THE BOURNE SUPREMACY


1
   Kowloon. The teeming final extension of China that is no part of the north except in spirit – but the spirit runs deep and descends into the caverns of men's souls without regard for the harsh, irrelevant practicalities of political borders. The land and the water are one, and it is the will of the spirit that determines how man will use the land and the water – again without regard for such abstractions as useless freedom or escapable confinement. The concern is only with empty stomachs, with women's stomachs, children's stomachs. Survival. There is nothing else. All the rest is dung to be spread over the infertile fields.
   It was sundown, and both in Kowloon and across Victoria Harbour on the island of Hong Kong an unseen blanket was gradually being lowered over the territory's daylight chaos. The screeching Aiyas of the street merchants were muted with the shadows, and quiet negotiations in the upper regions of the cold, majestic structures of glass and steel that marked the colony's skyline were ending with nods and shrugs and brief smiles of silent accommodation. Night was coming, proclaimed by a blinding orange sun piercing an immense, jagged fragmented wall of clouds in the west – sharply defined shafts of uncompromising energy about to plunge over the horizon, unwilling to let this part of the world forget the light.
   Soon darkness would spread across the sky, but not below.
   Below, the blazing lights of human invention would garishly illuminate the earth – this part of the earth where the land and the water were anxious avenues of access and conflict. And with the never-ending, ever-strident nocturnal carnival, other games would begin, games the human race should have abandoned with the first light of creation. But there was no human life then – so who recorded it? Who knew? Who cared? Death was not a commodity.
   A small motorboat, its powerful engine belying its shabby exterior, sped through the Lamma Channel, heading around the coastline towards the harbour. To a disinterested observer it was merely one more xiao wan ju, a legacy to a first son from a once unworthy fisherman who had struck minor riches – a crazy night of mah-jong, hashish from the Triangle, smuggled jewels out of Macao – who cared? The son could cast his nets or run his merchandise more efficiently by using a fast propeller rather than the slow sail of a junk or the sluggish engine of a sampan. Even the Chinese border guards and the marine patrols on and off the shores of the Shenzhen Wan did not fire on such insignificant transgressors; they were unimportant and who knew what families beyond the New Territories on the Mainland might benefit. It could be one of their own. The sweet herbs from the hills still brought full stomachs – perhaps filling one of their own. Who cared? Let them come. Let them go.
   The small craft with its canvas cover enveloping both sides of the forward cockpit cut its speed and cautiously zigzagged through the scattered flotilla of junks and sampans returning to their crowded berths in Aberdeen. One after another the boat people shrieked angry curses at the intruder, at its impudent engine and its more impudent wake. Then each became strangely silent as the rude interloper passed; something under the canvas quieted their sudden bursts of fury.
   The boat raced into the harbour's corridor, a dark, watery path now bordered by the blazing lights of the island of Hong Kong on the right, Kowloon on the left. Three minutes later the outboard motor sank into its lowest register as the hull swerved slowly past two filthy barges docked at the godown, and slid into an empty space on the west side of the Tsim Sha Tsui, Kowloon's crowded, dollar-conscious waterfront. The strident hordes of merchants setting up their nightly tourist traps on the wharf paid no attention; it was merely one more jigi coming in from the catch. Who cared?
   Then, like the boat people out in the channel, the stalls on the waterfront nearest the insignificant intruder began to quiet down. Excited voices were silenced amid screeching commands and counter-commands as eyes were drawn to a figure climbing up the black, oil-soaked ladder to the pier.
   He was a holy man. His shrouded figure was draped in a pure white caftan that accentuated his tall slender body – very tall for a Zhongguo ren, nearly six feet in height, perhaps. Little could be seen of his face, however, as the cloth was loose and the breezes kept pressing the white fabric across his dark features, drawing out the whiteness of his eyes determined eyes, zealous eyes. This was no ordinary priest, anyone could see that. He was a heshang, a chosen one selected by elders steeped in wisdom who could perceive the inner spiritual knowledge of a young monk destined for higher things. And it did not hurt that such a monk was tall and slender and had eyes of fire. Such holy men drew attention to themselves, to their personages to their eyes and generous contributions followed, both in fear and in awe; mostly fear. Perhaps this heshang came from one of the mystic sects that wandered through the hills and forests of the Guangze, or from a religious brotherhood in the mountains of far-off Qing Gaoyuan – descendants, it was said, of a people in the distant Himalayas – they were always quite ostentatious and generally to be feared the most, for few understood their obscure teachings. Teachings that were couched in gentleness, but with subtle hints of indescribable agony should their lessons go unheeded. There was too much agony on the land and the water. Who needed more? So give to the spirits, to the eyes of fire. Perhaps it would be recorded somewhere.
   The white-robed figure walked slowly through the parting crowds on the wharf, past the congested Star Ferry pier, and disappeared into the growing pandemonium of the Tsim Sha Tsui. The moment had passed; the stalls returned to their hysteria.
   The priest headed east on Salisbury Road until he reached the Peninsula Hotel, whose subdued elegance was losing the battle with its surroundings. He then turned north into Nathan Road, to the base of the glittering Golden Mile, that strip of strips where opposing multitudes shrieked for attention. Both natives and tourists alike took notice of the stately holy man as he passed crowded shop fronts and alleys bulging with merchandise, three-story discos and topless cafes where huge, amateurish billboards hawked Oriental charms above stalls offering the steamed delicacies of the noonday dim sum. He walked for nearly ten minutes through the garish carnival, now and then acknowledging glances with a slight bow of his head, and twice shaking it while issuing commands to the same short muscular Zhongguo ren, who alternately followed him then passed him with quick, dance-like steps, turning to search the intense eyes for a sign.
   The sign came – two abrupt nods – as the priest turned and walked through the beaded entrance of a raucous cabaret. The Zhongguo ren remained outside, his hand unobtrusively under his loose tunic, his own eyes darting about the crazy street, a thoroughfare he could not understand. It was insane! Such outrageousness! But he was the tudi; he would protect the holy man with his life, no matter the assault on his own sensibilities.
   Inside the cabaret the heavy layers of smoke were slashed by roving coloured lights, most whirling in circles and directed towards a platform stage where a rock group ululated in deafening frenzy, a frantic admixture of punk and Far East. Shiny black tight-fitting, ill-fitting trousers quivered maniacally on spindly legs below black leather jackets over soiled white silk shirts open to the waist, while each head was shaved around its skull at the temple line, each face grotesque, heavily made up to accentuate its essentially passive Oriental character. And as if to emphasize the conflict between East and West, the jarring music would occasionally, startlingly, come to a stop, as the plaintive strains of a simple Chinese melody emerged from a single instrument, while the figures remained rigid under the swirling bombardment of the spotlights.
   The priest stood still for a moment surveying the huge crowded room. A number of customers in varying stages of drunkenness looked up at him from the tables. Several rolled coins in his direction as they turned away, while a few got out of their chairs, dropping Hong Kong dollars beside their drinks and headed for the door. The heshang was having an effect, but not the effect desired by the obese, tuxedoed man who approached him.
   'May I be of assistance, Holy One? asked the cabaret's manager through the sustained crescendos.
   The priest leaned forward and spoke into the man's ear. The manager's eyes widened, then he bowed and gestured towards a small table by the wall. The priest nodded back in appreciation and walked behind the man to his chair as adjacent customers took uncomfortable notice.
   The manager leaned down and spoke with a reverence he did not feel. 'Would you care for refreshment, Holy One?'
   'Goat's milk, if it is by chance available. If not, plain water will be more than sufficient. And I thank you. '
   'It is the privilege of the establishment,' said the tuxedoed man, bowing and moving away, trying to place a dialect he could not recognize. It did not matter. This tall, white-robed priest had business with the laoban, and that was all that mattered. He had actually used the laoban's name, a name seldom spoken in the Golden Mile, and on this particular evening the powerful taipan was on the premises – in a room he would not publicly acknowledge knowing. But it was not the province of the manager to tell the laoban that the priest had arrived; the berobed one had made that clear. All was privacy this night, he had insisted. When the august taipan wished to see him, a man would come out to find him. So be it; it was the way of the secretive laoban, one of the wealthiest and most illustrious taipans in Hong Kong.
   'Send a kitchen boy down the street for some fuck-fuck mother goat's milk,' said the manager harshly to a head boy on the floor. ' And tell him to be damn-damn quick. The existence of his stinking offspring will depend upon it. '
   The holy man sat passively at the table, his zealous eyes now gentler, observing the foolish activity, apparently neither condemning nor accepting but merely taking it all in with the compassion of a father watching errant yet precious children.
   Abruptly through the whirling lights there was an intrusion. Several tables away a bright camper's match was struck and quickly extinguished. Then another, and finally a third, this last held under a long black cigarette. The brief series of flashes drew the attention of the priest. He moved his shrouded head slowly towards the flame and the lone, unshaven, coarsely dressed Chinese drawing in the smoke. Their eyes met; the holy man's nod was almost imperceptible, barely a motion, and was acknowledged by an equally obscure movement as the match went out.
   Seconds later the crudely dressed smoker's table was suddenly in flames. Fire shot up from the surface, spreading quickly to all the articles of paper on the surface – napkins, menus, dim sum baskets, isolated eruptions of potential disaster. The disheveled Chinese screamed and with a shattering crash overturned the table as waiters raced, shrieking, towards the flames. Customers on all sides leaped from their chairs as the fire on the floor – narrow strands of pulsing blue flame – inexplicably spread in rivulets around excited, stamping feet. The pandemonium grew as people rapidly slapped out the small fires with tablecloths and aprons. The manager and his head boys gestured wildly, shouting that all was under control; the danger had passed. The rock group played with even greater intensity, attempting to draw the crowd back into its frenzied orbit and away from the area of diminishing panic.
   Suddenly, there was a greater disturbance, a more violent eruption. Two head boys had collided with the shabbily dressed Zhongguo ren whose carelessness and outsized matches had caused the conflagration. He responded with rapid Wing Chun chops – rigid hands crashing into shoulder blades and throats as his feet hammered up into abdomens, sending the two shi-ji reeling back into the surrounding customers. The physical abuse compounded the panic, the chaos. The heavy-set manager, now roaring, intervened and he, too, fell away, stunned by a well-placed kick to his ribcage. The unshaven Zhongguo ren then picked up a chair and hurled it into screaming figures near the fallen man, as three other waiters rushed into the melee in defense of their Zongguan. Men and women who only seconds ago were merely screaming, now began thrashing their arms about, pummeling anyone and everyone near by. The rock group gyrated to its outer limits, frantic dissonance worthy of the scene. The riot had taken hold, and the burly peasant glanced across the room at the single table next to the wall. The priest was gone.
   The Zhongguo ren picked up a second chair and smashed it down across a nearby table, splintering the wooden frame and swinging a broken leg into the crowd. Only moments to go, but those moments were everything.
   The priest stepped through the door far back in the wall near the entrance of the cabaret. He closed it quickly, adjusting his eyes to the dim light of the long, narrow hallway. His right arm was stiff beneath the folds of his white caftan, his left diagonally across his waist, also under the sheer white fabric. Down the corridor, no more than twenty-five feet away, a startled man sprang from the wall, his right hand plunging beneath his jacket to yank a large, heavy-caliber revolver from an unseen shoulder holster. The holy man nodded slowly, impassively, repeatedly, as he moved forward with graceful steps appropriate to a religious procession.
   'Amita-fo, Amita-fo,' he said softly, over and over again as he approached the man. 'Everything is peaceful, all is in peace, the spirits will it. '
   'Jou matyeh?' The guard was beside a door; he shoved the ugly weapon forward and continued in a guttural Cantonese bred in the northern settlements. 'Are you lost, priest? What are you doing here? Get out! This is no place for you!'
   'Amita-fo, Amita-fo... '
   'Get out! Now!'
   The guard had no chance. Swiftly the priest pulled a razor-thin, double-edged knife from the folds at his waist. He slashed the man's wrist, half severing the hand with the gun from the guard's arm, then arced the blade surgically across the man's throat; air and blood erupted as the head snapped back in a mass of shining red; he fell to the floor, a corpse.
   Without hesitation, the killer-priest slid the knife into the cloth of his caftan, where it held, and from under the right side of his robe withdrew a thin-framed Uzi machine gun, its curved magazine holding more ammunition than he would need. He raised his foot and crashed it into the door with the strength of a mountain cat, racing inside to find what he knew he would find.

Five men – Zhongguo ren – were sitting around a table with pots of tea and short glasses of potent whisky; there were no written papers anywhere in sight, no notes or memoranda, only ears and watchful eyes. And as each pair of eyes looked up in shock, the faces were contorted with panic. Two well-dressed negotiators plunged their hands inside their well-tailored jackets while they spun out of the chairs; another lunged under the table, as the remaining two sprang up screaming and raced futilely into silk-covered walls, spinning around in desperation, seeking pardons yet knowing none would be forthcoming. A shattering fusillade of bullets ripped into the Zhongguo ren. Blood gushed from fatal wounds as skulls were pierced and eyes were punctured, mouths torn apart, bright red in muted screams of death. The walls and the floor and the polished table glistened sickeningly with the bloody evidence of death. Everywhere. It was over.
   The killer surveyed his work. Satisfied, he knelt down by a large, stagnant pool of blood and moved his index finger through it. He then pulled out a square of dark cloth from his left sleeve and spread it over his handiwork. He rose to his feet and rushed out of the room, unbuttoning the white caftan as he ran down the dim hallway; the robe was open by the time he reached the door to the cabaret. He removed the razor-like knife from the cloth and shoved it into a scabbard on his belt. Then, holding the folds of cloth together, his hood in place, the lethal weapon secure at his side, he pulled the door back and walked inside, into the brawling chaos that showed no sign of lessening. But then why should it? He had left it barely thirty seconds ago and his man was well trained.
   'Faai di!' The shout came from the burly, unshaven peasant from Canton; he was ten feet away, overturning another table and striking a match, dropping it on the floor. The police will be here any moment! The bartender just reached a phone, I saw him!'
   The killer-priest ripped the caftan away from his body and the hood from his head. In the wild revolving lights his face looked as macabre as any in the frenzied rock group. Heavy make-up outlined his eyes, white lines defining the shape of each, and his face was an unnatural brown. 'Go in front of me!' he commanded the peasant. He dropped his costume and the Uzi on the floor next to the door while removing a pair of thin surgical gloves; he shoved them into his flannel trousers.
   For a cabaret in the Golden Mile to summon the police was not a decision easily arrived at. There were heavy fines for poor management, stiff penalties for endangering tourists. The police knew these risks and responded quickly when they were taken. The killer ran behind the peasant from Canton who joined the panicked crowd at the entrance screaming to get out. The coarsely dressed brawler was a bull; bodies in front of him fell away under the force of his blows. Guard and killer burst through the door and into the street where another crowd had gathered shrieking questions and epithets and cries of bad joss – misfortune for the establishment. They threaded their way through the excited onlookers and were joined by the short, muscular Chinese who had waited outside. He grabbed the arm of his defrocked charge and pulled him into the narrowest of alleys, where he took two towels from under his tunic. One was soft and dry, the other encased in plastic; it was warm and wet and perfumed.
   The assassin gripped the wet towel and began rubbing it over his face, sinking it around and into the sockets of his eyes and across the exposed flesh of his neck. He reversed the cloth and repeated the process with even greater pressure, scrubbing his temples and his hairline until his white skin was apparent. He then dried himself with the second towel, smoothed his dark hair and straightened the regimental tie that fell on the cream-coloured shirt under his dark blue blazer. 'Jau!' he ordered his two companions. They ran and disappeared in the crowds.
   And a lone, well-dressed Occidental walked out into the strip of Oriental pleasures.
   Inside the cabaret the excited manager was berating the bartender who had called the jing cha; the fines would be on his fuck-fuck head! For the riot had inexplicably subsided, leaving the customers bewildered. Head boys and waiters were mollifying the patrons, patting shoulders and clearing away the debris while straightening tables and producing new chairs and dispensing free glasses of whisky. The rock group concentrated on the current favorites, and as swiftly as the order of the evening had been disrupted it was restored. With luck, thought the tuxedoed manager, the explanation that an impetuous bartender had mistaken a belligerent drunk for something far more serious would be acceptable to the police.
   Suddenly, all thoughts of fines and official harassment were swept away as his eyes were drawn to a clump of white fabric on the floor across the room – in front of the door to the inner offices. White cloth, pure white – the priest? The door! The laoban! The conference!. His breath short, his face drenched with sweat, the obese manager raced between the tables to the discarded caftan. He knelt down, his eyes wide, his breathing now suspended, as he saw the dark barrel of a strange weapon protruding from beneath the folds of white. And what made him choke on his barely formed terror was the sight of tiny specks and thin streaks of shiny, undried blood soiling the cloth.
   'Go hai matyeh?" The question was asked by a second man in a tuxedo, but without the status conferred by a cummerbund – in truth the manager's brother and first assistant . 'Oh, damn the Christian Jesus!' he swore under his breath as his brother gathered up the odd-looking gun in the spotted white caftan.
   'Come!' ordered the manager, getting to his feet and heading for the door.
   The police!' objected the brother. 'One of us should speak to them, calm them, do what we can. '
   'It may be that we can do nothing but give them our heads! Quickly?
   Inside the dimly lit corridor the proof was there. The slain guard lay in a river of his own blood, his weapon gripped by a hand barely attached to his wrist. Within the conference room itself, the proof was complete. Five bloodied corpses were in spastic disarray, one specifically, shockingly, the focus of the manager's horrified interest. He approached the body and the punctured skull. With his handkerchief he wiped away the blood and stared at the face.
   'We are dead,' he whispered. 'Kowloon is dead, Hong Kong dead. All is dead. '
   'What?'
   'This man is the Vice-Premier of the People's Republic, successor to the Chairman himself. '
   'Here! Look!' The first assistant brother lunged towards the body of the dead laoban. Alongside the riddled, bleeding corpse was a black bandanna. It was lying flat, the fabric with the curlicues of white discoloured by blotches of red. The brother picked it up and gasped at the writing in the circle of blood underneath: JASON BOURNE.
   The manager sprang across the floor. 'Great Christian Jesus!' he cried, his whole body trembling. 'He's come back. The assassin has come back to Asia! Jason Bourne! He's come back!'

2
   The sun fell behind the Sangre de Cristo Mountains in central Colorado as the Cobra helicopter roared out of the blazing light, a giant fluttering silhouette, and stuttered its way downward towards the threshold on the edge of the timberline. The concrete landing pad was several hundred feet from a large rectangular house of heavy wood and thick beveled glass. Aside from generators and camouflaged communications disks, no other structures were in sight. Tall trees formed a dense wall concealing the house from all outsiders.
   The pilots of these highly maneuverable aircraft were recruited from the senior officer corps of the Cheyenne complex in Colorado Springs. None was lower than a full colonel and each had been cleared by the National Security Council in Washington. They never spoke about their trips to the mountain retreat; the destination was always obscured on flight plans. Headings were issued by radio when the choppers were airborne. The location was not on any public map and its communications were beyond the scrutiny of allies and enemies alike. The security was total; it had to be. This was a place for strategists whose work was so sensitive and frequently entailed such delicate global implications that the planners could not be seen together outside government buildings or in the buildings themselves, and certainly never inside adjacent offices known to have connecting doors.
   There were hostile, inquisitive eyes everywhere – allies and enemies alike – who knew of the work these men did, and if they were observed together, alarms would surely go out. The enemy was vigilant and allies jealously guarded their own intelligence fiefdoms.
