"Hey, what about my car?" asked the second guard. "It ain't much but it gets me around. Me and Willie come out here in it."

"Do you have the keys?"

"Yeah, in my pocket. It's parked in the back by the kennels."

"Get it tomorrow."

"Why don't I get it now?"

"You'd make too much noise driving out, and my superiors will be arriving any moment. It's best that they don't see you. Take my word for it."

"Holy shit! What'd I tell you, Jim-Bob? Jest like I tole Barbie Jo. This place is weird, man!"

"Three hundred bucks ain't weird, Willie. C'mon, we'll hitch. T'ain't late and some of the boys'll be on the road. ... Hey, mister, who's gonna take care of the hounds when they wake up? They got to be walked and fed before the morning shift, and they'll tear apart any stranger who gets near 'em."

"What about Swayne's master sergeant? He can handle them, can't he?"

"They don't like him much," offered the guard named Willie, "but they obey him. They're better with the general's wife, the horny bastards."

"What about the general?" asked Bourne.

"He pisses bright yeller at the sight of 'em," replied Jim-Bob.

"Thanks for the information. Go on now, get down the road a piece before you start hitchhiking. My superiors are coming from the other direction."

"You know," said the second guard, squinting in the moonlight at Jason, "this is the craziest fuckin' night I ever expect to see. You get in here dressed like some gawddamn terrorist, but you talk and act like a shit-kickin' army officer. You keep mentioning these 'soopeeriors' of yours; you drug the pups and pay us three hundred bucks to get out. I don't understand nothin!"

"You're not supposed to. On the other hand, if I was really a terrorist, you'd probably be dead, wouldn't you?"

"He's right, Jim-Bob. Let's get outta here!"

"What the hell are we supposed to say?"

"Tell anyone who asks you the truth. Describe what happened tonight. Also, you can add that the code name is Cobra."

"My Gawd!" yelled Willie as both men fled into the road. Bourne secured the gate and walked back to the patrol cart certain in the knowledge that whatever happened during the next hours, an appendage of Medusa had been thrown into a state of further anxiety. Questions would be asked feverishly-questions for which there were no answers. Nothing. Enigma.

He climbed into the cart, shifted gears and started for the cabin at the end of the graveled road that branched off from the immaculate circular drive.

He stood by the window peering inside, his face at the edge of the glass. The huge, overweight master sergeant was sitting in a large leather armchair, his feet on an ottoman, watching television. From the sounds penetrating the window, specifically the rapid, high-pitched speech of an announcer, the general's aide was engrossed in a baseball game. Jason scanned the room as best he could; it was typically rustic, a profusion of browns and reds, from dark furniture to checkered curtains, comfortable and masculine, a man's cabin in the country. However, there were no weapons in sight, not even the accepted antique rifle over the fireplace, and no general-issue .45 automatic either on the sergeant's person or on the table beside the chair. The aide had no concerns for his immediate safety and why should he? The estate of General Norman Swayne was totally secure-fence, gates, patrols and disciplined roving attack dogs at all points of entry. Bourne stared through the glass at the strong jowled face of the master sergeant. What secrets did that large head hold? He would find out. Medusa's Delta One would find out if he had to carve that skull apart. Jason pushed himself away from the window and walked around the cabin to the front door. He knocked twice with the knuckles of his left hand; in his right was the untraceable automatic supplied by Alexander Conklin, the crown prince of dark operations.

"It's open, Rachel!" yelled the rasping voice from within.

Bourne twisted the knob and shoved the door back; it swung slowly on its hinges and made contact with the wall. He walked inside.

"Jesus Christ!" roared the master sergeant, his heavy legs plunging off the ottoman as he wriggled his massive body out of the chair. "You! ... You're a goddamned ghost! You're dead!"

"Try again," said Delta of Medusa. "The name's Flannagan, isn't it? That's what comes to mind."

"You're dead!" repeated the general's aide, screaming, his eyes bulging in panic. "You bought it in Hong Kong! You were killed in Hong Kong ... four, five years ago!"

"You kept tabs-"

"We know ... I know!"

"You've got connections in the right places, then."

"You're Bourne!"

"Obviously born again, you might say."

"I don't believe this!"

"Believe, Flannagan. It's the 'we' we're going to talk about. Snake Lady, to be precise."

"You're the one-the one Swayne called 'Cobra'!"

"It's a snake."

"I don't get it-"

"It's confusing."

"You're one of us!"

"I was. I was also cut out. I snaked back in, as it were."

The sergeant frantically looked at the door, then the windows. "How'd you get in here? Where are the guards, the dogs? Jesus! Where are they?"

"The dogs are asleep in the kennels, so I gave the guards the night off."

"You gave...? The dogs are on the grounds!"

"Not any longer. They were persuaded to rest."

"The guards-the goddamned guards!"

"They were persuaded to leave. What they think is happening here tonight is even more confusing."

"What've you done-what are you doing?"

"I thought I just mentioned it. We're going to talk, Sergeant Flannagan. I want to get caught up with some old comrades."

The frightened man backed awkwardly away from the chair. "You're the maniac they called Delta before you turned and went in business for yourself!" he cried in a guttural whisper. "There was a picture, a photograph-you were laid out on a slab, bloodstains all over the sheet from the bullet wounds; your face was uncovered, your eyes wide open, holes still bleeding on your forehead and your throat. ... They asked me who you were and I said, 'He's Delta. Delta One from the illegals,' and they said, 'No, he's not, he's Jason Bourne, the killer, the assassin,' so I said, 'Then they're one and the same because that man is Delta-I knew him.' They thanked me and told me to go back and join the others."

"Who were 'they'?"

"Some people over at Langley. The one who did all the talking had a limp; he carried a cane."

"And 'the others'-they told you to go back and join?"

"About twenty-five or thirty of the old Saigon crowd."

"Command Saigon?"

"Yeah."

"Men who worked with our crowd, the 'illegals'?"

"Mostly, yeah."

"When was this?"

"For Christ's sake, I told you!" roared the panicked aide. "Four or five years ago! I saw the photograph-you were dead!"

"Only a single photograph," interrupted Bourne quietly, staring at the master sergeant. "You have a very good memory."

"You held a gun to my head. Thirty-three years, two wars and twelve combat tours, nobody ever did that to me-nobody but you. ... Yeah, I gotta good memory."

"I think I understand."

"I don't! I don't understand a goddamned thing! You were dead!"

"You've said that. But I'm not, am I? Or maybe I am. Maybe this is the nightmare that's been visited upon you after twenty years of deceit."

"What kind of crap is that? What the hell-"

"Don't move!"

"I'm not!"

Suddenly, in the distance, there was a loud report. A gunshot! Jason spun around ... then instinct commanded him to keep turning! All around! The massive general's aide was lunging at him, his huge hands like battering rams grazing off Bourne's shoulders as Delta One viciously lashed up his right foot, catching the sergeant's kidney, embedding his shoe deep into the flesh while crashing the barrel of his automatic into the base of the man's neck. Flannagan lurched downward, splayed on the floor; Jason hammered his left foot into the sergeant's head, stunning him into silence.