"Forgive me, Mr. Bourne," broke in Krupkin gently. "I realize it's far easier for me to say than for you to accept, but very soon now you'll be in touch with Washington. I know something about the Agency's ability to protect its own, and I guarantee you it's maddeningly effective."

"It can't be so goddamned great if Carlos can penetrate this far!"

"Perhaps he didn't," said the Soviet. "Perhaps he had another source."

"There weren't any."

"One never knows, sir."

They sped through the streets of Paris in the blinding afternoon sun as the pedestrians sweltered in the summer heat. Finally they reached the Soviet embassy on the boulevard Lannes and raced through the gates, the guards waving them on, instantly recognizing Krupkin's gray Citroën. They swung around the cobblestone courtyard, stopping in front of the imposing marble steps and the sculptured arch that formed the entrance.

"Stay available, Sergei," ordered the KGB officer. "If there's to be any contact with the Sûreté, you're selected." Then, as if it were an afterthought, Krupkin addressed the aide sitting next to Sergei in the front seat. "No offense, young man," he added, "but over the years my old friend and driver has become highly resourceful in these situations. However, you also have work to do. Process the body of our loyal deceased comrade for cremation. Internal Operations will explain the paperwork." With a nod of his head, Dimitri Krupkin instructed Bourne and Alex Conklin to get out of the car.

Once inside, Dimitri explained to the army guard that he did not care for his guests to be subjected to the metal detecting trellises through which all visitors to the Soviet embassy were expected to pass. As an aside, he whispered in English to his guests. "Can you imagine the alarms that would go off? Two armed Americans from the savage CIA roaming the halls of this bastion of the proletariat? Good heavens, I can feel the cold of Siberia in my testicles."

They walked through the ornate, richly decorated nineteenth-century lobby to a typical brass-grilled French elevator; they entered and proceeded to the third floor. The grille opened and Krupkin continued as he led the way down a wide corridor. "We'll use an in-house conference room," he said. "You'll be the only Americans who have ever seen it or will ever see it, as it's one of the few offices without listening devices."

"You wouldn't want to submit that statement to a polygraph, would you?" asked Conklin, chuckling.

"Like you, Aleksei, I learned long ago how to fool those idiot machines; but even if that were not so, in this case I would willingly submit it, for it's true. In all honesty, it's to protect ourselves from ourselves. Come along now."

The conference room was the size of an average suburban dining room but with a long heavy table and dark masculine furniture, the chairs thick, unwieldy and quite comfortable. The walls were covered with deep brown paneling, the inevitable portrait of Lenin centered ostentatiously behind the head chair, beside which was a low table designed for the telephone console within easy reach. "I know you're anxious," said Krupkin, going to the console, "so I'll authorize an international line for you." Lifting the phone, touching a button, and speaking rapidly in Russian, Dimitri did so, then hung up and turned to the Americans. "You're assigned number twenty-six; it's the last button on the right, second row."

"Thanks." Conklin nodded and reached into his pocket, pulling out a scrap of paper and handing it to the KGB officer. "I need another favor, Kruppie. That's a telephone number here in Paris. It's supposed to be a direct line to the Jackal, but it didn't match the one Bourne was given that did reach him. We don't know where it fits in, but wherever it is, it's tied to Carlos."

"And you don't want to call it for fear of exposing your possession of the number-initial codes, that sort of thing. I understand, of course. Why send out an alert when it's unnecessary? I'll take care of it." Krupkin looked at Jason, his expression that of an older, understanding colleague. "Be of good and firm heart, Mr. Bourne, as the czarists would say facing no discernible harm whatsoever. Despite your apprehensions, I have enormous faith in Langley's abilities. They've harmed my not insignificant operations more than I care to dwell upon."

"I'm sure you've done your share of damage to them," said Jason impatiently, glancing at the telephone console.

"That knowledge keeps me going."

"Thanks, Kruppie," said Alex. "In your words, you're a fine old enemy."

"Again, shame on your parents! If they had stayed in Mother Russia, just think. By now you and I would be running the Komitet."

"And have two lakefront houses?"

"Are you crazy, Aleksei? We would own the entire Lake Geneva!" Krupkin turned and walked to the door, letting himself out with quiet laughter.

"It's all a damned game with you people, isn't it?" said Bourne.

"Up to a point," agreed Alex, "but not when stolen information can lead to the loss of life-on both sides, incidentally. That's when the weapons come out and the games are over."

"Reach Langley," said Jason abruptly, nodding at the console. "Holland's got some explaining to do."

"Reaching Langley wouldn't help-"

"What?"

"It's too early; it's barely seven o'clock in the States, but not to worry, I can bypass." Conklin again reached into a pocket and withdrew a small notebook.

"Bypass?" cried Bourne. "What kind of double talk is that? I'm close to the edge, Alex, those are my children over there!"

"Relax, all it means is that I've got his unlisted home number." Conklin sat down and picked up the phone; he dialed.

"Bypass,' for Christ's sake. You relics of outmoded ciphers can't use the English language. Bypass!"

"Sorry, Professor, it's habit. ... Peter? It's Alex. Open your eyes and wake up, sailor. We've got complications."

"I don't have to wake up," said the voice from Fairfax, Virginia. "I just got back from a five-mile jog."

"Oh, you people with feet think you're so smart."

"Jesus, I'm sorry, Alex. ... I didn't mean-"

"Of course you didn't, Ensign Holland, but we've got a problem."

"Which means at least you've made contact. You reached Bourne."

"He's standing over my shoulder and we're calling from the Soviet embassy in Paris."

"What? Holy shit!"

"Not holy, just Casset, remember?"

"Oh, yes, I forgot. ... What about his wife?"

"Mo Panov's with her. The good doctor's covering the medical bases, for which I'm grateful."

"So am I. Any other progress?"

"Nothing you want to hear, but you're going to hear it loud and clear."

"What are you talking about?"

"The Jackal knows about the Tannenbaum estate."

"You're nuts!" shouted the director of the Central Intelligence Agency so loudly that there was a metallic ring on the transoceanic line. "Nobody knows! Only Charlie Casset and myself. We built up a chrono with false names and Central American bios so far removed from Paris that no one could make a connection. Also, there was no mention of the Tannenbaum place in the orders! S' help me, Alex, it was airtight because we wouldn't let anyone else handle it!"

"Facts are facts, Peter. My friend got a note saying the trees of Tannenbaum would burn, the children with them."

"Son of a bitch!" yelled Holland. "Stay on the line," he ordered. "I'll call St. Jacques over there, then max-security and have them moved this morning. Stay on the line!" Conklin looked up at Bourne, the telephone between them, the words heard by both men.

"If there's a leak, and there is a leak, it can't come from Langley," said Alex.

"It has to! He hasn't looked deep enough."

"Where does he look?"

"Christ, you're the experts. The helicopter that flew them out; the crew, the people who cleared an American aircraft flying into UK territory. My God! Carlos bought the lousy Crown governor of Montserrat and his head drug chief. What's to prevent him from owning the communications between our military and Plymouth?"