   The doors of the Cobra opened. A frame of steel steps snapped to the ground as an obviously bewildered man climbed down into the floodlights. He was escorted by a major general in uniform. The civilian was slender, middle-aged, and of medium height and dressed in a pinstripe suit, white shirt and paisley tie. Even under the harsh, decelerating wash of the rotor blades his careful grooming remained intact, as though it were important to him and not to be abused. He followed the officer and together they walked up a concrete path to a door at the side of the house which opened as both men approached. However, only the civilian went inside; the general nodded, giving one of those informal salutes veteran soldiers reserve for the non-military and officers of their own rank.
   'Nice to have met you, Mr. McAllister, said the general. 'Someone else will take you back. '
   'You're not coming in?' asked the civilian.
   'I've never been in, replied the officer, smiling. 'I just make sure it's you, and get you from Point B to Point C . '
   'Sounds like a waste of rank, General. '
   'It probably isn't,' observed the soldier without further comment . 'But then I have other duties. Good-bye. '
   McAllister walked inside, into a long paneled corridor, his escort now a pleasant-faced, well-dressed husky man who had all the outward signs of Internal Security about him -physically quick and capable, and anonymous in a crowd.
   'Did you have a pleasant flight, sir?' asked the younger man.
   'Does anybody, in one of those things?'
   The guard laughed. This way, sir. '
   They went down the corridor, passing several doors along both walls, until they reached the end where there was a pair of larger double doors with two red lights in the upper left and right corners. They were cameras on separate circuits.
   Edward McAllister had not seen devices like those since he left Hong Kong two years ago, and then only because he had been briefly assigned to British Intelligence MI6, Special Branch, for consultations. To him the British had seemed paranoid where security was concerned. He had never understood those people, especially after they awarded him a citation for doing minimal work for them in affairs they should have been able to cope with themselves. The guard rapped on the door; there was a quiet click and he opened the right panel.
   'Your other guest, sir,' said the husky man.
   'Thank you so very much,' replied a voice. The astonished McAllister instantly recognized it from scores of radio and television newscasts over the years, its inflections learned in an expensive prep school and several prestigious universities, with a postgraduate career in the British Isles. There was, however, no time to adjust. The grey-haired, impeccably dressed man with a lined, elongated face that bespoke his seventy-plus years got up from a large desk and walked gingerly across the room, his hand extended. 'Mr. Undersecretary, how good of you to come. May I introduce myself. I'm Raymond Havilland '
   'I'm certainly aware of who you are, Mr. Ambassador. It's a privilege, sir. '
   'Ambassador without portfolio, McAllister, which means there's very little privilege left. But there's still work. '
   'I can't imagine any President of the United States within the past twenty years surviving without you. '
   'Some muddled through, Mr. Undersecretary, but with your experience at State I suspect you know that better than I do. ' The diplomat turned his head. 'I'd like you to meet John Reilly. Jack's one of those highly knowledgeable associates we're never supposed to know about over at the National Security Council. He's not so terrifying, is he?
   'I hope not,' said McAllister, crossing to shake hands with Reilly, who had got up from one of the two leather chairs facing the desk. 'Nice to meet you, Mr. Reilly. '
   'Mr. Undersecretary,' said the somewhat obese man with red hair that matched a freckled forehead. The eyes behind the steel-rimmed glasses did not convey geniality; they were sharp and cold.
   'Mr. Reilly is here,' continued Havilland, crossing behind the desk and indicating the vacant chair on the right for McAllister, 'to make sure I stay in line. As I understand it, that means there are some things I can say, others I can't, and certain things that only he can say. ' The ambassador sat down. 'If that appears enigmatic to you, Mr. Undersecretary, I'm afraid it's all I can offer at this juncture. '
   'Everything that's happened during the past five hours since I was ordered to Andrews-Air Force Base has been an enigma, Ambassador Havilland. I have no idea why I was brought here. '
   'Then let me tell you in general terms,' said the diplomat, glancing at Reilly and leaning forward on the desk. 'You are in a position to be of extraordinary service to your country and to interests far beyond this country – exceeding anything you may have considered during your long and distinguished career. '
   McAllister studied the Ambassador's austere face, uncertain how to reply. 'My career at the Department of State has been fulfilling and, I trust, professional, but it can hardly be called distinguished in the broadest sense. Quite frankly, the opportunities never presented themselves. '
   'One has presented itself to you now,' interrupted Havilland. 'And you are uniquely qualified to carry it out . '
   'In what way? Why?
   'The Far East,' said the diplomat with an odd inflection in his voice, as though the reply might itself be a question. 'You've been with the State Department for over twenty years since you received your doctorate in Far Eastern Studies at Harvard. You've served your government commendably with many years of outstanding foreign service in Asia, and since your return from your last post your judgements have proved to be extremely valuable in formulating policy in that troubled part of the world. You're considered a brilliant analyst . '
   'I appreciate what you say, but there were others in Asia. Many others who attained equal or higher ratings. '
   'Accidents of events and posting, Mr. Undersecretary. Let's be frank, you've done well. Besides, no one compares with you as a specialist in the internal affairs of the People's Republic of China – I believe you played a pivotal role in the trade conferences between Washington and Peking. Also, none of the others spent seven years in Hong Kong. ' Here Raymond Havilland paused, then added. 'Finally, no one else in our Asian posts was ever assigned to or accepted by the British government's MI6, Special Branch, in the territory. '
   'I see,' said McAllister, recognizing that the last qualification, which seemed the least important to him, had a certain significance for the diplomat . 'My work in intelligence was minimal, Mr. Ambassador. The Special Branch's acceptance of me was based more on its own – disinformation, I think is the word – than any unique talent of mine. Those people simply believed the wrong set of facts and the sums didn't total. It didn't take long to find the "correct figures", as I remember they put it.'
   They trusted you, McAllister. They still trust you. '
   'I assume that trust is intrinsic to this opportunity, whatever it is?'
   'Very much so. It's vital. '
   'Then may I hear what the opportunity is?'
   'You may. ' Havilland looked over at the third participant, the man from the National Security Council. 'If you care to,' he added.
   'My turn,' said Reilly, not unpleasantly. He shifted his heavy torso in the chair and gazed at McAllister, with eyes still rigid but without the coldness they had displayed previously, as though he was now asking for understanding. 'At the moment our voices are being taped – it's your constitutional right to know that – but it's a two-sided right. You must swear to absolute secrecy concerning the information imparted to you here, not only in the interests of national security but in the further and conceivably greater interests of specific world conditions. I know that sounds like a come-on to whet your appetite but it's not meant to be. We're deadly serious. Will you agree to the condition? You can be prosecuted in a closed trial under the national security non-disclosure statutes if you violate the oath. '
   'How can I agree to a condition like that when I have no idea what the information is?
   'Because I can give you a quick overview and it'll be enough for you to say yes or no. If it's no, you'll be escorted out of here and flown back to Washington. No one will be the loser. '
   'Go ahead. '
   'All right. ' Reilly spoke calmly. 'You'll be discussing certain events that took place in the past – not ancient history, but not current by any means. The actions themselves were disavowed, buried to be more accurate. Does that sound familiar, Mr. Undersecretary?'
   'I'm from the State Department. We bury the past when it serves no purpose to reveal it. Circumstances change; judgements made in good faith yesterday are often a problem tomorrow. We can't control these changes any more than the Soviets or the Chinese can. '
   'Well put!' said Havilland.
   'Not yet it isn't,' objected Reilly, raising a palm to the Ambassador. The undersecretary is evidently an experienced diplomat. He didn't say yes and he didn't say no. ' The man from the NSC again looked at McAllister, the eyes behind the steel-rimmed glasses were once again sharp and cold. 'What is it, Mr. Undersecretary? You want to sign on, or do you want to leave?"
   'One part of me wants to get up and leave as quickly as I can,' said McAllister, looking alternately at both men. 'The other part says stay. ' He paused, his gaze settling on Reilly, and added, 'Whether you intended it or not, my appetite is whetted.'
   'It's a hell of a price to pay for being hungry,' replied the Irishman.
   'It's more than that. ' The undersecretary of state spoke softly. 'I'm a professional, and if I am the man you want, I really don't have a choice. '
   'I'm afraid I'll have to hear the words,' said Reilly. 'Do you want me to repeat them?"
   'It won't be necessary. ' McAllister frowned in thought, then spoke. 'I, Edward Newington McAllister, fully understand that whatever is said during this conference-' He stopped and looked at Reilly. 'I assume you'll fill in the particulars such as time and location and those present?'
   'Date, place, hour and minute of entry and identifications it's all been done and logged. '
   Thank you. I'll want a copy before I leave. '
   'Of course. ' Without raising his voice, Reilly looked straight ahead and quietly issued an order. 'Please note. Have a copy of this tape available for the subject upon his departure. Also equipment for him to verify its contents on the premises. I'll initial the copy... Go ahead, Mr. McAllister. '
   'I appreciate that... With regard to whatever is said at this conference, I accept the condition of non-disclosure: I will speak to no one about any aspect of the discussion unless instructed to do so personally by Ambassador Havilland. I further understand that I may be prosecuted at a closed trial should I violate this agreement. However, should such a trial ever take place, I reserve the right to confront my accusers, not their affidavits or depositions. I add this for I cannot conceive of any circumstances where I would or could violate the oath I've just taken. '
   'There are circumstances, you know,' said Reilly, gently.
   'Not in my book. '
   'Extreme physical abuse, chemicals, being tricked by men and women far more experienced than you. There are ways, Mr. Undersecretary. '
   'I repeat. Should a case ever be brought against me – and such things have happened to others – I reserve the right to face any and all accusers. '
   'That's good enough for us. ' Again Reilly looked straight ahead and spoke. Terminate this tape and pull the plugs. Confirm. '
   'Confirmed? said a voice eerily from a speaker somewhere overhead. ' You are now... out .

'Proceed, Mr. Ambassador,' said the red-haired man. 'I'll interrupt only when I feel it's necessary. '
   'I'm sure you will, Jack. ' Havilland turned to McAllister. 'I take back my previous statement; he really is a terror. After forty-odd years of service, I'm told by a redheaded whippersnapper who should go on a diet when to shut up. '
   The three men smiled; the aging diplomat knew the moment and the method to reduce tension. Reilly shook his head and genially extended his hands. 'I would never do that, sir. Certainly, I hope not so obviously. '
   'What say, McAllister? Let's defect to Moscow and say he was the recruiter. The Russkies would probably give us both dachas and he'd be in Leavenworth. '
   ' You'd get the dacha, Mr. Ambassador. I'd share a flat with twelve Siberians. No thank you, sir. He's not interrupting me. '
   ' Very good. I'm surprised none of those well-intentioned meddlers in the Oval Office ever tapped you for his staff, or at least sent you to the UN. '
   They didn't know I existed. '
   That status will change,' said Havilland, abruptly serious. He paused, staring at the undersecretary, then lowered his voice. 'Have you ever heard the name Jason Bourne?'
   'How could anyone posted in Asia not have heard it? answered McAllister, perplexed. Thirty-five to forty murders' the assassin-for-hire who eluded every trap ever set for him. A pathological killer whose only morality was the price of the kill. They say he was an American – is an American; I don't know; he faded from sight – and that he was a defrocked priest and an importer who'd stolen millions and a deserter from the French Foreign Legion and God knows how many other stories. The only thing I do know is that he was never caught, and our failure to catch him was a burden on our diplomacy throughout the Far East . '
   'Was there any pattern to his victims?'
   'None. They were random, across the board. Two bankers here, three attaches there – meaning CI A; a minister of state from Delhi, an industrialist from Singapore, and numerous -far too numerous – politicians, generally decent men. Their cars were bombed in the streets, their flats blown up. Then there were unfaithful husbands and wives and lovers of various persuasions in various scandals; he offered final solutions for bruised egos. There was no one he wouldn't kill, no method too brutal or demeaning for him... No, there wasn't a pattern, just money. The highest bidder. He was a monster – is a monster, if he's still alive. '
   Once more Havilland leaned forward, his eyes steady on the undersecretary of state. 'You say he faded from sight. Just like that? You never picked up anything, any rumors or backstairs gossip from our Asian embassies or consulates?
   'There was talk, yes, but none of it was ever confirmed. The story I heard most often came from the Macao police, where Bourne was last known to be. They said he wasn't dead or retired, but instead had gone to Europe looking for wealthier clients. If it's true, it might be only half the story. The police also claimed informants told them that several contracts had gone sour for Bourne, that in one instance he killed the wrong man, a leading figure in the Malaysian underworld, and in another it was said he raped a client's wife. Perhaps the circle was closing in on him – and perhaps not . '
   'What do you mean?
   'Most of us bought the first half of the story, not the second. Bourne wouldn't kill the wrong man, especially someone like that; he didn't make those kinds of mistakes. And if he raped a client's wife – which is doubtful – he would have done so out of hatred or revenge. He would have forced a bound husband to watch and then killed them both. No, most of us subscribed to the first story. He went to Europe where there were bigger fish to fry – and murder. '
   'You were meant to accept that version,' said Havilland, leaning back in his chair.
   'I beg your pardon?
   'The only man Jason Bourne ever killed in post-Vietnam Asia was an enraged conduit who tried to kill him. '
   Stunned, McAllister stared at the diplomat . 'I don't understand. '
   'The Jason Bourne you've just described never existed. He was a myth. '
   'You can't be serious. '
   'Never more so. Those were turbulent times in the Far East. The drug networks operating out of the Golden Triangle were fighting a disorganized, unpublicized war. Consuls, vice– consuls, police, politicians, criminal gangs, border patrols -the highest and the lowest social orders – all were affected. Money in unimaginable amounts was the mother's milk of corruption. Whenever and wherever a well-publicized killing took place – regardless of the circumstances or those accused – Bourne was on the scene and took credit for the kill. '
   'He was the killer,' insisted a confused McAllister. There were the signs, his signs. Everyone knew it!'
   'Everyone assumed it, Mr. Undersecretary. A mocking telephone call to the police, a small article of clothing sent in the mail, a black bandanna found in the bushes a day later. They were all part of the strategy. '
   The strategy? What are you talking about?
   'Jason Bourne – the original Jason Bourne – was a convicted murderer, a fugitive whose life ended with a bullet in his head in a place called Tarn Quan during the last months of the Vietnam war. It was a jungle execution. The man was a traitor. His corpse was left to rot – he simply disappeared. Several years later, the man who executed him took on his identity for one of our projects, a project that nearly succeeded, should have succeeded, but went off the wire. '
   'Off the what?
   'Out of control. That man – that very brave man – who went underground for us, using the name "Jason Bourne" for three years, was injured, and the result of those injuries was amnesia. He lost his memory; he neither knew who he was nor who he was meant to be. '
   'Good Lord
   'He was between a rock and a hard place. With the help of an alcoholic doctor on a Mediterranean island he tried to trace his life, his identity, and here, I'm afraid, he failed. He failed but the woman who befriended him did not fail; she's now his wife. Her instincts were accurate; she knew he wasn't a killer. She purposely forced him to examine his words, his abilities, ultimately to make the contacts that would lead him back to us. But we, with the most sophisticated intelligence apparatus in the world, did not listen to the human quotient. We set a trap to kill him-'
   'I must interrupt, Mr. Ambassador,' said Reilly.
   'Why? asked Havilland. 'It's what we did and we're not on tape. '
   'An individual made the determination, not the United States Government. That should be clear, sir. '
   'All right,' agreed the diplomat, nodding. 'His name was Conklin, but it's irrelevant, Jack. Government personnel went along. It happened. '
   'Government personnel were also instrumental in saving his life. '
   'Somewhat after the fact,' muttered Havilland.
   'But why?' asked McAllister. He now leaned forward, mesmerized by the bizarre story. 'He was one of us. Why would anyone want to kill him?'
   'His loss of memory was taken for something else. It was erroneously believed that he had turned, that he had killed three of his controls and disappeared with a great deal of money – government funds totalling over five million dollars. '
   'Five million... ?' Astonished, the undersecretary slowly sank back into the chair. 'Funds of that magnitude were available to him personally?
   'Yes,' said the ambassador. 'They, too, were part of the strategy, part of the project . '
   'I assume this is where silence is necessary. The project, I mean. '
   'It's imperative,' answered Reilly. 'Not because of the project – in spite of what happened we make no apology for that operation – but because of the man we recruited to become Jason Bourne and where he came from. '
   That's cryptic . '
   'It'll become clear. '
   'The project, please. '
   Reilly looked at Raymond Havilland; the diplomat nodded and spoke. 'We created a killer to draw out and trap the most deadly assassin in Europe. '
   1Carlos?'
   'You're quick, Mr. Undersecretary. '
   'Who else was there? In Asia, Bourne and the Jackal were constantly being compared. '
   Those comparisons were encouraged,' said Havilland. 'Often magnified and spread by the strategists of the project, a group known as Treadstone Seventy-one. The name was derived from a sterile house on New York's Seventy-first Street where the resurrected Jason Bourne was trained. It was the command post and a name you should be aware of. '
   'I see,' said McAllister pensively. Then those comparisons, growing as they did with Bourne's reputation, served as a challenge to Carlos. That's when Bourne moved to Europe -to bring the challenge directly to the Jackal. To force him to come out and confront his challenger. '
   ' Very quick, Mr. Undersecretary. In a nutshell, that was the strategy. '
   'It's extraordinary. Brilliant actually, and one doesn't have to be an expert to see that. God knows I'm not . '
   'You may become one-'
   'And you say this man who became Bourne, the mythical assassin, spent three years playing the role and then was injured-'
   'Shot,' interrupted Havilland. 'Membranes in his skull were blown away. '
   'And he lost his memory?'
   Totally. '
   'My God!'
   'Yet despite everything that happened to him, and with the woman's help – she was an economist for the Canadian Government, incidentally – he came within moments of pulling the whole damn thing off. A remarkable story, isn't it?'
   'It's incredible. But what kind of man would do this, could do it?'
   The redheaded John Reilly coughed softly; the ambassador deferred with a glance. 'We're now reaching ground zero,' the big man said, again shifting his bulk to look at McAllister. 'If you've any doubts I can still let you go. '
   'I try not to repeat myself. You have your tape. '
   'It's your appetite. '
   'I suppose that's another way you people have of saying there might not even be a trial. '
   'I'd never say that . '
   McAllister swallowed, his eyes meeting the calm gaze of the man from the NSC. He turned to Havilland. 'Please go on, Mr. Ambassador. Who is this man? Where did he come from?'
   'His name is David Webb. He's currently an associate professor of Oriental Studies at a small university in Maine and married to the Canadian woman who literally guided him out of his labyrinth. Without her he would have been killed – but then without him she would have ended up a corpse in Zurich. '
   'Remarkable,' said McAllister, barely audible.
   'The point is, she's his second wife. His first marriage ended in a tragic act of wanton slaughter – that's when his story began for us. A number of years ago Webb was a young foreign service officer stationed in Phnom Penh, a brilliant Far East scholar, fluent in several Oriental languages and married to a girl from Thailand he'd met in graduate school. They lived in a house on a riverbank and had two children. It was an ideal life for such a man. It combined the expertise Washington needed in the area with the opportunity to live in his own museum. Then the Vietnam action escalated and one morning a lone jet fighter – no one really knows from which side, but no one ever told Webb that – swooped down at low altitude and strafed his wife and children while they were playing in the water. Their bodies were riddled. They floated into the riverbank as Webb was trying to reach them; he gathered them in his arms, screaming helplessly at the disappearing plane above. '
   'How horrible, '' whispered McAllister.
