"But you heard him," insisted Conklin. "The names were fake, the chronologies oriented to Central America, and above all, no one on the relay flights knew about the Tannenbaum estate. No one. ... We've got a gap."

"Please spare me that crypto-jargon."

"It's not cryptic at all. A gap's a space that hasn't been filled-"

"Alex?" The angry voice of Peter Holland was back on the line.

"Yes, Peter?"

"We're moving them out, and I won't even tell you where they're going. St. Jacques's pissed off because Mrs. Cooper and the kids are settled, but I told him he's got an hour."

"I want to talk to Johnny," said Bourne, bending over and speaking loud enough to be heard.

"Nice to meet you, if only on the phone," broke in Holland.

"Thanks for all you're doing for us," managed Jason quietly, sincerely. "I mean that."

"Quid pro quo, Bourne. In your hunt for the Jackal you pulled a big ugly rabbit out of a filthy hat nobody knew was there."

"What?"

"Medusa, the new one."

"How's it going?" interrupted Conklin.

"We're doing our own cross-pollinating between the Sicilians and a number of European banks. It's dirtying up everything it touches, but we've now got more wires into that high-powered law firm in New York than in a NASA lift-off. We're closing in."

"Good hunting," said Jason. "May I have the number at Tannenbaum's so I can reach John St. Jacques?"

Holland gave it to him; Alex wrote it down and hung up. "The horn's all yours," said Conklin, awkwardly getting out of the chair by the console and moving to the one at the right corner of the table.

Bourne sat down and concentrated on the myriad buttons below him. He picked up the telephone and, reading the numbers Alex had recorded in his notebook, touched the appropriate digits on the console.

The greetings were abrupt, Jason's questions harsh, his voice demanding. "Who did you talk to about the Tannenbaum house?"

"Back up, David," said St. Jacques, instinctively defensive. "What do you mean who did I talk to?"

"Just that. From Tranquility to Washington, who did you speak to about Tannenbaum's?"

"You mean after Holland told me about it?"

"For Christ's sake, Johnny, it couldn't be before, could it?"

"No, it couldn't, Sherlock Holmes."

"Then who?"

"You. Only you, esteemed Brother-in-law."

"What?"

"You heard me. Everything was happening so fast I probably forgot Tannenbaum's name anyway, and if I remembered it, I certainly wasn't going to advertise it."

"You must have. There was a leak and it didn't come from Langley."

"It didn't come from me, either. Look, Dr. Academic, I may not have an alphabet after my name, but I'm not exactly an idiot. That's my niece and nephew in the other room and I fully expect to watch them grow up. ... The leak's why we're being moved, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"How severe?"

"Maximum. The Jackal."

"Jesus!" exploded St. Jacques. "That bastard shows up in the neighborhood, he's mine!"

"Easy, Canada," said Jason, his voice now softer, conveying thought, not anger. "You say, and I believe you, that you described the Tannenbaum place only to me and, if I recall, I was the one who identified it."

"That's right. I remember because when Pritchard told me you were on the phone, I was on the other line with Henry Sykes in 'Serrat. Remember Henry, the CG's aide?"

"Of course."

"I was asking him to keep half an eye on Tranquility because I had to leave for a few days. Naturally, he knew that because he had to clear the U.S. aircraft in here, and I distinctly recall his asking me where I was going and all I said was Washington. It never even occurred to me to say anything about Tannenbaum's place, and Sykes didn't press me because he obviously figured it had something to do with the horrible things that had happened. I suppose you could say he's a professional in these matters." St. Jacques paused, but before Bourne could speak he uttered hoarsely, "Oh, my God!"

"Pritchard," supplied Jason. "He stayed on the line."

"Why? Why would he do it?"

"You forget," explained Bourne. "Carlos bought your Crown governor and his Savonarola drug chief. They had to cost heavy money; he could have bought Pritchard for a lot less."

"No, you're wrong, David. Pritchard may be a deluded, self-inflated jackass but he wouldn't turn on me for money. It's not that important in the islands-prestige is. And except when he drives me up the wall, I feed it to him; actually he does a pretty damn good job."

"There's no one else, Bro."

"There's also one way to find out. I'm here, not there, and I'm not about to leave here."

"What's your point?"

"I want to bring in Henry Sykes. Is that all right with you?"

"Do it."

"How's Marie?"

"As well as can be expected under the circumstances. ... And, Johnny, I don't want her to know a thing about any of this, do you understand me? When she reaches you, and she will, just tell her you're settled in and everything's okay, nothing about the move or Carlos."

"I understand."

"Everything is all right, isn't it? How are the kids-how's Jamie taking everything?"

"You may resent this, but he's having a grand time, and Mrs. Cooper won't even let me touch Alison."

"I don't resent either piece of information."

"Thanks. What about you? Any progress?"

"I'll be in touch," said Bourne, hanging up and turning to Alex. "It doesn't make sense, and Carlos always makes sense if you look hard enough. He leaves me a warning that drives me crazy with fear, but he has no means of carrying out his threat. What do you make of it?"

"The sense is in driving you crazy," replied Conklin. "The Jackal's not going to take on an installation like Tannenbaum's sterile house long-distance. That message was meant to panic you and it did. He wants to throw you off so you'll make mistakes. He wants the controls in his hands."

"It's another reason for Marie to fly back to the States as soon as possible. She's got to. I want her inside a fortress, not having lunch out in the open in Barbizon."

"I'm more sympathetic to that view than I was last night." Alex was interrupted by the sound of the door opening. Krupkin walked into the room carrying several computer printouts.

"The number you gave me is disconnected," he said, a slight hesitancy in his voice.

"Who was it connected to?" asked Jason.

"You will not like this any more than I do, and I'd lie to you if I could invent a plausible alternate, but I cannot and I undoubtedly should not. ... As of five days ago it was transferred from an obviously false organization to the name of Webb. David Webb."

Conklin and Bourne stared in silence at the Soviet intelligence officer, but in that silence were the unheard static cracks of high-voltage electricity. "Why are you so certain we won't like the information?" asked Alex quietly.

"My fine old enemy," began Krupkin, his gentle voice no louder than Conklin's. "When Mr. Bourne came out of that café of horror with the brown paper clasped in his hand, he was hysterical. In trying to calm him, to bring him under control, you called him David. ... I now have a name I sincerely wish I did not possess."

"Forget it," said Bourne.

"I shall do my best to, but there are ways-"

"That's not what I mean," broke in Jason. "I have to live with the fact that you know it and I'll manage. Where was that phone installed, the address?"

"According to the billing computers, it's a mission home run by an organization called the Magdalen Sisters of Charity. Again obviously false."

"Obviously not," corrected Bourne. "It exists. They exist. It's legitimate down to their religious helmets, and it's also a usable drop. Or was."

"Fascinating," mused Krupkin. "So much of the Jackal's various façades is tied to the Church. A brilliant if overdone modus operandi. It's said that he once studied for the priesthood."