He could not let them get near him! He backed away, thoughts racing through his mind, outrage paramount. How dared they? What made them think he would not run for protection, scream for the police? And then the answer was clear, as numbing as the question itself. The killers knew with certainty that which he could only surmise: he could not seek that kind of protection--he could not seek the police. For Jason Bourne, all the authorities had to be avoided. ... Why? Were they seeking him?

Jesus Christ, why?

The two opposing doors were opened by outstretched hands, other hands hidden, around steel.

Bourne turned; there were elevators, doorways, corridors--a roof and cellars; there had to be a dozen ways out of the hotel.

Or were there? Did the killers now threading their way through the crowds know something else he could only surmise? Did the Carillon du Lac have only two or three exits? Easily covered by men outside, easily used as traps themselves to cut down the lone figure of a running man.

A lone man; a lone man was an obvious target. But suppose he were not alone? Suppose someone was with him? Two people were not one, but for one alone an extra person was camouflage--especially in crowds, especially at night, and it was night. Determined killers avoided taking the wrong life, not from compassion but for practicality; in any ensuing panic the real target might escape.

He felt the weight of the gun in his pocket, but there was not much comfort in knowing it was there. As at the bank, to use it--to even display it--was to mark him. Still, it was there. He started back toward the center of the lobby, then turned to his right where there was a greater concentration of people. It was the pre-evening hour during an international conference, a thousand tentative plans being made, rank and courtesan separated by glances of approval and rebuke, odd groupings everywhere.

There was a marble counter against the wall, a clerk behind it checking pages of yellow paper with a pencil held like a paintbrush. Cablegrams. In front of the counter were two people, an obese elderly man and a woman in a dark red dress, the rich color of the silk complementing her long, titian hair ... Auburn hair. It was the woman in the elevator who had joked about Caesar’s taxes and the Punic wars, the doctor who had stood beside him at the hotel desk, asking for the cable she knew was there.

Bourne looked behind him. The killers were using the crowds well, excusing themselves politely but firmly through, one on the right, one on– the left, closing in like two prongs of a pincer attack.

As long as they kept him in sight, they could force him to keep running blindly, without direction, not knowing which path he took might lead to a dead end where he could run no longer. And then the muted spits would come, pockets blackened by powder burns. ...

Kept him in sight?

The back row then. ... We can sleep. He uses a slide projector, it’ll be dark.

Jason turned again and looked at the auburn-haired woman. She had completed her cable and was thanking the clerk, removing a pair of tinted, horn-rimmed glasses from her face, placing them into her purse. She was not more than eight feet away.

Bertinelli is speaking, to little effect, I suggest.

There was no time for anything but instinctive decisions. Bourne shifted his suitcase to his left hand, walked rapidly over to the woman at the marble counter, and touched her elbow, gently, with as little alarm as possible.

“Doctor? ...”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You are Doctor? ...” He released her, a bewildered man.

“St. Jacques,” she completed, using the French pronunciation of Saint. “You’re the one in the elevator.”

“I didn’t realize it was you,” he said. “I was told you’d know where this Bertinelli is speaking.”

“It’s right on the board. Suite Seven.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know where it is. Would you mind showing me? I’m late and I’ve got to take notes on his talk.”

“On Bertinelli? Why? Are you with a Marxist newspaper?”

“A neutral pool,” said Jason, wondering where the phrases came from. “I’m covering for a number of people. They don’t think he’s worth it.”

“Perhaps not, but he should be heard. There are a few brutal truths in what he says.”

“I lost, so I’ve got to find him. Maybe you can point him out.”

“I’m afraid not. I’ll show you the room, but I’ve a phone call to make.” She snapped her purse shut.

“Please. Hurry!”

“What?” She looked at him, not kindly.

“Sorry, but I am in a hurry.” He glanced to his right; the two men were no more than twenty feet away.

“You’re also rude,” said the St. Jacques woman coldly.

“Please.” He restrained his desire to propel her forward, away from the moving trap that was closing in.

“It’s this way.” She started across the floor toward a wide corridor carved out of the left rear wall.

The crowds were thinner, prominence less apparent in the back regions of the lobby. They reached what looked like a velvet-covered tunnel of deep red, doors on opposite sides, lighted signs above them identifying Conference Room One, Conference Room Two. At the end of the hallway were double doors, the gold letters to the right proclaiming them to be the entrance to Suite Seven.

“There you are,” said Marie St. Jacques. “Be careful when you go in; it’s probably dark. Bertinelli lectures with slides.”

“Like a movie,” commented Bourne, looking behind him at the crowds at the far end of the corridor. He was there; the man with gold-rimmed spectacles was excusing himself past an animated trio in the lobby. He was walking into the hallway, his companion right behind him.

“... a considerable difference. He sits below the stage and pontificates.” The St. Jacques woman had said something and was now leaving him.

“What did you say? A stage?”

“Well, a raised platform. For exhibits usually.”

“They have to be brought in,” he said.

“What does?”

“Exhibits. Is there an exit in there? Another door?”

“I have no idea, and I really must make my call. Enjoy the professore.” She turned away.

He dropped the suitcase and took her arm. At the touch, she glared at him. “Take your hand off me, please.”

“I don’t want to frighten you, but I have no choice.” He spoke quietly, his eyes over her shoulder, the killers had slowed their pace, the trap sure, about to close. “You have to come with me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!”

He viced the grip around her arm, moving her in front of him. Then he pulled the gun out of his pocket, making sure her body concealed it from the men thirty feet away. “I don’t want to use this. I don’t want to hurt you, but I’ll do both if I have to.”

“My God ...”

“Be quiet. Just do as I say and you’ll be fine. I have to get out of this hotel and you’re going to help me. Once I’m out, I’ll let you go. But not until then. Come on. We’re going in there.”

“You can’t ...”

“Yes, I can.” He pushed the barrel of the gun into her stomach, into the dark silk that creased under the force of his thrust. She was terrified into silence, into submission. “Let’s go.” He stepped to her left, his hand still gripping her arm, the pistol held across his chest inches from her own. Her eyes were riveted on it, her lips parted, her breath erratic. Bourne opened the door, propelling her through it in front of him. He could hear a single word shouted from the corridor.

“Schnell!”

They were in darkness, but it was brief; a shaft of white light shot across the room, over the rows of chairs, illuminating the heads of the audience. The projection on the faraway screen on the stage was that of a graph, the grids marked numerically, a heavy black line starting at the left, extending in

a jagged pattern through the lines to the right. A heavily accented voice was speaking, amplified by a loudspeaker.