   'At that moment, Webb turned. He became someone he never was, never dreamed he could be. He became a guerrilla fighter known as Delta . '
   'Delta?' said Mr. McAllister. 'A guerrilla... ? I'm afraid I don't understand. '
   There's no way you could. ' Havilland looked over at Reilly, then back at the man from State. 'As Jack made clear a moment ago, we're now at ground zero. Webb fled to Saigon, consumed with rage, and, ironically, through the efforts of the CIA officer named Conklin, who years later tried to kill him, joined a clandestine operations outfit called Medusa. No names were ever used by the people in Medusa, just the Greek letters of the alphabet – Webb became Delta One. '
   'Medusa? I've never heard of it . '
   'Ground zero,' said Reilly. 'The Medusa file is still classified, but we've permitted limited declassification in this instance. The Medusa units were a collection of internationals who knew the Vietnam territories, north and south. Frankly most of them were criminals – smugglers of narcotics, gold, guns, jewels, all kinds of contraband. Also convicted murderers, fugitives who'd been sentenced to death in absentia... and a smattering of colonials whose businesses were confiscated – again by both sides. They banked on us -Big Uncle – to take care of all their problems if they infiltrated hostile areas, killing suspected Viet Cong collaborators and village chiefs thought to be leaning towards Charlie, as well as expediting prisoner-of-war escapes where they could. They were assassination teams – death squads, if you will – and that says it as well as it can be said, but of course we'll never say it. Mistakes were made, millions stolen, and the majority of those personnel wouldn't be allowed in any civilized army, Webb among them. '
   'With his background, his academic credentials, he willingly became part of such a group?
   'He had an overpowering motive,' said Havilland. 'As far as he was concerned, that plane in Phnom Penh was North Vietnamese. '
   'Some said he was a madman,' continued Reilly. 'Others claimed he was an extraordinary tactician, the supreme guerrilla who understood the Oriental mind and led the most aggressive teams in Medusa, feared as much by Command Saigon as by the enemy. He was uncontrollable; the only rules he followed were his own. It was as if he had mounted his own personal hunt, tracking down the man who had flown that plane and destroyed his life. It became his war, his rage; the more violent it became the more satisfying it was for him – or perhaps closer to his own death wish. '
   'Death... ?' The undersecretary of state left the word hanging.
   'It was the prevalent theory at the time,' interrupted the ambassador.
   'The war ended,' said Reilly, 'as disastrously for Webb – or Delta – as it did for the rest of us. Perhaps worse; there was nothing left for him. No more purpose, nothing to strike out at, to kill. Until we approached him and gave him a reason to go on living. Or perhaps a reason to go on trying to die. '
   'By becoming Bourne and going after Carlos the Jackal,' completed McAllister.
   'Yes,' agreed the intelligence officer. A brief silence ensued.
   'We need him back,' said Havilland. The soft-spoken words fell like an axe on hard wood.
   'Carlos has surfaced?
   The diplomat shook his head. 'Not Europe. We need him back in Asia, and we can't waste a minute. '
   'Someone else? Another... target?' McAllister swallowed involuntarily. 'Have you spoken to him?
   'We can't approach him. Not directly. '
   'Why not?
   'He wouldn't let us through the door. He doesn't trust anything or anyone out of Washington and it's difficult to fault him for that. For days, for weeks, he cried out for help and we didn't listen. Instead, we tried to kill him. '
   'Again I must object,' broke in Reilly. 'It wasn't us. It was an individual operating on erroneous information. And the Government currently spends in excess of four hundred thousand dollars a year in a protection programme for Webb . '
   'Which he scoffs at. He believes it's no more than a back-up trap for Carlos in the event the Jackal unearths him. He's convinced you don't give a damn about him, and I'm not sure he's far off the mark. He saw Carlos and the fact that the face has not yet come back into focus for him isn't something Carlos knows. The Jackal has every reason to go after Webb. And if he does, you'll have your second chance. '
   'The chances of Carlos finding him are so remote as to be practically nil. The Treadstone records are buried and in any case they don't contain current information as to where Webb is or what he does. '
   'Come, Mr. Reilly,' said Havilland testily. 'Look at his background and qualifications. How difficult would it be? He's got academia written all over him. '
   'I'm not opposing you, Mr. Ambassador,' replied a somewhat subdued Reilly. 'I just want everything clear. Let's be frank, Webb has to be handled very delicately. He's recovered a large portion of his memory but certainly not all of it. However, he's recalled enough about Medusa to be a considerable threat to the country's interests. '
   'In what way? asked McAllister. 'Perhaps it wasn't the best and it probably wasn't the worst, but basically it was a military strategy in time of war. '
   'A strategy that was unsanctioned, unlogged and unacknowledged. There's no official slate. '
   'How is that possible? It was funded, and when funds are expended-'
   'Don't read me the book,' interrupted the obese intelligence officer. 'We're not on tape, but I've got yours. '
   'Is that your answer?
   'No, this is: there's no statute of limitation on war crimes and murder, Mr. Undersecretary, and murder and other violent crimes were committed against our own forces as well as allied personnel. In the main they were committed by killers and thieves in the process of stealing, looting, raping, and killing. Most of them were pathological criminals. Effective as Medusa was in many ways, it was a tragic mistake, born of anger and frustration in a no-win situation. What possible good would it do to open all the old wounds? Quite apart from the claims against us, we would become a pariah in the eyes of much of the civilized world. '
   'As I mentioned,' said McAllister softly, reluctantly, 'at State we don't believe in opening wounds. ' He turned to the Ambassador. 'I'm beginning to understand. You want me to reach this David Webb and persuade him to return to Asia. For another. project, another target – although I've never used the word in that context in my life before this evening. And I assume it's because there are distinct parallels in our early careers – we're Asia men. We presumably have insights where the Far East is concerned and you think he'll listen to me. '
   'Essentially, yes. '
   'Yet you say he won't touch us. That's where my understanding fades. How can I do it?
   'We'll do it together. As he once made the rules for himself, we'll make them now. It's imperative. '
   'Because of a man you want killed?'
   'Neutralized will suffice. It has to be done. '
   'And Webb can do it?
   'No. Jason Bourne can. We sent him out alone for three years under extraordinary stress – suddenly his memory was taken from him and he was hunted like an animal. Still he retained the ability to infiltrate and kill. I'm being blunt . '
   'I understand that. Since we're not on tape – and on the chance that we still are-' The undersecretary glanced disapprovingly at Reilly, who shook his head and shrugged. 'May I be permitted to know who the target is?
   'You may, and I want you to commit this name to memory, Mr. Undersecretary. He's a Chinese minister of state, Sheng Chou Yang. '
   McAllister flushed, angrily. 'I don't have to commit it, and I think you know that. He was a fixture in the People's Republic's economics group and we were both assigned to the trade conferences in Peking in the late seventies. I read up on him, analyzed him. Sheng was my counterpart and I could do no less – a fact I suspect you also know. '
   'Oh? The grey-haired ambassador arched his dark eyebrows, and dismissed the rebuke. 'And what did your reading tell you? What did you learn about him?
   'He was considered very bright, very ambitious – but then his rise in Peking's hierarchy tells us that. He was spotted by scouts sent out from the Central Committee some years ago at the Fudan University in Shanghai. Initially because he took to the English language so fluently and had a firm, even sophisticated, grasp of Western economics. '
   'What else?
   'He was considered promising material, and after in-depth indoctrination was sent to the London School of Economics for graduate study. It took. '
   'How do you mean?
   'Sheng's an avowed Marxist where the centralized state is concerned, but he has a healthy respect for capitalistic profits. '
   'I see,' said Havilland. Then he accepts the failure of the Soviet system?
   'He's ascribed that failure to the Russian penchant for corruption and mindless conformity in the higher ranks, and alcohol in the lower ones. To his credit he's stamped out a fair share of those abuses in the industrial centres. '
   'Sounds like he was trained at IBM. '
   'He's been responsible for many of the PRC's new trade policies. He's made China a lot of money. ' Again the undersecretary leaned forward in his chair, his eyes intense, his expression bewildered – stunned was perhaps more accurate. 'My God, why would anyone in the West want Sheng dead? It's absurd! He's our economic ally, a politically stabilizing factor in the largest nation on earth that's ideologically opposed to us! Through him and men like him we've reached accommodations. Without him, whatever the course, there's the risk of disaster. I'm a professional China analyst, Mr. Ambassador, and, I repeat, what you suggest is absurd. A man of your accomplishments should recognize that before any of us. '
   The ageing diplomat looked hard at his accuser, and when he spoke he did so slowly, choosing his words carefully. 'A few moments ago we were at ground zero. A former foreign service officer named David Webb became Jason Bourne for a purpose. Conversely, Sheng Chou Yang is not the man you know, not the man you studied as your counterpart. He became that man for a purpose. '
   'What are you talking about? shot back McAllister defensively. 'Everything I've said about him is on record -records, official – most top secret and eyes-only. '
   'Eves-only? the former ambassador asked wearily. 'Ears-only, tongues only – wagging as busily as tails wag tigers. Because an official stamp is placed on recorded observations and observed by men who have no idea where those records came from – they are there, and that's enough. No, Mr. Undersecretary, it's not enough, it never is. '
   'You obviously have information I don't have,' said the State Department man coldly. 'If it is information and not disinformation. The man I described – the man I knew – is Sheng Chou Yang. '
   'Just as the David Webb we described to you was Jason Bourne?... No, please, don't be angry, I'm not playing games. It's important that you understand. Sheng is not the man you knew. He never was. '
   'Then whom did I know? Who was the man at those conferences?5
   'He's a traitor, Mr. Undersecretary. Sheng Chou Yang is a traitor to his country, and when his treachery is exposed – as it surely will be – Peking will hold the Free World responsible. The consequences of that inevitable error are unthinkable. However, there's no doubt as to his purpose. '
   ''Sheng... a traitor1! I don't believe you! He's worshipped in Peking! One day he'll be chairman!'
   Then China will be ruled by a Nationalist zealot whose ideological roots are in Taiwan. '
   'You're crazy – you're absolutely crazy! Wait a minute, you said he had a purpose – "no doubt as to his purpose", you said. '
   'He and his people intend to take over Hong Kong. He's mounting a hidden economic blitzkrieg, putting all trade, all of the territory's financial institutions under the control of a "neutral" commission, a clearing house approved by Peking which means approved by him. The instrument of record will be the British treaty that expires in 1997, his commission a supposedly reasonable prelude to annexation and control. It will happen when the road is clear for Sheng, when there are no more obstacles in his path. When his word is the only word that counts in economic matters. It could be in a month, or two months. Or next week. '
   'You think Peking has agreed to this?' protested McAllister. 'You're wrong! It's – it's just crazy! The People's Republic will never substantively touch Hong Kong! It brokers sixty percent of its entire economy through the territory. The China Accords guarantee fifty years of a Free Economic Zone status and Sheng is a signator, the most vital one!'
   'But Sheng is not Sheng – not as you know him. '
   Then who the hell is he?
   'Prepare yourself, Mr. Undersecretary. Sheng Chou Yang is the first son of a Shanghai industrialist who made his fortune in the corrupt world of the old China, Chiang Kai-shek's Kuomintang. When it was obvious that Mao's revolution would succeed, the family fled, as so many of the landlords and warlords did, with whatever they could transfer. The old man is now one of the most powerful taipans in Hong Kong – but which one, we don't know. The colony will become his and the family's mandate, courtesy of a minister in Peking, his most treasured son. It's the ultimate irony, the patriarch's final vengeance – Hong Kong will be controlled by the very men who corrupted Nationalist China. For years they bled their country without conscience, profiting from the labours of a starving, disenfranchized people, paving the way for Mao's revolution. And if that sounds like Communist bilge, I'm afraid for the most part it's embarrassingly accurate. Now a handful of zealots, boardroom thugs led by a maniac, want back what no international court in history would ever grant them. ' Havilland paused, then spat out the single word, 'Maniacs!'
   'But if you don't know who this taipan is, how do you know it's true, any of it?'
   The sources are maximum-classified,' interrupted Reilly, 'but they've been confirmed. The story was first picked up in Taiwan. Our original informer was a member of the Nationalist cabinet who thought it a disastrous course that could only lead to a bloodbath for the entire Far East. He pleaded with us to stop it. He was found dead the next morning, three bullets in his head and his throat cut – in Chinese that means a traitor. Since then five other people have been murdered, their bodies similarly mutilated. It's true. The conspiracy is alive and well and coming from Hong Kong. '
   'It's insane!'
   'More to the point,' said Havilland, 'it will never work. If it had a prayer we might look the other way and even say Godspeed, but it can't. It'll blow apart, as Lin Biao's conspiracy against Mao Zedong blew apart in seventy-two; and when it does, Peking will blame American and Taiwanese money in complicity with the British – as well as the silent acquiescence of the world's leading financial institutions. Eight years of economic progress will be shot to hell because a group of fanatics want vengeance. In your words, Mr. Undersecretary, the People's Republic is a suspicious turbulent nation – and if I may add a few of my own from those accomplishments you ascribe to me – a government quick to become paranoid, obsessed with betrayal both from within and without. China will believe that the world is out to isolate her economically, choke her off from world markets and bring her to her knees while the Russians grin across the northern borders. She will strike fast and furiously, impound everything, absorb everything. Her troops will occupy Kowloon, the island and all of the burgeoning New Territories. Investments in the trillions will be lost. Without the colony's expertise trade will be stymied, a labour force of millions will be in chaos – hunger and disease will be rampant. The Far East will be in flames, and the result could touch off a war none of us wants to think about . '
   'Jesus Christ. 1 McAllister whispered. 'It can't happen. '
   'No, it can't,' agreed the diplomat.
   'But why Webb?
   'Not Webb,' corrected Havilland. 'Jason Bourne. '
   'All right! Why Bourne?
   'Because word out of Kowloon is that he's already there. '
   'What?'
   'And we know he's not . '
   'What did you say?
   'He's struck. He's killed. He's back in Asia . '
   "Webb?'
   'No, Bourne. The myth. '
   'You're not making one goddamned bit of sense!'
   'I can assure you Sheng Chou Yang is making a lot of sense. '
   'How?'
   'He's brought him back. Jason Bourne's skills are once more for hire, and, as always, his client is beyond unearthing – in the present case the most unlikely client imaginable: a leading spokesman for the People's Republic who must eliminate his opposition both in Hong Kong and in Peking. During the past six months a number of powerful voices in Peking's Central Committee have been strangely silent. According to official government announcements, several died, and considering their ages it's understandable. Two others were supposedly killed in accidents – one in a plane crash, one by, of all things, a cerebral hemorrhage while hiking in the Shaoguan mountains – if it's not true, at least it's imaginative. Then another was "removed" – a euphemism for disgrace. Lastly, and most extraordinary, the PRC's Vice-Premier was murdered in Kowloon when no one in Peking knew he was there. It was a gruesome episode, five men massacred in the Tsim Sha Tsui with the killer leaving his calling card. The name "Jason Bourne" was etched in blood on the floor. An impostor's ego demanded that he be given credit for his kills. '
   McAllister blinked repeatedly, his eyes darting aimlessly. This is all so far beyond me,' he said helplessly. Then, becoming the professional once again, he looked steadily at Havilland. 'Is there linkage?' he asked.
   The diplomat nodded. 'Our intelligence reports are specific. All of these men opposed Sheng's policies – some openly, some guardedly. The Vice-Premier, an old revolutionary and veteran of Mao's Long March, was especially vocal. He couldn't stand the upstart Sheng. Yet what was he doing secretly in Kowloon in the company of bankers? Peking can't answer so "face" mercifully required that the killing never happened. With his cremation he became a nonperson. '
   'And with the killer's "calling card" – the name written in blood – the second linkage is to Sheng,' said the undersecretary of state, his voice close to trembling as he nervously massaged his forehead. 'Why would he do it? Leave his name, I mean!'
   'He's in business and it was a spectacular kill. Now do you begin to understand?'
   'I'm not sure what you mean. '
   'For us this new Bourne is our direct route to Sheng Chou Yang. He's our trap. An impostor is posing as the myth, but if the original myth tracks down and takes out the impostor, he's in the position to reach Sheng. It's really very simple. The Jason Bourne we created will replace this new killer using his name. Once in place, our Jason Bourne sends out an urgent alarm – something drastic has happened that threatens Sheng's entire strategy – and Sheng has to respond. He can't afford not to for his security must be absolute, his hands clean. He'll be forced to show himself, if only to kill his hired gun, to remove any association. When he does, this time we won't fail. '
   'It's a circle,' said McAllister, his words barely above a whisper as he stared at the diplomat . 'And from everything you've told me, Webb won't walk near it, much less into it . '
   'Then we must provide him with an overpowering reason to do so,' said Havilland softly. 'In my profession – frankly it was always my profession – we look for patterns – patterns that will trigger a man. ' Frowning, his eyes hollow and empty, the ageing ambassador leaned back in his chair; certainly he was not at peace with himself. 'Sometimes they are ugly realizations, repugnant actually, but one must weigh the greater good, the greater benefits. For everyone. '
   'That doesn't tell me anything. '
   'David Webb became Jason Bourne for essentially one reason – the same reason that propelled him into the Medusa. A wife was taken from him; his children and the mother of his children were killed. '
   'Oh, my God..:
   This is where I leave,' said Reilly, getting out of his chair.
3

3
   Marie! Oh, Christ, Marie, it happened again! A floodgate opened and I couldn't handle it. I tried to, my darling, I tried so hard but I got totalled – I got washed away and I was drowning! I know what you'll say if I tell you, which is why I won't tell you even though I know you'll see it in my eyes, hear it in my voice – somehow, as only you know how. You'll say I should have come home to you, should talk to you, be with you, and we could work it out together. Together! My God! How much can you take? How unfair can I be, how long can it, go on this way? I love you so much, in so many ways, that there are times I have to do it myself. If only to let you off the goddamned hook for a while, to let you breathe for a while without your nerves scraped to their roots while you take care of me. But, you see, my love, I can do it! I did it tonight and I'm all right. I've calmed down now, I'm all right now. And now I'll come home to you better than I was. I have to, because without you there isn't anything left.
   His face drenched with sweat, his tracksuit clinging to his body, David Webb ran breathlessly across the cold grass of the dark field, past the bleachers, and up the cement path towards the university gym. The autumn sun had disappeared behind the stone buildings of the campus, its glow firing the early evening sky as it hovered over the distant Maine woods. The autumn chill was penetrating; he shivered.
   It was not what his doctors had had in mind.
   Regardless, he had followed medical advice; it had been one of those days. The government doctors had told him that if there were times – and there would be times – when sudden, disturbing images or fragments of memory broke into his mind, the best way to handle them was with strenuous exercise. His ECG charts indicated a healthy heart, his lungs were decent, though he was foolish enough to smoke, and since his body could take the punishment, it was the best way to relieve his mind. What he needed during such times was equanimity.
   'What's wrong with a few drinks and cigarettes?' he had said to the doctors, stating his genuine preference. 'The heart beats faster, the body doesn't suffer, and the mind is certainly far more relieved. '
   'They're depressants,' had been the reply from the only man he listened to. 'Artificial stimulants that lead only to further depression and increased anxiety. Run, or swim, or make love to your wife – or anybody else, for that matter. Don't be a goddamned fool and come back here a basket case... Forget about you, think of me. I worked too hard on you, you ingrate. Get out of here, Webb. Take up your life -what you can remember of it – and enjoy. You've got it better than most people, and don't you forget that, or I'll cancel our controlled monthly blowouts at the saloons of our choosing and you can go to hell. And hell for you notwithstanding, I'd miss them... Go, David. It's time for you to go. '
   Morris Panov was the only person besides Marie who could reach him. It was ironic, in a way, for initially Mo had not been one of the government doctors; the psychiatrist had neither sought nor been offered security clearance to hear the classified details of David Webb's background where the lie of Jason Bourne was buried. Nevertheless, Panov had forcefully inserted himself, threatening all manner of embarrassing disclosures if he was not given clearance and a voice in the subsequent therapy. His reasoning was simple, for when David had come within moments of being blown off the face of the earth by misinformed men who were convinced he had to die, that misinformation had been unwittingly furnished by Panov and the way it had happened infuriated him. He had been approached in panic by someone not given to panic, and asked 'hypothetical' questions pertaining to a possibly deranged deep-cover agent in a potentially explosive situation. His answers were restrained and equivocal; he could not and would not give a diagnosis on a patient he had never seen – but yes, this was possible and that not unheard of, but of course, nothing could be considered remotely material without physical and psychiatric examination. The key word was nothing; he should have said nothing! he later claimed. For his words in the ears of amateurs had sealed the order for Webb's execution – 'Jason Bourne's' death sentence – an act that was aborted only at the last instant through David's own doing, while the squad of executioners were still in their unseen positions.
