"That word had to come from somebody!" exploded Albert Armbruster. "Who was it?"

"Oh, yes. Everything's so sudden, so bewildering. ... He's a retired field agent with a crippled leg, a man named Conklin, Alexander Conklin. He and a psychiatrist-Panov, Morris Panov-are close friends of Webb ... or Jason Bourne."

"Where are they?" asked the capo supremo grimly.

"Oh, you couldn't reach either one, talk to either of them. They're both under maximum security."

"I didn't ask for the rules of engagement, paisan, I asked where they were."

"Well, Conklin's at a condominium in Vienna, a proprietary of ours no one could penetrate, and Panov's apartment and office are both under round-the-clock surveillance."

"You'll give me the addresses, won't you?"

"Certainly, but I guarantee they won't talk to you."

"Oh, that would be a pity. We're just looking for a guy with a dozen names, asking questions, offering assistance."

"They won't buy it."

"Maybe I can sell it."

"Goddamn it, why?" spouted Armbruster, then immediately lowered his voice. "Why was this Webb or Bourne or whoever the hell he is at Swayne's?"

"It's a gap I can't fill," said DeSole.

"A what?"

"That's an Agency term for no answer."

"No wonder the country's up shit's creek."

"That's not true-"

"Now you shut up!" ordered the man from New York, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small notepad and a ballpoint pen. "Write out the addresses of this retired spook and the yid shrink. Now!"

"It's difficult to see," said DeSole, writing, angling the small pad of paper toward the neon lights of the closed gas station. "There. The apartment number may be wrong but it's close, and Panov's name will be on the mailbox. But I tell you again, he won't talk to you."

"Then we'll just have to apologize for interrupting him."

"Yes, you probably will. I gather he's very dedicated where his patients are concerned."

"Oh? Like that telephone line into your fax machine."

"No, no, that's a technical term. Number Three wire, to be precise."

"And you're always precise, aren't you, paisan?"

"And you're very irritating-"

"We've got to go," broke in Armbruster, watching the New Yorker take back the pad and the ballpoint pen. "Stay calm, Steven," he added, obviously suppressing his anger and heading back to the limousine. "Remember, there's nothing we can't handle. When you talk to Jimmy T in Brussels, see if you two can come up with a reasonable explanation, okay? If not, don't worry, we'll figure it out upstairs."

"Of course, Mr. Armbruster. But if I may ask? Is my account in Bern ready for immediate release-in case ... well, you understand ... in case-"

"Of course it is, Steven. All you have to do is fly over and write out the numbers of your account in your own handwriting. That's your signature, the one on file, remember?"

"Yes, yes, I do."

"It must be over two million by now."

"Thank you. Thank you ... sir."

"You've earned it, Steven. Good night."

The two men settled back in the rear seat of the limousine, but there was no lack of tension. Armbruster glanced at the mafioso as the chauffeur, beyond the glass partition, turned on the ignition. "Where's the other car?"

The Italian switched on the reading light and looked at his watch. "By now he's parked less than a mile down the road from the gas station. He'll pick up DeSole on his way back and stay with him until the circumstances are right."

"Your man knows exactly what to do?"

"Come on, a virgin he's not. He's got a searchlight mounted on that car so powerful it can be seen in Miami. He comes alongside, switches it on high, and wiggles the handle. Your two million-dollar flunky is blinded and out of business, and we're only charging a quarter of that amount for the job. It's your day, Alby."

The chairman of the Federal Trade Commission sat back in the shadows of the left rear seat and stared out the window at the dark, rushing images beyond the smoked glass. "You know," he said quietly, "if anyone had ever told me twenty years ago that I'd be sitting in this car with someone like you, saying what I'm saying, I would've told him it was impossible."

"Oh, that's what we like about you class-act characters. You look down your noses and drip your snot on us until you need us. Then all of a sudden we're 'associates.' Live and be well, Alby, we're eliminating another problem for you. Go back to your big federal commission and decide which companies are clean and which aren't-decisions not necessarily based on soap, right?"

"Shut up!" roared Armbruster, pounding his hand on the armrest. "This Simon-this Webb! Where's he coming from? What's he on our case for? What's he want?"

"Something to do with that Jackal character maybe."

"That doesn't make sense. We don't have anything to do with the Jackal."

"Why should you?" asked the mafioso, grinning. "You got us, right?"

"It's a very loose association and don't you forget it. ... Webb-Simon, goddamn it, whoever he is, we've got to find him! With what he already knew, plus what I told him, he's a fucking menace!"

"He's a real major item, isn't he?"

"A major item," agreed the chairman, again staring out the window, his right fist clenched, the fingers of his left hand drumming furiously on the armrest.

"You want to negotiate?"

"What?" snapped Armbruster, turning and looking at the calm Sicilian face of his companion.

"You heard me, only I used the wrong word and I apologize for that. I'll give you a nonnegotiable figure and you can either accept it or reject it."

"A ... contract? On Simon-Webb?"

"No," replied the mafioso, slowly shaking his head. "On a character named Jason Bourne. It's cleaner to kill someone who's already dead, isn't it? ... Since we just saved you one and a half mill, the price of the contract is five."

"Five million?"

"The cost of eliminating problems in the category of major items is high. Menaces are even higher. Five million, Alby, half on acceptance within the usual twenty-four hours."

"That's outrageous!"

"Then turn me down. You come back, it's seven-fifty; and if you come back again, it's double that. Fifteen million."

"What guarantee do we have that you can even find him? You heard DeSole. He's Four Zero, which means he's out of reach, buried."

"Oh, we'll dig him up just so we can replant him."

"How? Two and a half million is a lot to pay on your word. How?"

Again smiling, the Mafia supremo reached into his pocket and pulled out the small notebook Steven DeSole had returned to him. "Close friends are the best sources, Alby. Ask the sleazes who write all those gossip books. I got two addresses."

"You won't get near them."

"Hey, come on. You think you're dealing with old Chicago and the animals? With Mad Dog Capone and Nitti, the nervous finger. We got sophisticated people on the payroll these days. Geniuses. Scientists, electronics whiz kids-doctors. By the time we get finished with the spook and the yid, they won't know what happened. But we'll have Jason Bourne, the character who doesn't exist because he's already dead."

Albert Armbruster nodded once and turned to the window in silence.

"I'll close up for six months, change the name, then start a promotional campaign in the magazines before reopening," said John St. Jacques, standing by the window as the doctor worked on his brother-in-law.

"There's no one left?" asked Bourne, wincing as he sat in a chair dressed in a bathrobe, the last suture on his neck being pincered.

"Sure, there is. Seven crazy Canadian couples, including my old buddy, who's needlepointing your throat at the moment. Would you believe they wanted to start up a brigade, Renfrews of the Mounties, after the evil people."