“Not yet!” roared Jason Bourne as the wall blew apart beyond the stately gardens filled with rows of lilacs and roses. “I’ll tell you when,” he added quietly, holding the small circular microphone in his free hand.
The assassin grunted, his instincts roused to their primeval limits, his desire to kill equal to his desire to survive, the one dependent upon the other. He was on the edge of madness; only the barrel of Delta’s gun stopped him from an insane assault. He was still human, and it was better to try to live than to accept death through default. But when, when? The nervous tic returned to Allcott-Price’s face; his lower lip twitched as screams and shouts and the sound of men running in panic filled the gardens. The killer’s hands trembled as he stared at Delta in the dim, pulsating light of the distant flames.
“Don’t even think about it,” said the man from Medusa. “You’re dead if you make a move. You’ve studied me, so you know there’s no reprieve. You make it, you make it on your own. Swing your leg over the wall and be ready to jump when I tell you. Not before.” Without warning, Bourne suddenly brought the microphone to his lips and snapped a switch. When he spoke, his amplified words echoed eerily throughout the grounds, a haunting, reverberating sound that matched the thunder of the explosion, made more ominous by its calm simplicity, its frigidity.
“You marines. Take cover and stay out of this. It’s not your fight. Don’t die for the men who brought you here. To them you’re garbage. You’re expendable—as I was expendable. There’s no legitimacy here, no territory to be defended, no honor of your country in question. You’re here for the sole purpose of protecting killers. The only difference between you and me is the fact that they used me, too, but now they want to kill me because I know what they’ve done. Don’t die for these men, they’re not worth it. I give you my word I won’t fire on you unless you shoot at me, and then I’ll have no choice. But there’s another man here who isn’t going to make any deals—”
A fusillade of gunfire erupted, shattering the source of the sound, blasting the unseen speaker randomly off the wall. Delta was ready; it was bound to happen. One of the faceless, nameless manipulators had given an order and it was carried out. He reached into the knapsack, removing a fifteen-inch pre-set tear gas launcher, the canister in place. It could smash heavy glass at fifty yards; he aimed and pulled the trigger. A hundred feet away a bay window was shattered and the fog of gas billowed throughout the room inside. He could see figures running beyond the fragmented glass. Lamps and chandeliers were extinguished, supplanted by a startling array of floodlights positioned in the eaves of the great house and the trunks of the surrounding trees. Suddenly the grounds were awash with blinding white light. The branches of the overhanging tree would be a magnet for darting eyes and leveled weapons, and he understood that no appeal of his would countermand the orders. He had delivered that appeal both as an honest warning and as a salve for what conscience remained to a barely thinking, barely feeling robot avenger. In the shadows of the mind he had left he did not want to take the lives of youngsters called to serve the paranoid egos of manipulators—he had seen too much of that in Saigon years ago. He wanted only the lives of those inside the sterile house, and he intended to have them. Jason Bourne would not be denied. They had taken everything from him, and his personal account was now going to be settled. For the man from Medusa the decision was made—he was a puppet on the strings of his own rage, and apart from that rage his life was over.
“Jump!” whispered Delta, swinging his right leg over the wall, pummeling the assassin down to the ground. He followed while the commando was in midair and grabbed the assassin’s shoulder as the startled killer—arms extended on his knees—righted himself on the grass. Bourne dragged him out of sight into a latticed arbor with a profusion of bougainvillaea that reached nearly six feet high. “Here’s your gun, Major,” said the original Jason Bourne. “Mine’s on you, and don’t you forget it.”
The assassin simultaneously grabbed the weapon and tore the cloth from his mouth, coughing and spitting out saliva, as a savage burst of gunfire tore leaves and branches all along the wall. “Your little lecture didn’t do much fucking good, did it?”
“I didn’t expect it to. The truth of the matter is that they want you, not me. You see, I’m really expendable now. That was their plan from the beginning. I bring you out and I’m dead. My wife’s dead. We know too much. She because she learned who they were—she had to, she was the bait—me because they knew I’d put some figures together in Peking. You’re messed up with a bloodbath, Major. A megabomb that can blow the whole Far East apart, and will if saner heads in Taiwan don’t isolate and rip out those lunatic clients of yours. Only, I don’t give a shit anymore. Play your goddamned games and blow yourselves up. I just want to get inside that house.”
