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'You've been in touch with Conklin？'
'I last spoke to him around one o'clock in the afternoon。 Unlogged。 He insisted on it； frankly。'
'He's checked out of Langley。 There's no number where he can be reached。'
'I know that； too。 Don't try。。。 With all due respect； tell the Secretary to back away。 You back away。 Don't get involved。'
'We are involved； General。 We're flying over the Canadian woman by； diplomatic。'
'For God's sake； why？'
'We were forced to； she forced us to。'
〃Then keep her in isolation。 You've got to！ She's our resolve； we'll be responsible。'
'I think you'd better explain。'
'We're dealing with an insane man； A multiple schizophrenic。 He's a walking firing squad； he could kill a dozen innocent people with one outburst； one explosion in his own head； and he wouldn't know why。'
'How do you know？'
'Because he's already killed。 That massacre in New York last week … it was him。 He killed Stevens； the Monk； Webb …above all； Webb … and two others you never heard of。。。 We understand now。 He wasn't responsible； but that can't change anything。 Leave him to us。 To Conklin。'
'Last week？ Bourne？'
'Yes。 We have proof。 Prints。 They were confirmed by the bureau。 It was him。'
'Your man would leave prints？'
'He did。'
'He couldn't have；' said the man from State。
'What？'
Tell me； where did you e up with the conclusion of insanity？ This multiple schizophrenia； or whatever the hell you call it。'
'Conklin spoke to a psychiatrist … one of the best … an authority on stress…breakdowns。 Alex described the history and it was brutal。 The doctor confirmed our suspicions； Conklin's suspicions。'
'He confirmed them？' asked the director； stunned。
'Yes。'
'Based on what Conklin said？ On what he thought he knew？'
'There's no other explanation。 Leave him to us。 He's our problem。'
'You're a damn fool； General。 You should have stuck to your data banks； or maybe more primitive artillery。〃
'I resent that。'
'Resent it all you like。 If you've done what I think you've done you may not have anything left but resentment。'
'Explain that；' said Crawford harshly。
'You're not dealing with a madman； or with insanity； or with any goddamned multiple schizophrenia； which I doubt you know any more about than I do。 You're dealing with an amnesiac； a man who's been trying for six months to find out who he is and where he es from。 And from a telephone tape we've got over here； we gather he tried to tell you … tried to tell Conklin； but Conklin wouldn't listen。 None of you would listen。。。 You sent a man out in deep cover for three years … three years … to pull in Carlos； and when the strategy broke； you assumed the worst。'
'Amnesia？。。。 No； you're wrong！ I spoke to Conklin； he did listen。 You don't understand； we both knew。。。'
'I don't want to hear his name！' broke in the director of Consular Operations。
The general paused。 'We both knew。。。 Bourne。。。 years ago。 I think you know from where； you read the name to me。 He was the strangest man I ever met； as close to being paranoid as anyone in that outfit。 He undertook missions …risks … no sane man would accept。 Yet he never asked for anything。 He was filled with so much hate。'
'And that made him a candidate for a psychiatric ward ten years later？'
'Seven years；' corrected Crawford。 'I tried to prevent his selection in Treadstone。 But the Monk said he was the best。 I couldn't argue with that； not in terms of expertise。 But I made my objections known。 He was psychologically a borderline case； we knew why。 I was proved right。 I stand on that'
'You're not going to stand on anything； General。 You're going to fall right on your iron ass。 Because the Monk was right。 Your man is the best； with or without a memory。 He's bringing in Carlos； delivering him right to your goddamn front door。 That is； he's bringing him in unless you kill Bourne first。' Crawford's low； sharp intake of breath was precisely what the director was afraid he might hear。 He continued。 'You can't reach Conklin； can you？' he asked。
'No。'
'He's gone under； hasn't he？ Made his own arrangements； payments funnelled through third and fourth parties unknown to each other； the source untraceable； all connections to the agency and Treadstone obliterated。 And by now there are photographs in the hands of men Conklin doesn't know； wouldn't recognize if they held him up。 Don't talk to me about firing squads。 Yours is in place but you can't see it； you don't know where it is。 But it's prepared； a half a dozen rifles ready to fire when the condemned man es into view。 Am I reading the scenario？'
'You don't expect me to answer that；' said Crawford。
'You don't have to。 This is Consular Operations； I've been there before。 But you were right about one thing。 This is your problem； it's right back in your court。 We're not going to be touched by you。 That's my remendation to the Secretary。 The State Department can't afford to know who you are。 Consider this call unlogged。'
'Understood。'
'I'm sorry；' said the director； meaning it； hearing the futility in the general's voice。 'It all blows up sometimes。'
'Yes。 We learned that in Medusa。 What are you going to do with the girl？'
'We don't even know what we're going to do with you yet。'
That's easy。 Eisenhower at the summit。 What U…Twos？ We'll go along； no preliminary summation。 Nothing。。。 We can get the girl off the Zurich books。'
'We'll tell her。 It may help。 We'll be making apologies all over the place； with her we'll try for a very substantial settlement。'
'Are you sure？' interrupted Crawford。
'About the settlement？'
'No。 The amnesia。 Are you positive？'
'I've listened to that tape at least twenty times； heard her voice。 I've never been so sure of anything in my life。 Incidentally； she got in several hours ago。 She's at the Pierre Hotel under guard。 We'll bring her down to Washington in the morning after we work out what we're going to do。'
'Wait a minute。' The general's voice rose。 'Not tomorrow！ She's here。。。 Can you get me clearance to see her？'
