entering, some leaving. She did not count; she could barely see; she had to get out!
   My car's in a garage a block to your right as you leave the building. It's called Ming's. Was it to the right? Or was it left! Out on the pavement she hesitated. Right or left! 'Right' meant so many things, 'left' was more specific. She tried to think. What had Catherine said! Right! She had to go right; it was the first thing that came to her mind. She had to trust that.
   Your first reflections are the best, the most accurate, because the impressions are stored in your head, like information in a data bank. That's what your head is. Jason Bourne. Paris.
   She started running. Her left slipper fell off; she stopped, stooping down to retrieve it. Suddenly a car came careening around the gates of the Botanical Gardens across the wide street, and, like an angry heat-searching missile, whipped to its left and zeroed in on her. The automobile swerved in a semicircle, screeching as it spun in the road. A man leaped out and raced towards her.

18
   There was nothing else to do. She was cornered, trapped. Marie screamed, and screamed again, and again, as the Chinese agent approached, her hysteria mounting as the man politely but firmly took her by the arm. She recognized him -he was one of them, one of the bureaucrats! Her screams reached a crescendo. People stopped and turned in the street. Women gasped as startled, hesitant men stepped haltingly forward, others looking around frantically for the police, several shouting for them by name.
   'Please, Mrs.? cried the Oriental, trying to keep his voice controlled. 'No harm will come to you. Allow me to escort you to my vehicle. It is for your own protection. '
   'Help me!' shrieked Marie as the astonished twilight strollers gathered into a crowd. 'This man's a thief I He stole my purse, my money! He's trying to take my jewellery!'
   'See here, chap!' shouted an elderly Englishman, hobbling forward, raising his walking stick. 'I've sent a lad for the police but until they arrive, by God, I'll thrash you!'
   'Please, sir,' insisted the man from Special Branch quietly. This is a matter for the authorities, and I am with the authorities. Permit me to show you my identification. '
   'Easy, mater roared a voice with an Australian accent as a man rushed forward, gently pushing the elderly Briton aside and lowering his cane. 'You're a grand fair dinkum, old man, but don't half bother yourself! These punks call for a younger type. ' The strapping Australian stood in front of the Chinese agent. Take yer hands off the lady, punk-head! And I'd be goddamned quick about it if I were you. '
   'Please, sir, this is a serious misunderstanding. The lady is in danger and she is wanted for questioning by the authorities. '
   'I don't see you in no uniform!'
   'Permit me to show you my credentials. '
   "That's what he said an hour ago when he attacked me in Garden Road!' shouted Marie hysterically. 'People tried to help me then! He lied to everyone! Then he stole my purse! He's been following me!' Marie knew that none of the things she kept screaming made sense. She could only hope for confusion, something that Jason had taught her to use.
   I'm not saying it agyne, mate!' yelled the Australian, stepping forward. Tyke yer bloody hands off the lady!'
   'Please, sir. I cannot do that. Other officials are on their way. '
   'Oh, they are, are they? You punk-heads travel in gangs, do you? Well, you'll be a pitiful sight for their eyes when they get here!' The Australian grabbed the Oriental by the shoulder, spinning him to his left. But as the man from Special Branch spun, his right foot – the toe of his leather shoe extended like a knifepoint – whipped around, crashing up into the Australian's abdomen. The good Samaritan from down under doubled over, falling to his knees.
   'I'll ask you again not to interfere, sir!'
   'Do you now? You slope-eyed son of a bitch? The furious Australian lunged up, hurling his body at the Oriental, his fists pounding the man from Special Branch. The crowd roared its approval, its collective voice filling the street – and Marie's arm was free! Then other sounds joined the melee. Sirens followed by three racing automobiles, among them an ambulance. All three swerved in their sudden turns as tyres screeched and the vehicles came to jolting stops.
   Marie plunged through the crowd and reached the inner pavement; she started running towards the red sign a half block away. The slippers had fallen off her feet; the swollen, shredded blisters burned, sending shafts of pain up her legs.
   She could not allow herself to think about pain. She had to run, run, get away! Then the booming voice surged over and through the noises in the street, and she pictured a large man roaring. It was the huge Chinese they called the Major.
   'Mrs. Web, Mrs. Webb, I beg you! Stop! We mean you no harm! You'll be told everything! For God's sake, stop!
   Told everything! thought Marie. Told lies and more lies! Suddenly people were rushing towards her. What were they doing"! Why… Then they raced past, mostly men, but not all men, and she understood. There was a panic in the street -perhaps an accident, mutilation, death. Let's go see. Let's watch! From a distance mind you.
   Opportunities will present themselves. Recognize them, act on them.
   Marie suddenly whipped around, crouching, lunging through the still onrushing crowd to the kerb, keeping her body as low as possible, and ran back to where she had come so close to recapture. She kept turning her head to her left -watching, hoping. She saw him through the racing bodies! The huge major ran past in the other direction; with him was another man, another well-dressed man, another bureaucrat.
   The crowd was cautious, as the ghoulish are always cautious, inching forward but not so far as to get involved. What they saw was not flattering to the Chinese onlookers or to those who held the martial arts of the Orient in mystical esteem. The lithe, strapping Australian, his language magnificently obscene, was pummelling three separate assailants out of his personal boxing ring. Suddenly, to the astonishment of everyone, the Australian picked up one of his fallen adversaries and let out a roar as loud as the immense major's.
   'Fer Christ's syke! Will you cryzies cut this out? Yer not punk-heads, even I can tell that! We were both snookered!'
   Marie ran across the wide street to the entrance of the Botanical Gardens. She stood under a tree by the gate with a direct line of sight to Ming's Parking Palace. The major had passed the garage, pausing at several alleyways that intersected Arbuthnot Road, sending his subordinate down several of them, constantly looking around for his support troops. They were not to be had; Marie saw that for herself as the crowd dispersed. All three were breathing hard and leaning against the ambulance, led there by the Australian.
   A taxi drove up to Ming's. No one, at first, got out, then the driver emerged. He walked into the open garage and spoke to someone behind a glass booth. He bowed in thanks, returned to the cab, and spoke to his passenger. Cautiously, his fare opened the door and stepped onto the kerb. It was Catherine! She, too, walked into the wide opening, far more rapidly than the driver, and spoke into the glass booth, shaking her head, indicating that she had been told what she did not want to hear.
   Suddenly Wenzu appeared. He was retracing his steps, obviously angered by the men who were meant to be tracing his steps. He was about to cross the open garage; he would see Catherine!
   'Carlos!' screamed Marie, assuming the worst, knowing it would tell her everything. 'Delta!'
   The major spun around, his eyes wide in shock. Marie raced into the Botanical Gardens; it was the key Cain is for Delta and Carlos will be killed by Cain... or whatever the codes were that had been spread through Paris! They were using David again! It wasn't a probability any more, it was the reality! They – it – the United States government – was sending her husband out to play the role that had nearly killed him, killed by his own people! What kind of bastards were they?... Or, conversely, what kind of ends justified the means supposedly sane men would use to reach them?
   Now more than ever she had to find David, find him before he took risks others should be taking! He had given so much and now they asked for more, demanded more in the cruellest way possible. But to find him she had to reach Catherine, who was no more than a hundred yards away. She had to draw out the enemy and get back across the street without the enemy seeing her. Jason, what can I do!
   She hid behind a cluster of bushes, inching farther inside as the major ran through the Garden's gates. The immense Oriental stopped and looked around with his squinting, penetrating gaze, then turned and shouted for a subordinate, who had apparently emerged from an alley on Arbuthnot Road. The second man had difficulty getting across the street; the traffic was heavier and slower due to the stationary ambulance and two additional vehicles blocking the normal flow near the entrance to the gardens. The major suddenly grew furious as he saw and understood the reasons for the growing traffic.
   'Get those fools to move the cars!' he roared. 'And send them over here... No! Send one to the gates on Albany Road. The rest of you come back here! Hurry
   The early evening strollers became more numerous. Men loosened the ties they had worn all day at their offices, while women carried high-heeled shoes in casual bags, supplanting them with sandals. Wives wheeling baby carriages were joined by husbands; lovers embraced and walked arm in arm among the rows of exploding flowers. The laughter of racing children peeled across the gardens, and the major held his place by the entrance gate. Marie swallowed, the panic in her growing. The ambulance and the two cars were being moved; the traffic began to flow normally.
   A crash! Near the ambulance an impatient driver had rammed the car in front of him. The major could not help himself; the proximity of the accident so close to his official vehicle forced him to move forward, obviously to ascertain whether or not his men were involved. Opportunities will present themselves... use them. Now!
   Marie raced around the far end of the bushes, then dashed across the grass to join a foursome on the gravel path that led out of the Gardens. She glanced to her right, afraid of what she might see but knowing she had to know. Her worst thoughts were borne out; the huge major had sensed – or seen – the figure of a woman running behind him. He paused for a moment, uncertain, unsure, then broke into a rapid stride towards the gate.
   A horn blew – four short, quick blasts. It was Catherine, waving at her through the open window of a small Japanese car as Marie raced into the street.
   'Get in!' shouted Staples.
   'He saw me!'
   'Hurry?
   Marie jumped into the front seat, as Catherine gunned the small car and swerved out of line, half on the pavement, then swung back with a break in the accelerating traffic. She turned into a side street and drove swiftly down it to an intersection where there was a sign with a red arrow pointing right. Central. Business District. Staples turned right.
   'Catherine!' shouted Marie. 'He saw me!'
   'Worse,' said Staples. 'He saw the car. '
   'A two door green Mitsubishi!' shouted Wenzu into his handheld radio. 'The licence number is AOR-five, three, five, zero – the zero could be a six, but I don't think so. It doesn't matter, the first three letters will be enough. I want it flashed on all points, emergency status using the police telephone banks! The driver and the passenger are to be taken into custody and there are to be no conversations with either party. It is a Government House matter and no explanations will be given. Get on this! Now!'
   Staples turned into a parking garage on Ice House Street. The newly-lighted bright red sign of the Mandarin could be seen barely a block away. 'We'll rent a car,' said Catherine as she accepted her ticket from the man in the booth. 'I know several head-boys at the hotel. '
   ''We park? You park?' The grinning attendant obviously hoped for the former.
   'You park,' replied Staples, withdrawing several Hong Kong dollars from her purse. 'Let's go,' she said, turning to Marie. 'And stay on my right, in the shadows, close to the buildings. How are your feet?'
   'I'd rather not say. '
   'Then don't. There's no time to do anything about them now. Bear up, old girl. '
   'Catherine, stop sounding like C. Aubrey Smith in drag. '
   'Who's that?'
   'Forget it. I like old movies. Let's go. '
   Marie hobbling, the two women walked down the street to a side entrance of the Mandarin. They climbed the hotel steps and went inside. 'There's a ladies room to the right, past the line of shops,' said Catherine.
   'I see the sign. '
   'Wait there. I'll be with you as soon as I can make arrangements. '
   'Is there a drug store here?'
   'I don't want you walking around. There'll be descriptions out everywhere. '
   'I understand that, but can you walk around? Just a bit. '
   'Bad time of the month?'
   Wo, my feet! Vaseline, skin lotion, sandals – no, not sandals. Rubber thongs, perhaps, and peroxide. '
   'I'll do what I can, but time is everything. '
   'It's been that way for the past year. A terrible treadmill. Will it stop, Catherine?'
   'I'm doing my damnedest to see to it. You're a friend and a countryman, my dear. And I'm a very angry woman – and speaking of such – how many women did you encounter in the hallowed halls of the CIA or its bumbling counterpart at the State Department, Consular Operations?'
   Marie blinked, trying to remember. 'None, actually. '
   There was a woman in Paris-'
   'There's always is, dear. Go to the ladies' room. '
   'An automobile is a hindrance in Hong Kong,' said Wenzu, looking at the clock on the wall of his office in the headquarters of MI6, Special Branch. It read 6:34. Therefore we must assume she intends driving Webb's wife some distance, hiding her, and will not risk taxi records. Our eight o'clock deadline has been rescinded, the chase now takes its place. We must intercept her. Is there anything we haven't considered?'
   'Putting the Australian in jail,' suggested the short, well-dressed subordinate firmly. 'We suffered casualties in the Walled City, but his were a public embarrassment. We know where he's staying. We can pick him up. '
   'On what charge?'
   'Obstruction. '
   'To what end?'
   The subordinate shrugged – angrily. 'Satisfaction, that's all. '
   'You've just answered your own question. Your pride is inconsequential. Stick to the woman – the women. '
   'You're right, of course. '
   'Every garage, the car hire agencies here on the island and in Kowloon, they've all been contacted by the police, correct?'
   'Yes, sir. But I must point out that the Staples woman could easily call upon one of her friends – her Canadian friends – and she would have a car we could not track. '
   'We operate on what we can control, not what we can't. Besides, from what I knew before and what I have subsequently learned about Foreign Service Officer Staples, I would say she's acting alone, certainly not with official sanction. She won't involve anyone else for the time being. '
   'How can you be sure?'
   Wenzu looked at his subordinate; he had to choose his words carefully. 'Just a guess. '
   'Your guesses have a reputation for accuracy. '
   'An inflated judgement. Common sense is my ally. ' The telephone rang. The major's hand shot out . 'Yes?'
   'Police Central Four,' droned a male voice.
   'We appreciate your co-operation Central Four. '
   'A Ming's Parking Palace responded to our inquiry. The Mitsubishi AOR has a space there leased on a monthly basis. The owner's name is Staples. Catherine Staples, a Canadian. The car was taken out roughly thirty-five minutes ago. '
   'You've been most helpful, Central Four,' said Lin. Thank you. ' He hung up and looked at his anxious subordinate. 'We now have three new pieces of information. The first is that the inquiry we sent out through the police was definitely sent out. The second is that at least one garage wrote down the information, and thirdly, Mrs. Staples leases her parking space by the month. '
   'It's a start, sir. '
   There are three major, and perhaps a dozen minor car hire agencies, not counting the hotels, which we've covered separately. Those are manageable statistics, but, of course, the garages are not. '
   'Why not?' questioned the subordinate. 'At most there are, perhaps, a hundred. Who wants to build a garage in Hong Kong when he could house a dozen shops – businesses? At maximum, the police telephone banks have twenty to thirty operators. They can call them all. '
   'It's not the numbers, old friend. It's the mentality of the employees, for the jobs are not enviable. Those who can write are too lazy or too hostile to bother, and those who can't, flee from any association with the police. '
   'One garage responded. '
   'A true Cantonese. It was the owner. '
   The owner should be told!' cried the parking boy in shrill Chinese to the booth attendant at the garage on Ice House Street.
   'Why?'
   'I explained it to you! I wrote it down for you-'
   'Because you go to school and write somewhat better than I do does not make you boss-boss here. '
   'You cannot write at all! You were shit-shit afraid! You called for me when the man on the telephone said it was a police emergency. You illiterates always run from the police. That was the car, the green Mitsubishi I parked on Level Two! If you won't call the police, you must call the owner. '
   There are things they don't teach you in school, boy with small organ. '
   They teach us not to go against the police. It is bad joss. '
   'I will call the police – or better you may be their hero. '
   'Good!'
   'After the two women return and I have a short talk with the driver. '
   'What?'
   'She thought she was giving me – us – two dollars, but it was eleven. One of the bills was a ten-dollar note. She was very nervous, very upset. She is frightened. She did not watch her money. '
   'You said it was two dollars!'
   'And now I'm being honest. Would I be honest with you if I did not have both our interests in my heart?'
   'In what way?'
   'I will tell this rich, frightened American – she spoke American – that you and I have not called back the police on her behalf. She will reward us on the spot – very, very generously – for she will understand that she may not retrieve her car without doing so. You may watch me from inside the garage by the other telephone. After she pays I will send another boy for her car, which he will have great trouble finding for I will give him the wrong location, and you will call the police. The police will arrive, we will have done our heavenly duty, and had a night of money like few other nights in this miserable job. '
   The parking boy squinted, shaking his head. 'You're right,' he said. They don't teach such things in school. And I suppose I do not have a choice. '
   'Oh, but you do,' said the attendant, pulling a long knife from his belt . 'You can say no, and I will cut out your talk-talk tongue. '
   Catherine approached the concierge's desk in the Mandarin lobby, annoyed that she did not know either of the two clerks behind the counter. She needed a favour quickly, and in Hong Kong that meant dealing with a person one knew. Then to her relief she spotted the evening shift's Number 1 concierge. He was in the middle of the lobby trying to mollify an excited guest. She moved to the right and waited, hoping to catch Lee Teng's eye. She had cultivated Teng, sending numerous Canadians to him when problems of convenience had seemed insurmountable. He had always been paid handsomely.
