"I've thought this out-"

"Talk!"

"I know the monseigneur, know the way he thinks. He planned the death of my woman and me but not to coincide with yours, not in a way that would detract from the high drama of his immediate victory over you. It would come later. The revelation that I, the so-called hero of France, was in reality the Jackal's instrument, his creation, would be the final proof of his triumph. Don't you see?"

Briefly silent, Jason studied the old man. "Yes, I do," he replied quietly. "Not that I ever figured on someone like you, but that approach is the basis of everything I believe. He's a megalomaniac. In his head he's the king of hell and wants the world to recognize him and his throne. By his lights, his genius has been overlooked, relegated to the level of punk killers and Mafia hit men. He wants trumpets and drums, when all he hears are tired sirens and weary questions in police lineups."

"C'est vrai. He once complained to me that almost no one in America knew who he was."

"They don't. They think he's a character out of novels or films, if they think about him at all. He tried to make up for that thirteen years ago, when he flew over from Paris to New York to kill me."

"Correction, monsieur. You forced him to go after you."

"It's history. What's all this got to do with now, tonight ... your plan?"

"It provides us with a way to force the Jackal to come out after me, to meet with me. Now. Tonight."

"How?"

"By my wandering around the grounds very much in the open where he or one of his scouts will see me and hear me."

"Why would that force him to come out after you?"

"Because I will not be with the nurse he had assigned to me. I will be with someone else, unknown to him, someone who would have no reason at all to kill me."

Again Bourne looked at the old Frenchman in silence. "Bait," he said finally.

"A lure so provocative it will drive him into a frenzy until he has it in his possession-has me in his grip so he can question me. ... You see, I'm vital to him-more specifically, my death is vital-and everything is timing to him. Precision is his ... his diction, how is it said?"

"His byword, his method of operation, I suppose."

"It is how he has survived, how he has made the most of each kill, each over the years adding to his reputation as the assassin supreme. Until a man named Jason Bourne came out of the Far East ... he has never been the same since. But you know all that-"

"I don't care about all that," interrupted Jason. "The 'timing.' Go on."

"After I'm gone he can reveal who Jean Pierre Fontaine, the hero of France, really was. An impostor, his impostor, his creation, the instrument of death who was the snare for Jason Bourne. What a triumph for him! ... But he cannot do that until I'm dead. Quite simply, it would be too inconvenient. I know too much, too many of my colleagues in the gutters of Paris. No, I must be dead before he has his triumph."

"Then he'll kill you when he sees you."

"Not until he has his answers, monsieur. Where is his killer nurse? What has happened to her? Did Le Chameleon find her, turn her, do away with her? Have the British authorities got her? Is she on her way to London and MI-Six with all their chemicals, to be turned over at last to Interpol? So many questions. ... No, he will not kill me until he learns what he must learn. It may take only minutes to satisfy him, but long before then I trust that you will be at my side insuring my survival, if not his."

"The nurse? Whoever it is, she'll be shot."

"No, not at all. I'll order her away in anger, out of my sight at the first sign of contact. As I walk with her I shall lament the absence of my new dear friend, the angel of mercy who takes such good care of my wife, wondering out loud, What has happened to her? Where has she gone? Why haven't I seen her all day? Naturally, I will conceal on my person the radio, activated, of course. Wherever I am taken-for surely one of Carlos's men will make contact first-I will ask an enfeebled old man's questions. Why am I going here? Why are we there? ... You will follow-in full force, I sincerely hope. If you do so, you'll have the Jackal."

Holding his head straight, his neck rigid, Bourne walked to St. Jacques's desk and sat on the edge. "Your friend, Judge Brendan what's-his-name, is right-"

"Prefontaine. Although Fontaine is not my true name, we've decided it's all the same family. When the earliest members left Alsace-Lorraine for America in the eighteenth century with Lafayette, they added the Pre to distinguish them from the Fontaines who spread out all over France."

"He told you that?"

"He's a brilliant man, once an honored judge."

"Lafayette came from Alsace-Lorraine?"

"I don't know, monsieur. I've never been there."

"He's a brilliant man. ... More to the point; he's right. Your plan has a lot of merit, but there's also considerable risk. And I'll be honest with you, Fontaine, I don't give a damn about the risk you're taking or about the nurse, whoever it is. I want the Jackal, and if it costs your life or the life of a woman I don't know, it doesn't matter to me. I want you to understand that."

The old Frenchman stared at Jason with amused rheumy eyes and laughed softly. "You are such a transparent contradiction. Jason Bourne would never have said what you just did. He would have remained silent, accepting my proposition without comment but knowing the advantage. Mrs. Webb's husband, however, must have a voice. He objects and must be heard." Fontaine suddenly spoke sharply. "Get rid of him, Monsieur Bourne. He is not my protection, not the death of the Jackal. Send him away."

"He's gone. I promise you, he's gone." The Chameleon sprang up from the desk, his neck frozen in pain. "Let's get started."

The steel band continued its deafening assault, but now restricted to the confines of the glass-enclosed lobby and adjacent dining room. The speakers on the grounds were switched off on St. Jacques's orders, the owner of Tranquility Inn having been escorted up from the unoccupied villa by the two Uzi-bearing former commandos along with the Canadian doctor and the incessantly chattering Mr. Pritchard. The assistant manager was instructed to return to the front desk and say nothing to anyone about the things he had witnessed during the past hour.

"Absolutely nothing, sir. If I am asked, I was on the telephone with the authorities over in 'Serrat."

"About what?" objected St. Jacques. "Well, I thought-"

"Don't think. You were checking the maid service on the west path, that's all."

"Yes, sir." The deflated Pritchard headed for the office door, which had been opened moments before by the nameless Canadian doctor.

"I doubt it would make much difference what he said," offered the physician as the assistant manager left. "That's a small zoo down there. The combination of last night's events, too much sun today and excessive amounts of alcohol this evening, will augur a great deal of guilt in the morning. My wife doesn't think your meteorologist will have much to say, John."

"Oh?"

"He's having a few himself, and even if he's halfway lucid, there aren't five sober enough to listen to him."

"I'd better get down there. We may as well turn it into a minor carnivale. It'll save Scotty ten thousand dollars, and the more distraction we have, the better. I'll speak to the band and the bar and be right back."

"We may not be here," said Bourne as his brother-in-law left and a strapping young black woman in a complete nurse's uniform walked out of St. Jacques's private bathroom into the office. At the sight of her, old Fontaine approached.

"Very good, my child, you look splendid," said the Frenchman. "Remember now, I'll be holding your arm as we walk and talk, but when I squeeze you and raise my voice, telling you to leave me alone, you'll do as I say, correct?"