'Don't dig that grave of yours any deeper； General。 The fewer names she knows； the better。 She was with Bourne when he was calling the embassy； she's aware of the First Secretary； probably Conklin by now。 He may have to take the fall himself。 Stay out of it。'
'You just told me to play it out。'
'Not this way。 You're a decent man； so am I。 We're professionals。'
'You don't understand！ We have photographs； yes； but they may be useless。 They're three years old； and Bourne's changed； changed drastically。 It's why Conklin's on the scene … where I don't know … but he's there。 He's the only one who's seen him； but it was night； raining。 She may be our only chance。 She's been with him … living with him for weeks； she knows him。 It's possible that she'd recognize him before anyone else。'
'I don't understand。'
'I'll spell it out。 Among Bourne's many； many talents is the ability to change his appearance； melt into a crowd or a field or a cluster of trees … be where you can't see him。 If what you say is so； he wouldn't remember； but we used to have a word for him in Medusa。 His men used to call him。。。 a chameleon。'
'That's your Cain； General。'
'It was our Delta。 There was no one like him。。。 And that's why the girl can help。 Now。 Clear me！ Let me see her； talk to her。'
'By clearing you； we acknowledge you。 I don't think we can do that。'
'For God's sake； you just said we were decent men！ Are we？ We can save his life！ Maybe。 If she's with me and we find him； we can get him out of there！'
'There？ Are you telling me you know exactly where he's going to be？'
'Yes。'
'How？'
'Because he wouldn't go anywhere else。'
'And the time span？' asked the incredulous director of Consular Operations。 'You know when he's going to be there？'
'Yes。 Today。 It's the date of his own execution。'
Rock music blared from the transistor radio with tin…like vibrations as the long…haired driver of the Yellow Cab slapped his hand against the rim of the steering wheel and jolted his jaw with the beat。 The taxi edged east on Seventy…first Street； locked into the line of cars that began at the exit on the East River Drive。 Tempers flared as engines roared in place and cars lurched forward only to slam to sudden stops； inches away from bumpers in front。 It was 8。45 in the morning； New York's rush hour traffic as usual a contradiction in syntax。
Bourne wedged himself into the corner of the back seat and stared at the tree…lined street beneath the rim of his hat and through the dark lenses of his sun glasses。 He had been there； it was all indelible。 He had walked the pavements； seen the doorways and the shopfronts and the walls covered with ivy …so out of place in the city； yet so right for this street。 He had glanced up before and had noticed the roof gardens before； relating them to a gracious garden several blocks away towards the park； beyond a pair of elegant French doors at the far end of a large。。。 plicated。。。 room。 That room was inside a tall； narrow building of brown； jagged stone； with a column of wide； lead…paned windows rising three storeys above the pavement。 Windows made of thick glass that refracted light both inside and out in subtle flashes of purple and blue。 Antique glass； perhaps； ornamental glass。。。 bullet…proof glass。 A brown stone residence with a set of thick outside steps。 They were odd steps； unusual steps； each level criss…crossed with black ridges that protruded above the surface； protecting the descender from the elements。 Shoes going down would not slip on ice or snow。。。 and the weight of anyone climbing up would trigger electronic devices inside。
Jason knew that house； knew they were ing closer to it The echo in his chest accelerated and became louder as they entered the block。 He would see it any moment； and as he held his wrist he knew why Pare Monceau had struck such chords in his mind's eye。 That small part of Paris was so much like this short stretch of the upper east side。 Except for an isolated intrusion of an unkempt stoop or an ill…conceived white…washed facade； they could be identical blocks。
He thought of Andrel Villiers。 He had written down everything he could remember since a memory had been given him in the pages of a notebook hastily purchased at Orly Airport。 From the first moment when a living； bullet…ridden man had opened his eyes in a humid； dingy room on lie de Port Noir through the frightening revelations of Marseilles； Zurich and Paris … especially Paris； where the spectre of an assassin's mantle had fallen over his shoulders； the expertise of a killer proven to be his。 By any standards； it was a confession； as damning in what it could not explain as in what it described。 But it was the truth as he knew the truth； infinitely more exculpatory after his death than before。 In the hands of Andrel Villiers it would be used well； the right decisions would be made for Marie St Jacques。 That knowledge gave him the freedom he needed now。 He had sealed the pages in an envelope and mailed it to Pare Monceau from Kennedy Airport。 By the time it reached Paris he would be alive or he would be dead； he would kill Carlos or Carlos would kill him。 Somewhere on that street … so like a street thousands of miles away … a man whose shoulders floated rigidly above a tapered waist would e after him。 It was the only thing he was absolutely sure of； he would do the same。 Somewhere on that street。。。
There it was！ It was there； the morning sun bouncing off the black enamelled door and the shiny brass； penetrating the thick； lead…paned windows that rose like a wide column of glistening； purplish blue； emphasizing the ornamental splendour of the glass； but not its resistance to the impacts of high…powered rifles and heavy calibred automatic weapons。 He was here； and for reasons … emotions he could not define； his eyes began to tear and there was a swelling in his throat。 He had the incredible feeling that he had e back to a place that was as much a part of him as his body or what was left of his mind。 Not a home； there was no fort； no serenity in looking at that elegant east…side residence。 But there was something else …an overpowering sensation of … return。 He was back at the beginning； the beginning； at both departure and creation； black nigh