   'Yes, may I be of help, Mrs.?' said the young Chinese clerk moving in front of Staples.
   'I'll wait for Mr Teng, if you please. '
   'Mr Teng is very busy, Mrs.. A very bad time for Mr Teng. You are a guest of the Mandarin, Mrs.?'
   'I'm a resident of the territory and an old friend of Mr
   Teng. Where possible I bring my business here so the desk gets the credit. '
   'Ohh... The clerk responded to Catherine's non-tourist status. He leaned forward, speaking confidentially. 'Lee Teng has terrible joss tonight. The lady goes to the grand ball at Government House but her clothes go to Bangkok. She must think Mr Teng has wings under his jacket and jet engines in his armpits, yes?'
   'An interesting concept. The lady just flew in?'
   'Yes, Mrs.. But she had many pieces of luggage. She did not miss the one she misses now. She blames first her husband and now Lee Teng. '
   'Where's her husband?'
   'In the bar. He offered to take the next plane to Bangkok but his kindness only made his wife angrier. He will not leave the bar, and he will not get to Government House in a way that will make him pleased with himself in the morning. Bad joss all around... Perhaps I can be of assistance to you while Mr Teng does his best to calm everybody. '
   'I want to rent a car and I need one as fast as you can get it for me. '
   'Aiya,'' said the clerk. 'It is seven o'clock at night and the rental offices do little leasing in the evening hours. Most are closed. '
   I'm sure there are exceptions. '
   'Perhaps a hotel car with a chauffeur?'
   'Only if there's nothing else available. As I mentioned, I'm not a guest here and, frankly, I'm not made of money. '
   '"Who among us"?' asked the clerk enigmatically. 'As the good Christian Book says – somewhere, I think. '
   'Sounds right,' agreed Staples. 'Please, get on the phone and do your best. '

 The young man reached beneath the counter and pulled out a plastic bound list of car rental agencies. He went to a telephone several feet to his right, picked it up and started dialling. Catherine looked over at Lee Teng; he had steered his irate lady to the wall by a miniature palm in an obvious attempt to keep her from alarming the other guests who sat around the ornate lobby greeting friends and ordering cocktails. He was speaking rapidly, softly, and, by God, thought Staples, he was actually getting her attention. Whatever her legitimate complaints, mused Catherine, the woman was an ass. She wore a chinchilla stole in just about the worst climate on earth for such delicate fur. Not that she, Foreign Service Officer Staples, ever had the problem of such a decision. She might have if she had chucked the FSO status and stuck with Owen Staples. The son of a bitch owned at least four banks in Toronto now. Not a bad sort, really, and to add to her sense of guilt, Owen had never remarried. Not fair, Owen! She had run across him three years ago, after her stint in Europe, while attending a British-organized conference in Toronto. They had had drinks at the Mayfair Club in the King Edward Hotel, not so unlike the Mandarin, actually.
   'Come on, Owen. Your looks, your money – and you had the looks before your money – why not? There are a thousand beautiful girls within a five-block radius who'd grab you. '
   'Once was enough, Cathy. You taught me that. '
   'I don't know, but you make me feel – oh, I don't know -somehow so guilty. I left you, Owen, but not because I wasn't fond of you. '
   '"Fond" of me?'
   'You know what I mean. '
   'Yes, I think so. ' Owen had laughed. 'You left me for all the right reasons, and I accepted your leaving without animus for likeminded reasons. If you had waited five minutes longer, I think I would have thrown you out. I'd paid the rent that month.'
   'You bastard!'
   'Not at all, neither of us. You had your ambitions and I had mine. They simply weren't compatible. '
   'But that doesn't explain why you never remarried. '
   'I just told you. You taught me, my dear. '
   Taught you what? That all ambitions were incompatible?'
   'Where they existed in our extremes, yes. You see, I learned that I wasn't interested on any permanent basis in anyone who didn't have what I suppose you'd call a passionate "drive", or an overriding ambition, but I couldn't live with such a person day in and day out. And those without ambition left something wanting in our relationships. No permanency there. '
   'But what about a family? Children?'
   'I have two children,' Owen had said quietly. 'Of whom I'm immensely fond. I love them very much, and their very ambitious mothers have been terribly kind. Even their subsequent respective husbands have been understanding. While they were growing up, I saw my children constantly. So, in a sense, I had three families. Quite civilized, if frequently confusing. '
   ' You! The paragon of the community, the banker's banker. ' The man they said took a shower in a Dickens nightshirt! A deacon of the church!'
   'I gave that up when you left. At any rate, it was simply statecraft on my part. You practise it every day. '
   'Owen, you never told me. '
   'You never asked, Cathy. You had your ambitions and I had mine. But I will tell you my one regret, if you want to hear it. '
   'I do. '
   'I'm genuinely sorry that we never had a child together. Judging by the two I have, he or she would have been quite marvellous. '
   'You bastard, I'm going to cry. '
   'Please don't. Let's be honest, neither of us has any regrets. '
   Catherine's reverie was suddenly interrupted. The clerk lurched back from the telephone, his hands triumphantly on the counter. 'You have good joss, Mrs.!' he cried. 'The dispatcher at the Apex agency on Bonham Strand East was still there and he has cars available but nobody to drive one here. '
   'I'll take a taxi. Write out the address. ' Staples looked around for the hotel drug store. There were too many people in the lobby, too much confusion. 'Where can I buy some -skin lotion or Vaseline; sandals or thongs?' she asked, turning to the clerk.
   There is a newspaper stand down the hallway to the right, Mrs.. They have many of the items you describe. But, may I please have money, as you must present a receipt to the dispatcher. It is one thousand dollars, Hong Kong, whatever remains to be returned or additional monies to be added-'
   'I don't have that much on me. I'll have to use a card. '
   'So much the better. '
   Catherine opened her purse and pulled out a credit card from an inside pocket . 'I'll be right back,' she said, placing it on the counter as she started for the hallway on the right. For no reason in particular, she glanced over at Lee Teng and his distraught lady. To her brief amusement, the overdressed woman in the foolish fur was nodding appreciatively as Teng pointed to the line of overpriced shops reached by climbing a staircase above the lobby. Lee Teng was a true diplomat. Without question, he had explained to the overwrought guest that she had an option that would both serve her needs and her nerves and hit her errant husband in his financial solar plexus. This was Hong Kong, and she could purchase the best and the most glittering, and for a price everything would be ready in time for the grand ball at Government House. Staples continued towards the hallway.
   Catherine? The name was so sharply spoken Staples froze. 'Please, Mrs. Catherine?
   Rigid, Staples turned. It was Lee Teng, who had broken away from his outraged, now mollified, guest . 'What is it?' she asked, frightened as the middle-aged Teng approached, his face lined with concern, sweat evident on his balding skull.
   'I saw you only moments ago. I had a problem. '
   'I know all about it. '
   'So do you, Catherine. '
   'I beg your pardon?'
   Teng glanced at the counter, oddly enough not at the young man who had helped her but at the other clerk who was at the opposite end of the desk. The man was by himself, with no guests in front of him, but he was looking at his associate. 'Damn bad joss!' exclaimed Teng under his breath.
   'What are you talking about?' asked Staples.
   'Come over here,' said the Number 1 concierge of the night shift as he pulled Catherine to the side, away from the sight of the counter. He reached into his pocket and removed a perforated half page of paper on which there was a computer print-out . 'Four copies of this were sent down from upstairs. I managed to obtain three but the fourth is under the counter. '
   Emergency. Government control. A Canadian woman by the name of Mrs. Catherine Staples may attempt to lease an automobile for personal use. She is fifty-seven years of age, with partially grey hair, of medium height and a slender figure. Delay all proceedings and contact Police Central Four.
   Wenzu had drawn a conclusion based on an observation, thought Catherine, along with the knowledge that anyone who willingly drove a car in Hong Kong was either crazy or had a peculiar reason for doing so. He was covering his bases quickly and completely. The young man just got me a car over in Bonham Strand East. He obviously hasn't read this. '
   'He found you a rental at this hour?'
   'He's writing up the credit charge now. Do you think he'll see this?'
   'It is not him that I worry about. He is in training and I can tell him anything and he will accept what I say. The other one not so; he wants my job badly. Wait here. Stay out of sight. '
   Teng walked to the counter as the clerk was anxiously looking around, the layered credit card slips in his hand. Lee Teng took the charges and put them in his pocket. That won't be necessary,' he said. 'Our customer has changed her mind. She found a friend in the lobby who will drive her. '
   'Oh? Then I should tell our associate not to bother. As the amount is over the limit, he is clearing it for me. I am still somewhat unsure and he offered-'
   Teng waved him shut as he crossed to the second clerk on the telephone at the other end of the counter. 'You may give me the card and forget the call. There are too many distressed ladies tonight for me! This one has found other means of transportation. '
   'Certainly, Mr Teng,' said the second clerk obsequiously. He handed over the credit card, apologized quickly to the operator on the line and hung up the telephone.
   'A bad night. ' Teng shrugged, turning, and heading back into the crowded lobby-lounge. He approached Catherine, pulling out his billfold as he did so. 'If you are short of money, I will cover it. Don't use this. '
   'I'm not short at home or at the bank, but I don't carry so much with me. It's one of the unwritten rules. '
   'One of the better ones,' said Teng, nodding.
   Staples took the bills in Teng's hand and looked up at the Chinese. 'Do you want an explanation? she asked.
   'It's not required, Catherine. Whatever Central Four says, I know you are a good person, and if you are not and you run away and I never see my money again, I am still many thousands, Hong Kong, to the better. '
   'I shan't run anywhere, Teng. '
   'You will not walk, either. One of the chauffeurs owes me a good turn, and he's in the garage now. He will drive you to your car in Bonham Strand. Come, I'll take you down there. '
   'There's someone else with me. I'm taking her out of Hong Kong. She's in the ladies' room. '
   'I'll wait in the hallway. Do hurry. '
   'Sometimes I think the time passes more quickly when we are flooded with problems,' said the second, somewhat older clerk to his younger associate-in-training as he removed the half-page computer print-out from beneath the counter and unobtrusively shoved it into his pocket.
   'If you are right, Mr Teng has barely experienced fifteen minutes since we came on duty two hours ago. He's very good, isn't he?'
   'His lack of head hair helps him. People look upon him as having wisdom even when he has no wise words to offer. '
   'Still, he has a way with people. I wish to be very much like him one day. '
   'Lose some hair,' said the "second clerk. 'In the meantime, since there is no one bothering us, I have to go to the toilet. By the way, just in case I ever need to know a rental agency open at this hour, it was the Apex on Bonham Strand East, wasn't it?
   'Oh, yes. '
   That was very diligent of you. '
   'I simply went by the list. It was near the end. '
   'Some of us would have stopped before then. You are to be commended. '
   'You are too kind to an unworthy trainee. '
   'I want only the best for you,' said the older clerk. 'Always remember that. '
   The older man left the counter. He cautiously went past the potted palms until he saw Lee Teng. The night concierge was standing at the foot of the hallway to the right; it was enough. He was waiting for the woman. The clerk turned quickly and walked up the staircase to the line of shops with less dignity than was proper. He was in a– hurry and entered the first boutique at the top of the steps.
   'Hotel business,' he said to the bored saleswoman as he grabbed the phone off the wall behind a glass counter of glistening precious stones. He dialled.
   'Police Central Four. '
   'Your directive, sir, regarding the Canadian woman, Mrs. Staples-'
   'Do you have information?'
   'I believe so, sir, but it is somewhat embarrassing for me to relay it. '
   'Why is that? This is an emergency, a government matter!'
   'Please understand, Officer, I am only a minor employee, and it is quite possible the night concierge did not recall your directive. He is a very busy man. '
   'What are you trying to say?'
   'Well, Officer – sir – the woman I overheard asking for the concierge bore a striking resemblance to the description in the government directive. But it would be most embarrassing for me if it was learned that I called you. '
   'You will be protected. You may remain anonymous. What is the information?'
   'Well, sir, I overheard... ' With cautious, ambivalent words the 1st assistant clerk did his best for himself and consequently the worst for his superior, Lee Teng. His final statements, however, were concise and without equivocation. 'It is the Apex Car Rental Agency in Bonham Strand East. I suggest you hurry as she is on her way there now. '
   The early evening traffic was less dense than the rush hour, but still formidable. It was the reason why Catherine and Marie looked uneasily at each other in the back seat of the Mandarin's limousine as the chauffeur, rather than accelerating into the sudden wide space in front of him, swung the enormous automobile into an empty section of the kerb in Bonham Strand East. There was no sign of a rental agency on either side of the street.
   'Why are we stopping?' asked Staples sharply.
   'Mr Teng's instructions, Mrs.,' answered the chauffeur turning around in the seat . 'I will lock the car with the alarm on. No one will bother you as the lights flash beneath all four door handles. '
   'That's very comforting but I'd like to know why you're not taking us to the car.'
   'I will bring the car to you, Mrs.. '
   'I beg your pardon?'
   'Mr. Teng's instructions. ' He was very firm and he is making the proper phone call to the Apex garage. It is in the next block, Mrs.. I shall be back presently. ' The chauffeur removed his hat and his jacket, placed both on the seat, switched on the alarm and climbed out.
   'What do you make of it?' asked Marie, raising her leg over her knee and holding tissues she had taken from the ladies' room against the flat of her right foot . 'Do you trust this Teng?'
   'Yes, I do,' replied Catherine, her expression bewildered. 'I can't understand it. He's obviously being extra cautious – but there are extra risks for himself – and I don't know why. As I told you back at the Mandarin that computerized missive about me said "Government control". Those two words are not taken lightly in Hong Kong. What in the world is he doing? And why?'
   'Obviously, I can't answer you,' said Marie. 'But I can make an observation. '
   'What is it?'
   'I saw the way he looked at you. I'm not sure you did. '
   'What?
   'I'd say he's very fond of you. '
   'Fond... of me?'
   'It's one way to put it. There are stronger ways, of course. '
   Staples turned away and looked out the window. 'Oh, my God,' she whispered.
   'What's the matter?'
   'A little while ago, back at the Mandarin, and for reasons too unreasonable to analyse – it started with a foolish woman in a chinchilla stole – I thought about Owen.'
   'Owen?
   'My former husband. '
   'Owen Staples? The banker, Owen Staples?'
   'That's my name and that's my boy – was my boy. In those days one stayed with the acquired name. '
   'You never told me your husband was Owen Staples. '
   'You never asked me, my dear. '
   'You're not making sense, Catherine. '
   'I suppose not,' agreed Staples, shaking her head. 'But I was thinking about the time Owen and I met a couple of years ago in Toronto. We had drinks at the Mayfair Club and I learned things about him I never would have believed before. I was genuinely happy for him despite the fact that the bastard nearly made me cry. '
   'Catherine, for heaven's sake what's that got to do with right now?'
   'It's got to do with Teng. We also had drinks one evening, not at the Mandarin, of course, but at a cafe on the waterfront in Kowloon. He said it wouldn't be good joss for me to be seen with him here on the island. '
   'Why not?
   That's what I said. You see, he was protecting me then just as he's protecting me now. And I may have misunderstood him. I assumed he was simply looking after an additional source of income but I may have been terribly wrong. '
   'In what way?'
   'He said a strange thing that night. He said he wished things were different, that the differences between people were not so obvious and those differences not so disturbing to other people. Of course, I accepted his banalities as a rather amateurish attempt at... at statecraft, as my former husband phrased it. Perhaps it was something else. '
   Marie laughed quietly, as their eyes locked. 'Dear, dear Catherine. The man's in love with you. '
   'Christ in Calgary, I don't need this!'
