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Then there's nothing I can say to you；' replied the C。I。A。 man； limping across the room towards the general。 'Other decisions could have been made … by him and by you。'
'Could they？ Where was he to start？ When that man tried
to kill him in Marseilles？ In the rue Saracin？ When they hunted him in Zurich？ When they shot at him in Paris？ And all the while； he didn't know why。 What was he to do？'
'e out！ Goddamn it； e out！'
'He did。 And when he did； you tried to kill him。'
'You were there！ You were with him。 You had a memory。'
'Assuming I knew who to go to； would you have listened to me？'
Conklin returned her gaze。 'I don't know；' he answered； breaking the contact between them and turning to Crawford。 'What's happening？'
'Washington's calling me back within ten minutes。'
'But what's happening！'
'I'm not sure you want to hear it。 Federal encroachment on state and municipal law…enforcement statutes。 Clearances have to be obtained。'
'Jesus！'
'Look！' The army man suddenly bent down to the window。 〃The truck's leaving。'
'Someone got through；' said Conklin。
'Who？'
'I'll find out。' The C。I。A。 man limped to the phone； there were scraps of paper on the table； telephone numbers written hastily。 He selected one and dialled。 'Give me Schumach。。。 please。。。 Schumach？ This is Conklin； Central Intelligence。 Who gave you the word？'
The dispatcher's voice on the line could be heard halfway across the room。 'What word？ Get off my back！ We're on that job and we're going to finish it！ Frankly； I think you're a whacko。。。'
Conklin slammed down the phone。 'Christ。。。 oh； Christ！' His hand trembled as he gripped the instrument。 He picked it up and dialled again； his eyes on another scrap of paper。 'Petrocelli。 Reclamations；' he manded。 'Petrocelli？ Conklin again。'
'You faded out。 What happened？'
'No time。 Level with me。 That priority invoice from Agency Controls。 Who signed it？'
'What do you mean； who signed it？ The topcat who always signs them。 McGivern。'
Conklin's face turned white。 That's what I was afraid of；'
he whispered as he lowered the phone。 He turned to Crawford； his head quivering as he spoke。 The order to General Services was signed by a man who retired two weeks ago。'
'Carlos。。。'
'Oh； God！' screamed Marie。 The man carrying the blankets； the straps！ The way he held his head； his neck。 Angled to the right。 It was him！ When his head hurts； he favours the right It was Jason I He went inside。'
Alexander Conklin turned back to the window； his eyes focused on the black enamelled door across the way。 It was closed。
The hand！ The skin。。。 the dark eyes in the thin shaft of light Carlos！
Bourne whipped his head back as the razor…like edge of the blade sliced the flesh under his chin； the eruption of blood streaming across the hand that held the knife。 He lashed his right foot out； catching his unseen attacker in the kneecap； then pivoted and plunged his left heel into the man's groin。 Carlos spun and again the blade came out of the darkness； now surging towards him； the line of assault directly at his stomach。 Jason sprang back off the ground； crossing his wrists； slashing downward； blocking the dark arm that was an extension of the handle。 He twisted his fingers inward； yanking his hands together； vicing the forearm beneath his blood…soaked neck and wrenched the arm diagonally up。 The knife creased the cloth of his field jacket and； once above his chest； Bourne spiralled the arm downward； twisting the wrist now in his grip； crashing his shoulder into the assassin's body； yanking again as Carlos plunged sideways off balance； his arm pulled half out of its socket
Jason heard the clatter of the knife on the floor； he lurched towards the sound； at the same time reaching into his belt for his gun。 It caught on the cloth； he rolled on the floor； but not quickly enough。 The steel toe of a shoe crashed into the side of his head … his temple … and shock waves bolted through him。 He rolled again； faster； faster； until he smashed into the wall； coiling upward on his knee； trying to focus through the weaving； obscure shadows in the near total darkness。 The flesh of a hand was caught in the thin line of light from the window； he lunged at it； his own hands now claws； his arms battering rams。 He gripped the hand； snapping it back； breaking the wrist A scream filled the room。
A scream and the hollow； lethal spit of a gunshot。 An ice…like incision had been made in Bourne's upper left chest； the bullet lodged somewhere near his shoulder blade。 In agony； he crouched and sprang again； pummelling the killer with a gun into the wall above a sharp…edged piece of furniture； Carlos lunged away as two more muted shots were fired wildly。 Jason dived to his left； freeing his gun； levelling it at the sounds in the darkness。 He fired； the explosion deafening； useless。 He heard the door crash shut； the killer had raced out into the hallway。
Trying to fill his lungs with air； Bourne crawled towards the door。 As he reached it； instinct manded him to stay at the side and smash his fist into the wood at the bottom。 What followed was the core of a terrifying nightmare。 There was a short burst of automatic gunfire as the panelled wood splintered； fragments flying across the room。 The instant it stopped； Jason raised his own weapon and fired diagonally through the door； the burst was repeated。 Bourne spun away； pressing his back against the wall； the eruption stopped and he fired again。 There were now two men inches from each other； wanting above all to kill each other。 Cain is for Charlie and Delta is for Cain。 Get Carlos。 Trap Carlos。 Kill Carlos！
And then they were not inches from each other。 Jason heard racing footsteps； then the sounds of a railing being broken as a figure lurched down the staircase。 Carlos was racing below； the pig…animal wanted support； he was hurt。 Bourne wiped the blood from his face； from his throat； and moved in front of what was left of the door。 He pulled it open and stepped out into the narrow corridor； his gun levelled in front of him。 Painfully he made his way towards the top of the dark staircase。 Suddenly he heard shouts below。