   Not only had Morris Panov come on board at the Walter Reed Hospital and later at the Virginia medical complex, but he literally ran the show – Webb's show. The son of a bitch has amnesia, you goddamned fools! He's been trying to tell you that for weeks in perfectly lucid English – I suspect too lucid for your convoluted mentality.
   They had worked together for months, as patient and doctor – and finally as friends. It helped that Marie adored Mo – good Lord, she needed an ally! The burden David had been to his wife was beyond telling, from those first days in Switzerland when she began to understand the pain within the man who had taken her captive to the moment when she made the commitment – violently against his wishes – to help him, never believing what he himself believed, telling him over and over again that he was not the killer he thought he was, not the assassin others called him. Her belief became an anchor in his own crashing seas, her love the core of his emerging sanity. Without Marie he was a loveless, discarded dead man, and without Mo Panov he was little more than a functioning vegetable. But with both of them behind him, he was brushing away the swirling clouds and finding the sun again.
   Which was why he had opted for an hour of running around the deserted, cold track, rather than heading home after his late afternoon seminar. His weekly seminars often continued far beyond the hour when they were scheduled to end, so Marie never planned dinner, knowing they would go out to eat, their two unobtrusive guards somewhere in the darkness behind them – as one was walking across the barely-visible field behind him now, the other no doubt inside the gym. Insanity! Or was it?
   He had been driven to Panov's 'strenuous exercise' by an image that had suddenly appeared in his mind while grading papers in his office. It was a face – a face he knew and remembered, and loved very much. A boy's face that aged in front of his inner screen, coming to full portrait in uniform, blurred, imperfect, but a part of him. As silent tears rolled down his cheeks, he knew it was the dead brother they had told him about, the prisoner of war he had rescued in the jungles of Tarn Quan years ago amid shattering explosions and a traitor he had executed by the name of Jason Bourne. He could not handle the violent, fragmented pictures; he had barely got through the shortened seminar, pleading a severe headache. He had to relieve the pressures, accept or reject the peeling layers of memory with the help of reason, which told him to go to the gym and run against the wind, any strong wind. He could not burden Marie every time a floodgate burst; he loved her too much for that. When he could handle it himself, he had to. It was his contract with himself.
   He opened the heavy door, briefly wondering why every gymnasium entrance was designed with the weight of a portcullis. He went inside and walked across the stone floor through an archway and down a white-walled corridor until he reached the door of the faculty locker room. He was thankful that the room was empty; he was in no frame of mind to respond to small talk, and if required to do so, he would undoubtedly appear sullen, if not strange. He could also do without the stares he would probably provoke. He was too close to the edge; 'he had to pull back gradually, slowly, first within himself, then with Marie. Christ, when would it all stop"! How much could he ask of her? But then he never had to ask – she gave without being asked.
   Webb reached the row of lockers. His own was towards the end. He was walking between the long wooden bench and the connecting metal cabinets when his eyes were suddenly riveted on an object up ahead. He rushed forward; a folded note had been taped to his locker. He ripped it off and opened it: Your wife phoned. She wants you to call her as soon as you can. Says it's urgent. Ralph.
   The gym custodian might have had the brains to go outside and shout to him! thought David angrily as he spun the combination and opened the locker. After rummaging through his limp trousers for change, he ran to a pay telephone on the wall, inserted a coin, disturbed that his hand trembled. Then he knew why. Marie never used the word 'urgent'. She avoided such words.
   'Hello?'
   'What is it?
   'I thought you might be there,' said his wife. 'Mo's panacea, the one he guarantees will cure you if it doesn't give you cardiac arrest . '
   'What is it?
   'David, come home. There's someone here you must see. Quickly, darling. '
   Undersecretary of State Edward McAllister kept his own introduction to a minimum, but by including certain facts let Webb know he was not from the lower ranks of the Department. On the other hand, he did not embellish his importance; he was the secure bureaucrat, confident that whatever expertise he possessed could weather changes in administrations.
   'If you'd like, Mr. Webb, our business can wait until you get into something more comfortable. '
   David was still in his sweat-stained shorts and T-shirt, having grabbed his clothes from the locker and raced to his car from the gym. 'I don't think so,' he said. 'I don't think your business can wait – not where you come from, Mr. McAllister. '
   'Sit down, David. ' Marie St Jacques Webb walked into the living room, two towels in her hands. 'You, too, Mr. McAllister. ' She handed Webb a towel as both men sat down facing each other in front of an unlit fireplace, then moved behind her husband and began blotting his neck and shoulders with the second towel, the light of a table lamp heightening the reddish tint of her auburn hair, her lovely features in shadows, her eyes on the man from the State Department . 'Please, go ahead,' she continued. 'As we've agreed, I'm cleared by the Government for anything you might say. '
   'Was there a question? asked David, glancing up at her and then at the visitor, making no attempt to disguise his hostility.
   'None whatsoever,' replied McAllister, smiling wanly yet sincerely. 'No one who's read of your wife's contribution would dare exclude her. Where others failed she succeeded. '
   'That says it,' agreed Webb . 'Without saying anything, of course. '
   'Hey, come on, David, loosen up. '
   'Sorry. She's right. ' Webb tried to smile; the attempt was not successful. 'I'm prejudging and I shouldn't do that, should I?'
   'I'd say you have every right to,' said the undersecretary. 'I know I would, if I were you. In spite of the fact that our backgrounds are very much alike – I was posted in the Far East for a number of years – no one would have considered me for the assignment you undertook. What you went through is light years beyond me. '
   'Beyond me, too. Obviously. '
   'Not from where I stand. The failure wasn't yours, God knows. '
   'Now you're being kind. No offence, but too much kindness – from where you stand – makes me nervous. '
   Then let's get to the business at hand, all right?
   'Please. '
   'And I hope you haven't prejudged me too harshly. I'm not your enemy, Mr. Webb. I want to be your friend. I can press buttons that can help you, protect you. '
   'From what?
   'From something nobody ever expected. '
   'Let's hear it.'
   'As of thirty minutes from now your security will be doubled,' said McAllister, his eyes locked with David's. 'That's my decision, and I'll quadruple it if I think it's necessary. Every arrival on this campus will be scrutinized, the grounds checked hourly. The rotating guards will no longer be part of the scenery, keeping you merely in sight, but in effect will be very much in sight themselves. Very obvious, and I hope threatening.'
   'Jesus!' Webb sprang forward in the chair. 'It's Carlos?
   'We don't think so,' said the man from State, shaking his head. 'We can't rule Carlos out, but it's too remote, too unlikely. '
   'Oh?' David nodded. 'It must be. If it was the Jackal, your men would be all over the place and out of sight. You'd let him come after me and take him, and if I'm killed the cost is acceptable.'
   'Not to me. You don't have to believe that, but I mean it.'
   Thank you, but then what are we talking about?5
   'Your file was broken – that is, the Treadstone file was invaded. '
   'Invaded? Unauthorized disclosure?'
   'Not at first. There was authorization, all right, because there was a crisis – and in a sense we had no choice. Then everything went off the wire and now we're concerned. For you. '
   'Back up, please. Who got the file?'
   'A man on the inside, high inside. His credentials were the best, no one could question them. '
   'Who was he?'
   'A British MI6 operating out of Hong Kong, a man the CIA has relied on for years. He flew into Washington and went directly to his primary liaison at the Agency, asking to be given everything there was on Jason Bourne. He claimed there was a crisis in the territory that was a direct result of the Treadstone project. He also made it clear that if sensitive information was to be exchanged between British and American intelligence – continue to be exchanged – he thought it best that his request be granted forthwith. '
   'He had to give a damn good reason. '
   'He did. ' McAllister paused nervously, blinking his eyes and rubbing his forehead with extended fingers.
   'Well?
   'Jason Bourne is back,' said McAllister quietly. 'He's killed again. In Kowloon.'
   Marie gasped; she clutched her husband's right shoulder, her large brown eyes angry, frightened. She stared in silence at the man from State. Webb did not move. Instead he studied McAllister, as a man might watch a cobra.
   'What the hell are you talking about? he whispered, then raised his voice. 'Jason Bourne – that Jason Bourne – doesn't exist anymore. He never did!'
   'You know that and we know that, but in Asia his legend is very much alive. You created it, Mr. Webb – brilliantly, in my judgement . '
   'I'm not interested in your judgement, Mr. McAllister,' said David, removing his wife's hand and getting out of the chair. 'What's this MI6 agent working on? How old is he? What's his stability factor, his record? You must have run an up-to-date trace on him. '
   'Of course we did and there was nothing irregular. London confirmed his outstanding service record, his current status, as well as the information he brought us. As chief of post for MI6, he was called in by the Kowloon-Hong Kong police because of the potentially explosive nature of events. The Foreign Office itself stood behind him. '
   'Wrong!' shouted Webb, shaking his head, then lowered his voice. 'He was turned, Mr. McAllister! Someone offered him a small fortune to get that file. He used the only lie that would work and all of you swallowed it!'
   'I'm afraid it's not a lie – not as he knew it. He believed the evidence, and London believes it. A Jason Bourne is back in Asia . '
   'And what if I told you it wouldn't be the first time central control was fed a lie so an overworked, over risked, underpaid man can turn! All the years, all the dangers, and nothing to show for it. He decides on one opportunity that gives him an annuity for life. In this case that file!'
   'If that is the case, it won't do him much good. He's dead. '
   'He's what... ?
   'He was shot to death two nights ago in Kowloon, in his office, an hour after he'd flown into Hong Kong. '
   'Goddamn it, it doesn't happen!' cried David, bewildered. 'A man who turns backs himself up. He builds a case against his benefactor before the act, letting him know it'll get to the right people if anything ugly happens. It's his insurance, his only insurance. '
   'He was clean,' insisted the, State Department man.
   'Or stupid,' rejoined Webb.
   'No one thinks that . '
   'What do they think?
   'That he was pursuing an extraordinary development, one that could erupt into widespread violence throughout the underworlds of Hong Kong and Macao. Organized crime becomes suddenly very disorganized, not unlike the tong wars of the twenties and thirties. The killings pile up. Rival gangs instigate riots; waterfronts become battlegrounds; warehouses, even cargo ships are blown up for revenge, or to wipe out competitors. Sometimes all it takes is several powerful warring factions – and a Jason Bourne in the background. '
   'But since there is no Jason Bourne, it's police work! Not MI6 . '
   'Mr. McAllister just said the man was called in by the Hong Kong police,' broke in Marie looking hard at the undersecretary of state. 'MI6 obviously agreed with the decision. Why was that?
   'It's the wrong ballpark!' David was adamant, his breath short.
   'Jason Bourne wasn't the creation of the police authorities,' said Marie, going to her husband's side. 'He was created by US Intelligence by way of the State Department. But I suspect MI6 inserted itself for a far more pressing reason than to find a killer posing as Jason Bourne. Am I right, Mr. McAllister?
   'You're right, Mrs.. Webb. Far more. In our discussions these last two days, several members of our section thought you'd understand more clearly than we did. Let's call it an economic problem that could lead to serious political turmoil, not only in Hong Kong but throughout the world. You were a highly regarded economist for the Canadian Government. You advised Canadian ambassadors and delegations all over the world. '
   'Would you both mind explaining to the man who balances the chequebook around here?
   'These aren't the times to permit disruptions in Hong Kong's marketplace, Mr. Webb, even – perhaps especially its illegal marketplace. Disruptions accompanied by violence give the impression of government instability, if not far deeper instability. This isn't the time to give the expansionists in Red China any more ammunition than they have already.'
   'Come again, please?"
   'The treaty of 1997,' answered Marie quietly. 'The lease runs out in barely a decade, which is why the new accords were negotiated with Peking. Still, everybody's nervous, everything's shaky and no one had better rock the boat. Calm stability is the name of the game. '
   David looked at her, then back at McAllister. He nodded his head. 'I see. I've read the papers and the magazines... but it's just not a subject that I know a hell of a lot about . '
   'My husband's interests lie elsewhere,' explained Marie to McAllister. 'In the study of people, their civilizations. '
   'All right,' Webb agreed. 'So?'
   ' Mine are with money and the constant exchange of money – the expansion of it, the markets and their fluctuations – the stability, or lack of it. And if Hong Kong is nothing else, it's money. That's more or less its only commodity; it has little other reason for being. Its industries would die without it; without priming, the pump runs dry. '
   'And if you take away the stability you have chaos,' added McAllister. 'It's the excuse for the old warlords in China. The People's Republic marches in to contain the chaos, suppress the agitators, and suddenly there's nothing left but an awkward giant fumbling with the entire colony as well as the New Territories. The cooler heads in Beijing are ignored in favour of more aggressive elements who want to save face through military control. Banks collapse, Far East trade is stymied. Chaos. '
   'The PRC would do that?'
   'Hong Kong, Kowloon, Macao and all the territories are part of their so-called "great nation under heaven", even the China Accords make that clear. It's one entity, and the Oriental won't tolerate a disobedient child, you know that . '
   'Are you telling me that one man pretending to be Jason Bourne can do this – can bring about this kind of crisis? I don't believe you!'
   'It's an extreme scenario, but yes, it could happen. You see, the myth rides with him, that's the hypnotic factor. Multiple killings are ascribed to him, if Only to distance the real killers from the scenes – conspirators from the politically fanatic right and left using Bourne's lethal image as their own. When you think about it, it's precisely the way the myth itself was created. Whenever anyone of importance anywhere in the South China area was assassinated, you, as Jason Bourne, made sure the kill was credited to you. At the end of two years you were notorious, yet in fact you killed only one man, a drunken informer in Macao who tried to garrotte you. '
   'I don't remember that,' said David.
   The man from State nodded sympathetically. 'Yes, I was told. But don't you see, if the killings are perceived as political and powerful figures – let's say the Crown governor, or a PRC negotiator, anyone like that – is assassinated, the whole colony is in an uproar. ' McAllister paused, shaking his head in weary dismissal. 'However, this is our concern, not yours, and I can tell you we have the best men in the intelligence community working on it. Your concern is yourself, Mr. Webb. And right now, as a matter of conscience, it's mine. You have to be protected. '
   That file,' said Marie coldly, 'should never have been given to anyone?
   'We had no choice. We work closely with the British; we had to prove that Treadstone was over, finished. That your husband was thousands of miles away from Hong Kong. '
   'You told them where he was?' shouted Webb's wife. 'How dare you?"
   'We had no choice,' repeated McAllister, again rubbing his forehead. 'We have to co-operate when certain crises arise.
   Surely you can understand that . '
   'What I can't understand is why there ever was a file on my husband!' said Marie, furious. 'It was deep, deep, cover?
   'Congressional funding of intelligence operations demanded it. It's the law. '
   'Get off it!' said David angrily. 'Since you're so up on me, you know where I come from. Tell me, where are all those records on Medusa?
   'I can't answer that,' replied McAllister.
   'You just did,' said Webb.
   'Dr Panov pleaded with you people to destroy all the Treadstone records,' insisted Marie. 'Or at the very least to use false names, but you wouldn't even do that. What kind of men are you?
   'I would have agreed to both? said McAllister with sudden, surprising force. 'I'm sorry, Mrs.. Webb. Forgive me. It was before my time... Like you, I'm offended. You may be right, perhaps there never should have been a file. There are ways-'
   'Bullshit,' broke in David, his voice hollow. 'It's part of another strategy, another trap. You want Carlos, and you don't care how you get him. '
   'I care, Mr. Webb, and you don't have to believe that, either. What's the Jackal to me – or the Far East Section? He's a European problem. '
   'Are you telling me I spent three years of my life hunting a man who didn't mean a goddamned thing?5
   'No, of course not. Times change, perspectives change. It's all so futile sometimes. '
   'Jesus Christ!'
   'Loosen up, David,' said Marie, her attention briefly on the man from State, who sat pale in his chair, his hands gripping the arms. 'Let's all loosen up. ' Then she held her husband's eyes with her own. 'Something happened this afternoon, didn't it?
   'I'll tell you later,'
   'Of course. ' Marie looked at McAllister as David sank back in his chair, his face lined and tired, older than it had been only minutes ago. 'Everything you've told us is leading up to something, isn't it?' she said to the man from State. There's something else you want us to know. '
   'Yes, and it's not easy for me. Please bear in mind that I've only recently been assigned, with full clearance, to Mr. Webb's classified dossier. '
   'Including his wife and children in Cambodia?'
   'Yes. '
   'Then say what you have to say, please. '
   McAllister once again extended his thin fingers and nervously massaged his forehead. 'From what we've learned -what London confirmed five hours ago – it's possible that your husband is a target. A man wants him killed.'
   'But not Carlos, not the Jackal,' said Webb, sitting forward.
   'No. At least we can't see a connection. 'What do you see?' asked Marie, sitting on the arm of David's chair. 'What have you learned?'
   The MI6 officer in Kowloon had a great many sensitive papers in his office, any number of which would have brought high prices in Hong Kong. However, only the Treadstone file – the file on Jason Bourne – was taken. That was the confirmation London gave us. It's as though a signal was sent: He's the man we want, only Jason Bourne.'
   'But why?' cried Marie, her hand gripping David's wrist.
   'Because someone was killed,' answered Webb quietly. 'And someone else wants the account settled. '
   That's what we've been working on,' agreed McAllister, nodding. 'We've made some progress. '
   'Who was killed?' asked the former Jason Bourne.
   'Before I answer, you should know that all we've got is what our people in Hong Kong could dig up by themselves. By and large it's speculation; there's no proof.'
   'What do you mean "by themselves"? Where the hell were the British? You gave them the Treadstone file!'
   'Because they gave us proof that a man has killed in the name of Treadstone's creation, our creation – you. They weren't about to identify MI6's sources any more than we would turn over our contacts to them. Our people have worked around the clock, probing every possibility, trying to find out who the dead Sixer's main sources were on the assumption that one of them was responsible for his death. They ran down a rumour in Macao, only it turned out to be more than a rumour. '
   'I repeat,' said Webb . 'Who was killed?'
   'A woman,' answered the man from State. The wife of a Hong Kong banker named Yao Ming, a taipan whose bank is only a fraction of his wealth. His holdings are so extensive he's been re-welcomed in Beijing as an investor and consultant. He's influential, powerful, beyond reach. '
   'Circumstances?'
   'Ugly but not unusual. His wife was a minor actress who appeared in a number of locally made films and quite a bit younger than her husband. She was also about as faithful as a mink in season, if you'll excuse-'
   'Please,' said Marie, 'go on. '
   'Nevertheless, he looked the other way; she was his young, beautiful trophy. She was also part of the colony's jet set, which has its share of unsavoury characters. One weekend it's gambling for extraordinary stakes in Macao, next the races in Singapore or flying over to the Pescadores for the pistol games in backwater opium houses, betting thousands on who will be killed as men face one another across tables, spinning chambers and aiming at each other. And, of course, there's a widespread use of drugs. Her last lover was a distributor. His suppliers were in Guangzhou – Canton – his routes up the Deep Bay waterways east of the Lok Ma Chau border. '
   'According to reports, it's a wide avenue with lots of traffic,' interrupted Webb . 'Why did your people concentrate on him – on his operation?'
