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f the once…regal figure stepping forward in the sunlight
The grey Citroen had proceeded beyond the taxi and was now pulling to the kerb。 Neither man got out； but a thin metal rod； reflecting the glare of the sun； began rising out of the boot。
The radio antenna was being activated； codes sent over a guarded frequency。 Jason was mesmerized； not by the sight and the knowledge of what was being done； but by something else。 Words came to him； from where he did not know but they were there。
Delta to Almanac； Delia to Almanac。 We will not respond。
Repeat； negative； brother。
Almanac to Delta。 You will respond as ordered。 Abandon； abandon。 That is final。
Delta to Almanac。 You're final； brother。 Co fuck yourself。 Delta out； equipment damaged。
Suddenly the darkness was all around him； the sunlight gone。 There were no soaring towers of a church reaching for the sky； instead there were black shapes of irregular foliage shivering beneath the light of iridescent clouds。 Everything was moving； everything was moving； he had to move with the movement。 To remain immobile was to die！ Move！ For Christ's sake； move！
And take them out。 One by one。 Crawl in closer； overe the fear … the terrible fear … and reduce the numbers。 That was all there was to it！ Reduce the numbers！ The Monk had made that clear！ Knife； wire； knee； thumb； you know the points of damage。 Of death。
Death is a statistic for the puters。 For you it is survival。
The Monk。
The Monk！
The sunlight came again； blinding him for a moment； his foot on the pavement； his gaze on the grey Citroen a hundred yards away。 But it was difficult to see； why was it so difficult？ Haze； mist。。。 not darkness now but impenetrable mist。 He was hot； no； he was cold。 Cold！ He jerked his head up； suddenly aware of where he was and what he was doing。 His face had been pressed against the window； his breath had fogged the glass。
'I'm getting out for a few minutes；' said Bourne。 'Stay here。'
'All day； if you wish； Monsieur。'
Jason pulled up the lapels of his overcoat； pushed his hat forward and put on the tortoise…shell glasses。 He walked alongside a couple towards a religious pavement stall； breaking away to stand behind a mother and child at the counter。 He had a clear view of the grey Citroen； the taxi which had been summoned to Pare Monceau was no longer there； dismissed by Villiers's wife。 It was a curious decision on her part； thought Bourne； cabs were not that readily available。
Three minutes later； the reason was clear。。。 and disturbing。 Villiers's wife came striding out of the church； walking rapidly； her tall statuesque figure drawing admiring glances from passers…by。 She went directly to the Citroen； spoke directly to the men in front； then opened the rear door。
The bag。 A white bag！ Villiers's wife was carrying the bag that only minutes ago had been clutched in the hands of Jacqueline Lavier。 She climbed into the Citroen's back seat and pulled the door shut。 The car's engine was switched on and gunned； the prelude to a quick and sudden departure。 As the vehicle rolled away； the shiny metal rod that was the vehicle's antenna became shorter and shorter； retracting into its base。
Where was Jacqueline Lavier？ Why had she given her bag to Villiers's wife？ Bourne started to move； then stopped； instinct warning him。 A trap？ If Lavier was followed； those following her might also be trailed … and not by him。
He looked up and down the street； studying the pedestrians on the pavement； then each car； each driver and passenger； watching for a face that did not belong； as Villiers had said the two men in the Citroen had not belonged in Pare Monceau。
There were no breaks in the parade； no darting eyes or hands concealed in outsized pockets。 He was being over cautious； Neuilly…sur…Seine was not a trap for him。 He moved away from the stall and started for the church。
He stopped； his feet suddenly clamped to the pavement。 A priest was ing out of the church； a priest in a black suit； a starched white collar and a black hat that partially covered his face。 He had seen him before。 Not long ago； not in a forgotten past； but recently。 Very recently。 Weeks； days。。。 hours； perhaps。 Where was it？ Where？ He knew him！ It was in the walk； in the tilt of his head； in the wide shoulders that seemed to glide in place above the fluid movement of his body。 He was a man with a gun！ Where was it？
Zurich？ The Carillon du Lac？ Two men breaking through the crowds； converging； brokering death。 One wore gold…rimmed glasses； it was not he。 That man was dead。 Was it that other man in the Carillon du Lac？ Or on the Guisan Quai？ An animal； grunting； wild…eyed in rape。 Was it he？ Or someone else。 A dark…coated man in the corridor at the Auberge du Coin where the lights had shorted； the spill from the staircase illuminating the trap。 A reverse trap where that man had fired his weapon in darkness at shapes he thought were human。 Was it that man？
Bourne did not know； he only knew that he had seen the priest before； but not as a priest。 As a man with a gun。
The killer in the priestly dark suit reached the end of the stone…path and turned right at the base of a concrete saint； his face briefly caught in the sunlight。 Jason froze； the skin。 The killer's skin was dark； not tanned by the sun but by birth； A Latin skin； its hue tempered generations ago when ancestors lived beside the Mediterranean Forebears who migrated across the globe。。。 across the seas。
Bourne stood paralysed by the shock of his own certainty。 He was looking at Ilyich Ramirez Sanchez。
Get Carlos。 Trap Carlos。 Cain is for Charlie and Delta is for Cain。
Jason tore at the front of his coat； his right hand grasping the handle of the gun in his belt。 He started running on the pavement； colliding with the backs and chests of strollers； shouldering a pavement vendor out of his way； lurching past a beggar digging into a wire rubbish。。。 The beggar I The beggar's hand surged into his pocket： Bourne spun in time to see the barrel of an automatic emerge from the threadbare coat； the sun's rays bouncing off the metal。 The beggar had a gun！ His gaunt hand raised it； weapon and eyes steady。 Jason lunged into the street； careening off the side of a small car。 He heard the spits of the bullets above him and around him； piercing the air with sickening finality。 Screams； shrill and in pain； came from unseen people on the pavement。 Bourne ducked between two cars and raced through the traffic to the other side of the street。 The beggar was running away； an old man with eyes of steel was racing into the crowds； into oblivion。
