A sham. If one such aspect of the general's "farm" was a sham, it had to follow that the estate itself was a sham, as false as the "inheritance" that made its purchase possible. Medusa.

One of the two strange three-wheeled carts appeared far across the lawn, out of the shadows of the house and down the exit road of the circular drive. Bourne focused on it, not surprised to see the Weimaraner romp over and playfully race beside the vehicle, yapping and seeking approval from the driver. The driver. The drivers were the handlers! The familiar scent of their bodies was calming to the dogs, reassuring them. The observation formed the analysis and the analysis determined his next tactic. He had to move, at least more freely than he was moving now, about the general's grounds. To do so he had to be in the company of a handler. He had to take one of the roving patrols; he raced back in the cover of the pine trees to his point of penetration.

The mechanized, bulletproof vehicle stopped on the narrow path at midpoint between the two front gates nearly obscured by the shrubbery; Jason adjusted his binoculars. The black Doberman was apparently a favored dog; the driver opened the right panel as the animal sprang up, placing his huge paws on the seat. The man chucked biscuits or pieces of meat into the wide, anticipating jaws, then reached over and massaged the dog's throat.

Bourne knew instantly that he had only moments to put his uncertain strategy together. He had to stop the cart and force the driver outside but without alarming the man, without giving him any reason whatsoever to use his radio and call for help. The dog? Lying in the road? No, the driver might assume it had been shot from the other side of the fence and alert the house. What could he do? He looked around in the near-total darkness feeling the panic of indecision, his anxiety growing as his eyes swept the area. Then, again, the obvious struck him.

The large expanse of close-cropped manicured lawn, the precisely cut shrubbery, the swept circular drive-neatness was the order of the general's turf. Jason could almost hear Swayne commanding his groundskeepers to "police the area!"

Bourne glanced over at the cart by the Doberman; the driver was playfully pushing the dog away, about to close the shielded panel. Only seconds now! What? How?

He saw the outlines of a tree limb on the ground; a rotted branch had fallen from the pine above him. He crossed quickly to it and crouched, yanking it out of the dirt and debris and dragged it toward the paved asphalt. To lay it across the drive might appear too obvious a trap, but partially on the road-an intrusion on the pervasive neatness-would be offensive to the eye, the task of removing it better done now than later in the event the general drove out and saw it upon his return. The men in Swayne's compound were either soldiers or ex-soldiers still under military authority; they would try to avoid reprimands, especially over the inconsequential. The odds were on Jason's side. He gripped the base of the limb, swung it around and pushed it roughly five feet into the drive. He heard the panel of the cart slam shut; the vehicle rolled forward, gathering speed as Bourne raced back into the darkness of the pine tree.

The driver steered the vehicle around the dirt curve into the drive. As rapidly as he had accelerated, he slowed down, his single headlight beam picking up the new obstruction protruding on the road. He approached it cautiously, at minimum speed, as if he were unsure of what it was; then he realized what it was and rushed forward. Without hesitation, he opened his side door, the tall Plexiglas shield swinging forward as he stepped out on the drive and walked around the front of the cart.

"Big Rex, you're one bad dog, buddy," said the driver in a half-loud, very Southern voice. "What'd you drag out of there, you dumb bastard? The brass-plated asshole would shave your coat for messing up his eestate! ... Rex? Rex, you come here, you fuckin' hound!" The man grabbed the limb and pulled it off the road under the pine tree into the shadows. "Rex, you hear me! You humpin' knotholes, you horny stud?"

"Stay completely still and put your arms out in front of you," said Jason Bourne, walking into view.

"Holy shit! Who are you?"

"Someone who doesn't give a damn whether you live or die," replied the intruder calmly.

"You got a gun! I can see it!"

"So do you. Yours is in your holster. Mine's in my hand and it's pointed at your head."

"The dog! Where the hell's the dawg?"

"Indisposed."

"What?"

"He looks like a good dog. He could be anything a trainer wanted him to be. You don't blame the animal, you blame the human who taught it."

"What are you talkin' about?"

"I guess the bottom line is that I'd rather kill the man than the animal, do I make myself clear?"

"Nothin's clear! I jest know this man don't want to get killed."

"Then let's talk, shall we?"

"I got words, but only one life, mister."

"Lower your right arm and take out your gun-by the fingers, mister." The guard did so, holding the weapon by his thumb and forefinger. "Lob it toward me, please." The man obeyed. Bourne picked it up.

"What the hell's this all about?" cried the guard, pleading.

"I want information. I was sent here to get it."

"I'll give you what I got if you let me get out of here. I don't want nothin' more to do with this place! I figured it was comin' someday, I told Barbie Jo, you ask her! I told her someday people'd be comin' around asking questions. But not this way, not your way! Not with guns aimed at our heads."

"I assume Barbie Jo is your wife."

"Sort of."

"Then let's start with why 'people' would come out here asking questions. My superiors want to know. Don't worry, you won't be involved, nobody's interested in you. You're just a security guard."

"That's all I am, mister!" interrupted the frightened man. "Then why did you tell Barbie Jo what you did? That people would someday come out here asking questions."

"Hell, I'm not sure.... Jest so many crazy things, y'know?"

"No, I don't know. Like what?"

"Well, like the brass-plated screamer, the general. He's a big wheel, right? He's got Pentagon cars and drivers and even helicopters whenever he wants 'em, right? He owns this place, right?"

"So?"

"So that big mick of a sergeant-a lousy master sergeant-orders him around like he wasn't toilet-trained, y'know what I mean? And that big-titty wife of his he's got a thing goin' with the hulk and she don't give a damn who knows it. It's all crazy, y'see what I mean?"

"I see a domestic mess, but I'm not sure it's anybody's business. Why would people come out here and ask questions?"

"Why are you out here, man? You figured there was a meetin' tonight, didn't you?"

"A meeting?"

"Them fancy limousines with the chauffeurs and the big shots, right? Well, you picked the wrong night. The dogs are out and they're never let out when there's a meetin'."

Bourne paused, then spoke as he approached the guard. "We'll continue this in the cart," he said with authority. "I'll crouch down and you'll do exactly what I tell you to do."

"You promised me I could get out of here!"

"You can, you will. Both you and the other fellow making the rounds. The gates over there, are they on an alarm?"

"Not when the dogs are loose. If those hounds see something out on the road and get excited, they'd jump up and set it off."

"Where's the alarm panel?"

"There are two of 'em. One's in the sergeant's place, the other's in the front hall of the house. As long as the gates are closed, you can turn it on."

"Come on, let's go."

"Where are we goin'?"

"I want to see every dog on the premises."

Twenty-one minutes later, the remaining five attack dogs drugged and carried to their kennels, Bourne unlatched the entrance gate and let the two guards outside. He had given each three hundred dollars. "This will make up for any pay you lose," he said.