'What the hell you doing man！ Pete！ Pete！'
Two spits filled the air。
'Joey！ Joey！'
A single spit was heard； bodies crashed to a floor somewhere below。
'Jesus！ Jesus； Mother of。。。！'
Two spits again； followed by a guttural cry of death。 A third man was killed。
What had that third man said？ Two wise…ass stiffs and four crumb balls now。 The moving van was a Carlos operation！ The assassin had brought two soldiers with him … the first three crumb balls from the shape up。 Three men with weapons； and he was one with a single gun。 Cornered on the top floor of the brownstone。 Still Carlos was inside。 Inside。 If he could get out； it would be Carlos who was cornered！ If he could get out。 Out！
There was a window at the front end of the hall； obscured by a black blind。 Jason veered towards it； stumbling； holding his neck； creasing his shoulder to blunt the pain in his chest He ripped the blind from its spindle； the window was small； the glass here； too； thick； prismatic blocks of purple and blue light shooting through it； it was unbreakable； the frame riveted in place； there was no way he could smash a single pane。 And then his eyes were drawn below to Seventy…first Street。 The removal van was gone。 Someone must have driven it away。。。 one of Carlos's soldiers！ That left two。 Two men； not three。 And he was on the high ground； there were always advantages on the high ground。
Grimacing； bent partially over； Bourne made his way to the first door on the left； it was parallel to the top of the staircase； He opened it and stepped inside。 From what he could see it was an ordinary bedroom； lamps； heavy furniture； pictures on the walls。 He grabbed the nearest lamp； ripped the cord from the wall and carried it out to the railing。 He raised it above his head and hurled it down； stepping back as metal and glass crashed below。 There was another burst of gunfire； the bullets shredding the ceiling； cutting a path in the plaster。 Jason screamed； letting the scream fade into a cry； the cry into a prolonged desperate wail； and then silence； he edged his way to the rear of the railing。 He waited。 Silence。
It happened。 He could hear the slow； cautious footsteps； the killer bad been on the first…floor landing。 The footsteps came closer； became louder； a faint shadow appeared on the dark wall。 Now。 Bourne sprang out of his recess and fired four shots in rapid succession at the figure on the staircase； a line of bullet holes and eruptions of blood appeared diagonally across the man's collar。 The killer spun； roaring in anger and pain as his neck arched back and his body plummeted down the steps until it was still； sprawled face…up across the bottom three steps。 In his hands was a deadly automatic field machine…gun with a rod and brace for a stock。
Now。 Jason ran over to the top of the staircase and raced down； holding the railing； trying to keep whatever was left of his balance。 He could not waste a moment； he might not find another。 If he was going to reach the first floor it was now； in the immediate aftermath of the soldier's death。 And as he leaped over the dead body； Bourne knew it was a soldier； it was not Carlos。 The man was tall； and his skin was white； very white； his features Nordic； or northern European； in no way Latin。
Jason ran into the hallway of the first floor； seeking the shadows； hugging the wall。 He stopped； listening。 There was a sharp scrape in the distance； a brief scratch from below。 He knew what he had to do now。 The assassin was on the ground floor。 And the sound had not been deliberate； it had not been loud enough or prolonged enough to signify a trap。 Carlos was injured … a smashed kneecap or a broken wrist could disorient him to the point where he might collide with a piece of furniture or brush against a wall with a weapon in his hand； briefly losing his balance as Bourne was losing his。 It was what he needed to know。
Jason dropped to a crouch and crept back to the staircase； to the dead body sprawled across the steps。 He had to pause for a moment； he was losing strength； too much blood。 He tried to squeeze the flesh at the top of his throat and press the wound in his chest； anything to stem the bleeding。 It was futile； to stay alive he had to get out of the brownstone house； away from the place where Cain was born。 Jason Bourne。。。 there was no humour in the word association。 He found his breath again； reached out and pried the automatic weapon from the dead man's hands。 He was ready。
He was dying and he was ready。 Get Carlos。 Trap Carlos。。。 Kill Carlos！ He could not get out； he knew that。 Time was not on his side。 The blood would drain out of him before it happened。 The end was the beginning： Cain was for Carlos and Delta was for Cain。 Only one agonizing question remained： who was Delta？ It did not matter。 It was behind him now； soon there would be the darkness； not violent but peaceful。。。 freedom from that question。
And with his death Marie would be free； his love would be free。 Decent men would see to it； led by a decent man in Paris whose son had been killed on the rue du Bac； whose life had been destroyed by an assassin's whore。 Within the next few minutes； thought Jason； silently checking the clip in the automatic weapon； he would fulfil his promise to that man； carry out the agreement he had with men he did not know。 By doing both； the proof was his。 Jason Bourne had died once on this day； he would die again but would take Carlos with him。 He was ready。
He lowered himself to a prone position and crept； hands over elbows； towards the top of the staircase。 He could smell the blood beneath him； the sweet； bland odour penetrating his nostrils； informing him of a practicality。 Time was running out。 He reached the top step； pulling his legs up under him； digging into his pocket for one of the road flares he had purchased at the army…navy store on Lexington Avenue。 He knew now why he had felt the pulsion to buy them。 He was back in the unremembered Tarn Quan； forgotten except for brilliant； blinding flashes of light。 The flares had reminded him of that fragment of memory； they would light up a jungle now。
He uncoiled th