   'Because his operation, as you so aptly term it, was rapidly becoming the only one in town, or on that avenue. He was systematically cutting out his competitors, bribing the Chinese marine patrols to sink their boats and dispose of the crews. Apparently they were effective; a great many bodies riddled with bullets ended up floating onto the mud flats and into the river banks. The factions were at war and the distributor – the young wife's lover – was marked for execution. '
   'Under the circumstances, he had to have been aware of the possibility. He must have surrounded himself with a dozen bodyguards. '
   'Right again. And that kind of security calls for the talents of a legend. His enemies hired that legend. '
   'Bourne,' whispered David, shaking his head and closing his eyes.
   'Yes,' concurred McAllister. Two weeks ago the drug dealer and Yao Ming's wife were shot in their bed at the Lisboa Hotel in Macao. It wasn't a pleasant kill; their bodies were barely recognizable. The weapon was an Uzi machine gun. The incident was covered up, the police and government officials bribed with a great deal of money – a taipan's money. '
   'And let me guess,' said Webb in a monotone. 'The Uzi. It was the same weapon used in a previous killing credited to this Bourne. '
   'That specific weapon was left outside a conference room in a cabaret in Kowloon's Tsim Sha Tsui. There were five corpses in that room, three of the victims among the colony's wealthier businessmen. The British won't elaborate; they merely showed us several very graphic photographs. '
   'This taipan, Yao Ming,' said David, 'the actress's husband. He's the connection your people found, isn't he?'
   'They learned that he was one of MI6's sources. His connections in Beijing made him an important contributor to intelligence. He was invaluable. '
   'Then, of course, his wife was killed, his beloved young wife.'
   'I'd say his beloved trophy,' interrupted McAllister. 'His trophy was taken. '
   'All right,' said Webb . 'The trophy is far more important than the wife. '
   'I've spent years in the Far East. There's a phrase for it – in Mandarin, I think, but I can't remember how it goes. '
   'Ren you jiagian,' said David. The price of a man's image, as it were. '
   'Yes, I guess that's it . '
   'It'll do. So the man from MI6 is approached by his distraught contact, the taipan, and told to get the file on this Jason Bourne, the assassin who killed his wife – his trophy -or in short words, there might be no more information coming to British Intelligence from his sources in Beijing. '
   'That's the way our people read it. And for his trouble the Sixer is killed because Yao Ming can't afford to have the slightest association with Bourne. The taipan has to remain unreachable, untouchable. He wants his revenge, but not with any possibility of exposure. '
   'What do the British say? asked Marie.
   'In no uncertain terms to stay away from the entire situation. London was blunt. We made a mess of Treadstone, and they don't want our ineptitude in Hong Kong during these sensitive times. '
   'Have they confronted Yao mingy?' Webb watched the undersecretary closely.
   'When I brought up the name, they said it was out of the question. In truth, they were startled, but that didn't change their stand. If anything, they were angrier. '
   'Untouchable,' said David.
   'They probably want to continue using him.'
   'In spite of what he did?' Marie broke in. 'What he may have done, and what he might do to my husband?
   'It's a different world,' said McAllister softly.
   'You co-operated with them.'
   'We had to,' interrupted the man from State.
   'Then insist they co-operate with you. Demand it!'
   'Then they could demand other things from us. We can't do that . '
   'Liars!' Marie turned her head in disgust.
   'I haven't lied to you, Mrs.. Webb.'
   'Why don't I trust you, Mr. McAllister?' asked David.
   'Probably because you can't trust your government, Mr. Webb, and you have very little reason to. I can only tell you that I'm a man of conscience. You can accept that or not accept me or not – but in the meantime I'll make sure you're safe.
   'You look at me so strangely – why is that?
   'I've never been in this position, that's why. '
   The chimes of the doorbell rang, and Marie, shaking her head to their sound, rose and walked rapidly across the room and into the foyer. She opened the door. For a moment she stopped breathing and stared helplessly. Two men stood side by side, both holding up black plastic identification cases, each with a glistening silver badge attached to the top, each embossed eagle reflecting the light of the carriage lamps on the porch. Beyond, at the curb, was a second dark sedan; inside could be seen the silhouettes of other men, and the glow of a lighted cigarette – other men, other guards. She wanted to scream, but she did not.
   Edward McAllister climbed into the passenger seat of his own State Department car and looked through the closed window at the figure of David Webb standing in the doorway. The former Jason Bourne stood motionless, his eyes fixed rigidly on his departing visitor.
   'Let's get out of here,' said McAllister to the driver, a man about his own age and balding, with tortoiseshell glasses breaking the space between his nose and his high forehead.
   The car started forward, the driver cautious on the strange, narrow, tree-lined street a block from the rocky beach in the small Maine town. For several minutes neither man spoke; finally the driver asked, 'How did everything go?'
   'Go?' replied the man from State. 'As the ambassador might say, "all the pieces are in place". The foundation's there, the logic there; the missionary work is done. '
   'I'm glad to hear it . '
   'Are you? Then I'm glad too. ' McAllister raised his trembling right hand; his thin fingers massaging his right temple. 'No, I'm not? he said suddenly. 'I'm goddamned sick!'
   'I'm sorry-'
   'And speaking of missionary work, I am a Christian. 1 mean I believe – nothing so chic as being zealous, or born again, or teaching Sunday school, or prostrating myself in the aisle, but I do believe. My wife and I go to the Episcopal church at least twice a month, my two sons are acolytes. I'm generous because I want to be. Can you understand that?'
   'Sure. I don't have quite those feelings, but I understand. '
   'But I just walked out of that man's house?
   'Hey, easy. What's the matter?"
   McAllister stared straight ahead, the oncoming headlights creating shadows rushing across his face. 'May God have mercy on my soul,' he whispered.

4
   Screams suddenly filled the darkness, an approaching, growing cacophony of roaring voices. Then surging bodies were all around them, racing ahead, shouting, faces contorted in frenzy. Webb fell to his knees, covering his face and neck with both hands as best he could, swinging his shoulders violently back and forth, creating a shifting target within the circle of attack. His dark clothes were a plus in the shadows but would be no help if an indiscriminate burst of gunfire erupted, taking at least one of the guards with him. Yet bullets were not always a killer's choice. There were darts – lethal missiles of poison delivered by air-compressed weapons, puncturing exposed flesh, bringing death in a matter of minutes. Or seconds.
   A hand gripped his shoulder! He spun around, arcing his arm up, dislodging the hand as he side stepped to his left, crouching like an animal.
   'You okay, Professor?' asked the guard on his right, grinning in the wash of his flashlight.
   'What? What happened?
   'Isn't it great!' cried the guard on his left, approaching, as David got to his feet.
   'What?'
   'Kids with that kind of spirit. It really makes you feel good to see it!'
   It was over. The campus quad was silent again, and in the distance between the stone buildings that fronted the playing fields and the college stadium, the pulsing flames of a bonfire could be seen through the empty bleachers. A football rally was reaching its climax, and his guards were laughing.
   'How about you, Professor?' continued the man on his left . 'Do you feel better about things now, what with us here and all?'
   It was over. The self-inflicted madness was over. Or was it? Why was his chest pounding so? Why was he so bewildered, so frightened? Something was wrong.
   'Why does this whole parade bother me?' said David over morning coffee in the breakfast alcove of their old rented Victorian house.
   'You miss your walks on the beach,' said Marie, ladling her husband's single poached egg over the single slice of toast . 'Eat that before you have a cigarette. '
   'No, really. It bothers me. For the past week I've been a duck in a superficially protected gallery. It occurred to me yesterday afternoon. '
   'What do you mean?' Marie poured out the water and placed the pan in the kitchen sink, her eyes on Webb . 'Six men are around you, four on your "flanks", as you said, and two peering into everything in front and behind you. '
   'A parade. '
   'Why do you call it that?1
   'I don't know. Everyone in his place, marching to a drumbeat. I don't know. '
   'But you feel something?'
   'I guess so. '
   'Tell me. Those feelings of yours once saved my life on the Guisan Quai in Zurich. I'd like to hear it – well, maybe I wouldn't, but I damn well better. '
   Webb broke the yolk of his egg on the toast . 'Do you know how easy it would be for someone – someone who looked young enough to be a student – to walk by me on a path and shoot an air dart into me? He could cover the sound with a cough, or a laugh, and I'd have a hundred cc's of strychnine in my blood. '
   'You know far more about that sort of thing than I do. '
   'Of course. Because that's the way I'd do it . '
   'No. That's the way Jason Bourne might do it. Not you. '
   'All right, I'm projecting. It doesn't invalidate the thought . '
   'What happened yesterday afternoon?'
   Webb toyed with the egg and toast on his plate. 'The seminar ran late as usual. It was getting dark, and my guards fell in and we walked across the quad towards the parking lot. There was a football rally – our insignificant team against another insignificant team – but very large for us. The crowd passed the four of us, kids racing to a bonfire behind the bleachers, screaming and shouting and singing fight songs, working themselves up. And I thought to myself, this is it. This is when it's going to happen if it is going to happen. Believe me, for those few moments I was Bourne. I crouched and side-stepped and watched everyone I could see – I was close to panic . '
   'And?' said Marie, disturbed by her husband's abrupt silence.
   'My so-called guards were looking around and laughing, the two in front having a ball, enjoying the whole thing. '
   'That disturbed you?'
   'Instinctively. I was a vulnerable target in the centre of an excited crowd. My nerves told me that; my mind didn't have to. '
   'Who's talking now?'
   'I'm not sure. I just know that during those few moments nothing made sense to me. Then, only seconds later, as if to pinpoint the feelings I hadn't verbalized, the man behind me on my left came up and said something like, "Isn't it great – or terrific – to see kids with that kind of spirit? Makes you feel good, doesn't it?" I mumbled something inane, and then he said – and these are his exact words – "How about you, professor? Do you feel better about things now, what with us here and all?" David looked up at his wife. 'Did 7 feel better... HOW? Me. '
   'He knew what their job was,' interrupted Marie. 'To protect you. I'm sure he meant did you feel safer. '
   'Did he? Do they? That crowd of screaming kids, the dim light, the shadowy bodies, obscure faces... and he's joining in and laughing – they're all laughing. Are they really here to protect me?'
   'What else?'
   'I don't know. Maybe I've simply been where they haven't. Maybe I'm just thinking too much, thinking about McAllister and those eyes of his. Except for the blinking they belonged to a dead fish. You could read into them anything you wanted to – depending upon how you felt . '
   'What he told you was a shock,' said Marie, leaning against the sink, her arms folded across her breasts, watching her husband closely. 'It had to have had a terrible effect on you. It certainly did on me. '
   'That's probably it,' agreed Webb, nodding. 'It's ironic, but as much as there are so many things I want to remember, there's an awful lot I'd like to forget . '
   'Why don't you call McAllister and tell him what you feel, what you think? You've got a direct line to him, both at his office and his home. Mo Panov would tell you to do that . '
   'Yes, Mo would. ' David ate his egg half-heartedly. '"If there's a way to get rid of a specific anxiety, do it as fast as you can, " that's what he'd say. '
   "Then do it . '
   Webb smiled, about as enthusiastically as he ate his egg. 'Maybe I will, maybe I won't. I'd rather not announce a latent, or passive, or recurrent paranoia, or whatever the hell they call it. Mo would fly up here and beat my brains out . '
   'If he doesn't, I might . '
   'Ni shi nuhaizi,' said David, using the paper napkin, as he got out of his chair and went to her.
   'And what does that mean, my inscrutable husband and number eighty-seven lover?'
   'Bitch goddess. It means, freely translated, that you are a little girl – and not so little – and I can still take you three out of five on the bed where there are other things to do with you instead of beating you up.'
   'All that in such a short phrase?'
   'We don't waste words, we paint pictures... I've got to leave. The class this morning deals with Siam's Rama the Second, and his claims on the Malay states in the early nineteenth century. It's a pain in the ass but important. What's worse is there's an exchange student from Moulmein in Burma, who I think knows more than I do.'
   'Siam?' asked Marie, holding him. That's Thailand.'
   'Yes. It's Thailand now.'
   'Your wife, your children? Does it hurt, David?'
   He looked at her, loving her so.' I can't be that hurt where I can't see that clearly. Sometimes I hope I never do.'
   'I don't think that way at all. I want you to see them and hear them and feel them. And to know that I love them, too.'
   'Oh, Christ!' He held her, their bodies together in a warmth that was theirs alone.
   The line was busy for the second time so Webb replaced the phone and returned to W. F. Vella's Siam under Rama III to see if the Burmese exchange student had been right about Rama IPs conflict with the sultan of Kedah over the disposition of the island of Penang. It was confrontation time in the rarefied groves of academe; the Moulmein pagodas of Kipling's poetry had been replaced by a smart-ass postgraduate student who had no respect for his betters – Kipling would understand that, and torpedo it.
   There was a brief, rapid knock on his office door, which opened before David could ask the caller in. It was one of his guards, the man who had spoken to him yesterday afternoon during the pre-game rally – among the crowds, amid the noise, in the middle of his fears.
   'Hello there, Professor?'
   'Hello. It's Jim, isn't it?'
   'No, Johnny. It doesn't matter; you're not expected to get our names straight.'
   'Is anything the matter?'
   'Just the opposite, sir. I dropped in to say good-bye – for all of us, the whole contingent. Everything's clean and you're back to normal. We've been ordered to report to B-One-L.'
   'To what?'
   'Sounds kind of silly, doesn't it? Instead of saying "Come on back to headquarters" they call it B-One-L, as if anyone couldn't figure it out.'
   'I can't figure it out.'
   'Base-One-Langley. We're CIA, all six of us, but I guess you know that.'
   'You're leaving? All of you?'
   That's about it.'
   'But I thought... I thought there was a crisis here.'
   'Everything's clean.'
   'I haven't heard from anybody. I haven't heard from McAllister.'
   'Sorry, don't know him. We just have our orders.'
   'You can't simply come in here and say you're leaving without some explanation! I was told I was a target! That a man in Hong Kong wanted me killed?
   'Well, I don't know whether you were told that, or whether you told yourself that, but I do know we've got an A-one legitimate problem in Newport News. We have to get briefed and get on it.'
   'A-one legitimate...? What about me?'
   'Get a lot of rest, Professor. We were told you need it.' The man from the CIA abruptly turned, went through the door, and closed it.
   Well, I don't know whether you were told that, or whether you told yourself that... How about you, professor? Do you feel better about things now, what with us here and all?
   Parade?... Charade!
   Where was McAllister's number? Where was it? God-damit, he had two copies, one at home and one in his desk drawer – no, his wallet! he found it, his whole body trembling in fear and in anger as he dialled.
   'Mr. McAllister's office,' said a female voice.
   'I thought this was his private line. That's what I was told!'
   'Mr. McAllister is away from Washington, sir. In these cases we're instructed to pick up and log the calls. '
   'Log the calls'? Where is he?'
   'I don't know, sir. I'm from the secretarial pool. He phones in every other day or so. Who shall I say called?'
   'That's not good enough! My name is Webb. Jason Webb... No, David Webb! I have to talk to him right away! Immediately!'
   I'll connect you with the department handling his urgent calls, Webb slammed down the phone. He had the number for McAllister's home; he dialled it.
   'Hello?' The voice of another woman.
   'Mr. McAllister, please.'
   'I'm afraid he's not here. If you care to leave your name and a number, I'll give it to him.'
   'When?
   'Well, he should be calling tomorrow or the next day. He always does.'
   'You've got to give me the number where he is now, Mrs.. McAllister! – I assume this is Mrs.. McAllister.'
   'I should hope so. Eighteen years' worth. Who are you?'
   'Webb. David Webb.'
   'Oh, of course! Edward rarely discusses business – and he certainly didn't in your case but he did tell me what terribly nice people you and your lovely wife are. As a matter of fact, our older boy, who's in prep school, naturally, is very interested in the university where you teach. Now, in the last year or so his marks dropped just a touch, and his aptitude tests weren't the highest, but he has such a wonderful, enthusiastic outlook on life, I'm sure he'd be an asset.. . '
   'Mrs.. McAllister!' broke in Webb . 'I have to reach your husband! Now!'
   'Oh, I'm terribly sorry, but I don't think that's possible. He's in the Far East and, of course, I don't have a number where 1 can reach him there. In emergencies we always call the State Department . '
   David hung up the phone. He had to alert -phone – Marie. The line had to be free by now; it had been busy for nearly an hour, and there was no one his wife could talk with on the telephone for an hour, not even her father, her mother or her two brothers in Canada. There was great affection between them all, but she was the maverick. She was not the Francophile her lather was, not a homebody like her mother, and although she adored her brothers, not the rustic, plainspoken folk they were. She had found another life in the stratified layers of higher economics, with a doctorate and gainful employment with the Canadian Government. And, at last, she had married an American.
   QueI dommage.
   The line was still busy! Goddamnit, Marie!
   Then Webb froze, his whole body for an instant a block of searing hot ice. He could barely move, but he did move, and then he raced out of his small office and down the corridor with such speed that he pummelled three students and a colleague out of his path, sending two into walls the others buckling under him; he was a man suddenly possessed.
   Reaching his house, he slammed on the brakes; the car screeched to a stop as he leaped out of the seat and ran up the path to the door. He stopped, staring, his breath suddenly no longer in him. The door was open and on the angled indented panel was a hand print stamped in red – blood.
   Webb ran inside, throwing everything out of his way. Furniture crashed and lamps were smashed as he searched the ground floor. Then he went upstairs, his hands two thin slabs of granite, his every nerve primed for a sound, a weight, his killer instinct as clear as the red stains he had seen below on the outside door. For these moments he knew and accepted the fact that he was the assassin – the lethal animal that Jason Bourne had been. If his wife was above, he would kill whoever tried to harm her – or had harmed her already.
   Prone on the floor, he pushed the door of their bedroom open.
   The explosion blew apart the upper hallway wall. He rolled under the blast to the opposite side; he had no weapon, but he had a cigarette lighter. He reached into his trouser pockets for the scribbled notes all teachers gather, bunched them together, spun to his left and snapped the lighter; the flame was immediate. He threw the fired wad far into the bedroom as he pressed his back against the wall and rose from the floor, his head whipping towards the other two closed doors on the narrow upper floor. Suddenly he lashed out with his feet, one crash after another as he lunged back onto the floor and rolled into the shadows.
   Nothing. The two rooms were empty. If there was an enemy he was in the bedroom. But by now the bedspread was on fire. The flames were gradually leaping towards the ceiling. Only seconds now.
   Now!
   He plunged into the room, and grabbing the flaming bedspread he swung it in a circle as he crouched and rolled on the floor until the spread was ashes, all the while expecting an ice-cold hit in his shoulder or his arm, but knowing he could overcome it and take his enemy. Jesus! He was Jason Bourne again!
   There was nothing. His Marie was not there; there was nothing but a primitive string-device that had triggered a shotgun, angled for a certain kill when he pushed the door open. He stamped out the flames, lurched for a table lamp, and turned it on.
   Marie! Marie!
   Then he saw it. A note lying on the pillow on her side of the bed:
   'A wife for a wife, Jason Bourne. She is wounded but not dead, as mine is dead. You know where to find me, and her, if you are circumspect and fortunate. Perhaps we can do business for I have enemies, too. If not, what is the death of one more daughter?''
   Webb screamed, falling onto the pillows, trying to mute the outrage and the horror that came from his throat, pushing back the pain that swept through his temples. Then he turned over and stared at the ceiling, a terrible, brute passivity coming over him. Things unremembered suddenly came back to him – things he had never revealed even to Morris Panov. Bodies collapsing under his knife, falling under his gun these were not imagined killings, they were real. They had made him what he was not, but they had done the job too well. He had become the image, the man that was not supposed to be. He'd had to. He'd had to survive – without knowing who he was.