   Wenzu sat in the front seat of MI6 Vehicle Two, his patient gaze on the entrance of the Apex agency on Bonham Strand East. Everything was in order; both women would be in his custody within a matter of minutes. One of his men had gone inside and spoken to the dispatcher. The agent had proffered his government identification and was shown the evening's records by the frightened employee. The dispatcher, indeed, had a reservation for a Mrs. Catherine Staples but it had been cancelled, the car in question assigned to another name, the name of a chauffeur from the hotel. And since Mrs. Catherine Staples was no longer leasing a car, the dispatcher saw no reason to call Police Control Four. What was there to say? And no, certainly not, no one else could pick up the car as it was reserved by the Mandarin.
   Everything was in order, thought Wenzu. Victoria Peak would feel an enormous sweep of relief the moment he reached the sterile house with his news. The major knew the exact words he would say. The women are taken – the woman is taken. '
   Across the street a man in shirtsleeves entered the agency door. He appeared hesitant to Lin and there was something... A taxi suddenly drove up and the major bolted forward, reaching for the door handle – the hesitant man was forgotten.
   'Be alert, lads,' said Lin into the microphone attached to the dashboard radio. 'We must be as quick and as unobtrusive as possible. No Arbuthnot Road can be tolerated here. And no weapons, of course. Ready, now!'
   But there was nothing to be ready for; the taxi drove away without disgorging anyone.
   'Vehicle Three' said the major curtly. 'Get that license number and call the cab company! I want them in radio contact. Find out exactly what their taxi was doing here!
   Better yet, follow it and do as I tell you. It could be the women. '
   'I believe there was only a man in the back seat, sir,' said the driver.
   They could have ducked below the seat! Damned eyes. A man, you say?'
   'Yes, sir. '
   'I smell a rotten squid. '
   'Why, Major?'
   'If I knew, the stench would not be so strong. '
   The waiting continued and the immense Lin began to perspire. The dying sun cast both a blinding orange light through the windshield and pockets of dark shadows along Bonham Strand East.
   'It's too long,' whispered the major to himself.
   Static erupted from the radio. 'We have the report from the cab company, sir. '
   'Go on!'
   The taxi in question is trying to find an import house on Bonham Strand East, but the driver told his fare that the address must be on Bonham Strand West. Apparently, his passenger is very angry. He got out and threw money into the window only moments ago. '
   'Break away and return here,' ordered Lin, as he watched the garage doors opening across the street at the Apex agency. A car emerged, turning left, driven by the shirtsleeved man.
   The sweat now rolled down the major's face. Something was not in order; another order was being superimposed. What was it that bothered him? What was it?
   'Him' shouted Lin to his startled driver.
   'Sir?'
   'A wrinkled white shirt, but trousers creased like steel. A uniform! A chauffeur! Swing around! Follow him!'
   The driver held his hand on the horn, breaking the line of traffic as he made a U-turn while the major issued instructions to the back-ups, ordering one to stay at the Apex agency, the others to take up the new chase.
   'Aiya!' screamed the driver, jamming on his brakes, screeching to a stop as a huge brown limousine roared out of a side street blocking their way. Only the slightest contact had been made, the government car barely touching the left rear door of the large automobile.
   'Feng zi!" yelled the limousine's chauffeur, calling Lin's driver a crazy dog as he jumped out of his sedan to see if any damage had been done.
   'La/7 Lair shrieked the major's driver, leaping out, ready for combat.
   'Stop it!' roared Wenzu. 'Just get him out of here!'
   'It is he who does not move, sir!'
   Tell him he must do so! Show him your identification!'
   All traffic came to a stop; horns blared, people in cars and in the streets yelled angrily. The major closed his eyes and shook his head in frustration. There was nothing he could do but get out of the car.
   As another did from the limousine. A middle-aged Chinese with a balding head. 'I gather we have a problem,' said Lee Teng.
   'I know you!' shouted Lin. The Mandarin!'
   'Many who have the taste to frequent our fine hotel know me, sir. I'm afraid I cannot reciprocate. Have you been a guest, sir?'
   'What are you doing here?'
   'It is a confidential errand for a gentleman at the Mandarin, and I have no intention of saying anything further. '
   'Damn-damn! A government directive was sent out! A Canadian woman named Staples! One of your people called us!'
   'I have no idea what you're talking about. For the last hour I have been trying to solve a problem for a guest who's attending the ball at Government House tonight. I'd be happy to furnish you with her name – if your position warrants it. '
   'My position warrants it! I repeat! Why have you stopped us?'
   'I believe it was your man who sped across the changing light. '
   'Not sol' screamed Wenzu's driver.
   Then it is a matter for the courts,' said Lee Teng. 'May we proceed?'
   'Not yet?' replied the major, approaching the Mandarin's night concierge. 'I repeat again. A government directive was received at your hotel. It stated clearly that a woman named Staples might try to lease a car and you were to report the attempt to Police Central Four. '
   Then I repeat, sir. I have not been near my desk for well over an hour, nor have I seen any such directive as you describe. However, in co-operation with your unseen credentials, I will tell you that all car rental arrangements would have to be made through my First Assistant, a man, quite frankly, I have found quite compromising in many areas. '
   'But you are here?
   'How many guests at the Mandarin have late business in Bonham Strand East, sir? Accept the coincidence. '
   'Your eyes smile at me, Zhongguo ren. '
   'Without laughter, sir. I will proceed. The damage is minor. '
   'I don't give a damn if you and your people have to stay there all night,' said Ambassador Havilland. 'It's the only crack we've got. The way you've described it she'll return the car and then pick up her own. Goddamn it, there's a Canadian-American strategy conference at four o'clock tomorrow afternoon. She has to be back! Stay with it! Stay with all the posts! Just bring her in to me!'
   'She will claim harassment. We will be breaking the laws of international diplomacy. '
   Then break them! Just get her here, in Cleopatra's carpet, if you have to! I haven't any time to waste – not a minute!
   Held firmly in check by two agents, a furious Catherine Staples was led into the room in the house on Victoria Peak.
   Wenzu had opened the door; he now closed it as Staples faced Ambassador Raymond Havilland and Undersecretary of State Edward McAllister. It was 11:35 in the morning, the sun streaming through the large bay window overlooking the garden.
   'You've gone too far, Havilland,' said Catherine, her throaty voice ice-like in its flat delivery.
   'I haven't gone far enough where you're concerned, Mrs. Staples. You actively compromised a member of the American legation. You engaged in extortion to the grave disservice of my government. '
   'You can't prove that because there's no evidence, no photographs-'
   'I don't have to prove it. At precisely seven o'clock last night the young man drove up here and told us everything. A sordid little chapter, isn't it?'
   'Damn fool! He's blameless, but you're not! And since you bring up the word "sordid", there's nothing he's done that could match the filth of your own actions. ' Without missing a verbal beat, Catherine looked at the undersecretary of state. 'I presume this is the liar called McAllister. '
   'You're very trying,' said the undersecretary.
   'And you're an unprincipled lackey who does another man's dirty work. I heard it all and it's all disgusting! But every thread was woven-' Staples snapped her head towards Havilland, 'by an expert. Who gave you the right to play God! Any of you? Do you know what you've done to those two people out there? Do you know what you've asked of them?'
   'We know,' said the ambassador simply. 'I know. '
   'She knows, too, in spite of the fact that I didn't have the heart to give her the final confirmation. You, McAllister! When I learned it was you up here, I wasn't sure she could handle it. Not at the moment. But I intend to tell her. You and your lies! A taipan's wife murdered in Macao – oh, the symmetry of it all, what an excuse to take another man's wife! Lies. I have my sources and it never happened. Well, get this straight. I'm bringing her in to the consulate under the full protection of my government. And if I were you, Havilland,
   I'd be damned careful about throwing around alleged illegalities. You and your goddamned people have lied to and manipulated a Canadian citizen into a life-threatening operation – whatever the hell it is this time. Your arrogance is simply beyond belief I But I assure you it's coming to a stop. Whether my government likes it or not I'm going to expose you, all of you! You're no better than the barbarians in the KGB. Well, the American juggernaut of covert operations is going to be handed a bloody setback! I'm sick of you, the world is sick of you!'
   'My dear woman!' shouted-the ambassador, losing the last vestiges of control in his sudden anger. 'Make all the threats you like, but you will hear me out! And if after you've heard what I have to say you wish to declare war, you go right ahead. As the song says, my days are dwindling down, but not millions of others! I'd like to do what I can to prolong those other lives. But you may disagree, so declare your war, dear lady! And, by Christ, you live with the consequences!'

19
   Leaning forward in the chair, Bourne snapped the trigger housing out of its recess and checked the weapon's bore under the light of the floor-lamp above him. It was a repetitive, pointless exercise; the bore was spotless. During the past four hours he had cleaned d'Anjou's gun three times, dismantling it three times and each time oiling each mechanism until each part of the dark metal glistened. The process occupied his time. He had studied d'Anjou's arsenal of weapons and explosives, but since most of the equipment was in sealed boxes, conceivably tripped against theft, he let them be and concentrated on the single gun. There was only so much pacing one could do in the Frenchman's flat on the Rua das Lorchas overlooking Macao's Porto Interiore – or Inner Harbour – and they had agreed he was not to go outside in daylight. Inside, he was as safe as he could be anywhere in Macao. D'Anjou, who changed residences at will and whim, had rented the waterfront apartment less than two weeks before, using a false name and a lawyer he had never met, who in turn employed a'rentor' to sign the lease which the attorney sent by messenger to his unknown client by way of the checkroom at the crowded Floating Casino. Such were the ways of Philippe d'Anjou, formerly Echo of Medusa.
   Jason reassembled the weapon, depressed the shells in the magazine and cracked it up through the handle. He got out of the chair and walked to the window, the gun in his hand.
   Across the expanse of water was the People's Republic, so accessible for anyone who knew the procedures arising from simple human greed. There was nothing new under the sun since the time of the pharaohs where borders were concerned. They were erected to be crossed one way or another.
   He looked at his watch. It was close to five o'clock; the afternoon sun was descending. D'Anjou had called him from Hong Kong at noon. The Frenchman had gone to the Peninsula with Bourne's room key, packed his suitcase without checking out, and was taking the one o'clock jetfoil back to Macao. Where was he? The trip took barely an hour, and from the Macao pier to the Rua das Lorchas was no more than ten minutes by cab. But then predictability was not Echo's strong suit.
   Fragments of the Medusa memories came back to Jason, triggered by the presence of d'Anjou. Although painful and frightening, certain impressions provided a certain comfort, again thanks to the Frenchman. Not only was d'Anjou a consummate liar when it counted most and an opportunist of the first rank, but he was extraordinarily resourceful. Above all, the Frenchman was a pragmatist. He had proved that in Paris and those memories were clear. If he was delayed, there was a good reason. If he did not appear, he was dead. And this last was unacceptable to Bourne. D'Anjou was in a position to do something Jason wanted above all to do himself but dared not risk Marie's life in doing it. It was risk enough that the trail of the impostor assassin had brought him to Macao in the first place, but as long as he stayed away from the Lisboa Hotel he trusted his instincts. He would remain hidden from those looking for him – looking for someone who even vaguely resembled him in height, or build or colouring. Someone asking questions in the Lisboa Hotel.
   One call from the Lisboa to the taipan in Hong Kong and Marie was dead. The taipan had not merely threatened -threats were too often a meaningless ploy – he had used a far more lethal expedient. After shouting and crashing his large hand on the arm of the fragile chair, he had quietly given his word: Marie would die. It was a promise made by a man who kept his promises, kept his word.
   Yet for all that, David Webb sensed something he could not define. There was about the huge taipan something a bit larger than life, too operatic, that had nothing to do with his size. It was as if he had used his immense girth to advantage in a way that large men rarely do, preferring to let only their sheer size do the impressing. Who was the taipan? The answer was at the Lisboa Hotel, and since he dared not go there himself, d'Anjou's skills could serve him. He had told the Frenchman very little; he would tell him more now. He would describe a brutal double killing, the weapon an Uzi, and say that one of the victims was a powerful taipan's wife. D'Anjou would ask the questions he could not ask, and if there were answers he would take another step towards Marie.
   Play the scenario. Alexander Conklin.
   Whose scenario! David Webb.
   You're wasting time Jason Bourne. Find the impostor. Take him!
   Quiet footsteps in the outside hallway. Jason spun away from the window and raced silently to the wall, pressing his back against it, the gun levelled at the door where the swinging panel would conceal him. A key was cautiously, quietly inserted. The door swung slowly open.
   Bourne crashed it back into the intruder, spinning around and grabbing the stunned figure in the frame. He yanked him inside and kicked the door shut, the weapon aimed at the head of the fallen man, who had dropped a suitcase and a very large package. It was d'Anjou.
   That's one way to get your head blown off, Echo!'
   'Sacre bleu! It is also the last time I will ever be considerate of you! You don't see yourself, Delta. You look as you did in Tarn Quan, without sleep for days. I thought you might be resting. '
   Another memory briefly flashed. 'In Tarn Quan,' said Jason, 'you told me I had to sleep, didn't you? We hid in the brush and you formed a circle around me and damn near gave me an order to get some rest. '
   'It was purely a self-enlightened request. We couldn't get ourselves out of there, only you could. '
   'You said something to me then. What was it? I listened. '
   'I explained that rest was as much a weapon as any blunt instrument or firing mechanism man had ever devised. '
   'I used a variation later. It became an axiom for me. '
   'I'm so glad you had the intelligence to listen to your elders. May I please rise? Will you please lower that damned gun?'
   'Oh, sorry. '
   'We have no time,' said d'Anjou, getting up and leaving the suitcase on the floor. He tore the brown paper off his package. Inside were pressed khaki clothes, two belted holsters and two visored hats; he threw them all on a chair. 'These are uniforms. I have the proper identifications in my pocket. I am afraid I outrank you, Delta, but then age has its privileges. '
   'They're uniforms of the Hong Kong police. '
   'Kowloon, to be precise. We may have our chance, Delta! It's why I was so long getting back. Kai Tak Airport! The security is enormous, just what the impostor wants in order to show he's better than you ever were! There's no guarantee, of course, but I'd stake my life on it – it's the classic challenge for an obsessed maniac. "Mount your forces, I'll break through them!" With one kill like that he re-establishes the legend of his utter invincibility. It's him, I'm sure of it!'
   'Start from the beginning,' ordered Bourne.
   'As we dress, yes,' agreed the Frenchman, removing his shirt and unbuckling his trousers. 'Hurry! I have a motor launch across the road. Four hundred horsepower. We can be in Kowloon in forty-five minutes. Here! This is yours! Man Dieu, the money I've spent makes me want to vomit!'
   'The PRC patrols,' said Jason, peeling off his clothes and reaching for the uniform. 'They'll shoot us out of the water!'
   'Idiot, certain known boats are negotiated with by radio in code. There is, after all, honour among us. How do you think we run our merchandise? How do you think we survive? We meet in coves at the Chinese islands of Teh Sa Wei and payments are made. Hurry?
   'What about the airport? Why are you so sure it's him?'
   'The Crown Governor. Assassination. '
   'What?' shouted Bourne, stunned.
   'I walked from the Peninsula to the Star Ferry with your suitcase. It's only a short distance and the ferry is far quicker than a taxi through the tunnel. As I passed the Kowloon Police Hill on Salisbury Road, I saw seven patrol cars drive out at emergency speed, one behind the other, all turning left, which is not to the godown. It struck me as odd – yes, two or three for a local eruption, but seven! It was good joss, as these people say. I called my contact on the Hill and he was cooperative – it was also not much of an internal secret any longer. He said if I stayed around I'd see another ten cars, twenty vans, all heading out to Kai Tak within the next two hours. Those I saw were the advance search teams. They had received word through their underground sources that an attempt was to be made on the Governor's life. '
   'Specifics!' commanded Bourne harshly, buckling his trousers and reaching for the long khaki shirt that served as a jacket under the bullet-laden holster belt.