A squad of marines assaulted the wall, running alongside the stone, rifles poised, ready to fire. Delta pulled a second plastique from his knapsack, set the miniaturized digital timer for ten seconds, and threw the packet as far as he could toward the rear garden wall, away from the guards. “Come on!” he ordered the commando, ramming his weapon into the killer’s spine. “You in front! Down this path. Nearer the house.”
“Give me one of those! Give me a plastic!”
“I don’t think so.”
“Christ, you gave me your word!”
“Then either I lied or I changed my mind.”
“Why? What do you care?”
“I care. I didn’t know there were so many kids. Too many kids. You could take out ten of them with one of these, maim a lot more.”
“It’s a little late for you to become such a fucking Christian!”
“The club’s not that exclusive; it never was. I know who I want and who I don’t want and I don’t want kids in pressed GI pajamas. I want the men inside that—”
The explosion came some forty yards away at the rear of the grounds. Trees and dirt, bushes and whole beds of flowers flamed into the air—a panorama of greens and browns and speckled dots of color within the billowing gray smoke illuminated by the hot, white floodlights. “Move!” whispered Delta. “To the end of the row. It’s about sixty feet from the house and there’s a pair of doors—” Bourne closed his eyes in angry futility as a series of seemingly unending spurts of rifle fire filled the rear gardens. They were children. They fired blindly out of fear, killing imaginary demons but no targets. And they would not listen.
Another group of marines, these obviously led by an experienced officer, took up equidistant positions in front of the great house and circled it, legs bent, feet dug in for recoils, weapons angled forward. The manipulators had called for their Praetorian guard. So be it. Delta again reached into his knapsack, felt around his arsenal, and removed one of the two manual firebombs he had purchased in the Mongkok. It was similar to a grenade at the top—circular but covered with a shield of heavy plastic. The base, however, was a handle, five inches long, so that the thrower could hurl the explosive farther and with greater accuracy. The trick was in the throwing, the accuracy, and the timing. For once the plastic was removed, the shell of the bomb itself would adhere to any surface by an instant steel-like adhesive activated by air, and with the explosion of a chemical would shoot out in all directions, prolonging the flames, embedding itself in all porous surfaces, seeping and burning. From the removal of the plastic covering to the explosion took fifteen seconds. The sides of the great house, the sterile house, were the standard Victorian clapboard above an imposing lower border of stone. Delta shoved the assassin into a cluster of roses, stripped off the plastic, and heaved the firebomb into the clapboard far above and to the left of the French doors thirty-odd feet away. It stuck to the wood, the rest was waiting for the seconds to pass while the rifle fire—hesitant now, diminishing—ceased altogether.
The wall of the house blew apart. A gaping hole revealed a formal Victorian bedroom, complete with a canopied bed and delicate English furniture. The flames spread instantly, shooting spokes of fire from a central hub, spewing along the clapboard and spitting inside the house.
An order was given, and again there was an eruption of rifle fire, bullets spraying the flower beds away from the rear garden wall and the contingent of marines who had raced in the direction of the previous explosion. Commands and countercommands were shouted in anger and frustration as two officers appeared, sidearms in their hands. One rounded the circle of protecting guards, checking their positions and their weapons, peering in front of each. The other headed for the side wall and began retracing the route of the first squad, his eyes constantly shifting to his inner flanks, to the succeeding rows of flowers. He stopped beneath the willow tree and studied the wall, then the grass. He raised his head and looked over at the arbor of bougainvillaea. With his weapon, now steadied by both hands, he started toward the arbor.
Delta watched the soldier through the bushes, his own gun still pressed into the commando’s back. He removed another plastique, set the timer, and threw it over the bushes far forward toward the side wall. “Go through there!” ordered Bourne, pivoting the assassin by the shoulder and sending him into the row of bushes on the left. Jason plunged through after the commando, cracking the barrel of his automatic into the killer’s head, stopping him as he lurched for the knapsack. “Just a few more minutes, Major, then you’re on your own.”
The fourth explosion tore away six feet of the side wall, and as though they expected enemy troops to pour through, the marine guards opened fire on the collapsing stone. In the distance, on the roads of Victoria Peak, two-note sirens wailed in counterpoint to the sounds of carnage taking place within the grounds of the sterile house. Delta pulled out his next to last plastic packet, set the timer for ninety seconds, and heaved it toward the corner of the rear wall where the grounds were deserted. It was the beginning of his final diversion, the rest would be cold mathematics. He removed the tear gas launcher, inserted a canister, and spoke to the commando. “Turn around.” The assassin did so, the barrel of Bourne’s gun in front of his eyes. “Take this,” said Delta. “You can hold it with one hand. When I tell you, fire it into the stone to the right of the French doors. The gas will spread, blinding most of those kids. They won’t be able to shoot, so don’t waste bullets, you haven’t got that many.”