   And now he knew the two men within him that made up his whole being. He would always remember the one because it was the man he wanted to be, but for the time being he had to be the other – the man he despised.
   Jason Bourne rose from the bed and went to the walk-in
   closet where there was a locked drawer, the third in his built-in bureau. He reached up and pulled the tape from a key attached to the cupboard ceiling. He inserted it in the lock and opened the drawer. Inside were two dismantled automatics, four strings of thin wire attached to spools that he could conceal in his palms, three valid passports in three different names, and six plastique explosive charges that could blow apart whole rooms. He would use one or all. David Webb would find his wife. Or Jason Bourne would become the terrorist no one ever dreamed of in his wildest nightmares. He did not care – too much had been taken from him. He would endure no more.
   Bourne cracked the various parts in place and snapped the magazine of the second automatic. Both were ready. He was ready. He went back to the bed and lay down, staring again at the ceiling. The logistics would fall into place, he knew that. Then the hunt would begin. He would find her -dead or alive and if she was dead – he would kill, kill and kill again! Whoever it was would never get away from him. Not from Jason Bourne.

5
   Barely in control of himself, he knew that calm was out of the question. His hand gripped the automatic while his mind cracked with surreal bursts of rapid gunfire, one option after another slamming into his head. Above all he could not stay still; he had to keep in motion. He had to get up and move!
   The State Department. The men at State he had known during his last months in the remote, classified Virginia medical complex – those insistent, obsessed men who questioned him relentlessly, showing him photographs by the dozens until Mo Panov would order them to stop. He had learned their names and written them down, thinking that one day he might want to know who they were – no reason other than visceral distrust; such men had tried to kill him only months before. Yet he had never asked for their names, nor were they offered except as Harry, Bill, or Sam, presumably on the theory that actual identities would simply add to his confusion. Instead, he had unobtrusively read their identification tags and, after they left, wrote the names down and placed the pieces of paper with his personal belongings in the bureau drawer. When Marie came to see him, which was every day, he gave her those names and told her to hide them in the house hide them well.
   Later, Marie admitted that although she had done as he instructed, she thought his suspicions were excessive, a case of overkill. But then one morning, only minutes after a heated session with the men from Washington, David pleaded with her to leave the medical complex immediately, run to the car, drive to the bank where they had a safety deposit box, and do the following: Insert a short strand of her hair in the bottom left border of the deposit box, lock it, get out of the bank, and return two hours later to see if it was still there.
   It was not. She had securely fixed the strand of hair in place; it could not have fallen away unless the deposit box had been opened. She found it on the tiled floor of the bank vault.
   'How did you know?' she had asked him.
   'One of my friendly interrogators got hot and tried to provoke me. Mo was out of the room for a couple of minutes and he damn near accused me of faking, of hiding things. I knew you were coming, and so I played it out. I wanted to see for myself how far they would go – how far they could go?
   Nothing had been sacred then, and nothing was sacred now. It was all too symmetrical. The guards had been pulled, his own reactions condescendingly questioned as if he were the one who had asked for the additional protection and not on the insistence of one Edward canister. Then within hours Marie was taken, according to a scenario that had been detailed far too accurately by a nervous man with dead eyes. And now this same McAllister was suddenly fifteen thousand miles away from his own self-determined ground zero. Had the undersecretary turned? Had he been bought in Hong Kong? Had he betrayed Washington as well as the man he had sworn to protect? What was happening! Whatever it was, among the unholy secrets was code name Medusa. It had never been mentioned during the questioning, never referred to. Its absence was startling. It was as if the unacknowledged battalion of psychotics and killers had never existed; its history had been wiped off the books. But that history could be reinstated. This was where he would start.
   Webb walked rapidly out of the bedroom and down the steps to his study, once a small library off the hallway in the old Victorian house. He sat at his desk, opened the bottom drawer and removed several notebooks and various papers. He then inserted a brass letter opener and pried up the false bottom; lying on the second layer of wood were other papers. They were a vague, mostly bewildering assortment of fragmented recollections, images that had come to him at odd hours of the day and night. There were torn scraps and pages from small notebooks and scissored pieces of stationery on which he had jotted down the pictures and words that exploded in his head. It was a mass of painful evocations, many so tortured that he could not share them with Marie, fearing the hurt would be too great, the revelations of Jason Bourne too brutal for his wife to confront. And among these secrets were the names of the experts in clandestine operations who had come down to question him so intensely in Virginia.
   David's eyes suddenly focused on the ugly heavy-calibre weapon on the edge of the desk. Without realizing it, he had gripped it in his hand and carried it down from the bedroom; he stared at it for a moment, then picked up the phone. It was the beginning of the most agonizing, infuriating hour of his life as each moment Marie drifted farther away.
   The first two calls were taken by wives or lovers; the men he was trying to reach were suddenly not there when he identified himself. He was still out of sanction! They would not touch him without authorization and that authorization was being withheld. Christ, he should have known!
   'Hello?'
   'Is this the Lanier residence?"
   'Yes, it is. '
   'William Lanier, please. Tell him it's urgent, a Sixteen Hundred alert. My name is Thompson, State Department . '
   'Just one minute,' said the woman, concerned.
   ' Who is this?' asked a man's voice.
   'It's David Webb. You remember Jason Bourne, don't you?'
   ' A pause followed, filled with Lanier's breathing. 'Why did you say your name was Thompson? That it was a White House alert?'
   'I had an idea you might not talk to me. Among the things I remember is that you don't make contact with certain people without authorization. They're out of bounds. You simply report the contact attempt . '
   'Then I assume you also remember that it's highly irregular to call someone like me on a domestic phone. '
   'Domestic phone? Does the domestic prohibitive now include where you live?"
   'You know what I'm talking about . '
   'I said it was an emergency. '
   'It can't have anything to do with me,' protested Lanier. 'You're a dead file in my office-'
   'Colour me deep-dead?' interrupted David.
   'I didn't say that,' shot back the man from covert operations. 'All I meant was that you're not on my schedule and it's policy not to interfere with others. '
   'What others?' asked Webb sharply.
   'How the hell do I know?'
   'Are you telling me that you're not interested in what I have to tell you?'
   'Whether I'm interested or not hasn't anything to do with it. You're not on any list of mine and that's all I have to know. If you have something to say, call your authorized contact . '
   'I tried to. His wife said he was in the Far East.'
   'Try his office. Someone there will process you.'
   'I know that, and I don't care to be processed. I want to talk to someone I know, and I know you, Bill. Remember? It was "Bill" in Virginia, that's what you told me to call you. You were interested to hell and back in what I had to say then. '
   That was then, not now. Look, Webb, I can't help you because I can't advise you. No matter what you tell me, I can't respond. I'm not current on your status – I haven't been for almost a year. Your contact is – he can be reached. Call State back. I'm hanging up.'
   'Medusa,' whispered David. 'Did you hear me, Lanier? Medusa!'
   'Medusa what? Are you trying to tell me something?'
   'I'll blow it all apart, do you read me? I'll expose the whole obscene mess unless I get some answers?
   'Why don't you get yourself processed instead?" said the man from covert operations coldly. 'Or check yourself into a hospital. ' There was an abrupt click, and David, perspiring, hung up the phone.
   Lanier did not know about Medusa. If he had known, he would have stayed on the phone, learning whatever he could, for Medusa crossed the lines of 'policy' and being 'current'. But Lanier was one of the younger interrogators, no more than 33 or 34; he was very bright, but not a long-term veteran. Someone a few years older would probably have been given clearance, told about the renegade battalion that was still held in deep cover. Webb looked at the names on his list and at the corresponding telephone numbers. He picked up the phone.
   'Hello?'A male voice.
   'Is this Samuel Teasdale?'
   'Yeah, that's right. Who are you?'
   'I'm glad you answered the phone and not your wife. '
   The wife's standard where possible,' said Teasdale, suddenly cautious. 'Mine's no longer available. She's sailing somewhere in the Caribbean with someone I never knew about. Now that you know my life's story, who the hell are you?'
   'Jason Bourne, remember?'
   ' Webb?'
   "I vaguely remember that name,' said David.
   'Why are you calling me?'
   'You were friendly. Down in Virginia you told me to call you Sam. '
   'Okay, okay, David, you're right. I told you to call me Sam that's what I am to my friends, Sam...' Teasdale was bewildered, upset, searching for words. 'But that was almost a year ago, Davey, and you know the rules. You're given a person to talk to, either on the scene or over at State. That's the one you should reach that's the person who's up to date on everything.'
   'Aren't you up to date, Sam?'
   'Not about you, no. I remember the directive; it was dropped on our desks a couple of weeks after you left Virginia. All inquiries, regarding "said subject, et cetera" were to be bumped up to Section whatever-the-hell-it was, "said subject" having full access and in direct touch with deputies on the scene and in the Department . 'and my direct-access contact has disappeared.'
   'Come on,' objected Teasdale quietly, suspiciously. That's crazy. It couldn't happen.'
   'It happened!' yelled Webb . 'My wife happened!'
   'What about your wife? What are you talking about?'
   'She's gone, you bastard – all of you, bastards! You let it happen!' Webb grabbed his wrist, gripping it with all his strength to stop the trembling. 'I want answers, Sam. I want to know who cleared the way, who turned! I've got an idea who it is but I need answers to nail him – nail all of you, if I have to.'
   'Hold it right there!' broke in Teasdale angrily. 'If you're trying to compromise me, you're doing a rotten fucking job of it! This boy's not for neutering. Get off. Go sing to your head doctors, not to me! I don't have to talk to you, all I have to do is report the fact that you called me, which I'll do the second I cut you loose. I'll also add that I got hit with a bucket of bullshit! Take care of that head of yours.'
   'Medusa!' cried Webb. 'No one wants to talk about codename Medusa, do they? Even today it's way down deep in the vaults, isn't it?'
   There was no click on the line this time. Teasdale did not hang up. Instead, he spoke flatly, no comment in his voice. 'Rumours,' he said. 'Like Hoover's raw files – raw meat -good for stories over a few belts, but not worth a hell of a lot . '
   'I'm not a rumour, Sam. I live, I breathe, I go to the toilet and I sweat – like I'm sweating now. That's not a rumour.'
   'You've had your problems, Davey.'
   'I was there! I fought with Medusa! Some people said I was the best, or the worst. It's why I was chosen, why I became Jason Bourne.'
   'I wouldn't know about that. We never discussed it, so I wouldn't know. Did we ever discuss it, Davey?'
   'Stop using that goddamned name. I'm not Davey. "
   'We were "Sam" and "Davey" in Virginia, don't you remember?' '
   That doesn't matter! We all played games. Morris Panov was our referee, until one day you decided to get rough. '
   'I apologized,' said Teasdale gently. 'We all have bad days.
   I told you about my wife. '
   'I'm not interested in your wife! I'm interested in mine! And I'll rip open Medusa unless I get some answers, some help?
   'I'm sure you can get whatever help you think you need if you'll just call your contact at State. '
   'He's not there! He's gone!'
   Then ask for his back-up. You'll be processed. '
   "Processed Jesus, what are you, a robot?'
   'Just a man trying to do his job, Mr. Webb, and I'm afraid I can't do any more for you. Good night. ' The click came and Teasdale was off the phone.
   There was another man, thought David at fever pitch, as he stared at the list, squinting as the sweat filled his eye sockets. An easy going man, less abrasive than the others, a Southerner, whose slow drawl was either a cover for a quick mind or the halting resistance to a job in which he felt himself uncomfortable. There was no time for invention.
   'Is this the Babcock residence?'
   'Surely is,' replied a woman's voice imbued with magnolia . 'Not our home, of course, as I always point out, but we surely do reside here. '
   'May I speak with Harry Babcock, please?'
   'May Ah ask who's callin', please? He may be out in the garden with the kids, but on the other hand he may have taken them over to the park. It's so well lit these days – not like before – and you just don't fear for your life as long as you stay.. . '
   A cover for quick minds, both Mr. and Mrs. Harry Babcock.
   'My name is Reardon, State Department. There's an urgent message for Mr Babcock. My instructions are to reach him as soon as possible. It's an emergency. '
   There was the bouncing echo of a phone being covered, muffled sounds beyond. Harry Babcock got on the line, his speech slow and deliberate.
   'I don't know a Mr. Reardon, Mr Reardon. All mah relays come from a particular switchboard that identifies itself. Are you a switchboard, sir?'
   'Well, I don't know if I've ever heard of someone coming in from a garden, or from across the street in a park so quickly, Mr. Babcock. '
   'Remarkable, isn't it? I should be runnin' in the Olympics, perhaps. However, I do know your voice. I just can't place the name. '
   'How about Jason Bourne?'
   The pause was brief – a very quick mind. 'Now, that name goes back quite a while, doesn't it? Just about a year, I'd say. It is you, isn't it, David. ' There was no question implied.
   'Yes, Harry. I've got to talk to you. '
   'No, David, you should speak with others, not me. '
   'Are you telling me I'm cut off?'
   'Good heavens, that's so abrupt, so discourteous. I'd be more than delighted to hear how you and the lovely Mrs.. Webb are doing in your new life. Massachusetts, isn't it?'
   'Maine.'
   'Of course. Forgive me. Is everything well? As I'm sure you realize, my colleagues and I are involved with so many problems we haven't been able to stay in touch with your file. '
   'Someone else said you couldn't get your hands on it . '
   'Ah don't think anybody tried to. '
   'I want to talk, Babcock,' said David harshly.
   'I don't,' replied Harry Babcock flatly, his voice nearly glacial. 'I follow regulations, and to be frank, you are cut off from men like me. I don't question why – things change, they always change. '
   'Medusa!' said David. 'We won't talk about me, let's talk about Medusa?
   The pause was longer than before. And when Babcock spoke, his words were now frozen. This phone is sterile, Webb, so I'll say what I want to say. You were nearly taken out a year ago, and it would have been a mistake. We would have sincerely mourned you. But if you break the threads, there'll be no mournin' tomorrow. Except, of course, your wife. '
   'You son of a bitch! She's gone! She was taken! You bastards let it happen?
   'I don't know what you're talking about . '
   'My guards' They were pulled, every goddamned one of them, and she was taken! I want answers, Babcock, or I blow everything apart! Now, you do exactly as I tell you to do, or there'll be mournings you never dreamed of – all of you, your wives, orphaned children – try everything on for size! I'm Jason Bourne, remember!'
   'You're a maniac, that's what I remember. With threats like those we'll send a team to find you. Medusa style. Try that on for size, boy!'
   Suddenly a furious hum broke into the line; it was deafening, high-pitched, causing David to thrust the phone away from his ear. And then the calm voice of an operator was heard: 'We are breaking in for an emergency. Go ahead, Colorado. '
   Webb slowly brought the phone back to his ear.
   'Is this Jason Bourne?' asked a man in a mid-Atlantic accent, the voice refined, aristocratic.
   'I'm David Webb.'
   'Of course you are. But you are also Jason Bourne. '
   ' Was,' said David, mesmerized by something he could not define.
   'The conflicting lines of identity get blurred, Mr. Webb. Especially for one who has been through so much. '
   'Who the hell are you?'
   'A friend, be assured of that. And a friend cautions one he calls a friend. You've made outrageous accusations against some of our country's most dedicated servants – men who will never be permitted an unaccountable five million dollars – to this day unaccounted for. '
   'Do you want to search me?'
   'No more than I'd care to trace the labyrinthine ways your most accomplished wife buried the funds in a dozen European.'
   'She's gone!' Did your dedicated men tell you that'
   'You were described as being overwrought – "raving" was the word that was used and making astonishing accusations relative to your wife, yes. '
   'Relative to– Goddamn you, she was taken from our house! Someone's holding her because they want me?'
   'Are you sure?'
   'Ask that dead fish McAllister. It's his scenario, right down to the note. And suddenly he's on the other side of the world!'
   'A note?' asked the cultured voice.
   'Very clear. Very specific. It's McAllister's story, and he let it happen!. You let it happen!'
   'Perhaps you should examine the note further. '
   'Why?'
   'No matter. It may all become clearer to you with help, psychiatric help. '
   'What?'
   'We want to do all we can for you, believe that. You've given so much – more than any man should – and your extraordinary contribution cannot be disregarded even if it comes to a court of law. We placed you in the situation and we will stand by you – even if it means bending the laws, coercing the courts. '
   'What are you talking about? screamed David.
   'A respected army doctor tragically killed his wife several years ago, it was in all the papers. The stress became too much. The stresses on you were tenfold. '
   'I don't believe this!'
   'Let's put it another way, Mr Bourne. '
   'I'm not Bourne!'
   'All right, Mr Webb, I'll be frank with you. '
   'That's a step up!'
   'You're not a well man. You've gone through eight months of psychiatric therapy there's still a great deal of your own life you can't remember; you didn't even know your name. It's all in the medical records, meticulous records that make clear the advanced state of your mental illness, your compulsion for violence and your obsessive rejection of your own identity. In your torment you fantasize, you pretend to be people you are not; you seem to have a compulsion to be someone other than yourself. '
   That's crazy and you know it! Lies!"
   'Crazy is a harsh word, Mr Webb, and the lies are not mine. However, it's my job to protect our government from false vilification, unfounded accusations that could severely damage the country. '
   'Such as?'
   'Your secondary fantasy concerning an unknown organization you call Medusa. Now, I'm sure your wife will come back to you – if she can, Mr Webb. But if you persist with this fantasy, with this figment of your tortured mind that you call Medusa, we'll label you a paranoid schizophrenic, a pathological liar prone to uncontrollable violence and self-deception. If such a man claims his wife is missing, who knows where that pathological trip could lead? Do I make myself clear?
   David closed his eyes, the sweat rolling down his face. 'Crystal clear,' he said quietly, hanging up the phone.
   Paranoid... pathological. Bastards! He opened his eyes wanting to spend his rage by hurling himself against something, anything! Then he stopped and stood motionless as another thought struck him, the obvious thought. Morris Panov! Mo Panov would label the three monsters for what he knew they were. Incompetents and liars, manipulators and self-serving protectors of corrupt bureaucracies – and conceivably worse, far worse. He reached for the phone and, trembling, dialled the number that so often in the past had brought forth a calming, rational voice that provided a sense of worth when Webb felt there was very little of value left in him.
   'David, how good to hear from you,' said Panov with genuine warmth.
   'I'm afraid it's not, Mo. It's the worst call I've ever made to you. '
   'Come on, David, that's pretty dramatic. We've been through a lot-'
   'Listen to me!' yelled Webb . 'She's gone! They've taken her!' The words poured forth, sequences lacking order, the times confused.
   'Stop it, David!' commanded Panov. 'Go back. I want to hear it from the beginning. When this man came to see you after your... the memories of your brother.'
   ' What man?'
   'From the State Department . '
   'Yes! All right, yes. McAllister, that was his name. '
   'Go from there. Names, titles, positions. And spell out the name of that banker in Hong Kong. And for Christ's sake, slow down?
   Webb again grabbed his wrist as it gripped the phone. He started again, imposing a false control on his speech; but still it became strident, tight, involuntarily gathering speed. Finally he managed to get everything out, everything he could recall, knowing in horror that he had not remembered everything. Unknown blank spaces filled him with pain. They were coming back, the terrible blank spaces. He had said all he could say for the moment; there was nothing left.
   'David,' began Mo Panov firmly. 'I want you to do something for me. Now. '
   'What?
   'It may sound foolish to you, even a little bit crazy, but I suggest you go down the street to the beach and take a walk along the shore. A half hour, forty-five minutes, that's all. Listen to the surf and the waves crashing against the rocks. '
   'You can't be serious? protested Webb.