   'The Governor is flying in from Beijing tonight with his own entourage from the Foreign Office, as well as another Chinese negotiating delegation. There will be newspaper people, television crews, everyone. Both governments want full coverage. There is to be a joint meeting tomorrow between all the negotiators and leaders of the financial sector. '
   The ninety-seven treaty?'
   'Yet another round in the endless verbosity about the Accords. But for all our sakes just pray they keep talking pleasantly. '

 'The scenario? said Jason softly, stopping all movement . 'What scenario?'
   The one you yourself brought up, the scenario that had the wires burning between Peking and Government House. Kill a Governor for the murder of a Vice-Premier? Then perhaps a Foreign Secretary for a ranking member of the Central Committee – a Prime Minister for a Chairman? How far does it go? How many selected killings before the breaking point is reached. How long before the parent refuses to tolerate a disobedient child and marches into Hong Kong? Christ it could happen. Someone wants it to happen!'
   D'Anjou stood motionless, holding the wide belt of the holster with its ominous strand of brass-capped shells. 'What I suggested was no more than speculation based on the random violence caused by an obsessed killer who accepts his contracts without discrimination. There's enough greed and political corruption on both sides to justify that speculation. But what you're suggesting, Delta is quite different. You're saying it's a plan, an organized plan to disrupt Hong Kong to the point that the Mainland takes over. '
   The scenario,' repeated Jason Bourne. The more complicated it gets, the simpler it appears. '
   The rooftops of Kai Tak Airport were swarming with police, as were the gates and the tunnels, the immigration counters and the luggage areas. Outside, on the immense field of black tarmac, powerful floodlights were joined by roving, sharper searchlights probing every moving vehicle, every inch of visible ground. Television crews uncoiled cables under watching eyes, while interviewers standing behind sound trucks practised pronunciation in a dozen languages. Reporters and photographers were kept beyond the gates as airport personnel shouted through the amplifiers that roped-off sections on the field would soon be available for all legitimate journalists with proper passes issued by the Kai Tak management. It was madness. And then the totally unexpected happened as a sudden rainstorm swept over the colony from the darkness of the western horizon. It was yet another autumn deluge.
   The impostor has good luck – good joss – as they say, doesn't he?' said d'Anjou as he and Bourne in their uniforms marched with a phalanx of police through a covered walkway made of corrugated tin to one of the huge repair hangars. The hammering of the rain was deafening.
   'Luck had nothing to do with it,' replied Jason. 'He studied the weather reports from as far away as Szechwan. Every airport has them. He spotted it yesterday, if not two days ago. Weather's a weapon, too, Echo. '
   'Still, he could not dictate the arrival of the Crown Governor on a Chinese aircraft. They are often hours late, usually hours late. '
   'But not days, not usually. When did the Kowloon police get word of the attempt?'
   'I asked specifically,' said the Frenchman. 'Around eleven-thirty this morning. '
   'And the plane from Peking was scheduled to arrive sometime this evening?'
   'Yes, I told you that. The newspaper and the television people were ordered to be here by nine o'clock. '
   'He studied the weather reports. Opportunities present themselves. You grab them. '
   'And this is what you must do, Delta! Think like him, be him! It is our chance!'
   'What do you think I'm doing?... When we get to the hangar I want to break away. Can your ersatz identification make it possible?'
   'I am a British Sector Commander from the Mongkok Divisional Police. '
   'What does that mean?'
   'I really don't know but it was the best I could do. '
   'You don't sound British. '
   'Who would know that out here at Kai Tak, old chap?'
   The British. '
   'I'll avoid them. My Chinese is better than yours. The Zhongguo ren will respect it. You'll be free to roam. '
   'I have to,' said Jason Bourne. 'If it's your commando, I want him before anyone else spots him! Here. Now!
   Roped stanchions were moved out of the high-domed hangar by maintenance personnel in glossy yellow rain slickers. Then a truckload of the yellow coats arrived for the police contingents; men caught them as they were thrown out of the rear of the van. Putting them on, the police then formed several groups to receive instructions from their superiors. Order was rapidly emerging from the confusion compounded by the newly arrived bewildered troops and the problems caused by the sudden downpour. It was the sort of order Bourne distrusted. It was too smooth, too conventional for the job they faced. Ranks of brightly dressed soldiers marching forward were in the wrong place with the wrong tactics when seeking out guerrillas – even one man trained in guerrilla warfare. Each policeman in his yellow slicker was both a warning and a target – and he was also something else. A pawn. Each could be replaced by another dressed the same way, by a killer who knew how to assume the look of his enemy.
   Yet the strategy of infiltration for the purpose of a kill was suicidal, and Jason knew there was no such commitment on the part of his impostor. Unless... unless the weapon to be used had a sound level so low the rain would eliminate it... but even then the target's reaction could not be instantaneous. A cordon would immediately be erected around the killing ground at the first sign of the Governor's collapse, every exit blocked, everyone in the vicinity ordered under guns to remain in place. A delayed reaction? A tiny air dart whose impact was no greater than a pinprick, a minor annoyance to be swatted away like a bothersome fly as the lethal drop of poison entered the bloodstream to cause death slowly but inevitably, time not a consideration. It was a possibility, but again there were too many obstacles to surmount, too much accuracy demanded beyond the limits of an air-compressed weapon. The Governor would undoubtedly be wearing a protective vest, and targeting the face was out. Facial nerves exaggerated pain and any foreign object making contact so close to the eyes produced an immediate and dramatic reaction. That left the hands and the throat; the first were too small and conceivably could be moving too fast, the second was simply too limited an area. A high-powered rifle on a rooftop? A rifle of unquestioned accuracy with an infra-red telescopic sight? Another possibility – an all too familiar yellow slicker replaced by one worn by an assassin. But again, it was suicidal, for such a weapon would produce an isolated explosion, and to mount a silencer would reduce the accuracy of the rifle to the point where it could not be trusted. The odds were against a killer on a rooftop. The kill would be too obvious.
   And the kill was everything. Bourne understood that, especially under the circumstances. D'Anjou was right. All the factors were in place for a spectacular assassination.
   Carlos the Jackal could not ask for more – nor could Jason Bourne, reflected David Webb. To pull it off in spite of the extraordinary security would crown the new 'Bourne' king of his sickening profession. Then how! Which option would he use"? And after the decision was made what avenue of escape was most effective, most possible?
   One of the television trucks with its complicated equipment was too obvious a target for an escape. The incoming aircraft's maintenance crews were checked and double and triple checked; an outsider would be spotted instantly. All the journalists would pass through electronic gates which picked up anything in excess of ten milligrams of metal. And the rooftops were out. How then?
   'You're cleared!' said d'Anjou, suddenly appearing at his side, holding a piece of paper in his hand. This is signed by the prefect of the Kai Tak police. '
   'What did you tell him?'
   That you were a Jew trained by the Mossad in anti-terrorist activities and posted to us in an exchange programme. The word will be spread. '
   'Good God, I don't speak Hebrew!'
   'Who here does? Shrug and continue in your tolerable French – which is spoken here but very badly. You'll get away with it. '
   'You're impossible, you know that, don't you?'
   'I know that Delta, when he was our leader in Medusa, told Command Saigon that he would not go out in the field without "old Echo". '
   'I must have been out of my mind. '
   'You were less in command of it then, I'll grant you that. '
   Thanks a lot, Echo. Wish me luck. '
   'You don't need luck,' said the Frenchman. 'You are Delta. You will always be Delta. '
   Removing the bright yellow rain slicker and the visored hat, Bourne walked outside and showed his clearance to the guards by the hangar doors. In the distance, the press was being herded through the electronic gates towards the roped stanchions. Microphones had been placed on the edge of the runway, while police vans were joined by motorcycle patrols forming a tight semicircle around the press conference area. The preparations were almost complete, all the security forces in place, the media equipment in working order. The plane from Peking had obviously begun its descent in the downpour. It would land in a matter of minutes, minutes Jason wished could be extended. There were so many things to look for and so little time to search. Where! What! Everything was both possible and impossible. Which option would the killer use? What vantage point would he zero in on for the perfect kill? And how would he most logically escape from the killing ground alive?
   Bourne had considered every option he could think of and ruled each out. Think again! And again. Only minutes left. Walk around and start at the beginning... the beginning. The premise: the assassination of the Governor. Conditions: seemingly airtight, with security police training guns from rooftops, blocking every entrance, every exit, every staircase and escalator, all in radio contact. The odds were overwhelmingly against. Suicide... Yet it was these same heavily negative odds that the impostor-killer found irresistible. D'Anjou had been right again: with one spectacular kill under these conditions an assassin's supremacy would be established – or re-established. What had the Frenchman said? With one kill like that he re-establishes the legend to its full invincibility.
   'Who? Where? How? Think! Look!
   The downpour drenched his Kowloon police uniform. He continuously wiped the water from his face as he moved about peering at everyone and everything. Nothing! And then the muted roar of the jet engines could be heard in the distance. The jet from Peking was making its final approach at the far end of the runway. It was landing.
   Jason studied the crowd standing inside the roped stanchions. An accommodating Hong Kong government, in deference to Peking and in the desire for 'full coverage', had supplied ponchos and squares of canvas and cheap pocket raincoats for all who wanted them. The Kai Tak personnel countered the media's demands for an inside conference by stating simply – and wisely without explanation – that it was not in the interests of security. The statements would be short, an aggregate of no more than five or six minutes. Certainly the fine members of the journalistic establishment could tolerate a little rain for such an important event.
   The photographers? Metal Cameras were passed through the gates but not all 'cameras' took pictures. A relatively simple device could be inserted and locked into a mount, a powerful firing mechanism that released a bullet – or a dart -with the assistance of a telescopic viewfinder. Was that the way? Had the assassin taken that option, expecting to smash the 'camera' under his feet and take another from his pocket as he moved swiftly to the outskirts of the crowd, his credentials as authentic as d'Anjou's and the 'anti-terrorist' from the Mossad? It was possible.
   The huge jet dropped onto the runway and Bourne walked quickly into the roped-off area, approaching every photographer he could see, looking – looking for a man who looked like himself. There must have been two dozen men with cameras; he became frantic as the plane from Peking taxied towards the crowd, the flood– and searchlights now centred on the space around the microphones and the television crews. He went from one photographer to the next, rapidly ascertaining that the man could not be the killer, then looking again to see if postures were erect, faces cosmeticized. Again nothing! No one! He had to find him, take him! Before anyone else found him. The assassination was beside the point, it was irrelevant to him! Nothing mattered except Marie!
   Go back to the beginning! Target – the Governor. Conditions – highly negative for a kill, the target under maximum security, undoubtedly protected by personal armour, the whole security corps orderly, disciplined, the officers in tight command... The beginning! Something was missing. Go over it again. The Governor – the target, a single kill. Method of the kill: suicide ruled out everything but a delayed-reaction device – an air dart, a pellet – yet the demands of accuracy made such a weapon illogical, and the loud report of a conventional gun would instantly activate the entire security force. Delay! Delayed action, not reaction! The beginning, the first assumption was wrong! The target was not just the Governor. Not a single kill but multiple killings, indiscriminate killings! How much more spectacular! How much more effective for a maniac who wanted to throw Hong Kong into chaos! And the chaos would begin instantly with the security forces. Disorder, escape!
   Bourne's mind was racing as he roamed through the crowd in the downpour, his eyes darting everywhere. He tried to recall every weapon he had ever known. A weapon that could be fired or released silently, unobtrusively from a restricted, densely populated area, its effect delayed long enough for the killer to reposition himself and make a clean escape. The only device that came to mind were grenades, but he immediately dismissed them. Then the thought of time-fused dynamite or plastique struck him. These last were far more manageable in terms of delays and concealment. The plastic explosives could be set in time spans of minutes and fractions of minutes rather than a few seconds only; they could be hidden in small boxes or in wrapped packages, even narrow briefcases... or thicker cases supposedly filled with photographic equipment, not necessarily carried by a photographer. He started again, going back into the crowd of reporters and photographers, his eyes scanning the black tarmac below trousers and skirts, looking for an isolated container that remained stationary on the hard asphalt. Logic made him concentrate on the rows of men and women nearest the roped-off runway. In his mind the 'package' would be no more than twelve inches in length if it was thick, twenty if it was an attaché case. A smaller charge would not kill the negotiators of both governments. The airfield lights were strong, but they created myriad shadows, darker pockets within the darkness. He wished he had had the sense to carry a flashlight – he had always carried one, if only a penlight, for it, too, was a weapon! Why had he forgotten! Then to his astonishment he saw flashlight beams crisscrossing the black floor of the airfield, darting between the same trousers and skirts he had been peering beyond. The security police had arrived at the same theory, and why shouldn't they? La Guardia Airport, 1972; Lod Airport, Tel Aviv, 1974; Rue de Bac, Paris, 1975; Harrods, London, 1982. And half a dozen embassies from Teheran to Beirut, why shouldn't they? They were current, he was not. His thinking was slow – and he could not allow that!
   What! Where!
   The enormous 747 starship of the People's Republic came into view like a great silver bird, its jet engines roaring through the deluge, whirring down as it was manoeuvred into position on alien ground. The doors opened and the English and Chinese guards rushed down the steps and into position. Then the parade began. The two leaders of the British and the Chinese delegations emerged together. They waved and walked in unison down the metal staircase, one in the tailored clothes of Whitehall, the other in the drab, rankless uniform of the People's army. They were followed by two lines of aides and adjutants, Occidentals and Orientals doing their best to appear congenial with one another for the cameras. The leaders approached the microphones, and as the voices droned over the loudspeakers and through the rain the next minutes were a blur for Jason. A part of his mind was on the ceremony that was taking place under the floodlights, the larger part on the final search – for it would be final. If the impostor was there, he had to find him – before the kill, before the chaos! But, goddamn it, where! Bourne moved out beyond the ropes on the far right to get a better view of the proceedings. A guard objected; Jason showed the man his clearance and remained motionless, studying the television crews, their looks, their eyes, their equipment. If the assassin was among them, which one was he?
   'We are jointly pleased to announce that further progress has been made with regard to the Accords. We of the United Kingdom... '
   'We of the People's Republic of China – the only true China on the face of the earth – express a desire to find a mutual communion with those who wish... '
   The speeches were interspersed, each leader giving support to his counterpart, yet letting the world know there was still much to negotiate. There was tension beneath the civility, the verbal placebos, and the plastic smiles. And Jason found nothing he could focus on, nothing, so he wiped the rain from his face and nodded to the guard as he ducked under the rope and moved once again back through the crowd behind the stanchions. He threaded his way to the left side of the press conference.
   Suddenly, Bourne's eyes were drawn to a series of headlights in the downpour that curved into the runway at the far end of the field and rapidly accelerated towards the stationary aircraft. Then, as if on cue, there was a swelling of applause. The brief ceremony was over, signified by the arrival of the official limousines, each with a motorcycle escort driving up between the delegations and the roped-off crowd of journalists and photographers. Police surrounded the television trucks, ordering all but two preselected cameramen to get inside their vehicles.
   It was the moment. If anything was going to happen, it would happen now. If an instrument of death was about to be placed, its charge to be exploded within the timespan of a minute or less, it would have to be placed now!
   Several feet to his left, he saw an officer of a police contingent, a tall man whose eyes were moving as rapidly as his own. Jason leaned towards the man and spoke in Chinese while holding out his clearance, shielding it from the rain with his hand. 'I'm the man from the Mossad!' he yelled, trying to be heard through the applause.
   'Yes, I know about you!' shouted the officer. 'I was told. We're grateful you're here!'
   'Do you have a flashlight – a torch?'
   'Yes, of course. Do you want it?'
   'Very much. '
   'Here. '
   'Clear me!' ordered Bourne, lifting the rope, gesturing for the officer to follow. 'I haven't time to show papers!'
   'Certainly!' The Chinese followed, reaching out and intercepting a guard who was about to stop Jason – by shooting him if necessary. 'Let him be! He's one of us! He's trained in this sort of thing!'
   The Jew from the Mossad?'
   'It is he. '
   'We were told. Thank you, sir... But, of course, he can't understand me. '
   'Oddly enough, he does. He speaks Guangzhou hua. '
   'In Food Street there is what they call a Kosur restaurant that serves our dishes.'
