"For that I do thank you. And you're right, of course. It had to be DeSole; how he did it, I don't know, but it had to be him. It probably went back years inside his head-he never really forgot anything, you know. His mind was a sponge that absorbed everything and never let a recollection drip away. He could remember words and phrases, even spontaneous grunts of approval or disapproval the rest of us forgot. ... And I gave him the whole Bourne-Jackal history-and then someone from Medusa used it in Brussels."

"They did more than that, Alex," said Holland, leaning forward in his chair and picking up several papers from his desk. "They stole your scenario, usurped your strategy. They've pitted Jason Bourne against Carlos the Jackal, but instead of the controls being in your hands, Medusa has them. Bourne's back where he was in Europe thirteen years ago, maybe with his wife, maybe not, the only difference being that in addition to Carlos and Interpol and every other police authority on the continent ready to waste him on sight, he's got another lethal monkey on his back."

"That's what's in those pages you're holding, isn't it? The information from New York?"

"I can't guarantee it, but I think so. It's the cross-pollinator I spoke about before, the bee that went from one rotten flower to another carrying poison."

"Deliver, please."

"Nicolo Dellacroce and the higher-ups above him."

"Mafia?"

"It's consistent, if not socially acceptable. Medusa grew out of Saigon's officer corps and it still relegates its dirty work to the hungry grunts and corrupt NCOs. Check out Nicky D. and men like Sergeant Flannagan. When it comes to killing or kidnapping or using drugs on prisoners, the starched-shirt boys stay far in the background; they're nowhere to be found."

"But I gather you found them," said the impatient Conklin.

"Again, we think so-we being our people in quiet consultation with New York's anticrime division, especially a unit called the U.S. platoon."

"Never heard of it."

"They're mostly Italian Americans; they gave themselves the name Untouchable Sicilians. Thus the U.S. initials with a dual connotation."

"Nice touch."

"Unnice work. ... According to the Reco-Metropolitan's billing files-"

"The who?"

"The company that installed the answering machine on One Hundred Thirty-eighth Street in Manhattan."

"Sorry. Go on."

"According to the files, the machine was leased to a small importing firm on Eleventh Avenue several blocks from the piers. An hour ago we got the telephone records for the past two months for the company, and guess what we found?"

"I'd rather not wait," said Alex emphatically.

"Nine calls to a reasonably acceptable number in Brooklyn Heights, and three in the space of an hour to an extremely unlikely telephone on Wall Street."

"Someone was excited-"

"That's what we thought-we in this case being our own unit. We asked the Sicilians to give us what they had on Brooklyn Heights."

"DeFazio?"

"Let's put it this way. He lives there, but the phone is registered to the Atlas Coin Vending Machine Company in Long Island City."

"It fits. Dumb, but it fits. What about DeFazio?"

"He's a middle-level but ambitious capo in the Giancavallo family. He's very close, very underground, very vicious ... and very gay."

"Holy Christ ... !"

"The Untouchables swore us to secrecy. They intend to spring it themselves."

"Bullshit," said Conklin softly. "One of the first things we learn in this business is to lie to anyone and everyone, especially anyone who's foolish enough to trust us. We'll use it anytime it gets us a square forward. ... What's the other telephone number, the unlikely one?"

"Just about the most powerful law firm on Wall Street."

"Medusa," concluded Alex firmly.

"That's the way I read it. They've got seventy-six lawyers on two floors of the building. Which one is it-or who among them are they?"

"I don't give a goddamn! We go after DeFazio and whatever controls he's sending over to Paris. To Europe to feed the Jackal. They're the guns after Jason and that's all I care about. Go to work on DeFazio. He's the one under contract!"

Peter Holland leaned back in his chair, rigid, intense. "It had to come to this, didn't it, Alex?" he asked quietly. "We both have our priorities. ... I'd do anything within my sworn capacity to save the lives of Jason Bourne and his wife, but I will not violate my oath to defend this country first. I can't do it and I suspect you know that. My priority is Medusa, in your words a global cartel that intends to become a government within our government over here. That's whom I have to go after. First and immediately and without regard to casualties. To put it plainly, my friend-and I hope you're my friend-the Bournes, or whoever they are, are expendable. I'm sorry, Alex."

"That's really why you asked me to come over here this morning, isn't it?" said Conklin, planting his cane on the floor and awkwardly getting to his feet.

"Yes, it is."

"You've got your own game plan against Medusa-and we can't be a part of it."

"No, you can't. It's a fundamental conflict of interest."

"I'll grant you that. We'd louse you up in a minute if it'd help Jason and Marie. Naturally, my personal and professional opinion is that if the whole fucking United States government can't rip out a Medusa without sacrificing a man and a woman who've given so much, I'm not sure it's worth a damn!"

"Neither am I," said Holland, standing up behind the desk. "But I swore an oath to try-in order of my sworn priorities."

"Have I got any perks left?"

"Anything I can get you that doesn't compromise our going after Medusa."

"How about two seats on a military aircraft, Agencycleared, to Paris."

"Two seats?"

"Panov and me. We went to Hong Kong together, why not Paris?"

"Alex, you're out of your goddamned mind!"

"I don't think you understand, Peter. Mo's wife died ten years after they were married, and I never had the courage to give it a try. So you see, 'Jason Bourne' and Marie are the only family we have. She makes a hell of a meat loaf, let me tell you."

"Two tickets to Paris," said Holland, his face ashen.

29

Marie watched her husband as he walked back and forth, the pacing deliberate, energized. He tramped angrily between the writing table and the sunlit curtains of the two windows overlooking the front lawn of the Auberge des Artistes in Barbizon. The country inn was the one Marie remembered, but it was not part of David Webb's memory; and when he said as much, his wife briefly closed her eyes, hearing another voice from years ago.

"Above everything, he's got to avoid extreme stress, the kind of tension that goes with survival under life-threatening circumstances. If you see him regressing into that state of mind-and you'll know it when you see it-stop him. Seduce him, slap him, cry, get angry ... anything, just stop him." Morris Panov, dear friend, doctor and the guiding force behind her husband's therapy.

She had tried seduction within minutes after they were alone together. It was a mistake, even a touch farcical, awkward for both of them. Neither was remotely aroused. Yet there was no embarrassment; they held each other on the bed, both understanding.

"We're a couple of real sexpots, aren't we?" said Marie.

"We've been there before," replied David Webb gently, "and I've no doubt we'll be there again." Then Jason Bourne rolled away and stood up. "I have to make a list," he said urgently, heading for the quaint country table against the wall that served as a desk and a place for the telephone. "We have to know where we are and where we're going."

"And I have to call Johnny on the island," added Marie, rising to her feet and smoothing her skirt. "After I talk to him I'll speak to Jamie. I'll reassure him and tell him we'll be back soon." The wife crossed to the table; she stopped, blocked by her husband-her husband yet not her husband.