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The European turned and started down the hall； there was work to do。 The final isolation of the man called Jason Bourne。
It was more than could be hoped for； the exposed files a gift beyond belief。 Included were folders containing every code and method of munication ever used by the mythical Cain。 Now not so mythical； thought the European； as he gathered the papers together。 The scene was set； the four corpses in position in the peaceful； elegant library。 David Abbott was arched in a chair； his dead eyes in shock； Elliot Stevens at his feet； the Yachtsman was slumped over the hatch table； an overturned bottle of whisky in his hand； while Gordon Webb sprawled on the floor； clutching his briefcase。 Whatever violence had taken place； the setting indicated that it had been unexpected； conversations interrupted by abrupt gunfire。
The European walked around in suede gloves； appraising his artistry； and it was artistry。 He had dismissed the chauffeur； wiped every door handle； every knob； every gleaming surface of wood。 It was time for the final touch。 He walked to a table where there were brandy glasses on a silver tray； picked one up and held it to the light； as he expected； it was spotless。 He put it down； and took out a small； flat； plastic case from his pocket。 He opened it and removed a strip of transparent tape； holding it； too； up to the light There they were； as clear as portraits … for they were portraits； as undeniable as any photograph。
They had been taken off a glass of Perrier； removed from an office at the Gemeinschaft Bank in Zurich。 They were the fingerprints of Jason Bourne's right hand。
The European picked up the brandy glass and； with the patience of the artist he was； pressed the tape around the lower surface； then gently peeled it off。 Again he held the glass up； the prints were seen in dull perfection against the light of the table lamp。
The European carried the glass over to a corner of the parquet floor and dropped it He knelt down； studied the fragments； removed several； and brushed the rest under the curtain。
They were enough。
'Later；' said Bourne； throwing their suitcases on the bed。 'We've got to get out of here。'
Marie sat in the armchair。 She had read the newspaper article again； selecting phrases； repeating them。 Her concentration was absolute； she was consumed； more and more confident of her analysis。
〃I'm right； Jason。 Someone is sending us a message！'
'We'll talk about it later； we've stayed here too long as it is。 That newspaper'll be all over this hotel in an hour and the morning papers may be worse。 It's no time for modesty； you stand out in a hotel lobby； and you've been seen in this one by too many people。 Get your things。'
Marie stood up； but made no other move。 Instead； she held her place and forced him to look at her。 'We'll talk about several things later；' she said firmly。 'You were leaving me； Jason； and I want to know why。'
'I told you I'd tell you；' he answered； without evasion； 'because you have to know and I mean that。 But right now I want to get out of here。 Get your things； goddamn it！'
She blinked； his sudden anger having its effect。 'Yes； of course；' she whispered。
They took the lift down to the lobby。 As the worn marble floor came into view； Bourne had the feeling they were in a cage； exposed and vulnerable； if the machine stopped； they would be taken。 Then he understood why the feeling was so strong。 Below on the left was the front desk； the concierge sitting behind it； a pile of newspapers on the counter to his right。 They were copies of the same tabloid Jason had put in the attach case Marie was now carrying。 The concierge had taken one； he was reading it avidly； poking a toothpick between his teeth； oblivious to everything but the nouvelles scandaleuses。
'Walk straight through；' said Jason。 'Don't stop； just go right to the door。 I'll meet you outside。'
'Oh； my God！。。。' she whispered； seeing the concierge。
'I'll pay him as quickly as I can。'
The sound of Marie's heels on the marble floor was a distraction Bourne did not want。 The concierge looked up as Jason moved in front of him； blocking his view。
'It's been very pleasant；' he said in French； 'but I'm in a great hurry。 I have to drive to Lyons tonight。 Just round out the figure to the nearest five hundred francs。 I haven't had time to leave gratuities。'
The financial distraction acplished its purpose。 The concierge reached his totals quickly； he presented the bill。 Jason paid it and bent down for the suitcases； glancing up at the sound of surprise that exploded from the concierge's gaping mouth。 The man was staring at the pile of newspapers on his right； his eyes on the photograph of Marie St Jacques。 He looked over at the glass doors of the entrance； Marie stood on the pavement。 The concierge shifted his astonished gaze to Bourne； the connection was made； the man inhibited by sudden fear。
Jason walked rapidly towards the glass doors； angling his shoulder to push them open； glancing back at the front desk。 The concierge was reaching for a telephone。
'Let's go！' he cried to Marie。 'Look for a cab！'
They found one on rue Lecourbe； five blocks from the hotel。 Bourne feigned the role of an inexperienced American tourist； employing the inadequate French that had served him so well at the Valois Bank。 He explained to the driver that he and his belle amie wanted to get out of central Paris for a day or so； somewhere they could be alone。 Perhaps the driver could suggest several places and they would choose one。
The driver could and did。 'There's a small inn outside Les Moulineux Billancourt； called Maison Quadrillage；' he said。
'Another in Ivry…sur…Seine； you might like。 It's very private； Monsieur； Or perhaps the Auberge du Coin in Montrouge； it's between the two and very discreet。'
'Let's take the first；' said Jason。 'It's the first that came to your mind。 How long will it take？'
'No more than fifteen； twenty minutes； Monsieur。'
'Good。' Bourne turned to Marie and spoke softly。 'Change your hair。〃
'What？'