   Bourne was now between the row of limousines and the roped stanchions. As he walked down the line, his flashlight directed below on the black tarmac, he gave orders in Chinese and English – shouting yet not shouting; the commands of a reasonable man looking, perhaps, for a lost object. One by one the men and women of the press moved back, explaining to those behind them. He approached the leading limousine; the flags of Great Britain and the People's Republic were displayed respectively on the right and left, indicating that England was the host, China the guest. The representatives rode together. Jason concentrated on the ground; the exalted passengers were about to enter the elongated vehicle with their most trusted aides amid sustained applause.
   It happened, but Bourne was not sure what it was! His left shoulder touched another shoulder and the contact was electric. The man he had grazed first lurched forward and then had swung back with such ferocity that Jason was shoved off-balance. He turned and looked at the man on the police escort motorcycle, then raised his flashlight to see through the dark plastic oval of the helmet.
   Lightning struck, sharp, jagged bolts crashing into his skull, his eyes riveted as he tried to adjust to the incredible. He was staring at himself – from only years ago! The dark features beyond the opaque bubble were his! It was the commando! The impostor! The assassin!
   The eyes that stared back at him also showed panic, but they were quicker than Webb's. A flattened, rigid hand lashed out, crashing into Jason's throat, cutting off all speech and thought. Bourne fell back, unable to scream, grabbing his neck as the assassin lurched off his motorcycle. He rushed past Jason and ducked under the rope.
   Get him! Take him... Marie! The words were absent, only hysterical thoughts screaming silently through Bourne's mind. He retched, exploding the chop in his throat, and leaped over the rope, plunging into the crowd, following the path of fallen-away bodies that had been pummelled by the killer in his race to escape.
   'Stop... him Only the last word emerged from Jason's throat; it was a hoarse whisper. 'Let me through? Two words were formed but no one was listening. From somewhere near the terminal a band was playing in the downpour.
   The path was closed! There were only people, people, people! Find him! Take him! Marie! He's gone! He's disappeared! 'Let me through!' he screamed, the words now clear but heeded by no one. He yanked and pulled and bucked his way to the edge of the crowd, another crowd facing him behind the glass doors of the terminal.
   Nothing! No one! The killer was gone!
   Killer? The kill!
   It was the limousine, the lead limousine with the flags of both countries! That was the target! Somewhere in that car or beneath that car was the timed mechanism that would blow it to the skies, killing the leaders of both delegations. Result -the scenario... chaos. Take-over!
   Bourne spun around, frantically looking for someone in authority. Twenty yards beyond the rope, standing at attention as the British anthem was being played, was an officer of the Kowloon police. Clipped to his belt was a radio. A chance! The limousines had started their stately procession towards an unseen gate in the airfield.
   Jason yanked the rope, pulling it up, toppling a stanchion, and started running towards the short, erect, Chinese officer. 'Xun su!' he roared.
   'Shemma?' replied the startled man, instinctively reaching for his bolstered gun.
   'Stop them! The cars, the limousines! The one in front!'
   'What are you talking about? Who are you?'
   Bourne nearly struck the man in frustration. 'Mossad? he screamed.
   'You are the one from Israel? I've heard-'
   "Listen to me! Get on that radio and tell them to stop! Get everyone out of that car! It's going to blow! Now!'
   Through the rain the officer looked up into Jason's eyes, then nodded once and pulled the radio from his belt. This is an emergency! Clear the channel and patch me to Red Star One. Immediately. '
   ''All the cars!' interrupted Bourne. Tell them to peel away!'
   'Change!' cried the police officer. 'Alert all vehicles. Put me through!' And with his voice tense but controlled, the Chinese spoke clearly, emphasizing each word. This is Colony Five and we have an emergency. With me is the man from the Mossad and I relay his instructions. They are to be complied with at once. Red Star One is to stop instantly and order everyone out of the vehicle, instructing them to run for cover. All other cars are to turn to the left towards the centre of the field, away from Red Star One. Execute immediately?
   Stunned, the crowds watched as in the distance the engines roared in unison. Five limousines swung out of position, racing into the outer darkness of the airport. The first car screeched to a stop; the doors opened and men leaped out, running in all directions.
   Eight seconds later it happened. The limousine called Red Star One exploded forty feet from an open gate. Flaming metal and shattered glass spiralled up into the downpour as the band music halted in midbreath.
   Peking. 11:25 p.m.
   Above the northern suburbs of Peking is a vast compound rarely spoken of, and certainly not for public inspection. The major reason is security, but there is also an element of embarrassment in this egalitarian society. For inside this sprawling, forested enclave in the hills are the villas of China's most powerful figures. The compound is enclosed by a high wall of grey stone, the entrances to the complex guarded by seasoned army veterans, the dense woods within continuously patrolled by attack dogs. And if one were to speculate on the social or political relationships cultivated there, it should be noted that no villa can be seen from another, for each structure is surrounded by its own inner wall, and all personal guards are personally selected from years of obedience and trust. The name, when it is spoken, is Jade Tower Mountain, which refers not to a geological mountain but to an immense hill that rises above the others. At one time or another, with the ebb and flow of political fortunes, such men as Mao Zedong, Lin Shaoqi, Lin Biao, and Zhou Enlai resided here. Among the residents now was a man shaping the economic destiny of the People's Republic. The world press referred to him simply as Sheng, and the name was immediately recognizable. His full name was Sheng Chou Yang.
   A brown sedan sped down the road fronting the imposing grey wall. It approached Gate Number Six, and as though preoccupied, the driver suddenly applied the brakes and the car sideslipped into the entrance, stopping inches from the bright orange barrier that reflected the beams of the headlights. A guard approached.
   'Who is it you come to see and what is your name? I will need your official identification. '
   'Minister Sheng,' said the driver. 'And my name is not important, nor are my papers required. Please inform the minister's residence that his emissary from Kowloon is here. '
   The soldier shrugged. Such replies were standard at Jade Tower Mountain and to press further might result in a transfer from this heavenly duty where the leftover food was beyond one's imagination and even foreign beer was given for obedient and co-operative service. Still the guard used the telephone. The visitor had to be admitted properly. To do otherwise could bring one to kneel in a field and be shot in the back of the head. The guard returned to the gatehouse and dialled the villa of Sheng Chou Yang.
   'Admit him. Quickly?
   Without going back to the sedan, the guard pressed a button and the orange bar was raised. The car raced in, far too quickly over the gravel, thought the guard. The emissary was in a great hurry.
   'Minister Sheng is in the garden,' said the army officer at the door, looking beyond the visitor, his eyes darting about, peering into the darkness. 'Go to him. '
   The emissary rushed through the front room filled with red lacquered furniture to an archway beyond which was a walled garden complete with four connecting lily ponds subtly lit with yellow lights beneath the water. Two intersecting paths of white gravel formed an X between the ponds, and low, black wicker chairs and tables were placed at the far end of each path within an oval setting. Seated alone at the end of the eastern leg by the brick wall was a slender man of medium height, with close-cropped, prematurely grey hair and gaunt features. If there was anything about him that might startle someone meeting him for the first time it was his eyes, for they were the dark eyes of a dead man, the lids never blinking even for an instant. Contrarily, they were also the eyes of a zealot whose blind dedication was the core of his strength; white heat was in the pupils, lightning in the orbs. These were the eyes of Sheng Chou Yang, and at the moment they were on fire.
   '7W me!' he roared, both hands gripping the black arms of the wicker chair. 'Who does this?'
   'It's all a lie, Minister! We have checked with our people in Tel Aviv. There is no such man as was described. There is no agent from the Mossad in Kowloon!
   'What action did you take?'
   'It is most confusing-'
   'What action?'
   'We are tracing an Englishman in the Mongkok whom no one seems to know about. '
   'Fools and idiots! Idiots and fools! Whom have you spoken with?'
   'Our key man in the Kowloon police. He is bewildered, and I'm sorry to say I think he is frightened. He made several references to Macao and I did not like his voice. '
   'He is dead. '
   'I will transmit your instructions. '
   'I'm afraid you cannot. ' Shang gestured with his left hand, his right in shadows, reaching beneath the low table. 'Come pay your obedience to the Kuomintang,' he commanded.
   The emissary approached the minister. He bowed low and reached for the great man's left hand. Sheng lifted his right hand. In it was a gun.
   An explosion followed, blowing the emissary's head away. Fragments of skull and tissue seared into the lily ponds. The army officer appeared in the archway as the corpse sprang back under the impact into the white gravel.
   'Dispose of him,' ordered Sheng. 'He heard too much, learned too much... presumed too much. '
   'Certainly, Minister. '
   'And reach the man in Macao. I have instructions for him and they are to be implemented immediately, while the fires in Kowloon still light up the sky. I want him here. '
   As the officer approached the dead courier, Sheng suddenly rose from the chair, then walked slowly to the edge of the nearest pond, his face illuminated by the lights beneath the water. He spoke once again,-his voice flat but filled with purpose.
   'Soon all of Hong Kong and the territories,' he said, staring at a lily pad. 'Soon thereafter, all of China. '
   'You lead, Minister,' said the officer, watching Sheng, his eyes glowing with devotion. 'We follow. The march you promised has begun. We return to our Mother and the land will be ours again. '
   'Yes, it will,' agreed Sheng Chou Yang. 'We cannot be denied. I cannot be denied.'

20
   By noon of that paralysing day when Kai Tak was merely an airport and not an assassination field, Ambassador Havilland had described to a stunned Catherine Staples the broad outlines of the Sheng conspiracy with its roots in the Kuomintang. Objective: a consortium of taipans with a central leader, whose son Sheng was taking over Hong Kong and turning the colony into the conspirators' own financial empire. Inevitable result: the conspiracy would fail, and the raging giant that was the People's Republic would strike out, marching into Hong Kong, destroying the Accords and throwing the Far East into chaos. In utter disbelief Catherine had demanded substantiation and by 2:15 had twice read the State Department's lengthy and top-secret dossier on Sheng Chou Yang, but she continued to strenuously object as the accuracy could not be verified. At 3:30 she had been taken to the radio room and by satellite-scrambler transmission was presented with an array of 'facts' by a man named Reilly of the National Security Council in Washington.
   'You're only a voice, Mr Reilly,' Staples had said. 'How do I know you're not down at the bottom of the Peak in the Wanchai?'
   There was at that moment a pronounced click on the line and a voice Catherine and the world knew very well was speaking to her. 'This is the President of the United States, Mrs. Staples. If you doubt that, I suggest you call your consulate. Ask them to reach the White House by diplomatic phone and request a confirmation of our transmission. I'll hang on. You'll receive it. At the moment I have nothing better to do – nothing more vital. '
   Shaking her head and briefly closing her eyes, Catherine had answered quietly. 'I believe you, Mr President. '
   'Forget about me, believe what you've heard. It's the truth. '
   'It's just so unbelievable – inconceivable. '
   'I'm no expert, Mrs. Staples, and I never claimed to be, but then neither was the Trojan Horse very believable. Now, that may be legend and Menelaus' wife may have been a figment of a campfire storyteller's imagination, but the concept is valid – it's become a symbol of an enemy destroying his adversary from within. '
   'Menelaus...?'
   'Don't believe the media, I've read a book or two. But do believe our people, Mrs. Staples. We need you. I'll call your Prime Minister if it will help, but in all honesty, I'd rather not. He might feel it necessary to confer with others. '
   'No, Mr President. Containment is everything. I'm beginning to understand Ambassador Havilland. '
   'You're one up on me. I don't always understand him. '
   'Perhaps it's better that way, sir. '
   At 3:58 there was an emergency call – highest priority – to the sterile house in Victoria Peak, but it was not for either the Ambassador or Undersecretary of State McAllister. It was for Major Lin Wenzu, and when it came a frightening vigil began that lasted four hours. The scant information was so electrifying that all concentration was riveted on the crisis, and Catherine Staples telephoned her consulate telling the High Commissioner that she was not well and would not attend the strategy conference with the Americans that afternoon. Her presence in the sterile house was welcome. Ambassador Havilland wanted the foreign service officer to see and understand for herself how close the Far East was to upheaval. How an inevitable error on either Sheng's or his assassin's part could bring about an explosion so drastic that troops from the People's Republic could move into Hong Kong within hours, bringing not only the colony's world trade to a halt, but with it widespread human suffering -savage rioting everywhere, death squads from the left and the right exploiting resentments going back forty years, racial and provincial factions pitted against one another and the military forces. Blood would flow in the streets and the harbour, and as nations everywhere must be affected, global war was a very real possibility. He said these things to her as Lin worked furiously on the telephone, giving commands, coordinating his people with the colony's police and the airport's security.
   It all had started with the major from MI6 cupping the phone and speaking in a quiet voice in that Victorian room in Victoria Peak.
   'Kai Tak tonight. The Sino-British delegations. Assassination. The target is the Governor. They believe it's Jason Bourne. '
   'I can't understand it!' protested McAllister, leaping from the couch. 'It's premature. Sheng isn't ready! We'd have got an inkling of it if he was – an official statement from his ministry alluding to a proposed commission of some sort. It's wrong!'
   'Miscalculation?' asked the ambassador coldly.
   'Possibly. Or something else. A strategy we haven't considered. '
   'Go to work, Major,' said Havilland.
   After issuing his last orders Lin received a final order himself from Havilland before heading to the airport . 'Stay out of sight, Major,' said the ambassador. 'I mean that. '
   'Impossible,' replied Lin. 'With respect, sir, I must be with my men on the scene. These are experienced eyes. '
   'With equal respect,' continued Havilland. 'I must make it a condition of your getting through the outside gate. '
   "Why, Mr. Ambassador?
   'With your perspicacity, I'm surprised you ask. '
   'I have to! I don't understand. '
   Then perhaps it's my fault, Major. I thought I'd made it clear why we went to such extremes to bring our Jason Bourne over here. Accept the fact that he's extraordinary, his record proves it. He has his ears not only to the ground, but they're also locked into the four winds. We must presume, if the medical prognosis is accurate and portions of his memory continue to come back to him, that he has contacts all over this part of the world in nooks and crannies we know nothing about. Suppose – just suppose, Major – that one of those contacts inform him that an emergency-alert has been sent out for Kai Tak Airport tonight, that a large security force has been gathered to protect the Governor. What do you think he'd do?'
   'Be there,' answered Lin -Wenzu softly, reluctantly. 'Somewhere. '
   'And suppose again that our Bourne saw you! Forgive me, but you are not easily overlooked. The discipline of his logical mind – logic, discipline and imagination were always his means of survival – would force him to find out precisely who you are. Need I say more?'
   'I don't think so,' said the major.
   The connection is made,' said Havilland, overriding Wenzu's words. There is no taipan with a murdered young wife in Macao. Instead there is a highly regarded field officer of British Intelligence posing as a fictitious taipan, having fed him yet another lie that echoes a previous lie. He will know that once again he has been manipulated by government forces, manipulated in the most brutal fashion possible – the abduction of his wife. The mind, Major, is a delicate instrument, his more delicate than most. It can only take so much stress. I don't even want to think about what he might do – what we might be forced to do. '
   'It was always the weakest aspect of the scenario, and yet it was the core,' said Wenzu.
   '"An ingenious device",' interrupted McAllister, obviously quoting. ' "Few acts of vengeance are as readily understood as an eye for an eye." Your words, Lin. '
   'If so, you should not have chosen me to play your taipan!' insisted the major. There's a crisis here in Hong Kong and you've crippled me!'
   'It's the same crisis facing all of us,' said Havilland gently. 'Only this time we have a warning. Also, Lin, who else could we have chosen? What other Chinese but the proven chief of Special Branch would have been cleared by London for what you were initially told, to say nothing of what you know now? Set up your command post inside the airport's tower. The glass is dark. '
   In silence, the huge major turned angrily and left the room. 'Is it wise to let him go!' asked McAllister, as he, the ambassador and Catherine Staples watched Lin leave.
   'Certainly,' answered the diplomat of covert operations.
   'I spent several weeks here with MI6,' continued the undersecretary rapidly. 'He's been known to disobey in the past. '
   'Only when the orders were given by posturing British officers with less experience than himself. He was never reprimanded; he was right. Just as he knows I'm right. '
   'How can you be sure?'
