"David, you're hurt!"

"That's nice." Jason Bourne got to his feet and raced to the door; slamming it back, he rushed into the villa's living room, only to face a frowning Canadian physician.

"I heard some noise in there," said the doctor. "Is everything all right?"

"I have to leave. Get to the floor."

"Now, see here! There's blood on your bandage, the sutures-"

"Get your ass on the floor!"

"You're not twenty-one, Mr. Webb-"

"Get out of my life!" shouted Bourne, running to the entrance, letting himself outside, and rushing up the lighted path toward the main complex, suddenly aware of the deafening steel band, its sound amplified throughout the grounds by a score of speakers nailed to the trees.

The undulating cacophony was overwhelming, and that was not to his disadvantage, thought Jason. Angus McLeod had been true to his word. The huge glass-enclosed circular dining room held the few remaining guests and the fewer staff, and that meant the Chameleon had to change colors. He knew the mind of the Jackal as well as he knew his own, and that meant that the assassin would do exactly what he himself would do under the circumstances. The hungry, salivating wolf went into the cave of its confused, rabid quarry and pulled out the prized piece of meat. So would he, shedding the skin of the mythical chameleon, revealing a much larger beast of prey-say, a Bengal tiger-which could rip a jackal apart in his jaws. ... Why were the images important? Why? He knew why, and it filled him with a feeling of emptiness, a longing for something that had passed-he was no longer Delta, the feared guerrilla of Medusa; nor was he the Jason Bourne of Paris and the Far East. The older, much older, David Webb kept intruding, invading, trying to find reason within insanity and violence.

No! Get away from me! You are nothing and I am everything! ... Go away, David, for Christ's sake, go away.

Bourne spun off the path and ran across the harsh, sharp tropical grass toward the side entrance of the inn. Instantly, breathlessly, he cut his pace to a walk at the sight of a figure coming through the door; then upon recognizing the man, he resumed running. It was one of the few members of Tranquility's staff he remembered and one of the few he wished he could forget. The insufferable snob of an assistant manager named Pritchard, a loquacious bore, albeit hardworking, who never let anyone forget his family's importance in Montserrat-especially an uncle who was deputy director of immigration, a not so incidental plus for Tranquility Inn, David Webb suspected.

"Pritchard!" shouted Bourne, approaching the man. "Have you got the bandages?"

"Why, sir!" cried the assistant manager, genuinely flustered. "You're here. We were told you left this afternoon-"

"Oh, shit!"

"Sir? ... Such condolences of sorrow so pain my lips-"

"Just keep them shut, Pritchard. Do you understand me?"

"Of course, I was not here this morning to greet you or this afternoon to bid you farewell and express my deepest feelings, for Mr. Saint Jay asked me to work this evening, through the night, actually-"

"Pritchard, I'm in a hurry. Give me the bandages and don't tell anyone-anyone-that you saw me. I want that very clear."

"Oh, it is clear, sir," said Pritchard, handing over the three different rolls of elasticized tape. "Such privileged information is safe with me, as safe as the knowledge that your wife and children were staying here-oh, God forgive me! Forgive me, sir!"

"I will and He will if you keep your mouth shut."

"Sealed. It is sealed. I am so privileged!"

"You'll be shot if you abuse the privilege. Is that clear?"

"Sir?"

"Don't faint, Pritchard. Go down to the villa and tell Mr. Saint Jay that I'll be in touch with him and he's to stay there. Have you got that? He's to stay there. ... You, too, for that matter."

"Perhaps I could-"

"Forget it. Get out of here!"

The talkative assistant manager ran across the lawn toward the path to the east villas as Bourne raced to the door and went inside. Jason climbed the steps two at a time-only years before, it would have been three at a time-and again, out of breath, reached St. Jacques's office. He entered, closed the door, and quickly went to the closet where he knew his brother-in-law kept several changes of clothing. Both men were approximately the same size-outsized, as Marie claimed-and Johnny had frequently borrowed jackets and shirts from David Webb when visiting. Jason selected the most subdued combination in the closet. Lightweight gray slacks and an all-cotton dark blue blazer; the only shirt in evidence, again tropical cotton, was thankfully short-sleeved and brown. Nothing would pick up or reflect light.

He started to undress when he felt a sharp, hot jolt on the left side of his neck. He looked in the closet mirror, alarmed, then furious at what he saw. The constricting bandage around his throat was deep red with spreading blood. He tore open the box of the widest tape; it was too late to change the dressing, he could only reinforce it and hope to stem the bleeding. He unraveled the elasticized tape around his neck, tearing it after several revolutions, and applied the tiny clamps to hold it in place. It was more inhibiting than ever; it was also an impediment he would put out of his mind.

He changed clothes, pulling the collar of the brown shirt high over his throat and putting the automatic in his belt, the reel of fishing line in the blazer's pocket. ... Footsteps! The door opened as he pressed his back against the wall, his hand on the weapon. Old Fontaine walked in; he stood for a moment, looking at Bourne, then closed the door.

"I've been trying to find you, frankly not knowing if you were still alive," said the Frenchman.

"We're not using the radios unless we have to." Jason walked away from the wall. "I thought you got the message."

"I did and it was right. Carlos may have his own radio by now. He's not alone, you know. It's why I've been wandering around looking for you. Then it occurred to me that you and your brother-in-law might be up here in his office, a headquarters, as it were."

"It's not very smart for you to be walking around out in the open."

"I'm not an idiot, monsieur. I would have perished long before now if I were. Wherever I walked I did so with great caution. ... In truth, it's why I made up my mind to find you, assuming you were not dead."

"I'm not and you found me. What is it? You and the judge are supposed to be in an empty villa somewhere, not wandering around."

"We are; we were. You see, I have a plan, a stratageme, I believe would interest you. I discussed it with Brendan-"

"Brendan?"

"His name, monsieur. He thinks my plan has merit and he's a brilliant man, very sagace-"

"Shrewd? Yes, I'm sure he is, but he's not in our business."

"He's a survivor. In that sense we are all in the same business. He thinks there is a degree of risk, but what plan under these circumstances is without risk?"

"What's your plan?"

"It is a means to trap the Jackal with minimum danger to the other people here."

"That really worries you, doesn't it?"

"I told you why, so there's no reason to repeat it. There are men and women together out there-"

"Go on," broke in Bourne, irritated. "What's this strategy of yours, and you'd better understand that I intend to take out the Jackal if I have to hold this whole goddamned island hostage. I'm not in a giving mood. I've given too much."

"So you and Carlos stalk each other in the night? Two crazed middle-aged hunters obsessed with killing each other, not caring who else is killed or wounded or maimed for life in the bargain?"

"You want compassion, go to a church and appeal to that God of yours who pisses on this planet! He's either got one hell of a warped sense of humor or he's a sadist. Now either talk sense or I'm getting out of here."