"Do you remember the tinamou and an American somewhat younger than he is now who made things a little simpler for you?"

"Ah, the tinamou, the bird with hidden wings and ferocious legs! They were such better days, younger days. And if the somewhat older American was at the time given the status of a saint, I shall never forget him."

"Don't now, I need you."

"It is you, Alexander?"

"It is and I've got a problem with D. Bureau."

"It is solved."

And it was, but the weather was insoluble. The storm that had battered the central Leeward Islands two nights before was only a prelude to the torrential rain and winds that swept up from the Grenadines, with another storm behind it. The islands were entering the hurricane season, so the weather was not astonishing, it was merely a delaying factor. Finally, when clearance for takeoff was around the chronological corner, it was discovered that there was a malfunction in the far starboard engine; no one argued while the problem was traced, found and repaired. The elapsed time, however, was an additional three hours.

Except for the churning of his mind, the flight itself was uneventful for Jason; only his guilt interfered with his thoughts of what was before him-Paris, Argenteuil, a café with the pro vocative name of Le Coeur du Soldat, The Soldier's Heart. The guilt was most painful on the short flight from Montserrat to Martinique when they passed over Guadeloupe and the island of Basse-Terre. He knew that only a few thousand feet below were Marie and his children, preparing to fly back to Tranquility Isle, to the husband and father who would not be there. His infant daughter, Alison, would, of course, know nothing, but Jamie would; his wide eyes would grow larger and cloud over as words tumbled out about fishing and swimming ... and Marie-Christ, I can't think about her! It hurts too much!

She'd think he had betrayed her, run away to seek a violent confrontation with an enemy from long ago in another far-off life that was no longer their life. She would think like old Fontaine, who had tried to persuade him to take his family thousands of miles away from where the Jackal prowled, but neither of them understood. The aging Carlos might die, but on his deathbed he would leave a legacy, a bequest that would hinge on the mandatory death of Jason Bourne-David Webb and his family. I'm right, Marie! Try to understand me. I have to find him, I have to kill him! We can't live in our personal prison for the rest of our lives!

"Monsieur Simon?" said the stoutish well-tailored Frenchman, an older man with a close-cropped white chin beard, pronouncing the name Seemohn.

"That's right," replied Bourne, shaking the hand extended to him in a narrow deserted hallway somewhere in Orly Airport.

"I am Bernardine, François Bernardine, an old colleague of our mutual friend, Alexander the Saint."

"Alex mentioned you," said Jason, smiling tentatively. "Not by name, of course, but he told me you might bring up his sainthood. It was how I'd know you were-his colleague."

"How is he? We hear stories, of course." Bernardine shrugged. "Banal gossip, by and large. Wounded in the futile Vietnam, alcohol, dismissed, disgraced, brought back a hero of the Agency, so many contradictory things."

"Most of them true; he's not afraid to admit that. He's a cripple now, and he doesn't drink, and he was a hero. I know."

"I see. Again stories, rumors, who can believe what? Flights of fancy out of Beijing, Hong Kong-some concerning a man named Jason Bourne."

"I've heard them."

"Yes, of course. ... But now Paris. Our saint said you would need lodgings, clothes purchased en scène, as it were, French to the core."

"A small but varied closet," agreed Jason. "I know where to go, what to buy, and I have sufficient money."

"Then we are concerned with lodgings. A hotel of your choice? La Trémoille? George Cinq? Plaza-Athénée?"

"Smaller, much smaller and far less expensive."

"Money is a problem, then?"

"Not at all. Only appearances. I'll tell you what, I know Montmartre. I'll find a place myself. What I will need is a car-registered under another name, preferably a name that's a dead end."

"Which means a dead man. It's been arranged; it is in the underground garage on the Capucines, near the Place Vendôme." Bernardine reached into his pocket, pulled out a set of keys, and handed them to Jason. "An older Peugeot in Section E. There are thousands like them in Paris and the license number is on the tab."

"Alex told you I'm traveling deep?"

"He didn't really have to. I believe our saint scoured the cemeteries for useful names when he worked here."

"I probably learned it from him."

"We all learned things from that extraordinary mind, the finest in our profession, yet so self-effacing, so ... je ne sais quoi ... so 'why not try it,' yes?"

"Yes, why not try it."

"I must tell you, though," said Bernardine, laughing. "He once chose a name, admittedly from a tombstone, that drove the Sûreté fou-crazy! It was the alias of an ax murderer the authorities had been hunting for months!"

"That is funny," agreed Bourne, chuckling.

"Yes, very. He told me later that he found it in Rambouillet-in a cemetery on the outskirts of Rambouillet."

Rambouillet! The cemetery where Alex had tried to kill him thirteen years ago. All traces of a smile left Jason's lips as he stared at Alex's friend from the Deuxième Bureau. "You know who I am, don't you?" he asked softly.

"Yes," answered Bernardine. "It was not so difficult to piece together, not with the rumors and the gossip out of the Far East. After all, it was here in Paris where you made your mark on Europe, Mr. Bourne."

"Does anyone else know?"

"Mon Dieu, non! Nor will they. I must explain, I owe my life to Alexander Conklin, our modest saint of les opérations noires-the black assignments in your language."

"That's not necessary, I speak French fluently ... or didn't Alex tell you that?"

"Oh, my God, you doubt me," said the Deuxième man, his gray eyebrows arched. "Take into account, young man-younger man-that I am in my seventieth year, and if I have lapses of language and try to correct them, it is because I mean to be kind, not subreptice."

"D'accord. Je regrette. I mean that."

"Bien. Alex is several years younger than I am, but I wonder how he's handling it. The age, that is."

"Same as you. Badly."

"There was an English poet-a Welsh poet, to be exact-who wrote, 'Do not go gently into that good night.' Do you remember it?"

"Yes. His name was Dylan Thomas and he died in his mid-thirties. He was saying fight like a son of a bitch. Don't give in."

"I mean to do that." Bernardine again reached into a pocket and pulled out a card. "Here is my office-merely consultant status, you understand-and on the back I've written down my home phone; it is a special telephone, actually unique. Call me; whatever you need will be provided. Remember, I am the only friend you have in Paris. No one else knows you are here."

"May I ask you a question?"

"Mais certainement."

"How can you do the things you're doing for me when for all intents and purposes you've been put out to pasture?"

"Ah," exclaimed the consultant to the Deuxième Bureau. "The younger man grows older! Like Alex, I carry my credentials in my head. I know the secrets. How is it otherwise?"

"You could be taken out, neutralized-have an accident."

"Stupide, young man! What is in both our heads we say is written down, locked away, to be revealed should such unnatural acts occur. ... Of course, it's all nonsense, for what do we really know that could not be denied, labeled as the ramblings of old men, but they do not know that. Fear, monsieur. It is the most potent weapon in our profession. Second, of course, is embarrassment, but that is usually reserved for the Soviet KGB and your Federal Bureau of Investigation, both of which fear embarrassment more than their nations' enemies."