The killer did not at first reply. Instead, he raised his weapon level with Bourne’s and aimed it at Jason’s head. “Now we’re one-on-one, Mr. Original,” said the commando. “I told you I could take a bullet in the head, I’ve been waiting for it for years. But somehow I don’t think you can take the idea of not getting inside that house.” There was a sudden roar of voices and yet another fusillade of gunfire as a squad of marines rushed the collapsed side wall. Delta watched, waiting for the instant when the assassin’s concentration would break for that split second. The instant did not come. Instead the commando continued quietly, his voice tense but controlled, as he stared at Jason Bourne. “They must be expecting an invasion, the silly geese. When in doubt attack, as long as your flanks are covered, isn’t that right, Mr. Original?… Empty your bag of tricks, Delta. It was ‘Delta,’ wasn’t it?”
“There’s nothing left.” Bourne cocked the hammer of his automatic. The assassin did the same.
“Then let’s have a feel around,” said the commando, his left hand slowly reaching out, softly touching the knapsack strapped on Delta’s right hip, their eyes locked. The killer felt the canvas, squeezing the harsh cloth in several places. Again slowly, he withdrew his hand. “With all the shalt-nots in the bloody big Book, none ever mentions a lie, does it? Except false witness, of course, which isn’t the same. I guess you took the lapse to heart, sport. There’s a shell-framed automatic repeater in there and two or three clips, I judge by the curves, holding at least fifty rounds apiece.”
“Forty, to be exact.”
“That’s a lot of firepower. That little beast could get me out of here. Give! Or one of us goes right here. Right now.”
The fifth plastique explosion shook the ground; the startled assassin blinked. It was enough. Bourne’s hand shot up, deflecting the killer’s gun, crashing his heavy automatic into the commando’s left temple with the force of a hammer.
“Son of a bitch!” cried the assassin hoarsely as he fell to his left, Jason’s knee on his wrist, the killer’s gun wrenched free.
“You keep begging for a quick demise, Major,” said Bourne as pandemonium reached its height within the grounds of the Victorian sterile house. The squad of marines that had charged the collapsed side wall were ordered to assault the rear of the gardens. “You really don’t like yourself, do you? But you’ve got a good idea. I will empty my bag of tricks. It’s almost time now.”
Bourne removed the straps and upturned his open knapsack. The contents fell on the grass, the flames from the ever-expanding fire on the second floor of the sterile house illuminating them. There was one firebomb and one plastique left, and, as was accurately described by the assassin, a hand-held repeating MAC-10 machine pistol that needed only its stock frame and a clip to be inserted in order to fire. He inserted the frame of the lethal weapon, cracked in one of the four clips, and shoved the remaining three into his belt. He then released the spring of the launcher, put the canister in place, and reset the mechanism. It was ready to go—to save the lives of children, children called to die by the aging egos of manipulators. The firebomb remained. He knew where to direct it. He lifted it up, tore off the shield, and threw it with all his strength toward the A-framed apex above the French doors. It clung to the wood. It was the moment. He pulled the trigger of the launcher, sending the canister of gas into the stone to the right of the French doors. It exploded, bouncing off the wall to the ground; the vapors spread instantly, clouds of gas swirling, choking men within its billowing periphery. Weapons were clung to, but free hands rubbed swollen, watery eyes and covered inflamed nostrils.
The second firebomb exploded, tearing away the elegant Victorian facade above the French doors, shattering the panes of glass, whole sections of the upper wall plummeting down into the tiled foyer beyond. Flames spread upward toward the eaves and inside, firing drapes and upholstery. The marine guards scrambled away from the thunderous explosion and the flames into the clouds of tear gas. A number now dropped their rifles, as all lurched in every direction, colliding with one another, trying to get away from the fumes, gagging, coughing, seeking relief.
