"Vous etes un soldat distingué, mon camarade," said the general, his commanding voice ringing through the sidewalk café, his bright smile winning the crowd, who responded with appreciative applause. The child retreated and the meal continued.

A leisurely hour later, Teagarten and his lady were interrupted by the general's chauffeur, a middle-aged army sergeant whose expression conveyed his anxiety. The commander of NATO had received an urgent message over his vehicle's secure phone, and the chauffeur had had the presence of mind to write it down and repeat it for accuracy. He handed Teagarten the note.

The general stood up, his tanned face turning pale as he glanced around the now-half-empty sidewalk café, his eyes narrowed, angry, afraid. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded wad of Belgian franc notes, peeled off several large ones and dropped them on the table. "Come on," he said to the woman major. "Let's go. ... You"-he turned to his driver-"get the car started!"

"What is it?" asked his luncheon companion.

"London. Over the wire. Armbruster and DeSole are dead."

"Oh, my God! How?"

"It doesn't matter. Whatever they say is a lie."

"What's happening?"

"I don't know. I just know we're getting out of here. Come on!"

The general and his lady rushed through the latticework archway, across the wide pavement and into the military vehicle. On either side of the hood, something was missing. The middle aged sergeant had removed the two red-and-gold flags denoting the impressive rank of his superior, the commander of NATO. The car shot forward, traveling less than fifty yards when it happened.

A massive explosion blew the military vehicle into the sky, shards of glass and metal, pieces of flesh and streaks of blood filling the narrow street in Anderlecht.

"Monsieur!" cried the petrified waiter as crews of police, firemen and sanitation workers went about their grisly business in the road.

"What is it?" replied the distraught owner of the sidewalk café, still shaking from the harsh interrogation he had gone through by the police and the descending hordes of journalists. "I am ruined. We will be known as the Café de la Mort, the restaurant of death."

"Monsieur, look!" The waiter pointed at the table where the general and his lady had sat.

"The police have gone over it," said the disconsolate owner.

"No, monsieur. Now!"

Across the glass top of the table, the capital letters scrawled in glistening red lipstick, was a name.

JASON BOURNE

20

Stunned, Marie stared at the television set, at the satellite news program beamed from Miami. Then she screamed as a camera moved in on a glass table in a town called Anderlecht in Belgium and the name printed in red across the top. "Johnny!"

St. Jacques burst through the bedroom door of the suite he had built for himself on the second floor of Tranquility Inn. "Christ, what is it?"

Tears streaming down her face, Marie pointed in horror at the set. The announcer on the overseas "feed" was speaking in the monotonic drone peculiar to such satellite transmissions.

"... as if a bloodstained savage from the past had returned to terrorize civilized society. The infamous killer, Jason Bourne, second only to Carlos the Jackal in the assassin for-hire market, has claimed responsibility for the explosion that took the lives of General James Teagarten and his companions. Conflicting reports have come from Washington and London intelligence circles and police authorities. Sources in Washington claim that the assassin known as Jason Bourne was hunted down and killed in Hong Kong five years ago in a joint British-American operation. However, spokesmen for both the Foreign Office and British intelligence deny any knowledge of such an operation and say that a joint effort as was described is highly unlikely. Still other sources, these from Interpol's headquarters in Paris, have stated that their branch in Hong Kong knew of the supposed death of Jason Bourne, but as the widely circulated reports and photographs were so sketchy and unidentifiable, they did not give much credence to the story. They assumed, as was also reported, that Bourne disappeared into the People's Republic of China for a last contract fatal to himself. All that's clear today is that in the quaint city of Anderlecht in Belgium, General James Teagarten, commander of NATO, was assassinated and someone calling himself Jason Bourne has taken credit for killing this great and popular soldier. ... We now show you an old composite photograph from Interpol's files produced by a consensus of those who purportedly had seen Bourne at close range. Remember, this is a composite, the features put together separately from scores of other photographs and, considering the killer's reputation for changing his appearance, probably not of great value."

The screen was suddenly filled with the face of a man, somewhat irregular and lacking definition.

"It's not David!" said John St. Jacques.

"It could be, Bro," said his sister.

"And now to other news. The drought that has plagued large areas of Ethiopia-"

"Turn that goddamned thing off!" shouted Marie, lurching out of the chair and heading for the telephone as her brother switched off the set. "Where's Conklin's number? I wrote it down here on your desk somewhere. ... Here it is, on the blotter. Saint Alex has a hell of a lot to explain, that son of a bitch!" She dialed angrily but accurately, sitting in St. Jacques's chair, tapping her clenched fist as the tears continued to roll down her cheeks. Tears of sorrow and fury. "It's me, you bastard! ... You've killed him! You let him go-helped him to go-and you've killed him!"

"I can't talk to you now, Marie," said a cold, controlled Alexander Conklin. "I've got Paris on the other line."

"Screw Paris! Where is he? Get him out!"

"Believe me, we're trying to find him. All fucking hell has broken out here. The British want Peter Holland's ass for even hinting at a Far East connection, and the French are in an up roar over something they can't figure out but suspect, like special Deuxième cargo on a plane from Martinique, which was originally rejected. I'll call you back, I swear it!"

The line was disconnected, and Marie slammed down the phone. "I'm flying to Paris, Johnny," she said, breathing deeply and wiping the tears from her face.

"You're what?"

"You heard me. Bring Mrs. Cooper over here. Jamie loves her and she's better with Alison than I could ever be-and why not? She's had seven children, all grown up who still come back to her every Sunday."

"You're crazy! I won't let you!"

"Somehow," said Marie, giving her brother a withering look, "I have an idea you probably said something like that to David when he told you he was going to Paris."

"Yes, I did!"

"And you couldn't stop him any more than you can stop me."

"But why?"

"Because I know every place he knows in Paris, every street, every café, every alley, from Sacré-Coeur to Montmartre. He has to use them, and I'll find him long before the Deuxième or the Sûreté." The telephone rang; Marie picked it up.

"I told you I'd call you right back," said the voice of Alex Conklin. "Bernardine has an idea that might work."

"Who's Bernardine?"

"An old Deuxième colleague and a good friend who's helping David."

"What's his idea?"

"He got Jason-David-a rental car. He knows the license-plate number and is having it radioed to all the Paris police patrols to report it if seen, but not to stop the car or harass the driver. Simply keep it in sight and report directly to him."

"And you think David-Jason-won't spot something like that? You've got a terrible memory, worse than my husband's."