   'I'm very serious,' insisted Mo. 'Remember we agreed once that there were times when people should put their heads on hold – God knows, I do it more than a reasonably respected psychiatrist should. Things can overwhelm us, and before we can get our act together we have to get rid of part of the confusion. Do as I ask, David. I'll get back to you as soon as I can, no more than an hour, I'd guess. And I want you calmer than you are now.

 It was crazy, but as with so much of what Panov quietly, often casually, suggested, there was truth in his words. Webb walked along the cold, rocky beach, never for an instant forgetting what had happened, but whether it was the change of scene, or the wind, or the incessant, repetitive sounds of the pounding ocean, he found himself breathing more steadily every bit as deeply, as tremulously, as before but without the higher registers of hysteria. He looked at his watch, at the luminous dial aided by the moonlight. He had walked back and forth for thirty-two minutes; it was all the indulgence he could bear. He climbed the path through the dunes of wild grass to the street and headed for the house, his pace quickening with every step.
   He sat in his chair at the desk, his eyes rigid on the phone. It rang; he picked it up before the bell had stopped. 'Mo?'
   'Yes. '
   'It was damned cold out there. Thank you. '
   Thank you. "
   'What have you learned?'
   And then the extension of the nightmare began.
   'How long has Marie been gone, David?"
   'I don't know. An hour, two hours, maybe more. What's that got to do with anything?'
   'Could she be shopping? Or did you two have a fight and perhaps she wanted to be by herself for a while? We agreed that things are sometimes very difficult for her – you made the point yourself. '
   'What the hell are you talking about? There's a note spelling it out! Blood, a hand print!'
   'Yes, you mentioned them before, but they're so incriminating. Why would anyone do that?"
   'How do I know! It was done -they were done. It's all here!'
   'Did you call the police?
   'Christ, no! It's not for the police! It's for us, for me! Can't you understand that...? What did you find out? Why are you talking like this?'
   'Because I have to. In all the sessions, in all the months we talked we never said anything but the truth to each other because the truth is what you have to know. '
   'Mo! For God's sake, it's Marie!'
   'Please, David, let me finish. If they're lying – and they've lied before – I'll know it and I'll expose them. I couldn't do anything less. But I'm going to tell you exactly what they told me, what the number two man in the Far East Section made specifically clear, and what the chief of security for the State Department read to me as the events were officially logged. '
   'Officially logged... ?'
   'Yes. He said row called security-control a little over a week ago, and according to the log you were in a highly agitated state -•-'
   'I called them?'
   That's right, that's what he said. According to the logs, you claimed you had received threats; your speech was "incoherent" – that was the word they used – and you demanded additional security immediately. Because of the classified flag on your file, the request was bounced upstairs and the upper levels said, "Give him what he wants. Cool him. "'
   'I can't believe this!'
   'It's only the middle, David. Hear me out, because I'm listening to you. '
   'Okay. Go on. '
   That's it. Easy. Stay cool – no, strike that word "cool" . '
   'Please do. '
   'Once the patrols were in place – again according to the logs you called twice more complaining that your guards weren't doing their job. You said they were drinking in their cars in front of your house, that they laughed at you when they accompanied you on the campus, that they – and here I quote – "They're making a mockery of what they're supposed to be doing. " I underlined that phrase. '
   'A "mockery"...?
   'Easy, David. Here's the end of it, the end of the logs. You made a last call stating emphatically that you wanted everyone taken away – that your guards were your enemy, they were the men who wanted to kill you. In essence, you had transformed those who were trying to protect you into enemies who would attack you. '
   'And I'm sure that fits snugly into one of those bullshit psychiatric conclusions that had me converting – or perverting – my anxieties into paranoia . '
   'Very snugly,' said Panov. Too snugly. '
   'What did the number two in Far East tell you?
   Panov was silent for a moment . 'It's not what you want to hear, David, but he was adamant. They never heard of a banker or any influential taipan named Yao Ming. He said the way things were in Hong Kong these days, if there was such a person he'd have the dossier memorized. '
   'Does he think I made it all up! The name, the wife, the drug connection, the places, the circumstances the British reaction! For Christ's sake, I couldn't invent those things!
   'It'd be a stretch for you,' agreed the psychiatrist softly. 'Then everything I've just told you you're hearing for the first time and none of it makes sense? It's not the way you recall things?'
   'Mo, it's all a lie! I never called State. McAllister came to the house and told us both everything I've told you, including the Yao Ming story! And now she's gone, and I've been given a lead to follow. Why? For Christ's sake, what are they doing to us?'
   'I asked about McAllister,' said Panov, his tone suddenly angry. The Fast East deputy checked with State posting and called me back. They say McAllister flew into Hong Kong two weeks ago, that according to his very precise calendar he couldn't have been at your house in Maine. '
   'He was here!'
   'I think I believe you. '
   'What does that mean?'
   'Among other things, I can hear the truth in your voice, sometimes when you can't. Also that phrase "making a mockery" of something isn't generally in the vocabulary of a psychotic in a highly agitated state – certainly not in yours at your wildest . '
   'I'm not with you. '
   'Someone saw where you worked and what you did for a living and thought he'd add a little upgraded verbiage. Local colour, in your case. ' Then Panov exploded. 'My God, what are they doing?'
   'Locking me into a starting gate,' said Webb softly. They're forcing me to go after whatever it is they want . '
   'Sons of bitches!'
   'It's called recruitment. ' David stared at the wall. 'Stay away. Mo, there's nothing you can do. They've got all their pieces in place. I'm recruited. ' He hung up.
   Dazed, Webb walked out of his small office and stood in the Victorian hallway surveying the upturned furniture and the broken lamps, china and glass strewn across the floor of the living room beyond. Then words spoken by Panov earlier in the terrible conversation came to him: They're so incriminating. '
   approached the front door and opened it. He forced himself to look at the hand print in the centre of the upper panel, the dried blood dull and dark in the light of the carriage lamps. Then he drew closer and examined it.
   It was the imprint of a hand but not a handprint. There was the outline of a hand – the impression, the palm and the extended fingers – but no breaks in the bloody form, no creases or indentations that a bleeding hand pressed against hard wood would reveal, no identifying marks, no isolated parts of the flesh held in place so as to stamp its own particular characteristics. It was like a flat, coloured shadow from a piece of stained glass, no planes other than the single impression. A glove? A rubber glove?
   David drew his eyes away and slowly turned to the staircase in the middle of the hallway, his thoughts haltingly centring on other words spoken by another man. A strange man with a mesmerizing voice.
   Perhaps you should examine the note further.... It may all become clearer to you with help – psychiatric help.
   Webb suddenly screamed, the terror within him growing as he ran to the staircase and raced up the steps to the bedroom, where he stared at the typewritten note on the bed. He picked it up with sickening fear and carried it to his wife's dressing table. He turned on the lamp and studied the print under the light.
   If the heart within him could have burst, it would have blown apart. Instead, Jason Bourne coldly examined the note before him.
   The slightly bent, irregular rs were there, as well as the ds, the upper staves incomplete, breaking off at the halfway mark.
   Bastards!
   The note had been written on his own typewriter. Recruitment.

6
   He sat on the rocks above the beach, knowing he had to think clearly. He had to define what was before him and what was expected of him and then how to out-think whoever was manipulating him. Above all, he knew he could not give in to panic, even the perception of panic – a panicked man was dangerous, a risk to be eliminated. If he went over the edge, he would only ensure the death of Marie and himself; it was that simple. Everything was so delicate – violently delicate.
   David Webb was out of the question. Jason Bourne had to assume control. Jesus! It was crazy! Mo Panov had told him to walk on the beach – as Webb – and now he had to sit there as Bourne, thinking things out as Bourne would think them out – he had to deny one part of himself and accept the opposite.
   Strangely, it was not impossible, nor even intolerable, for Marie was out there. His love, his only love – Don't think that way. Jason Bourne spoke: she is a valuable possession taken from you! Get her back. Jason Bourne spoke. No, not a possession, my life!
   Jason Bourne: Then break all the rules! Find her! Bring her back to you!
   David Webb: I don't know how. Help me!
   Use me! Use what you've learned from me. You've got the tools, you've had them for years. You were the best in Medusa. Above all, there was control. You preached that. You lived that. And you stayed alive.
   Control.
   Such a simple word. Such an incredible demand.
   Webb climbed off the rocks and once again went up the path through the wild grass to the street and started back towards the old Victorian house, loathing its sudden, frightening, unfair emptiness. As he walked a name flashed across his thoughts; then it returned and remained fixed. Slowly the face belonging to that name came into focus – very slowly, for the man aroused hatred in David that was no less acute for the sadness he also evoked.
   Alexander Conklin had tried to kill him – twice – and each time he had nearly succeeded. And Alex Conklin – according to his deposition as well as his own numerous psychiatric sessions with Mo Panov and what vague memories David could provide – had been a close friend of Foreign Service Officer Webb and his Thai wife and their children in Cambodia a lifetime ago. When death had struck from the skies, filling the river with circles of blood, David had fled blindly to Saigon, his rage uncontrollable, and it was his friend in the Central Intelligence Agency, Alex Conklin, who found a place for him in the illegitimate battalion they called Medusa.
   If you can survive the jungle training, you'll be a man they want. But watch them – every goddamned one of them, every goddamned minute. They'll cut your arm off for a watch. Those were the words Webb recalled, and he specifically recalled that they had been spoken by the voice of Alexander Conklin.
   He had survived the brutal training and became Delta. No other name, just a progression in the alphabet. Delta One. Then after the war, Delta became Cain. Cain is for Delta and Carlos is for Cain. That was the challenge hurled at Carlos the assassin. Created by Treadstone 71, a killer named Cain would catch the Jackal.
   It was as Cain, a name the underworld of Europe knew in reality was Asia's Jason Bourne, that Conklin had betrayed his friend. A simple act of faith on Alex's part could have made all the difference, but Alex could not find it within himself to provide it; his own bitterness precluded that particular charity. He believed the worst of his former friend because his own sense of martyrdom made him want to believe it. It raised his own broken self-esteem, convincing him that he was better than his former friend. In his work with Medusa, Conklin's foot had been shattered by a land mine, and his brilliant career as a field strategist was cut short. A crippled man could not stay in the field where a growing reputation might take him up the ladders scaled by such men as Alien Dulles and James Angleton, and Conklin did not possess the skills for 'the bureaucratic in-fighting demanded at Langley. He withered, a once extraordinary tactician left to watch inferior talents pass him by, his expertise sought only in secrecy, the head of Medusa always in the background, dangerous, someone to be kept at arm's length.
   Two years of imposed castration until a man known as the Monk – a Rasputin of covert operations – sought him out because one David Webb had been selected for an extraordinary assignment and Conklin had known Webb for years. Treadstone 71 was created, Jason Bourne became its product and Carlos the Jackal its target. And for thirty-two months Conklin monitored this most secret of classified operations, until the scenario fell apart with Jason Bourne's disappearance and the withdrawal of over five million dollars from Treadstone's Zurich account.
   With no evidence to the contrary, Conklin presumed the worst. The legendary Bourne had turned; life in the nether world had become too much for him and the temptation to come in from the cold with over five million dollars had been too alluring to resist. Especially for one known as the chameleon, a multilingual deep-cover specialist who could change appearances and lifestyles with so little effort that he could literally vanish. A trap for an assassin had been baited and then the bait had vanished, revealing a scheming thief. For the crippled Alexander Conklin this was not only the act of a traitor, but intolerable treachery. Considering everything that had been done to him, his foot now no more than a painfully awkward dead weight surgically encased in stolen flesh, a once brilliant career a shambles, his personal life filled with a loneliness that only a total commitment to the Agency could bring about – a devotion not reciprocated what right had anyone else to turn? What other man had given what he had given?
   So his once close friend, David Webb, became the enemy, Jason Bourne. Not merely the enemy, but an obsession. He had helped create the myth; he would destroy it. His first attempt was with two hired killers on the outskirts of Paris.
   David shuddered at the memory, still seeing a defeated Conklin limp away, his crippled figure in Webb's gunsight.
   The second try was blurred for David. Perhaps he would never recall it completely. It had taken place at the Treadstone sterile house on New York's 71st Street, an ingenious trap mounted by Conklin, which was aborted by Webb's hysterical efforts to survive and, oddly enough, the presence of Carlos the Jackal.
   Later, when the truth was known, that the 'traitor' had no treason in him but instead a mental aberration called amnesia, Conklin fell apart. During David's agonizing months of convalescence in Virginia, Alex tried repeatedly to see his former friend, to explain, to tell his part of the bloody story – to apologize with every fibre of his being.
   David, however, had no forgiveness in his soul.
   'If he walks through that door I'll kill him,' had been his words.
   That would change now, thought Webb as he quickened his pace down the street towards the house. Whatever Conklin's faults and duplicities, few men in the intelligence community had the insights and the sources he had developed over a lifetime of commitment. David had not thought about Alex in months; he thought about him now, suddenly remembering the last time his name came up in conversation. Mo Panov had rendered his verdict.
   'I can't help him because he doesn't want to be helped. He'll carry his last bottle of sour mash up to that great big black operations room in the sky bombed out of his mercifully dead skull. If he lasts to his retirement at the end of the year, I'll be astonished. On the other hand, if he stays pickled they may
   put him in a straitjacket and that'll keep him out of traffic. I swear I don't know how he gets to work every day. That pension is one hell of a survival-therapy – better than anything Freud ever left us. '
   Panov had spoken those words no more than five months ago. Conklin was still in place.
   I'm sorry, Mo. His survival one-way or the other doesn't bother me. So far as I'm concerned, his status is dead.
   It was not dead now, thought David, as he ran up the steps of the oversized Victorian porch. Alex Conklin was very much alive, whether drunk or not, and even if he was preserved in bourbon, he had his sources, those contacts he had cultivated during a lifetime of devotion to the shadow world that ultimately rejected him. Within that world debts were owed; and they were paid out of fear.
   Alexander Conklin. Number I on Jason Bourne's hit list.
   He opened the door and once again stood in the hallway, but his eyes did not see the wreckage. Instead, the logician in him ordered him to go back into his study and begin the procedures; there was nothing but confusion without imposed order, and confusion led to questions – he could not afford them. Everything had to be precise within the reality he was creating so as to divert the curious from the reality that was.
   He sat down at the desk and tried to focus his thoughts. There was the ever-present spiral notebook from the College Shop in front of him. He opened the thick cover to the first lined page and reached for a pencil... He could not pick it up! His hand shook so much that his whole body trembled. He held his breath and made a fist, clenching it until his fingernails cut into his flesh. He closed his eyes, then opened them, forcing his hand to return to the pencil, commanding it to do its job. Slowly, awkwardly, his fingers gripped the thin, yellow shaft and moved the pencil into position. The words were barely legible, but they were there.
   The university phone president and dean of studies. Family crisis, not Canada can he traced. Invent a brother in Europe, perhaps. Yes, Europe. Leave of absence brief leave of absence. Right away. Will stay in touch.
   House call rental agent, same story. Ask Jack to check periodically. He has key. Turn thermostat to 60°.
   Mail – fill out form at Post Office. Hold all mail.
   Newspapers – cancel.
   The little things, the goddamned little things – the unimportant daily trivia became so terribly important and had to be taken care of so that there would be no sign whatsoever of an abrupt departure without a planned return. That was vital; he had to remember it with every word he spoke. Questions had to be kept to a minimum, the inevitable speculations reduced to manageable proportions, which meant he had to confront the obvious conclusion that his recent bodyguards somehow led to his leave of absence. To defuse the connection, the most plausible way was to emphasize the short duration of that absence and to face the issue with a straightforward dismissal such as 'Incidentally, if you're wondering whether this has anything to do with... well, don't. That's a closed book; it didn't have much merit anyway. ' He would know better how to respond while talking to both the university's president and the dean; their own reactions would guide him. If anything could guide him. If he was capable of thinking! Don't slide back! Keep going. Move that pencil! Fill out the page with things to do – then another page, and another! Passports, initials on wallets or billfolds or shirts to correspond with the names being used; airline reservations – connecting flights, no direct routes – oh, God! To where! Marie! Where are you?
   Stop it! Control yourself. You are capable, you must be capable. You have no choice, so be what you once were. Feel ice. Be ice.
   Without warning, the shell he was building around himself was shattered by the ear-splitting sound of the telephone inches from his hand on the desk. He looked at it, swallowing, wondering if he were capable of sounding remotely normal. It rang again, a terrible insistence in its ring. You have no choice.
   He picked it up, gripping the receiver with such force that his knuckles turned white. He managed to get out the single word. 'Yes? ,
   This is the mobile-air operator, satellite transmission-'
   'Who? What did you say?"
   'I have a mid-flight radio call for a Mr. Webb. Are you Mr. Webb, sir?'
   'Yes. '
   And then the world he knew blew up in a thousand jagged mirrors, each an image of screaming torment.
   'David!'
   'Marie?'
   'Don't panic, darling! Do you hear me, don't panic!' Her voice came through the static; she was trying not to shout but could not help herself.
   'Are you all right? The note said you were hurt – wounded!'
   'I'm all right. A few scratches, that's all. '
   'Where are you?
   'Over the ocean, I'm sure they'll tell you that much. I don't know; I was sedated.'
   'Oh, Jesus! I can't stand it! They took you away!'
   'Pull yourself together, David. I know what this is doing to you, but they don't. Do you understand what I'm saying? They don't!'
   She was sending him a coded message; it was not hard to decipher. He had to be the man he hated. He had to be Jason Bourne, and the assassin was alive and well and residing in the body of David Webb.
   'All right. Yes, all right. I've been going out of my mind!'
   'Your voice is being amplified-'
   'Naturally. '
   They're letting me speak to you so you'll know I'm alive. '
   'Have they hurt you?"
   'Not intentionally. '
   'What the hell are "scratches"?
   'I struggled. I fought. And I was brought up on a ranch. '
   'Oh, my God-"
   'David, please! Don't let them do this to you!'
   To me? It's you!'
   'I know, darling. I think they're testing you, can you understand that?'
   Again the message. Be Jason Bourne for both their sakes, for both their lives. 'All right. Yes, all right. ' He lessened the intensity of his voice, trying to control himself. 'When did it happen?' he asked.
   This morning, about an hour after you left . '
   This morning"? Christ, all day! How?'
   They came to the door. Two men-'
   'Who?'
   'I'm permitted to say they're from the Far East. Actually, I don't know any more than that. They asked me to accompany them and I refused. I ran into the kitchen and saw a knife. I stabbed one of them in the hand. '
   The handprint on the door.. . '
   'I don't understand. '
   'It doesn't matter. '
   "A man wants to talk to you, David. Listen to him, but not in anger not in a rage – can you understand that?
   'All right Yes, all right. I understand. '
   The man's voice came on the line. It was hesitant but precise, almost British in its delivery, someone who had been taught English by an Englishman, or by someone who had lived in the UK. Nevertheless, it was identifiably Oriental; the accent was southern China, the pitch, the short vowels and sharp consonants sounding of Cantonese.
   'We do not care to harm your wife, Mr. Webb but if it is necessary, it will be unavoidable. '
   'I wouldn't, if I were you,' said David coldly.
   'Jason Bourne speaks?'
   'He speaks. '
   The acknowledgement is the first step in our understanding. '
   'What understanding?
   'You took something of great value from a man. '
   'You've taken something of great value from me. '
   'She is alive. '
   'She'd better stay that way. '
   'Another is dead. You killed her. '
   'Are you sure about that?' Bourne would not agree readily unless it served his purpose to do so.
   'We are very sure. '
   'What's your proof?'