Delta rose to a crouch, the machine pistol in his hand, yanking the assassin up beside him. It was time; the chaos was complete. The swirling gas in front of the shattered French doors was being sucked in by the heat of the flames; it would dissipate sufficiently for him to make headway. Once inside, his search would be quick, over in moments. The directors of a covert operation that required a sterile house in foreign territory would stay within the protective confines of the house itself for two reasons. The first was that the size and disposition of the attacking force could not be accurately estimated and the risk of capture or death outside was too great. The second was more practical: papers had to be destroyed, burned, not shredded, as they had learned in Teheran. Directives, dossiers, operational progress reports, background materials, all had to go. The sirens in Victoria Peak were growing louder, nearer; the frantic race up the steep roads was nearly over.
“It’s the countdown,” said Bourne, setting the timer on the last plastique explosive. “I’m not giving this to you, but I’ll use it to advantage—both yours and mine. Thirty seconds, Major Allcott-Price.” Jason arced the packet as far as he could toward the right front wall.
“My weapon! For Christ’s sake, give me the gun!”
“It’s on the ground. Under my foot.”
The assassin lurched down. “Let go of it!”
“When I want to—and I will want to. But if you try to take it, the next thing you’ll see is a cell in the Hong Kong garrison, and—according to you—a scaffold, a thick rope, and a hangman in your immediate future.”
The killer looked up in panic. “You goddamned liar! You lied!”
“Frequently. Don’t you?”
“You said—”
“I know what I said. I also know why you’re here, and why instead of nine shells you have three.”
“What?”
“You’re my diversion, Major. When I let you free with the gun, you’ll head for the gate or a blown-out section of the wall—whichever, it’s your choice. They’ll try to stop you. You’ll fire back, naturally, and while they concentrate on you, I’ll get inside.”
“You bastard!”
“My feelings are hurt, but then I don’t have feelings any longer, so it doesn’t matter. I simply have to get inside—”
The last explosion blew up a sculptured tree, its roots smashing into a weakened section of the wall, stones falling out of place, the wall itself half crumbling, splitting rocks forming a V at the center of secondary impact. Marines from the gate contingent rushed forward.
“Now!” roared Delta, rising to his full height.
“Give me the gun! Let go of it!”
Jason Bourne suddenly froze. He could not move—except that by some instinct or other he crashed his knee up into the killer’s throat, sending the assassin over on his side. A man had appeared beyond the shattered glass doors of the burning foyer. A handkerchief covered his face, but it could not cover his limp. His limp! With his clubbed foot the silhouetted figure kicked down the left frame of the French doors and awkwardly walked down the three steps to the short flagstone patio fronting the once stately gardens. He dragged himself forward and yelled as loud as he could, ordering the guards who could hear him to hold their fire. The figure did not have to lower his handkerchief, Delta knew the face. It was the face of his enemy. It was Paris, a cemetery outside of Paris. Alexander Conklin had come to kill him. Beyond-salvage was the order from on high.
“David! It’s Alex! Don’t do what you’re doing! Stop it! It’s me, David! I’m here to help you!”
“You’re here to kill me! You came to kill me in Paris, you tried again in New York! Treadstone Seventy-one! You’ve got a short memory, you bastard!”
“You don’t have any memory, goddamn you! You became Delta, that’s what they wanted! I know the whole story, David. I flew over here because we put it together! Marie, Mo Panov, and I! We’re all here. Marie’s safe!”
“Lies! Tricks! All of you, you killed her! You would have killed her in Paris, but I wouldn’t let you near her! I kept her away from you!”
“She’s not dead, David! She’s alive! I can bring her to you! Now!”
“More lies!” Delta crouched and pulled the trigger, spraying the patio, the bullets ricocheting up into the burning foyer, but for reasons unknown to him they did not cut down the man himself. “You want to pull me out so you can give the order and I’m dead. Beyond-salvage carried out! No way, executioner! I’m going inside! I want the silent, secret men behind you! They’re there! I know they’re there!” Bourne grabbed the fallen assassin and pulled him to his feet, handing him the gun. “You wanted a Jason Bourne, he’s yours! I’m setting him loose among the roses. Kill him while I kill you!”
Half madman, half survivor, the commando lunged through the flowering bushes away from Bourne. He raced first down the path, then instantly returned, seeing that the marine guards were at the north and south areas of the wall. If he showed himself on the east border of the garden, he was caught between both contingents. He was dead if he moved.
“I haven’t any more time, Conklin!” yelled Bourne. Why couldn’t he kill the man who had betrayed him? Squeeze the trigger! Kill the last of Treadstone Seventy-one! Kill. Kill! What stopped him?