Get Carlos。 Trap Carlos。 Cain is。。。！
Jason spun again and lurched again； propelling himself forward； throwing everything in his path out of his path； racing in the direction of the assassin。 He stopped； breathless； confusion and anger welling in his chest； sharp bolts of pain returning to his temples。 Where was he？ Where was Carlos？ And then he saw him； the killer had climbed behind the wheel of a large black saloon。 Bourne ran back into the traffic； slamming bonnets and boots as he threaded his way insanely towards the assassin。 Suddenly he was blocked by two cars that had collided。 He spread his hands on a glistening chrome grille and leaped sideways over the impacted bumpers。 He stopped again； his eyes searing with pain； knowing it was pointless to go on。 He was too late。 The large black car had found a break in the traffic and Ilyich Ramirez Sanchez sped away。
Jason crossed back to the far pavement as the shrieking of police whistles turned heads everywhere。 Pedestrians had been grazed or wounded or killed； a beggar with a gun had shot them。
Lavier！ Bourne broke into a run again； not back towards the Church of the Blessed Sacrament。 He reached the stone path under the eye of the concrete saint and spun left； racing towards the arched； sculptured doors and the marble steps。 He ran up and entered the Gothic church； facing racks of flickering candles； fused rays of coloured light streaming down from the stained…glass windows high in the dark stone walls。 He walked down the centre aisle； staring at the worshippers； looking for streaked silver hair and a mask of a face laminated in white。
The Lavier woman was nowhere to be seen； yet she had not left； she was somewhere in the church。 Jason turned； glancing up the aisle； there was a tall priest walking casually past the rack of candles。 Bourne sidestepped his way through a cushioned row； emerged on the far right aisle and intercepted him。
'Excuse me； Father；' he said。 'I'm afraid I've lost someone。'
'No one is lost in the house of God； sir；〃 replied the cleric； smiling。
'She may not be in spirit； but if I don't find the rest of her； she'll be very upset。 There's an emergency at her place of business。 Have you been here long； Father？〃
'I greet those of our flock who seek assistance； yes。 I've been here for the better part of an hour。'
Two women came in a few minutes ago。 One was extremely tall； quite striking； wearing a light…coloured coat； and I think a dark kerchief over her hair。 The other was an older lady； not so tall； and obviously not in good health。 Did you by any chance see them？'
The priest nodded。 'Yes。 There was sorrow in the older woman's face； she was pale and grieving。'
'Do you know where she went？ I gather her younger friend left。'
'A devoted friend； may I say。 She escorted the poor dear to confession； helping her inside the booth。 The cleansing of the soul gives us all strength during the desperate times。'
To confession？'
'Yes； the second booth from the right She has a passionate father confessor； I might add。 A visiting priest from the archdiocese of Barcelona。 A remarkable man； too； I'm sorry to say this is his last day。 He returns to Spain。。。〃 The tall priest frowned。 'Isn't that odd？ A few moments ago I thought I saw Father Manuel leave。 I imagine he was replaced for a while。 No matter； the dear lady is in good hands。'
'I'm sure of it；' said Bourne。 Thank you； Father。 I'll wait for her。' Jason walked down the aisle towards the row of confessional booths； his eyes on the second； where a small strip of white fabric proclaimed occupancy； a soul was being cleansed。 He sat down in the front row； then knelt forward； angling his head slowly round so he could see the rear of the church。 The tall priest stood at the entrance； his attention on the disturbance in the street。 Outside； sirens could be heard wailing in the distance； drawing closer。
Bourne got up and walked to the second booth。 He parted the curtain and looked inside； seeing what he expected to see。 Only the method had remained in question。
Jacqueline Lavier was dead； her body slumped forward； rolled to the side； supported by the prayer stall； her mask of a face upturned； her eyes wide； staring in death at the ceiling。 Her coat was open； the cloth of her dress drenched in blood。 The weapon was a long； thin letter opener； plunged in above her left breast。 Her fingers were curled around the handle； her lacquered nails the colour of her blood。
At her feet was a bag … not the white one she had clutched in her hands ten minutes ago； but a fashionable Yves St Laurent； the precocious initials stamped on the fabric an escutcheon of haute couture。 The reason for it was clear to Jason。 Inside were papers identifying this tragic suicide； this overwrought woman so burdened with grief she took her own life while seeking absolution in the eyes of God。 Carlos was thorough； brilliantly thorough。
Bourne closed the curtain and stepped away from the booth。
From somewhere high in a tower； the bells of the morning Angelus rang splendidly。
The taxi wandered aimlessly through the streets of Neuilly…sur…Seine； Jason in the back seat； his mind racing。
It was pointless to wait； perhaps deadly to do so。 Strategies changed as conditions changed； and they had taken a deadly turn。 Jacqueline Lavier had been followed； her death inevitable but out of sequence。 Too soon； she was still valuable。 Then Bourne understood。 She had not been killed because she had been disloyal to Carlos； rather because she had disobeyed him。 She had gone to Pare Monceau； that was her indefensible error。
There was another known relay at Les Classiques； a grey…haired switchboard operator named Ph