'Change your hair。 Pull it up or push it back； I don't care； but change it。 Move out of sight of his mirror。 Hurry up！'
Several moments later Marie's long auburn hair was pulled severely back； away from her face and neck； fastened with the aid of a mirror and hairpins into a tight chignon。 Jason looked at her in the dim light。
'Wipe off your lipstick。 All of it。'
She took out a tissue and did so。 'All right？'
'Yes。 Have you got an eyebrow pencil？'
'Of course。〃
'Thicken your eyebrows； just a little bit。 Extend them about a quarter of an inch； curve the ends down just a touch。〃
Again she followed his instructions。 'Now？' she asked。
'That's better；〃 he replied； studying her。 The changes were minor but the effect major。 She had been subtly transformed from a softly elegant； striking woman into a harsher image。 At the least； she was not on first sight the woman in the newspaper photograph and that was all that mattered。
'When we reach Billancourt；' he whispered； 'get out quickly； and turn your back。 Don't let the driver see you。'
'It's a little late for that； isn't it？'
'Just do as I say。〃
Listen to me。 I am a chameleon called Cain and I can teach you many things I do not care to teach you； but at the moment I must。 I can change my colour to acmodate any backdrop in the forest； I can shift with the wind by smelling it。 I can find my way through the natural and man…made jungles。 Alpha； Bravo； Charlie； Delta。。。 Delta is for Charlie and Charlie is for Cain。 I am Cain。 I am death。 And I must tell you who I am and lose you。
'My darling； what is it？〃
'What？'
'You're looking at me； you're not breathing。 Are you all right？'
'Sorry；' he said； glancing away； breathing again。 'I'm working out our moves。 I'll know better what to do when we get there。'
They arrived at the inn。 There was a parking area bordered by a post…and…rail fence on the right； several late diners came out of the lattice…framed entrance in front。 Bourne leaned forward in the seat。
'Let us off inside the parking area； if you don't mind；' he ordered； offering no explanation for the odd request。
'Certainly； Monsieur；' said the driver； nodding his head； then shrugging； his movements conveying the fact that his passengers were； indeed； a cautious couple。
The rain had subsided； returning to a mistlike drizzle。 The taxi drove off。 Bourne and Marie remained in the shadows of the foliage at the side of the Inn until it disappeared。 Jason put the suitcases down on the wet ground。 'Wait here；' he said。
'Where are you going？'
To phone for a taxi。'
The second taxi took them west into the Montrouge district。 This driver was singularly unimpressed by the stern…faced couple who were obviously from the provinces； and probably seeking cheaper lodgings。 When and if he picked up a newspaper and saw a photograph of a French…Canadian involved with murder and theft in Zurich； the woman in his back seat now would not e to mind。
The Auberge du Coin did not live up to its name。 It was not a quaint village inn situated in a secluded nook of the countryside。 Instead； it was a large； flat； two…storey structure a quarter of a mile off the main road。 If anything； it was reminiscent of motels that blight the outskirts of cities the world over； mercially guaranteeing the anonymity of their guests。 It was not hard to imagine weekly appointments by the score that were best attributed to erroneous registrations。
So they registered erroneously and were given a plastic room where every accessory worth over twenty francs was bolted into the floor or attached with headless screws to lacquered Formica laminate。 There was； however； one positive feature to the place； an ice machine down the hall。 They knew it worked because they could hear it。 With the door closed。
'All right； now。 Who would be sending us a message？' asked Bourne； standing； revolving the glass of whisky in his hand。
'If I knew； I'd get in touch with them；' she said； sitting at the small desk； chair turned； legs crossed； watching him closely。 'It could be connected with why you were running away。'
'If it was； it was a trap。'
'It was no trap。 A man like Walther Apfel didn't do what he did to acmodate a trap。'
'I wouldn't be so sure of that。' Bourne walked to the single plastic armchair and sat down。 'Koenig did； he marked me right there in the waiting room。'
'He was a bribed foot…soldier； not an officer of the bank。 He acted alone。 Apfel couldn't。'
Jason looked up。 'What do you mean？'
'Apfel's statement had to be cleared by his superiors。 It was made in the name of the bank。'
'If you're so sure； let's call Zurich。'
'They don't want that Either they haven't the answer； or they can't give it Apfel's last words were that they 〃would have no further ment To anyone。〃 That too； was part of the message。 We're to contact someone else。'
Bourne drank； he needed the alcohol for the moment was ing when he would begin the story of a killer named Cain。 Then we're back to whom？' he said。 'Back to the trap。'
'You think you know who it is； don't you？' Marie reached for her cigarettes on the desk。 'It's why you were running； isn't it？'
〃The answer to both questions is yes。' The moment had e。 The message was sent by Carlos！ I am Cain and you must leave me！ I must lose you。 But first there is Zurich and you have to understand。 'That article was planted to find me。'
'I won't argue with that；' she broke in； surprising him with the interruption。 'I've had time to think； they know the evidence is false … so patently false it's ridiculous。 The Zurich police fully expect me to get in touch with the Canadian Embassy now。。。' Marie stopped； the unlit cigarette in her hand。 'My God； Jason； that's what they want us to do！'
'Who wants us to do？'
'Hoover's sending us the message。 They know I have no choice but to call the embassy； get the protection of the Canadian government。 I didn't think of it because I've already spoken to the embassy； to what's his name … Dennis Corbelier； and he had absolutely nothing to tell me。 He only did what I asked him to do； there was nothing else。 But that was yesterday。；。 Not today； not tonight。〃 Marie started for the telephone on the bedside table。
Bourne rose qui