"Obviously I don't care to die for a client or be tortured to protect his information, so I'll tell you what I know, which isn't as much as I'd like under the present circumstances. I'll take your points in order if I'm not too damned frightened to forget the sequence. To begin with, the funds are not available to me personally. I meet with a man in London to whom I deliver the information, and he releases an account in Bern, Switzerland, to a name and a number-any name, any number-that I give him. ... We'll skip over my life and the 'excruciating pain'-I've answered both. Let's see, what do I know about a blackbird? The Coeur du Soldat is part of that question, incidentally. ... I was told that an old man-name and nationality unknown, at least to me, but I suspect French-approached a well-known public figure and told him he was the target of an assassination. Who believes a drunken old man, especially one with a long police record looking for a reward? Unfortunately the assassination took place, but fortunately an aide to the deceased was by his side when the old man warned him. Even more fortunate, the aide was and is extremely close to my client and the assassination was a welcome event to both. The aide secretly passed on the old man's information. A blackbird is sent a message through a café known as Le Coeur du Soldat in Argenteuil. This blackbird must be an extraordinary man, and now my client wants to reach him. ... As for myself, my offices are hotel rooms in various cities. I'm currently registered under the name of Simon at the Pont-Royal, where I keep my passport and other papers." Bourne paused, his palms outstretched. "I've just told you the entire truth as I know it."

"Not the entire truth," corrected Santos, his voice low and guttural. "Who is your client?"

"I'll be killed if I tell you."

"I'll kill you right now if you don't," said the Jackal's conduit, removing Jason's hunting knife from his wide leather belt, the blade glistening in the light of the floor lamp.

"Why not give me the information my client wants along with a name and a number-any name, any number-and I'll guarantee you two million francs. All my client asks is for me to be the only intermediary. Where's the harm? The blackbird can turn me down and tell me to go to hell. ... Three million!"

Santos's eyes wavered as if the temptation were almost too much for his imagination. "Perhaps we'll do business later-"

"Now."

"No!" Carlos's man pushed his immense body out of the chair and walked toward the couch, the knife held threateningly in front of him. "Your client."

"Plural," replied Bourne. "A group of powerful men in the United States."

"Who?"

"They guard their names like nuclear secrets, but I know of one and he should be enough for you."

"Who?"

"Find out for yourself-at least learn the enormity of what I'm trying to tell you. Protect your blackbird by all means! Ascertain that I'm telling you the truth and in the process make yourself so rich you can do anything you want to do for the rest of your life. You could travel, disappear, perhaps have time for those books of yours rather than being concerned with all that garbage downstairs. As you pointed out, neither of us is young. I make a generous brokering fee and you're a wealthy man, free of care, of unpleasant drudgery. ... Again, where's the harm? I can be turned down, my clients turned down. There's no trap. My clients don't ever want to see him. They want to hire him."

"How could this be done? How could I be satisfied?"

"Invent some high position for yourself and reach the American ambassador in London-the name is Atkinson. Tell him you've received confidential instructions from Snake Lady. Ask him if you should carry them out."

"Snake Lady? What's that?"

"Medusa. They call themselves Medusa."

Mo Panov excused himself and slid out of the booth. He made his way through the crowded highway diner toward the men's room, frantically scanning the wall at the far end for a pay phone. There was none! The only goddamned phone was ten feet from the booth and in clear sight of the wild-eyed platinum blonde whose paranoia was as deeply embedded as the dark roots of her hair. He had casually mentioned that he thought he should call his office and tell his staff about the accident and where he was, and was instantly met with invective.

"And have a swarm of cops coming out to pick you up! Not on your fuckin' life, Medicine Man. Your office calls the fuzz, they call my devoted Chief Fork-in-Mouth, and my ass is bouncing into every barbed-wire fence in the county. He's in with every cop on the roads. I think he tells 'em where to get laid."

"There'd be no reason for me to mention you and I certainly wouldn't. If you recall, you said he might resent me."

"Resent don't count. He'd just cut your cute little nose off. I'm not takin' any chances-you don't look like you're too with-it. You'd blurt out about your accident-next thing the cops."

"You know, you're not really making sense."

"All right, I'll make sense. I'll yell 'Rape!' and tell these not-so-pansy truckers I picked you up on the road two days ago and I've been a sex slave ever since. How does that grab you?"

"Very firmly. May I at least go to the men's room? It's urgent that I do."

"Be my guest. They don't put phones in the can in these places."

"Really? ... No, honestly, I'm not chagrined, not disappointed-just curious. Why don't they? Truckers make good money; they're not interested in stealing dimes or quarters."

"Boy, you're from La La Land, Doc. Things happen on the highways; things get switched or snitched, you dig? If people make phone calls, other people want to know who makes them."

"Really ... ?"

"Oh, Jesus. Hurry up. We only got time for a couple of greasies, so I'll order. He'll head up Seventy, not Ninety-seven. He wouldn't figure."

"Figure what? What are Seventy and Ninety-seven?"

"Routes, for Christ's sake! There are routes and there are routes. You are one dumb medicine man. Hit the head, then maybe later we'll stop at a motel where we can continue our business discussion while you get an advance bonus."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I'm pro-choice. Is that against your religion?"

"Good Lord, no. I'm a firm advocate."

"Good. Hurry up!"

So Panov headed for the men's room, and indeed the woman was right. There was no phone, and the window to the outside was too small for anyone but a small cat or a large rat to crawl through. ... But he had money, a great deal of money, along with five driver's licenses from five different states. In Jason Bourne's lexicon these were weapons, especially the money. Mo went to the urinal-long overdue-and then to the door; he pulled it back several inches to observe the blonde. Suddenly, the door swung violently back several feet and Panov crashed into the wall.

"Hey, sorry, pal!" cried a short heavyset man, who grabbed the psychiatrist by the shoulders as Mo grabbed his face. "You okay, buddy?"

"Oh, certainly. Yes, of course."

"The hell you are, you got a nosebleed! C'mon over here by the towels," ordered the T-shirted trucker, one sleeve rolled up to hold a pack of cigarettes. "C'mon, put your head back while I get some cold water on your schnoz. ... Loosen up and lean against the wall. There, that's better; we'll stop this sucker in a moment or two." The short man reached up and gently pressed the wet paper towels across Panov's face while holding the back of his neck, and every few seconds checking the flow of blood from Mo's nostrils. "There y'are, buddy, it's damned near stopped. Just breathe through your mouth, deep breaths, you got me? Head tilted, okay?"

"Thank you," said Panov, holding the towels and amazed that a nosebleed could be stopped so quickly. "Thank you very much."

"Don't thank me, I bashed you one by mistake," answered the trucker, relieving himself. "Feel better now?" he asked, zipping up his trousers.