“No one does. You were told that.”

“By someone who doesn’t. There are those who do. Believe me!”

“I’m sorry. I really--“

“Don’t hang up!” There was another way; one he did not care to use, but there was nothing else.

“Five or six minutes ago, I got out of a taxi on Seventy-first Street. I was spotted and someone tried to take me out.”

“Take ... you out?”

“Yes. The driver spoke to me and I bent down to listen. That movement saved my life, but the driver’s dead, a bullet in his skull. That’s the truth, and I know you have ways of checking. There are probably half a dozen police cars on the scene by now. Check it out. That’s the strongest advice I can give you.”

There was a brief silence from Washington. “Since you asked for Mr. Conklin--at least used his name--I’ll follow this up. Where can I reach you?”

“I’ll stay on. This call’s on an international credit card. French issue, name of Chamford.”

“Chamford? You said--“

“Please.”

“I’ll be back.”

The waiting was intolerable, made worse by a stern Hassid glaring at him, fingering coins in one hand, a roll in another, and crumbs in his stringy, unkempt beard. A minute later the man in Langley was on the line, anger replacing compromise.

“I think this conversation has come to an end, Mr. Bourne or Chamford, or whatever you call yourself. The New York police were reached; there’s no such incident as you described on Seventy– first Street. And you were right. We do have ways of checking. I advise you that there are laws about such calls as this, strict penalties involved. Good day, sir.” There was a click; the line went dead. Bourne stared at the dial in disbelief. For months the men in Washington had searched for him, wanted to kill him for the silence they could not understand.

Now, when he presented himself--presented them with the sole objective of his three-year agreement--he was dismissed. They still would not listen! But that man had listened! And he had come back on the line denying a death that had taken place only minutes ago. It could not be ... it was insane. It had happened.

Jason put the phone back on the hook, tempted to bolt from the crowded delicatessen. Instead, he walked calmly toward the door, excusing himself through the rows of people lined up at the counter, his eyes on the glass front, scanning the crowds on the sidewalk. Outside, he removed his topcoat, carrying it over his arm, and replaced the sunglasses with his tortoise-shells. Minor alterations, but he would not be where he was going long enough for them to be a major mistake.

He hurried across the intersection toward Seventy-first Street.

At the far corner he fell in with a group of pedestrians waiting for the light. He turned his head to the left, his chin pressed down into his collarbone. The traffic was moving but the taxi was gone. It had been removed from the scene with surgical precision, a diseased, ugly organ cut from the body, the vital functions in normal process. It showed the precision of a master assassin, who knew precisely when to go in swiftly with a knife.

Bourne turned quickly, reversing his direction, and began walking south. He had to find a store; he had to change his outer skin. The chameleon could not wait.

Marie St. Jacques was angry as she held her place across the room from Brigadier General Irwin Arthur Crawford in the suite at the Pierre Hotel. “You wouldn’t listen!” she accused. “None of you would listen. Have you any idea what you’ve done to him?”

“All too well,” replied the officer, the apology in his acknowledgment, not his voice. “I can only repeat what I’ve told you. We didn’t know what to listen for. The differences between the appearance and the reality were beyond our understanding, obviously beyond his own. And if beyond his, why not ours?”

“He’s been trying to reconcile the appearance and reality, as you call it, for seven months! And all you could do was send out men to kill him! He tried to tell you. What kind of people are you?”

“Flawed, Miss St. Jacques. Flawed but decent, I Think. It’s why I’m here. The time span’s begun and I want to save him if I can, if we can.”

“God, you make me sick!” Marie stopped, she shook her head and continued softly. “I’ll do whatever you ask, you know that. Can you reach this Conklin?”

“I’m sure I can. I’ll stand on the steps of that house until he has no choice but to reach me. He may not be our concern, however.”

“Carlos?”

“Perhaps others.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ll explain on the way. Our main concern now--our only concern now--is to reach Delta.”

“Jason?”

“Yes. The man you call Jason Bourne.”

“And he’s been one of you from the beginning,” said Marie. “There were no slates to clean, no payments or pardons bargained for?”

“None. You’ll be told everything in time, but this is not the time. I’ve made arrangements for you to be in an unmarked government car diagonally across from the house. We have binoculars for you; you know him better than anyone now. Perhaps you’ll spot him. I pray to God you do.” Marie went quickly to the closet and got her coat. “He said to me one night that he was a chameleon ...”

“He remembered?” interrupted Crawford.

“Remembered what?”

“Nothing. He had a talent for moving in and out of difficult situations without being seen. That’s all I meant.”

“Wait a minute.” Marie approached the army man, her eyes suddenly riveted on his again. “You say we have to reach Jason, but there’s a better way. Let him come to us. To me. Put me on the steps of that house. He’ll see me, get word to me!”

“Giving whoever’s out there two targets?”

You don’t know your own man, General. I said ‘get word to me.’ He’ll send someone, pay a man or a woman on the street to give me a message. I know him. He’ll do it. It’s the surest way.”

“I can’t permit it.”

“Why not? You’ve done everything else stupidly! Blindly! Do one thing intelligently!”

“I can’t It might even solve problems you’re not aware of, but I can’t do it.”

“Give me a reason.”

“If Delta’s right, if Carlos has come after him and is in the street, the risk is too great. Carlos knows you from photographs. He’ll kill you.”

“I’m willing to take that risk.”

“I’m not. I’d like to think I’m speaking for my government when I say that.”

“I don’t think you are, frankly.”

“Leave it to others. May we go, please?”

“General Service Administration,” intoned a disinterested switchboard operator.

“Mr. J. Petrocelli, please,” said Alexander Conklin, his voice tense, his fingers wiping the sweat from his forehead as he stood by the window, the telephone in his hand. “Quickly, please!”

“Everybody’s in a hurry--“ The words were shorted out, replaced by the hum of a ring.

“Petrocelli, Reclamation Invoice Division.”

“What are you people doing?” exploded the CIA man, the shock calculated, a weapon.

The pause was brief. “Right now, listening to some nut ask a stupid question.”

“Well, listen further. My name’s Conklin, Central Intelligence Agency, Four-Zero clearance. You do know what that means?”

“I haven’t understood anything you people’ve said in the past ten years.”

“You’d better understand this. It took me damn near an hour, but I just reached the dispatcher for a moving company up here in New York. He said he had an invoice signed by you to remove all the furniture from a brownstone on Seventy-first Street--139, to be exact.”

“Yeah, I remember that one. What about it?”

“Who gave you the order? That’s our territory. We removed our equipment last week, but we did not--repeat, did not--request any further activity.”

“Just hold it,” said the bureaucrat. “I saw that invoice. I mean, I read it before I signed it; you guys make me curious. The order came directly from Langley on a priority sheet.”