   'Why do you think he said we've crippled him? He doesn't like it but he accepts it. ' Havilland walked behind the desk and turned to Catherine. 'Please sit down, Mrs. Staples. And Edward, I should like to ask a favour of you and it has nothing to do with confidentiality. You know as much as I do and you're probably more current, and I'll no doubt call for you if I need information. However, I'd like to talk with Mrs. Staples alone. '
   'By all means,' said the undersecretary, gathering up papers on the desk, as Catherine sat down in a chair facing the diplomat . 'I've a great deal of thinking to do. If this Kai Tak thing isn't a hoax – if it's a direct order from Sheng – then he's conceived of a strategy we really haven't considered, and that's dangerous. From every avenue, every direction I've explored, he has to offer up his clearinghouse, his damned economic commission, under stable conditions, not unstable. He could blow everything apart – but he's not stupid, he's brilliant. What's he doing?
   'Consider, if you will,' broke in the ambassador, frowning as he sat down, 'the reverse of our approach, Edward. Instead of implanting his financial clearing house of assorted taipans during a period of stability, he does so in instability – but with sympathy, the point being to restore order quickly. No raging giant but rather a protective father, caring for his emotionally disturbed offspring, wanting to calm it down. '
   'To what advantage?'
   'It takes place rapidly, that's all. Who would so closely examine a group of respected financiers from the colony put in place during a crisis? After all, they represent stability. It's something to think about. '
   McAllister held the papers in his hands and looked at Havilland. 'It's too much of a gamble for him,' he said. 'Sheng risks losing control of the expansionists in the Central Committee, the old military revolutionaries who are looking for any excuse to move into the colony. A crisis based on violence would play right into their hands. That's the scenario we gave Webb, and it's a realistic one. '
   'Unless Sheng's own position is now strong enough to suppress them. As you said yourself, Sheng Chou Yang has made China a great deal of money, and if there was ever a basically capitalistic people it's the Chinese. They have more than a healthy respect for money, it's an obsession. '
   They also have respect for the old men of the Long March and it, too, is obsessive. Without those early Maoists most of China's younger leadership would be illiterate peasants breaking their backs in the field. They revere those old soldiers. Sheng wouldn't risk a confrontation. '
   Then there's an alternative theory that could be a combination of what we're both saying. We did not tell Webb that a number of the more vocal leaders of Peking's old guard haven't been heard from in months. And in several instances, when the word was officially released, this one or that had died of natural causes, or a tragic accident, and in one case was removed in disgrace. Now if our assumption is right, that at least some of these silenced men are victims of Sheng's hired gun-'
   Then he's solidified his position by elimination,' broke in McAllister. 'Westerners are all over Peking; the hotels are filled to capacity. What's one more – especially an assassin who could be anyone – an attaché, a business executive... a Chameleon. '
   'And who better than the manipulative Sheng to set up secret meetings between his Jason Bourne and selected victims. Any number of pretexts would do, but primarily military high-tech espionage. The targets would leap at it. '
   'If any of this is near the truth, Sheng's much further along than we thought. '
   Take your papers. Request anything you need from our intelligence people and MI6. Study everything, but find us a pattern, Edward. If we lose a Governor tonight we may be on our way to losing Hong Kong in a matter of days. For all the wrong reasons. '
   'He'll be protected,' muttered McAllister, heading for the door, his face troubled.
   'I'm counting on it,' said the ambassador as the undersecretary left the room. Havilland turned to Catherine Staples. 'Are you really beginning to understand me? he asked.
   The words and their implications, yes, but not certain specifics,' replied Catherine; looking oddly at the door the undersecretary of state had just closed. 'He's a strange man, isn't he?'
   'McAllister?'
   'Yes. '
   'Does he bother you?
   'On the contrary. He lends a certain credibility to everything that's been said to me. By you, by that man Reilly – even by your President, I'm afraid. ' Staples turned back to the ambassador. 'I'm being honest. '
   'I want you to be. And I understand the wavelength you're on. McAllister's one of the best analytical minds in the State Department, a brilliant bureaucrat who will never rise to the level of his own worth. '
   'Why not?'
   'I think you know, but if you don't you sense it. He's a thoroughly moral man and that morality has stood in the way of his advancement. Had I been cursed with his sense of moral outrage I never would have become the man I am – and in my defense I never would have accomplished what I have. But I think you know that, too. You said as much when you came in here. '
   'Now you're the one being honest. I appreciate it. '
   'I'm glad. I want the air cleared between us because I want your help. '
   'Marie?'
   'And beyond,' said Havilland. 'What specifics disturb you? What can I clarify?'
   This clearing house, this commission of bankers and taipans Sheng will propose to oversee the colony's financial policies-'
   'Let me anticipate,' interrupted the diplomat . 'On the surface they will be disparate in character and position and eminently acceptable. As I said to McAllister when we first met, if we thought the whole insane scheme had a prayer, we'd look the other way and wish them great success, but it doesn't have a chance. All powerful men have enemies; there'll be skeptics here in Hong Kong and in Peking -jealous factions who've been excluded – and they'll dig deeper than Sheng expects. I think you know what they'll find. '
   That all roads, above and below ground, lead to Rome. Rome here being this taipan, Sheng's father, whose name your highly selective documents never mention. He's the spider whose webs reach out to every member of that clearing house. He controls them. For God's sake, who the hell is he?'
   'I wish we knew,' said Havilland, his voice flat.
   'You really don't?' asked Catherine Staples, astonished.
   'If we did, life would be far simpler and I would have told you. I'm not playing games with you; we've never learned who he is. How many taipans are there in Hong Kong? How many zealots wanting to strike back at Peking in any way they can in the cause of the Kuomintang? By their lights China was stolen from them. Their Motherland, the graves of their ancestors, their possessions – everything. Many were decent people, Mrs. Staples, but many others were not. The political leaders, the warlords, the landlords, the immensely rich – they were a privileged society that gorged themselves on the sweat and suppression of millions. And if that sounds like a crock of today's Communist propaganda, it was a classic case of yesterday's provocation that gave rise to such bilge. We're dealing with a handful of obsessed expatriats who want their own back. They forget the corruption that led to their own collapse. '
   'Have you thought of confronting Sheng himself? Privately!
   'Of course, and his reaction is all too predictable. He would feign outrage and tell us bluntly that if we pursue such despicable fantasies in an attempt to discredit him, he'll void the China Accords, claiming duplicity, and move Hong Kong into Peking's economic orbit immediately. He'd claim that many of the old line Marxists in the Central Committee would applaud such a move, and he'd be right. Then he would look at us and probably say, "Gentlemen, you have your choice. Good day."'
   'And if you made Sheng's conspiracy public the same thing would happen and he knows you know it,' said Staples, frowning. 'Peking would pull out of the Accords, blaming Taiwan and the West for messing around. The West's face is beet red with internal capitalistic corruption, so the territory marches to a Marxist drum – actually they wouldn't have a choice. And what follows is economic collapse. '
   That's the way we read it,' agreed Havilland.
   'The solution?'
   There's only one. Sheng. '
   Staples nodded her head. 'Hardball,' she said.
   The most extreme act, if that's what you mean. '
   That's obviously what I mean,' said Catherine. 'And Marie's husband, this Webb, is intrinsic to the solution?'
   'Jason Bourne is intrinsic to it, yes. '
   'Because this impostor, this assassin who calls himself Bourne, can be trapped by the extraordinary man he emulates – as McAllister put it, but not in that context. He takes his place and pulls out Sheng where he can implement the solution, the extreme solution... Hell, he kills him. '
   'Yes. Somewhere in China, of course. '
   'In China ... of course?'
   'Yes, making it appear internal fratricide with no external connections. Peking can't blame anyone but unknown enemies of Sheng within its own hierarchy. In any case, at that juncture, if it happens, it's probably going to be irrelevant. The world won't officially hear of Sheng's death for weeks, and when the announcement is made, his "sudden demise" will undoubtedly be attributed to a massive coronary or a cerebral haemorrhage, certainly not to murder. The giant does not parade its aberrations, its conceals them. '
   'Which is precisely what you want. '
   'Naturally. The world goes on, the taipans are cut off from their source, Sheng's clearing-house collapses like a house of cards, and reasonable men go forward honoring the Accords to everyone's benefit... But we're a long way from there, Mrs. Staples. To begin with, there's today, tonight. Kai Tak. It could be the beginning of the end, for we have no immediate countermeasures to put in place. If I appear calm it's an illusion born of years of concealing tension. My two consolations at this moment are that the colony's security forces are among the best on earth, and second – the tragedy of death notwithstanding – is that Peking has been alerted to the situation. Hong Kong's concealing nothing, nor does it care to. So, in a sense, it becomes both a joint risk and a joint venture to protect the Governor. '
   'How does that help if the worst happens?'
   'For what it's worth, psychologically. It may avert the appearance if not the fact of instability, for the emergency has been labeled beforehand as an isolated act of premeditated violence, not symptomatic of the colony's unrest. Above all, it's been shared. Both delegations have their own military escorts; they'll be put to use. '
   'So by such subtle points of protocol a crisis can be contained?'
   'From what I've been told, you don't need any lessons in containing crises, or precipitating them either. Besides, everything can go off the wire with one development that throws subtleties on to the garbage heap. Despite everything I've said, I'm frightened to death. There's so much room for error and miscalculation – they're our enemies, Mrs. Staples. All we can do is wait, and waiting is the hardest part, the most draining. '
   'I have other questions,' said Catherine.
   'By all means, as many as you like. Make me think, make me sweat, if you can. It may help us both to take our minds off the waiting. '
   'You just referred to my questionable abilities in containing crises. But you added – I think more confidently – that I could also precipitate them. '
   'I'm sorry, I couldn't resist. It's a bad habit. '
   'I assume you meant the attaché, John Nelson. '
   'Who? ... Oh, yes, the young man from the consulate. What he lacks in judgement he makes up in courage. '
   'You're wrong. '
   'About the judgement?' asked Havilland, his thick eyebrows arched in mild astonishment . 'Really?'
   'I'm not excusing his weaknesses, but he's one of the finest people you've got. His professional judgement is superior to that of most of your more experienced personnel. Ask anyone in the consulates who's been in conferences with him. He's also one of the few who speak a damn good Cantonese. '
   'He also compromised what he knew was a highly classified operation,' said the diplomat curtly.
   'If he hadn't, you wouldn't have found me. You wouldn't have come within arm's reach of Marie St Jacques, which is where you are now. An arm's reach. '
   'An "arm's reach"...?' Havilland leaned forward, his eyes angry, questioning. 'Surely, you won't continue to hide her. '
   'Probably not. I haven't decided. '
   'My God, woman, after everything you've been told! She's got to be here! Without her we've lost, we've all lost! If Webb found out she wasn't with us, that she'd disappeared, he'd go mad! You've got to deliver her!'
   'That's the point. I can deliver her any time. It doesn't have to be when you say.'
   'No!" thundered the ambassador. 'When and if OUT Jason Bourne completes his assignment, a series of telephone calls will be placed putting him in direct contact with his wife!'
   'I won't give you a telephone number,' said Staples matter-of-factly. 'I might as well give you an address. '
   'You don't know what you're doing! What do I have to say to convince you?'
   'Simple. Reprimand John Nelson verbally. Suggest counseling, if you wish, but keep everything off the record and keep him here in Hong Kong, where his chances for recognition are the best. '
   'Jesus Christ!' exploded Havilland. 'He's a drug addict!'
   'That's ludicrous, but typical of the primitive reaction of an American "moralist" given a few key words. '
   'Please, Mrs. Staples-'
   'He was drugged; he doesn't take drugs. His limit is three vodka martinis, and he likes girls. Of course, a few of your male attaches prefer boys, and their limit is nearer six martinis, but who's counting? Frankly, I personally don't give a damn what adults do within the four walls of a bedroom – I don't really believe that whatever it is affects what they do outside the bedroom – but Washington has this peculiar preoccupation with-'
   'All right, Mrs. Staples! Nelson is reprimanded – by me -and the Consul General will not be informed and nothing goes into his record. Are you satisfied?
   'We're getting there. Call him this afternoon and tell him that. Also tell him to get his extracurricular act together for his own benefit. '
   That will be a pleasure. Is there anything else?
   'Yes, and I'm afraid I don't know how to put it without insulting you. '
   'That hasn't fazed you. '
   'It fazes me now because I know far more than I did three hours ago. '
   'Then insult me, dear lady. '
   Catherine paused, and when she spoke her voice was a cry for understanding. It was hollow yet vibrant and filled the room. ' Why! Why did you do it? Wasn't there another way?'
   'I presume you mean Mrs. Webb. '
   'Of course I mean Mrs. Webb, and no less her husband! I asked you before, have you any idea what you've done to them? It's barbaric and I mean that in the full ugliness of the word. You've put both of them on some kind of medieval rack, literally pulling their minds and their bodies apart, making them live with the knowledge that they may never see each other again, each believing that with a wrong decision one can cause the other's death. An American lawyer once asked a question in a senate hearing, and I'm afraid I must ask it of you... Have you no sense of decency, Mr. Ambassador?'
   Havilland looked wearily at Staples. 'I have a sense of duty,' he said, his voice tired, his face drawn. 'I had to develop a situation rapidly that would provoke an immediate response, a total commitment to act instantly. It was based on an incident in Webb's past, a terrible thing that turned a civilized young scholar into – the phrase used to describe him was the "supreme guerrilla". I needed that man, that hunter, for all the reasons you've heard. He's here, he's hunting, and I assume his wife is unharmed and we obviously never intended anything else for her. '
   The incident in Webb's past. That was his first wife? In Cambodia?
   'You know, then?
   'Marie told me. His wife and two children were killed by a lone jet fighter sweeping down along a river, strafing the water where they were playing. '

'He became another man,' said Havilland, nodding. 'His mind snapped and it became his war despite the fact that he had little or no regard for Saigon. He was venting his outrage in the only way he knew how, fighting an enemy who had stolen his life from him. He would usually take on only the most complex and dangerous assignments where the objectives were major, the targets within the framework of command personnel. One doctor said that in his mental warp Webb was killing the killers who sent out other mindless killers. I suppose it makes sense. '
   'And by taking his second wife in Maine you raised the spectre of his first loss. The incident that turned him first into this "supreme guerrilla', then later as Jason Bourne, the hunter of Carlos the Jackal. '
   'Yes, Mrs. Staples, hunter,' interjected the diplomat quietly. 'I wanted that hunter on the scene immediately. I couldn't waste any time – not a minute – and I didn't know any other way to get immediate results. '
   'He's an Oriental scholar? cried Catherine. 'He understands the dynamics of the Orient a hell of a lot better than any of us, the so-called experts. Couldn't you have appealed to him, appealed to his sense of history, pointing out the consequences of what could happen?
   'He may be a scholar but he's first a man who believes -with certain justification – that he was betrayed by his government. He asked for help and a trap was set to kill him. No appeals of mine would have broken through that barrier. '
   'You could have tried'
   'And risk delay when every hour counted? In a way, I'm sorry you've never been put in my position. Then, perhaps, you might really understand me. '
   'Question,' said Catherine, holding up her hand defiantly. 'What makes you think that David Webb will go into China after Sheng if he does find and take the impostor? As I understand it, the agreement is for him to deliver the man who calls himself Jason Bourne and Marie is returned to him. '
   'At that point, if it occurs, it doesn't really matter. That's when we'll tell him why we did what we did. That's when we'll appeal to his Far East expertise and the global consequences of Sheng's and the taipans' machinations. If he walks away, we have several experienced field agents who can take his place. They're not men who you'd care to bring home to meet your mother but they're available and they can do it.'
   'How?
   'Codes, Mrs. Staples. The original Jason Bourne's methods always included codes between himself and his clients. That was the structured myth and the impostor has studied every aspect of the original. Once this new Bourne is in our hands we'll get the information we need one way or another -confirmed by chemicals, of course. We'll know how to reach Sheng, and that's all we have to know. One meeting in the countryside outside Jade Tower Mountain. One kill and the world goes on. I'm not capable of coming up with any other solution. Are you?'