   'You were seen. A tall man who stayed in the shadows and raced through the hotel corridors and across fire escapes with the movements of a mountain cat. '
   'Then I wasn't really seen, was I? Nor could I have been. I was thousands of miles away. ' Bourne would always give himself an option.
   'In these times of fast aircraft, what is distance?' The Oriental paused, then added sharply. 'You cancelled your duties for a period of five days two and a half weeks ago. '
   'And if I told you I attended a symposium on the Sung and Yuan dynasties down in Boston – which was very much in line with my duties-'
   'I am startled,' interrupted the man courteously, 'that Jason Bourne would employ such a lamentably feeble excuse. '
   He had not wanted to go to Boston. That symposium was light years away from his lectures, but he had been officially asked to attend. The request came from Washington, from the Cultural Exchange Program and filtered through the university's Department of Oriental Studies. Christ! Every pawn was in place! 'Excuse for what?'
   'For being where he was not. Large crowds mingling among the exhibits, certain people paid to swear you were there. '
   That's ridiculous, not to say patently amateurish. I don't pay. '
   ' You were paid. '
   'I was? How?
   Through the same bank you used before. In Zurich. The Gemeinschaft in Zurich – on the Bahnhofstrasse, of course. '
   'Odd I haven't received a statement,' said David, listening carefully.
   'When you were Jason Bourne in Europe, you never needed one, for yours was a three-zero account – the most secret, which is very secret indeed in Switzerland. However, we found a draft-transfer made out to the Gemeinschaft among the papers of a man – a dead man, of course. '
   'Of course. But not the man I supposedly killed. '
   'Certainly not. But one who ordered that man killed, along with a treasured prize of my employer. '
   'A prize is a trophy, isn't it?'
   'Both are won, Mr. Bourne. Enough. You are you. Get to the Regent Hotel in Kowloon. Register under any name you wish but ask for Suite Six-nine-zero – say you believe arrangements were made to reserve it . '
   'How convenient. My own rooms. '
   'It will save time. '
   'It'll also take me time to make arrangements here. '
   'We are certain you will not raise alarms and will move as rapidly as you can. Be there by the end of the week. '
   'Count on both. Put my wife back on the line. '
   'I regret I cannot do that.'
   'For Christ's sake, you can hear everything we say!'
   'You will speak with her in Kowloon. '
   There was an echoing click and he could hear nothing on the line but static. He replaced the phone, his grip so intense a cramp had formed between his thumb and forefinger. He removed his hand and shook it violently, his grip still intact. He was grateful that the pain allowed him to re-enter reality more gradually. He grabbed his right hand with his left, held it steady and pressed his left thumb into the cramp... and as he watched his fingers spread free, he knew what he had to do without wasting an hour on the all-important unimportant trivia. He had to reach Conklin in Washington, the gutter rat who had tried to kill him in broad daylight on New York's 71st Street. Alex, drunk or sober, made no distinction between the hours of day and night, nor did the operations he knew so well, for there was no night and day where his work was concerned. There was only the flat light of fluorescent tubes in offices that never closed. If he had to, he would press Alexander Conklin until the blood rolled out of the gutter rat's eyes; he would learn what he had to know, knowing that Conklin could get the information.
   Webb rose unsteadily from the chair, walked out of his study and into the kitchen, where he poured himself a drink, grateful again that although his hand still trembled, it did so less than before.
   He could delegate certain things. Jason Bourne never delegated anything, but he was still David Webb and there were several people on campus he could trust – certainly not with the truth but with a useful lie. By the time he returned to his study and the telephone he had chosen his conduit. Conduit, for God's sake! A word from the past he thought he had been free to forget. But the young man would do what he asked; the graduate student's master's thesis would ultimately be graded by his adviser, one David Webb. Use the advantage, whether it's total darkness or blinding sunlight, but use it to frighten or use it with compassion, whatever worked.
   'Hello, James? It's David Webb . '
   'Hi, Mr. Webb. Where'd I screw up?'
   'You haven't, Jim. Things have screwed up for me and I could use a little extra-curricular help. Would you be interested? It'll take a little time. '
   This weekend? The game?
   'No, just tomorrow morning. Maybe an hour or so, if that. Then a little bonus in terms of your curriculum vitae, if that doesn't sound too horseshit . '
   'Name it . '
   'Well, confidentially – and I'd appreciate the confidentiality – I have to be away for a week, perhaps two, and I'm about to call the powers that be and suggest that you sit in for me. It's no problem for you; it's the Manchu overthrow and the Sino-Russian agreements that sound very familiar today. '
   'Nineteen-hundred to around nineteen-o-six,' said the master's candidate with confidence.
   'You can refine it, and don't overlook the Japanese and Port Arthur and old Teddy Roosevelt. Line it up and draw parallel::; that's what I've been doing. '
   'Can do. Will do. I'll hit the sources. What about tomorrow?
   'I have to leave tonight, Jim; my wife's already on her way. Have you got a pencil?'
   'Yes, sir. '
   'You know what they say about piling up newspapers and the mail, so I want you to call the newspaper delivery and go down to the Post Office and tell them both to hold everything sign whatever you have to sign. Then call the Scully Agency here in town and speak to Jack or Adele and tell them to.. . '
   The master's candidate was recruited. The next call was far easier than David expected, as the president of the university was at a dinner party in his honour at the President's Residence and was far more interested in his forthcoming speech than in an obscure – if unusual – associate professor's leave of absence. 'Please reach the dean of studies, Mr... Wedd. I'm raising money, damn it . '
   The dean of studies was not so easily handled. 'David, has this anything to do with those people who were walking around with you last week? I mean, after all, old boy, I'm one of the few people here who know that you were involved with some very hush-hush things in Washington. '
   'Nothing whatsoever, Doug. That was nonsense from the beginning; this isn't. My brother was seriously injured, his car completely written off. I've got to get over to Paris for a few days, maybe a week, that's all. '
   'I was in Paris two years ago. The drivers are absolute maniacs. '
   'No worse than Boston, Doug, and a hell of a lot better than Cairo. '
   'Well, I suppose I can make arrangements. A week isn't that long, and Johnson was out for nearly a month with pneumonia-'
   'I've already made arrangements with your approval, of course. Jim Crowther, a master's candidate, will fill in for me. It's material he knows and he'll do a good job . '
   'Oh, yes, Crowther, a bright young man, in spite of his beard. Never did trust beards, but then I was here in the sixties. '
   'Try growing one. It may set you free. '
   Tit let that go by. Are you sure this hasn't anything to do with those people from the State Department? I really must have the facts, David. What's your brother's name? What Paris hospital is he in?'
   'I don't know the hospital, but Marie probably does; she left this morning. Good-bye, Doug. I'll call you tomorrow or the next day. I have to get down to Logan Airport in Boston. '

'David?'
   'Yes?'
   'Why do I feel you're not being entirely truthful with me?'
   Webb remembered. 'Because I've never been in this position before,' he said. 'Asking a favour from a friend because of someone I'd rather hot think about . '
   David hung up the phone.
   The flight from Boston to Washington was maddening because of a fossilized professor of pedantry – David never did get the course – who had the seat next to his. The man's voice droned on throughout the flight. It was only when they landed at National Airport that the pedant admitted the truth.
   'I've been a bore, but do forgive me. I'm terrified of flying so I just keep chattering. Silly, isn't it?'
   'Not at all, but why didn't you say so? It's hardly a crime. '
   'Fear of peer pressure, or scoffing condemnation, I imagine. '
   'I'll remember that the next time I'm sitting next to someone like you. ' Webb smiled briefly. 'Maybe I could help. '
   That's kind of you. And very honest. Thank you. Thank you so much. '
   'You're welcome. '
   David retrieved his suitcase from the luggage belt and went outside for a taxi, annoyed that the cabs were not taking single fares but insisting on two or more passengers going in the same direction. His backseat companion was a woman, an attractive woman who used body language in concert with imploring eyes. It made no sense to him, so he made no sense of her, thanking her for dropping him off first.
   He registered at the Jefferson Hotel on 16th Street, under a false name invented at the moment. The hotel, however, was not an impulse; it was a block and a half from Conklin's apartment, the same apartment the CIA officer had lived in for nearly twenty years when he was not in the field. It was an address David made sure to get before he left Virginia, again instinct – visceral distrust. He had a telephone number as well, but knew it was useless; he could not phone Conklin. The one-time deep cover strategist would mount defences, more mental than physical, and Webb wanted to confront an unprepared man. There would be no warning, only a presence demanding a debt that was owed and must now be paid.
   David glanced at his watch; it was ten minutes to midnight, as good a time as any and better than most. He washed, changed his shirt and finally dug out one of the two dismantled guns from his suitcase, removing it from the thick, foil-lined bag. He snapped the parts in place, tested the firing mechanism and shoved the clip into the receiving chamber. He held the weapon out and studied his hand, satisfied that there was no tremor. It felt clean and unremarkable. Eight hours ago he would not have believed he could hold a gun in his hand for fear he might fire it. That was eight hours ago, not now. Now it was comfortable, a part of him, an extension of Jason Bourne.
   He left the Jefferson and walked down 16th Street, turning right at the corner and noting the descending numbers of the old apartments – very old apartments, reminding him of the brownstones on the Upper East Side of New York. There was a curious logic in the observation, considering Conklin's role in the Treadstone project, he thought. Treadstone 71's sterile house in Manhattan had been a brownstone, an odd, bulging structure with upper windows of tinted blue glass. He could see it so clearly, hear the voices so clearly, without really understanding – the incubating factory for Jason Bourne.
   Do it again!
   Who is the face?
   What's his background? His method of kill?
   Wrong! You're wrong! Do it again!
   Who's this? What's the connection to Carlos?
   Damn it, think! There can be no mistakes!
   A brownstone. Where his other self was created, the man he needed so much now.
   There it was, Conklin's apartment. He was on the first floor, facing front. The lights were on; Alex was home and awake. Webb crossed the street, aware that a misty drizzle had suddenly filled the air, diffusing the glare of the streetlamps, halos beneath the orbs of rippled glass. He walked up the steps and opened the door to the short foyer; he stepped inside and studied the names under the mailboxes of the six flats. Each had a webbed circle under the name into which a caller announced himself.
   There was no time for complicated invention. If Panov's verdict was accurate, his voice would be sufficient. He pressed Conklin's button and waited for a response; it came after the better part of a minute.
   'Yes? Who's there?'
   'Harry Babcock heah,' said David, the accent exaggerated. 'I've got to see you, Alex. '
   'Harry? What the hell...? Sure, sure, come on up!' The buzzer droned, broken off once – a finger momentarily displaced.
   David went inside and ran up the narrow staircase to the first floor, hoping to be outside Conklin's door when he opened it. He arrived less than a second before Alex, who, with his eyes only partially focused, pulled back the door and began to scream. Webb lunged, clamping his hand across Conklin's face, twisting the CIA man around in a hammerlock and kicking the door shut.
   He had not physically attacked a person for as long as he could remember with any accuracy. It should have been strange, even awkward, but it was neither. It was perfectly natural. Oh, Christ!
   'I'm going to take my hand away, Alex, but if you raise your voice it goes back. And you won't survive if it does, is that clear? David removed his hand, yanking Conklin's head back as he did so.
   'You're one hell of a surprise,' said the CIA man, coughing, and lurching into a limp as he was released. 'You also call for a drink.'
   'I gather it's a pretty steady diet.'
   'We are what we are,' answered Conklin, awkwardly reaching down for an empty glass on the coffee table in front of a large, well-worn couch. He carried it over to a copper-plated dry bar against the wall where identical bottles of bourbon stood in a single row. There were no mixers, no water, just an ice bucket; it was not a bar for guests. It was for the host in residence, its gleaming metal proclaiming it to be an extravagance the resident permitted himself. The rest of the living room was not in its class. Somehow that copper bar was a statement.
   'To what,' continued Conklin, pouring himself a drink, 'do I owe this dubious pleasure? You refused to see me in Virginia – said you'd kill me, and that's a fact. That's what you said. You'd kill me if I walked through the door, you said that . '
   'You're drunk. '
   'Probably. But then I usually am around this time. Do you want to start out with a lecture? It won't do a hell of a lot of good, but give it the old college try if you want to. '
   'You're sick. '
   'No, I'm drunk, that's what you said. Am I repeating myself?
   'Ad nauseam. '
   'Sorry about that. ' Conklin replaced the bottle, took several swallows from his glass and looked at Webb . 'I didn't walk through your door, you came through mine, but I suppose that's immaterial. Did you come here to finally carry out your threat, to fulfil the prophecy, to put past wrongs to rights or whatever you call it? That rather obvious flat bulge under your jacket I doubt is a pint of whisky. '
   'I no longer have an overriding urge to see you dead, but yes, I may kill you. You could provoke that urge very easily. '
   'Fascinating. How could I do that?'
   'By not providing me with what I need – and you can provide it . '
   'You must know something I don't . '
   'I know you've got twenty years in grey to black operations and that you wrote the book on most of them. '
   'History,' muttered the CIA man, drinking.
   'It's revivable. Unlike mine your memory's intact. Mine's limited, but not yours. I need information, I need answers. '
   To what? For what?
   'They took my wife away,' said David simply, ice in that simplicity. 'They took Marie away from me. '
   Conklin's eyes blinked through his fixed stare. 'Say that again. I don't think I heard you right . '
   'You heard! And you bastards are somewhere deep down in the rotten scenario!'
   'Not me! I wouldn't – I couldn't!. What the hell are you saying? Marie's gone?'
   'She's in a plane over the Pacific. I'm to follow. I'm to fly to Kowloon. '
   'You're crazy! You're out of your mind!'
   'You listen to me, Alex. You listen carefully to everything I tell you... ' Again the words poured forth, but now with a control he had not been able to summon with Morris Panov. Conklin drunk had sharper perceptions than most sober men in the intelligence community, and he had to understand. Webb could not allow any lapses in the narrative; it had to be clear from the beginning – from that moment when he spoke to Marie over the gymnasium phone and heard her say. 'David, come home. There's someone here you must see. Quickly, darling. '
   As he talked, Conklin limped unsteadily across the room to the couch and sat down, his eyes never once leaving Webb's face. When David had finished describing the hotel around the corner, Alex shook his head and reached for his drink.
   'It's eerie,' he said after a period of silence, of intense concentration fighting the clouds of alcohol; he put the glass down. 'It's as though a strategy was mounted and went off the wire. '
   'Off the wire?
   'Out of control. '
   'How?'
   'I don't know,' went on the former tactician, weaving slightly, trying not to slur his words. 'You're given a script that may or may not be accurate, then the targets change -your wife for you – and it's played out. You react predictably, but when you mention Medusa, you're told in no uncertain terms that you'll be burned if you persist.'
   That's predictable.'
   'It's no way to prime a subject. Suddenly your wife's on a back burner and Medusa's the overriding danger. Someone miscalculated. Something's off a wire, something happened. '
   'You've got what's left of tonight and tomorrow to get me some answers. I'm on the seven P. M. flight to Hong Kong. '
   Conklin sat forward, shaking his head slowly, and with his right hand trembling again reached for his bourbon. 'You're in the wrong part of town,' he said, swallowing. 'I thought you knew; you made a tight little allusion to the sauce. I'm useless to you. I'm off limits, a basket case. No one tells me anything and why should they? I'm a relic, Webb. Nobody wants to have a goddamned thing to do with me. I'm washed out and up and one more step I'll be beyond-salvage – which I believe is a phrase locked in that crazy head of yours. '
   'Yes, it is. "Kill him. He knows too much. '
   'Maybe you want to put me there, is that it? Feed him, wake up the sleeping Medusa and make sure he gets it from his own. That would balance. '
   'You put me there,' said David, taking the gun out of the holster under his jacket.
   'Yes, I did,' agreed Conklin, nodding his head and gazing at the weapon. 'Because I knew Delta, and as far as I was concerned anything was possible – I'd seen you in the field. My God, you blew a man's head off – one of your own men -in Tarn Quan because you believed – you didn't know, you believed ~ he was radioing a platoon on the Ho Chi Minh! No charges, no defence, just another swift execution in the jungle. It turned out you were right, but you might have been wrong! You could have brought him in; we might have learned things, but no, not Delta! He made up his own rules. Sure, you could have turned in Zurich!'
   'I don't have the specifics about Tam Quan, but others did,' said David in quiet anger. 'I had to get nine men out of there, there wasn't room for a tenth who could have slowed us down or bolted, giving away our position. '
   'Good! Your rules. You're inventive, so find a parallel here and for Christ's sake pull the trigger like you did with him, our bona fide Jason Bourne! I told you in Paris to do it!' Breathing hard, Conklin paused and leveled his bloodshot eyes at Webb; he spoke in a plaintive whisper. 'I told you then and I tell you now. Put me out of it. I don't have the guts. '
   'We were friends, Alex!' shouted David. 'You came to our house! You ate with us and played with the kids! You swam with them in the river... ' Oh my God lit was all coming back. The images, the faces... Oh, Christ, the faces... The bodies floating in circles of water arid blood... Control yourself! Reject them! Reject! Only now. Now!
   'That was in another country, David. And besides – I don't think you want me to complete the line. '
   '"Besides the wench is dead. " No, I'd prefer you didn't repeat the line. '
   'No matter what,' said Conklin hoarsely, swallowing most of his whisky. 'We were both erudite, weren't we?... I can't help you. '
   'Yes, you can. You will'
   'Get off it, soldier. There's no way. '
   'Debts are owed you. Call them in. I'm calling yours. '
   'Sorry. You can pull that trigger any time you want, but if you don't, I'm not putting myself beyond-salvage or blowing everything that's coming to me – legitimately coming to me. If I'm allowed to go to pasture, I intend to graze well. They took enough. I want some back. ' The CIA officer got up from the couch and awkwardly walked across the room towards the copper bar. His limp was more pronounced than Webb ever remembered it, his right foot no more serviceable than an encased stump dragged at an angle across the floor, the effort painfully obvious.
   'The leg's worse, isn't it?' asked David curtly.
   'I'll live with it . '
   'You'll die with it, too,' said Webb, raising his automatic . 'Because I can't live without my wife and you don't give a goddamn. Do you know what that makes you, Alex? After everything you did to us, all the lies, the traps, the scum you used to nail us with-'
   'You!' interrupted Conklin, filling his glass and staring at the gun. 'Not her. '
   'Kill one of us, you kill us both, but you wouldn't understand that . '
   'I never had the luxury. '
   'Your lousy self-pity wouldn't let you! You just want to wallow in it all by yourself and let the booze do the thinking. "There but for a fucking land mine goes the Director, or the Monk or the Grey Fox – the Angleton of the eighties. " You're pathetic. You've got your life, your mind-'
   'Jesus, take them away! Shoot! Pull the goddamn trigger but leave me something? Conklin suddenly swallowed his entire drink; an extended, rolling, retching cough followed. After the spasm, he looked at David, his eyes watery, the red veins pronounced. 'You think I wouldn't try to help if I could, you son of a bitch?' he whispered huskily. 'You think I like all that "thinking" I indulge myself in? You're the one who's dense, the one who's stubborn, David. You don't understand, do you? The CIA man held the glass in front of him with two fingers and let it drop to the hard wood floor; it shattered, fragments flying in all directions. Then he spoke, his voice a high-pitched singsong, as a sad smile crept across his lips beneath the rheumy eyes. 'I can't stand another failure, old friend. And I'd fail, believe me. I'd kill you both and I just don't think I could live with that . '
   Webb lowered the gun. 'Not with what you've got in your head, not with what you've learned. Anyway, I'll take my chances; my options are limited and I choose you. To be honest, I don't know anyone else. Also, I've several ideas, maybe even a plan, but it's got to be set up at high speed. '
   'Oh? Conklin held on to the bar to steady himself.
   'May I make some coffee, Alex?'