   'No,' said Catherine softly, slowly shaking her head. 'It's hardball. '
   'Give us Mrs. Webb. '
   'Yes, of course, but not tonight. She can't go anywhere, and you've got enough to worry about with Kai Tak. I took her to a flat in Tuen Mun in the New Territories. It belongs to a friend of mine. I also took her to a doctor who bandaged her feet – she bruised them badly running from Lin – and he gave her a sedative. My God, she's a wreck; she hasn't slept in days, and the pills didn't do much for her last night; she was too tense, still too frightened. I stayed with her and she talked until dawn. Let her rest. I'll pick her up in the morning. '
   'How will you manage it? What will you say?'
   'I'm not sure. I'll call her later and try to keep her calm. I'll tell her I'm making progress – more, perhaps, than I thought I would. I just want to give her hope, to ease the tension. I'll tell her to stay near the phone, get as much rest as she can, and I'll drive up in the morning, I think with good news. '
   'I'd like to send a back-up with you,' said Havilland. 'Including McAllister. He knows her and I honestly believe his moral suasion will be communicated. It will bolster your case. '
   'It might,' agreed Catherine, nodding. 'As you said, I sensed it. All right, but they're to stay away until I've talked to her and that could take a couple of hours. She has a finely honed distrust of Washington and I've got a lot of convincing to do. That's her husband out there and she loves him very much. I can't and I won't tell her that I approve of what you did, but I can say that in light of the extraordinary circumstances – not excluding the conceivable economic collapse of Hong Kong – I understand why you did it. What she has to understand – if nothing else – is that she's closer to her husband being with you than away from you. Of course, she may try to kill you but that's your problem. She's a very feminine, good-looking woman, more than attractive, quite striking actually, but remember she's a ranch girl from Calgary. I wouldn't advise being alone with her in a room. I'm sure she's wrestled calves to the ground far stronger than you. '
   'I'll bring in a squad of marines. '
   'Don't. She'd turn them against you. She's one of the most persuasive people I've ever met. '
   'She has to be,' replied the ambassador, leaning back in his chair. 'She forced a man with no identity, with overwhelming feelings of guilt, to look into himself and walk out of the tunnels of his own confusion. No easy task... Tell me about her – not the dry facts of a dossier, but the person. ''
   Catherine did, telling what she knew from observation and instinct, and as one aspect arose, it gave rise to other angles of questioning. Time passed; the minutes and the half hours punctuated with repeated phone calls apprising Havilland of the conditions at Kai Tak Airport. The sun descended beyond the walls of the garden outside. A light supper was provided by the staff.
   'Would you ask Mr McAllister to join us? said Havilland to a steward.
   'I asked Mr McAllister if I could fetch him something, sir, and he was pretty firm about it. He told me to get out and leave him alone. '
   Then never mind, thank you. '
   The phone calls kept coming; the subject of Marie St Jacques was exhausted, and the conversation now turned exclusively on the developments at Kai Tak. Staples watched the diplomat in amazement, for the more intense the crisis became, the slower and more controlled was his speech.
   Tell me about yourself, Mrs. Staples. Only what you care to professionally, of course. '
   Catherine studied Raymond Havilland and began quietly. 'I sprang from an ear of Ontario corn... '
   'Yes, of course,' said the ambassador in utter sincerity, glancing at the phone.
   Staples now understood. This celebrated statesman was carrying on an innocuous conversation while his mind was riveted on an entirely different subject. Kai Tak. His eyes kept straying to the telephone; his wrist turned constantly so that he could look at his watch, and yet he never missed the breaks in their dialogue where he was expected to voice a response.
   'My former husband sells shoes-'
   Havilland's head snapped up from his watch. He would not have been thought capable of an embarrassed smile, but he showed one at that moment . 'You've caught me,' he said.
   'A long time ago,' said Catherine.
   There's a reason. I know Owen Staples quite well. '
   'It figures. I imagine you move in the same circles. '
   'I saw him last year at the Queen's Plate race in Toronto. I think one of his horses ran respectably well. He looked quite grand in his cutaway, but then he was one of the Queen Mother's escorts. '
   'When we were married, he couldn't afford a suit off the rack. '
   'You know,' said Havilland, 'when I read up on you and learned about Owen, I had a fleeting temptation to call him. Not to say anything, obviously, but to ask him about you. Then I thought, my God, in this age of post-marital civility, suppose they still talk to each other. I'd be tipping my hand. '
   'We're still talking, and you tipped your hand when you flew into Hong Kong. '
   'For you, perhaps. But only after Webb's wife reached you. Tell me, what did you think when you first heard I was here?'
   'That the UK had called you in for consultation on the Accords. '
   'You flatter me-'
   The telephone rang and Havilland's hand flew out for it. The caller was Wenzu, reporting the progress being made at Kai Tak, or more substantively, as was apparent, the lack of progress.
   'Why don't they simply call the whole damn thing off?' asked the ambassador angrily. 'Pile them into their cars and get the hell out of there!' Whatever reply the major offered only served to further exasperate Havilland. That's ridiculous! This isn't a show of gamesmanship, it's a potential assassination! No one's image or honour is involved under the circumstances, and believe me, the world isn't hanging by its collective teeth waiting for that damned press conference. Most of it's asleep, for God's sake!' Again the diplomat listened. Lin's remarks not only astonished him, they infuriated him. 'The Chinese said that? It's preposterous! Peking has no right to make such a demand! It's-' Havilland glanced at Staples. 'It's barbaric Someone should tell them it's not their Asian faces that are being saved, it's the British Governor's and his face is attached to his head which could be blown off!' Silence; the ambassador's eyes blinked in angry resignation. 'I know, I know. The heavenly red star must continue to shine in a heavenly blackout. There's nothing you can do, so do your best, Major. Keep calling. As one of my grandchildren puts it, I'm "eating bananas", whatever the hell that means. ' Havilland hung up and looked over at Catherine. 'Orders from Peking. The delegations are not to run in the face of Western terrorism. Protect all concerned but carry on. '
   'London would probably approve. The "carry on" has a familiar ring. '
   'Orders from Peking... ' said the diplomat softly, not hearing Staples. 'Orders from Sheng?
   'Are you quite sure of that?'
   'It's his ballgame! He calls the shots. My God, he is ready!'
   The tension grew geometrically with each quarter hour, until the air was filled with electricity. The rains came, pounding the bay window with a relentless tattoo. A television set was rolled in and turned on, the American ambassador-at-large and the Canadian Foreign Service Officer watching in fear and in silence. The huge jet taxied in the downpour to its appointed rendezvous with the crowds of reporters and camera crews. The English and the Chinese honour guards emerged first, simultaneously from both sides of the open door. Their appearance was startling, for instead of the stately procession expected of such military escorts, these squads moved rapidly into flanking positions down the metal steps, elbows bent skyward, sidearms gripped, guns at the ready. The leaders then filed out waving to the onlookers; they started down the staircase followed by two lines of awkwardly grinning subordinates. The strange 'press conference' began and Undersecretary of State Edward McAllister burst into the room, the heavy door crashing into the wall as he flung it open.
   'I have it!' he cried, a page of paper in his hand. 'I'm sure I have it!'
   'Calm down, Edward! Speak sensibly. '
   'The Chinese delegation!' shouted McAllister out of breath, racing to the diplomat and thrusting the paper at him. 'It's headed by a man named Lao Sing! The second in command is a general named Yunshen! They're powerful and they've opposed Sheng Chou Yang for years, objecting to his policies openly in the Central Committee! Their inclusion in the negotiating teams was seen as due to Sheng's willingness to accept a balance – making him look fair in the eyes of the old guard. '
   'For God's sake, what are you trying to say? ' It's not the Governor! Not just him! It's all of them! With one action he removes his two strongest opponents in Peking and clears the path for himself. -Then, as you put it, he implants his clearing house – his taipans – during a period of instability shared by both governments!'
   Havilland yanked the telephone out of its cradle. 'Get me Lin at Kai Tak,' he ordered the switchboard. 'Quickly!... Major Lin, please. At once... What do you mean, he's not there? Where is he? ... Who's this? ... Yes, I know who you are. Listen to me and listen carefully! The target is not the Governor alone, it's worse. It includes two members of the Chinese delegation. Separate all parties– You know that!... A man from the Mossad! What the hell...? There's no such arrangement, there couldn't be! ... Yes, of course, I'll get off the line. ' Breathing rapidly, his lined face pale, the diplomat looked at the wall and spoke in a barely audible voice. 'They found out, from God knows where, and are taking immediate countermeasures... Who! For Christ's sake, who was it?' 'Our Jason Bourne,' said McAllister quietly. 'He's there. ' On the television screen a distant limousine jolted to a stop while others peeled away into the darkness. Figures fled from the stationary car in panic, and seconds later the screen was filled with a blinding explosion. 'He's there,' repeated McAllister, whispering. 'He's there!'

21
   The motor launch pitched violently in the darkness and the torrential rains. The crew of two bailed out the water that continuously swept back over the gunwales as the grizzled Chinese-Portuguese captain, squinting through the cabin's large windows, inched his way forward towards the black outlines of the island. Bourne and d'Anjou flanked the boat's owner; the Frenchman spoke, raising his voice over the downpour. 'How far do you judge it to the beach?'
   Two hundred metres, plus or minus ten or twenty, ' said the captain.
   'It's time for the light. Where is it?
   'In the locker beneath you. On the right. Another seventy-five metres and I hold. Any farther, the rocks can be dangerous in this weather. '
   'We have to get in to the beach!' cried the Frenchman. 'It's imperative, I told you that!'
   'Yes, but you forgot to tell me there would be this rain, these swells. Ninety metres, and you can use the little boat. The engine is strong, you'll get there. '
   'Merde!' spat out d'Anjou, opening the locker and pulling out a signal light. That could leave a hundred metres or more!'
   'In any event it would not be less than fifty, I told you that. '
   'And between the two is deep water!'
   'Shall I turn around and head for Macao?
   'And get us blown up by the patrols? You make payment when it is due or you do not make your destination! You know that!'
   'One hundred metres, no more. '
   D'Anjou nodded testily while holding the signal light up to his chest. He pressed a button, immediately releasing it, and for a brief moment an eerie, dark blue flash illuminated the pilot's window. Seconds later a corresponding blue signal was seen through the mottled glass from the island's shoreline. 'You see, mon capitaine, had we not come in for the rendezvous this miserable scow would have been blown out of the water. '
   'You were fond enough of her this afternoon!' said the helmsman, working furiously at the wheel.
   That was yesterday afternoon. It is now one-thirty the next morning and I have come to know your thieving ways. ' D'Anjou replaced the light in the locker and glanced at Bourne who was looking at him. Each was doing what he had done many times in the days of Medusa – checking out a partner's apparel and equipment. Both men wore trousers, sweaters and thin rubber skull caps, all black. Their normal clothing was rolled up in canvas bags. Their only other equipment, apart from Jason's automatic and the Frenchman's small 22-calibre pistol, were scabbarded knives – all unseen. 'Get in as close as you can,' said d'Anjou to the captain. 'And remember, you won't receive the final payment if you're not here when we return. '
   'Suppose they take your money and kill you?' cried the pilot, spinning the wheel. Then I'm our!'
   'I'm touched,' said Bourne.
   'Have no fear of that,' answered the Frenchman, glaring at the Chinese-Portuguese. 'I've dealt with this man many times over many months. Like you, he is the pilot of a fast boat and every bit the thief you are. I line his Marxist pockets so that his mistresses live like concubines of the Central Committee. Also, he suspects I keep records. We are in God's hands, perhaps better. '
   Then take the light,' muttered the captain grudgingly. 'You may need it, and you're no good to me stranded or ripped up on the rocks. '
   'Your concern overwhelms me,' said d'Anjou, 'retrieving the light and nodding at Jason. 'We'll familiarize ourselves with the skiff and its motor. '
   The motor's under thick canvas. Don't start it until you're in the water!
   'How do we know it will start?' asked Bourne.
   'Because I want my money, Silent One. '
   The ride into the beach drenched them both, both bracing themselves against the panels of the small boat, Jason gripping the sides and d'Anjou the rudder and the stern so as to keep from pitching overboard. They grazed a shoal. Metal ground against the rocks as the Frenchman swerved the rudder to starboard, pushing the throttle to maximum.
   The strange, dark blue flash came once again from the beach. They had strayed in the wet darkness; d'Anjou angled the boat towards the signal and within minutes the bow struck sand. The Frenchman swung the stick down, elevating the motor as Bourne leaped overboard, grabbing the rope and pulling the small craft up on the beach.
   He gasped, startled by the figure of a man suddenly next to him, gripping the line in front of him. 'Four hands are better than two,' shouted the stranger, an Oriental, in perfectly fluent English – English with an American accent.
   'You're the contact? yelled Jason, bewildered, wondering if the rain and the waves had distorted his hearing.
   That's such a foolish term!' replied the man, shouting back. 'I'm simply a friend!'
   Five minutes later, having beached the small boat, the three men walked through the thick shorefront foliage, suddenly replaced by scrubby trees. The 'friend' had constructed a primitive lean-to out of a ship's tarpaulin; a small fire faced the dense woods in front, unseen from the sides and the rear, concealed by the tarp. The warmth was welcome; the winds and the drenching rain had chilled Bourne and d'Anjou. They sat cross-legged around the fire and the Frenchman spoke to the uniformed Chinese.
   This was hardly necessary, Gamma-'
   'Gamma?' erupted Jason.
   'I've implemented certain traditions of our past, Delta. Actually, I could have used Tango or Fox Trot – it wasn't all Greek, you know. The Greek was reserved for the leaders. '
   'This is a bullshit conversation. I want to know why we're here. Why you haven't paid him so we can get the hell out?'
   'Man...!' said the Chinese, drawing out the word, using the particular American idiom. This cat's uptight! What's his beef?'
   'My beef, man, is that I want to get back to that boat. I really don't have time for tea!'
   'How about Scotch?' said the officer of the People's Republic, reaching behind him, pulling his arm forward and displaying a bottle of perfectly acceptable whisky. 'We'll have to share the cork, as it were, but I don't think we're infectious people. We bathe, we brush our teeth, we sleep with clean whores – at least my heavenly government makes sure they're clean. '
   'Who the hell are you?' asked Jason Bourne.
   'Gamma will do, Echo's convinced me of that. As to what I am, I leave that to your imagination. You might try USC -that's the University of Southern California – with graduate studies in Berkeley – all those protests in the sixties, surely you remember them. '
   'You were a part of that crowd?'
   'Certainly not! I was a staunch conservative, a member of the John Birch Society who wanted them all shot! Screeching freaks with no regard for their nation's moral commitments. '
   'This is a bullshit conversation. '
   'My friend Gamma,' interrupted d'Anjou, 'is the perfect intermediary. He is an educated double or triple or conceivably quadruple agent working all sides for the benefit of his own interests. He is the totally amoral man and I respect him for that. '
   'You came back to China? To the People's Republic?'
   'It's where the money was,' admitted the officer. 'Any repressive society offers vast opportunities for those willing to take minor risks on behalf of the repressed. Ask the commissars in Moscow and the Eastern bloc. Of course, one must have contacts in the West and possess certain talents that can also serve the regimental leaders. Fortunately, I'm an exceptional sailor, courtesy of friends in the Bay Area who owned yachts and small motor craft. I'll return one day. I really do like San Francisco. '
   'Don't try to fathom his Swiss accounts,' said d'Anjou. 'Instead, let's concentrate on why Gamma has made us such a pleasant retreat in the rainstorm. ' The Frenchman took the bottle and drank.
   'It will cost you, Echo,' said the Chinese.
   'With you what doesn't? What is it?' D'Anjou passed the bottle to Jason.
   'I may speak in front of your companion?'
   'Anything. '
   'You'll want the information. I guarantee it. The price is one thousand American. '
   That's it?'
   'It should be enough,' said the Chinese officer taking the bottle of Scotch from Bourne. There are two of you and my patrol boat is half a mile away in the south cove. My crew thinks I'm holding a secret meeting with our undercover people in the colony. '
   'I'll want the information, and you'll guarantee it. ' For those words I'm to produce a thousand dollars without a struggle when it's entirely possible you have a dozen Zhongguo ren outside in the bush. '
   'Some things must be taken on faith. '
   'Not my money,' countered the Frenchman. 'You don't get a sou until I have an idea what you're selling. '
   'You are Gallic to the core,' said Gamma, shaking his head. 'Very well. It concerns your disciple, the one who no longer follows his master but instead picks up his thirty pieces of silver and a great deal more. '
   The assassin!'
   'Pay him!' ordered Bourne, rigid, staring at the Chinese officer.
   D'Anjou looked at Jason and the man called Gamma, then pulled up his sweater and unbuckled his soaking wet trousers. He reached below his waist and forced up an oilcloth money belt; he unzipped the centre pocket, slipped out the bills one after another with his fingers and held them out for the Chinese officer. 'Three thousand for tonight and one for this new information. The rest is counterfeit. I always carry an extra thousand for contingencies, but only a thousand-' 'The information? broke in Jason Bourne. 'He paid for it,' replied Gamma . 'I shall address him. ' 'Address whomever the hell you like, just talk. ' 'Our mutual friend in Guangzhou – Canton-' began the officer, speaking to d'Anjou. The radioman at Headquarters One. '
   'We've done business,' said the Frenchman guardedly.
   'Knowing I'd be meeting you here at this hour I refuelled at the pumps in Zhuhai Shi shortly after ten-thirty. There was a message for me to reach him – we have a safe relay. He told me a call was rerouted through Beijing with an unidentified Jade Tower priority code. It was for Soo Jiang-'
   D'Anjou bolted forward, both hands on the ground. The Pig!'
   'Who is he?' asked Bourne quickly.
   'Supposedly Chief of Intelligence for Macao operations,' replied the Frenchman, 'but he would sell his mother to a brothel if the price were right. At the moment he is the conduit to my once and former disciple. My Judas!'
   'Who's suddenly been summoned to Beijing,' interrupted the man called Gamma.
   'You're sure of that?' said Jason.
   'Our mutual friend is sure,' answered the Chinese, still looking at d'Anjou. 'An aide to Soo came to Headquarters One and checked all tomorrow's flights from Kai Tak to Beijing. Under his department's authorization he reserved space – a single space – on every one. In several cases it meant that an original passenger was reduced to stand-by status. When an officer at Headquarters One asked for Soo's personal confirmation, the aide said he had left for Macao on urgent business. Who has business in Macao at midnight? Everything's closed.

 'Except the casinos,' volunteered Bourne. Table Five. The Kam Pek. Totally controlled circumstances. '
   'Which, in view of the reserved spaces,' said the
   Frenchman, 'means that Soo isn't sure when he will reach the assassin. '
   'But he is sure he'll reach him. Whatever message he's carrying is nothing short of an order that has to be complied with. ' Jason looked at the Chinese officer. 'Get us into Beijing,' he said. The airport, the earliest flight. You'll be rich, I guarantee it. '
   'Delta, you're mad? cried d'Anjou. 'Peking is out of the question!'
   'Why? No one's looking for us and there are French, English, Italians, Americans – God knows who else – all over the city. We've both got passports that'll get us through. '
   'Be reasonable!' pleaded Echo. 'We'll be in their nets. Knowing what we know, if we're spotted in the vaguest questionable circumstances we'll be killed on the spot! He'll show up again down here, most likely in a matter of days. '
   'I don't have days,' said Bourne coldly. 'I've lost your creation twice. I'm not going to lose him a third time. '
   'You think you can possibly take him in China?
   'Where else would he least expect a trap?'
   'Madness! You are mad!'
   'Make the arrangements,' Jason ordered the Chinese officer. The first flight out of Kai Tak. When I've got the tickets I'll hand over fifty thousand dollars American to whomever gives them to me. Send someone you can trust. '
   'Fifty thousand...?' The man called Gamma stared at Bourne.
   The skies over Peking were hazy, the dust travelling on the winds from the North China Plains creating pockets of vapid yellows and dull browns in the sunlight. The airport, like all internationals, was immense, the runways a criss-crossing patchwork of black avenues, several over two miles in length. If there was a difference between Peking airport and its Western counterparts, it was in the huge dome-shaped terminal with its adjacent hotel and various freeways leading into the complex. Although contemporary in design there was an underlying sense of function and an absence of eye-pleasing touches. It was an airport to be used and admired for its efficiency, not for its beauty.
   Bourne and d'Anjou went through customs with a minimum of effort, the way eased for them by their fluent Chinese. The guards were actually pleasant, barely glancing at their minimal luggage, more curious about their linguistic ability than their possessions. The chief official accepted without question the story of two Oriental scholars on a holiday from which pleasant tales of travel would no doubt find their way into the lecture halls. They converted a thousand dollars each into renminbi, literally the People's Money, and were given nearly two thousand Yuan apiece in return. And Bourne took off the glasses he had purchased in Washington from his friend Cactus.
   'One thing bewilders me,' said the Frenchman as they stood in front of an electronic sign showing the next three hours of arrivals and departures. 'Why would he be flown in on a commercial plane? Certainly, whoever is paying him has government or military aircraft at his disposal. '
   'Like ours, those aircraft have to be signed out and accounted for,' answered Jason. 'And whoever it is has to keep his distance from your assassin. He comes in as a tourist or a businessman and then the convoluted process of making contact begins. At least that's what I'm counting on. '
   'Madness! Tell me, Delta, if you do take him – and I add that it's a significant "if because he's extraordinarily capable – have you any idea how to get him out?
   'I've got money, American money, large bills, more than you can imagine. It's in the lining of my jacket. '
   'That's why we stopped at the Peninsula, isn't it? Why you told me not to check you out yesterday. Your money's there. '
   'It was. In the hotel safe. I'll get him out. '
   'On the wings of, Pegasus?'
   'No, probably a Pan Am flight with the two of us helping a very sick friend. Actually, somewhere along the line I think you gave me the idea. '
   Then I am a mental case!'
   'Stay by the window,' said Bourne. There's another twelve minutes before the next plane is due from Kai Tak, but then that could mean two minutes or twelve hours. I'm going to
   buy us both a present. '
   'Madness,' mumbled the Frenchman, too tired to do more than shake his head.
   When Jason returned he directed d'Anjou into a corner within sight of the immigration doors, which were kept closed except when passengers were emerging from customs. Bourne reached into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out a long, thin brightly covered box with the sort of gaudy wrapping found in souvenir shops the world over. He removed the top; inside on ersatz felt was a narrow brass letter-opener with Chinese characters along the handle. The point was obviously honed and sharp. Take it,' said Jason. 'Put it in your belt. '
   'How's the balance?' asked Medusa's Echo as he slid the blade under his trousers.
   'Not bad. It's about halfway to the base of the handle and the brass gives it weight. The thrust should be decent. '
   'Yes, I recall,' said d'Anjou. 'One of the first rules was never to throw a knife, but one evening at dusk you watched a Gurkha take out a scout ten feet away without firing a shot or risking hand-to-hand combat. His carbine bayonet spun through the air like a whirling missile, right into the scout's chest. The next morning you ordered the Gurkha to teach us – some did better than others. '
   'How did you do?'
   'Reasonably well. I was older than all of you and felt drawn to whatever defences I could learn that did not take great physical exertion. Also I kept practising. You saw me; you commented on it frequently. '
   Jason looked at the Frenchman. 'It's funny, but I don't remember any of that. '
   'I just naturally thought ... I'm sorry, Delta. '
   'Forget it. I'm learning to trust things I don't understand. '
   The vigil continued, reminding Bourne of his wait in Lo Wu as one trainload after another crossed the border, no one revealed until a short, elderly man with a limp became someone else in the distance. The 11:30 plane was over two hours late. Customs would take an additional fifty minutes...
   'That one!' cried d'Anjou, pointing to a figure walking out of the immigration doors.
   'With a cane?' asked Jason. 'With a limp?'
   'His shabby clothes cannot conceal his shoulders!' exclaimed Echo. The grey hair is too new; he hasn't brushed it sufficiently, and the dark glasses too wide. Like us, he is tired. You were right. The summons to Beijing had to be complied with and he is careless. '
   'Because "rest is a weapon" and he disregarded it?'
   'Yes. Last night Kai Tak must have taken its toll on him, but more important he had to obey. Merde! His fees must be in the hundreds of thousands!'
   'He's heading for the hotel,' said Bourne. 'Stay back here, I'll follow him – at a distance. If he spotted you, he'd run and we could lose him. '
   'He could spot you'
   'Not likely. I invented the game. Also, I'll be behind him. Stay here. I'll come back for you. '
   Carrying his canvas bag, his gait showing the weariness of jet lag, Jason fell in line with the disembarked passengers heading into the hotel, his eyes on the grey-haired man ahead. Twice the former British commando stopped and turned around, and twice, with each brief movement of the shoulders, Bourne also turned and bent down, as if brushing an insect from his leg or adjusting the strap of his bag, his body and face out of sight. The crowd at the registration counter grew and Jason was eight people behind the killer in the second line, making himself as inconspicuous as possible, continually stooping to kick his bag ahead. The commando reached the female clerk; he showed his papers, signed the register, and limped with his cane towards a bank of brown elevators on the right. Six minutes later Bourne faced the same clerk. He spoke in Mandarin.
   'Ni neng bang-zhu wo ma?' he began, asking for help. 'It was a sudden trip and I've no place to stay. Just for the night. '
   'You speak our language very well,' said the clerk, her almond eyes wide in appreciation. 'You do us honour,' she added politely.
   'I hope to do much better during my stay here. I'm on a scholarly trip. '
   'It is the best kind. There are many treasures in Beijing, and elsewhere, of course, but this is the heavenly city. You have no reservation?'
   'I'm afraid not. Everything was last minute, if you know what I mean. '
   'As I speak both languages, I can tell you that you said it correctly in ours. Everything is rush-rush. I'll see what I can do. It will not be terribly grand, of course. '
   'I can't afford terribly grand,' said Jason, shyly. 'But I have a roommate – we can share the same bed, if necessary. '
   'I'm certain it will be a case of sharing, at such short notice. ' The clerk's fingers leafed through the file cards. 'Here,' she said. 'A single back room on the second floor. I think it may fit your economics-'
   'We'll take it,' agreed Bourne. 'By the way, a few minutes ago I saw a man in this line who I'm sure I know. He's getting on now but I think he was an old professor of mine when I studied in England. Grey-haired, with a cane... I'm certain it's he. I'd like to call him. '
   'Oh, yes, I remember. ' The clerk now separated the most recent registration cards in front of her. The name is Wadsworth, Joseph Wadsworth. He's in three twenty-five. But you may be wrong. His occupation is listed as an offshore oil consultant from Great Britain. '
   'You're right, wrong man,' said Jason, shaking his head in embarrassment. He took the key to the room.
   'We can take him! Now!' Bourne gripped d'Anjou's arm, pulling the Frenchman away from the deserted corner of the terminal.
   'Now? So easily? So quickly? It is incredible!' The opposite,' said Jason, leading d'Anjou towards the crowded row of glass doors that was the entrance to the hotel. 'It's completely credible. Your man's mind is on a dozen different things right now. He's got to stay out of sight. He can't place a call through a switchboard, so he'll remain in his room waiting for a call to -him giving him his instructions. ' They walked through a glass door, looked around and headed to the left of the long counter. Bourne continued, speaking rapidly. 'Kai Tak didn't work last night so he has to consider another possibility. His own elimination on the basis that whoever discovered the explosives under the car saw him and identified him – which is the truth. He has to insist that his client is alone at the arranged rendezvous so that he can reach him one on one. It's his ultimate protection. ' They found a staircase and started climbing. 'And his clothes,' went on Medusa's Delta . 'He'll change them. He can't appear as he was and he can't appear as he is. He has to be someone else. ' They reached the third floor and Jason, his hand on the knob, turned to d'Anjou. 'Take my word for it, Echo, your boy's involved. He's got exercises going on in his head that would challenge a Russian chess player. '
   'Is this the academic speaking or the man they once called Jason Bourne?'
   'Bourne,' said David Webb, his eyes cold, his voice ice. 'If it ever was, it's now.'
   The canvas bag slung over his shoulder, Jason slowly opened the door at the head of the stairs, inching his body past the frame. Two men in dark pinstriped suits walked up the hallway towards him complaining at the apparent lack of room service; their speech was British. They opened the door to their room and went inside. Bourne pushed the staircase door back and shoved d'Anjou through; they walked down the corridor. The room numbers were in Chinese and English.
   Three forty-one, 339, 337 – they were in the right hallway, the room was along the left wall. Three Indian couples suddenly emerged from a brown elevator, the women in their saris, the men in tight-fitting cloth trousers; they passed Jason and d'Anjou, chattering, looking for their rooms, the husbands obviously annoyed to be carrying their own luggage.
   Three thirty-five, 333, 331-
   'This is the end!' screamed a female voice, as an obese woman in curlers strode martially out of a door on the right wearing a bathrobe. The nightgown underneath trailed below, twice snarling her feet. She yanked it up, revealing a pair of legs worthy of a rhinoceros. 'The toilet doesn't work and you can forget the phone!'
   'Isabel, I told you!' shouted a man in red pyjamas peering through the open door. 'It's the jet lag. Get some sleep and remember this isn't Short Hills! Don't nit-pick. Expand yourself!'
   'Since I can't use the bathroom, I have no choice! I'll find some slant-eyed bastard and yell like hell! Where are the stairs? I wouldn't walk into one of those goddamned elevators. If they move at all, it's probably sideways and right through the walls into a Seven-Four-Seven!'
   The distraught woman swept by on her way to the staircase exit. Two of the three Indian couples had difficulty with their keys, finally managing to negotiate the locks with loud, well-placed kicks, and the man in the red pyjamas slammed the door of his room after shouting to his wife in high dudgeon. 'It's like that class reunion at the club! You're so embarrassing, Isabel!'
   Three twenty-nine, 327... 325. The room. The hallway was deserted.
   They could hear the strains of Oriental music from behind the door. The radio was turned up, the volume loud, to be made louder with the first ring of a telephone bell. Jason pulled d'Anjou back and spoke quietly against the wall. 'I don't remember any Gurkhas or any scouts-'
   'A part of you did, Delta,' interrupted Echo.
   'Maybe, but that's beside the point. This is the beginning of the end of the road. We'll leave our bags out here. I'll go for the door and you follow hard. Keep your blade ready. But I want you to understand something and there can't be a mistake – don't throw it unless you absolutely have to. If you do, go for his legs. Nothing above the waist. '
   'You put more faith in an older man's accuracy than I do. '
   'I'm hoping I won't have to call on it. These doors are made of hollow plywood and your assassin's got a lot on his mind. He's thinking about strategy, not about us. How could we know he's here, and even if we did how could we get across the border on such short notice? And I want him! I'm taking him! Ready?
   'As I ever will be,' said the Frenchman, lowering his canvas bag and pulling the brass letter-opener from his belt. He held the blade in his hand, his fingers spread, seeking the balance.
   Bourne slipped the flight bag off his shoulder to the floor and quietly positioned himself in front of room 325. He looked at d'Anjou. Echo nodded, and Jason sprang towards the door, his left foot a battering ram, crashing into the space below the lock. The door plunged inward as though blown apart; wood shattered, hinges were torn from their bolts. Bourne lunged inside rolling over and over on the floor, his eyes spinning in all directions.
   'Arretez? roared d'Anjou.
   A figure came through an inner doorway – the grey-haired man, the assassin Jason sprang to his feet, hurling himself at his quarry, grabbing the man's hair, yanking him to the left, then to the right, crashing him back into the doorframe. Suddenly the Frenchman screamed as the brass blade of the letter-opener flashed through the air, embedding itself in the wall, the handle quivering. It was off the mark, a warning.
   'Delta! No!'
   Bourne stopped all movement, his quarry pinned, helpless under his weight and grip.
   'Look? cried d'Anjou.
   Jason slowly moved back, his arms rigid, caging the figure in front of him. He stared into the gaunt, wrinkled face of a very old man with thinning grey hair.