The assassin threw himself over the row of flowers, clutching the warm barrel of Bourne’s machine gun, wrenching it downward, leveling and firing his own gun at Jason. The bullet grazed Bourne’s forehead, and in fury, Jason yanked back the trigger of the repeating weapon. Bullets thundered into the ground, the vibrations within their small, deadly arena earth-shattering. He grabbed the Englishman’s gun, twisting it counter-clockwise. The assassin’s mutilated right arm was no match for the man from Medusa. The gun exploded as Bourne wrenched it free. The impostor fell back on the grass, his eyes glazed, within them the knowledge that he had lost.
“David! For God’s sake, listen to me! You have to—”
“There is no David here!” screamed Jason, his knee rammed into the assassin’s chest. “My rightful name is Bourne, sprung from Delta, spawned by Medusa! The Snake Lady! Remember?”
“We have to talk!”
“We have to die! You have to die! The secret men inside are my contract with myself, with Marie! They have to die!” Bourne gripped the lapel of the assassin’s jacket, pulling him up on his feet. “I repeat! Here’s your Jason Bourne! He’s all yours!”
“Don’t shoot! Hold your fire!” roared Conklin as bewildered segments of the three marine contingents began to close in and the deafening sirens of the Hong Kong police roared to a stop at the demolished gate.
The man from Medusa slammed his shoulder into the commando’s back, propelling the killer out into the light of the roaring flames and the floodlights. “There he is! That’s the prize you wanted!”
There was a burst of rifle fire as the assassin reeled out, then dove to the ground, rolling over and over to avoid the bullets.
“Stop it! Not him! For Christ’s sake, hold your fire. Don’t kill him!” screamed Conklin.
“Not him?” roared Jason Bourne. “Not him? Only me! Isn’t that right, you son of a bitch? Now, you do die! For Marie, for Echo, for all of us!”
He squeezed the trigger of the machine gun, but still the bullets would not hit their mark! He swung around and, swinging back and forth, aimed his deadly weapon at both converging squads of marines. Again, he fired several prolonged bursts, crouching, ducking, moving from place to place behind the roses. Yet he angled the barrel above their heads! Why? The children could not stop him. But then the children in their pressed GI issue should not die for the manipulators. He had to get inside the sterile house. Now! No moments were left. It was now!
“David!” A woman’s voice. Oh Christ, a woman’s voice! “David, David, David!” A figure in a flowing skirt ran out of the sterile house. She grabbed Alexander Conklin and pushed him away. She stood alone on the patio. “It’s me, David! I’m here! I’m safe! Everything’s all right, my darling!”
Another trick, another lie. It was an old woman with gray hair, white hair! “Get out of my way, lady, or I’ll kill you. You’re just another lie, another trick!”
“David, it’s me! Can’t you hear me—”
“I can see you! A trick!”
“No, David!”
“My name’s not David. I told your scum friend, there’s no David here!”
“Don’t!” screamed Marie, desperately shaking her head and running in front of several marines who had crawled out on the grass, away from the swirling, vanishing clouds of gas. They were on their knees with a clear view of Bourne, getting their bearings, leveling their rifles unsteadily at him. Marie positioned herself between the recovering guards and their target. “Haven’t you done enough to him? For God’s sake, somebody stop them!”
“And get blown away by some son of a bitch terrorist?” yelled a youthful voice from the ranks by the front wall.
“He’s not what you think! Whatever he is, the people inside made him that way! You heard him. He won’t fire on you if you don’t shoot!”
“He’s already fired,” roared an officer.
“You’re still standing!” yelled back Alex Conklin from the edge of the patio. “And he’s a better marksman with more weapons than any man here! Account for it! I can!”
“I don’t need you!” thundered Jason Bourne, once again triggering a burst of machine-gun fire into the burning wall of the sterile house.
Suddenly the assassin was on his feet, crouching, then lunging for the marine nearest him, a hatless youngster still coughing from the gas. The killer grabbed the guard’s rifle, kicking him in the head, and fired the weapon into the next nearest marine, who lurched backward grabbing his stomach. The killer spun around; he spotted an officer with a machine pistol not unlike Bourne’s; he shot him in the neck, and grabbed the weapon from the falling body. He paused for only a split second evaluating his chances, then whipped the machine pistol up under his left arm. Delta watched, instinctively knowing what the commando would do, knowing, too, that his diversion was about to take place.
The assassin did it. He fired again, one round after another, into the closed ranks of the young, inexperienced marines by the front wall, racing, dodging his way across the short stretch of grass into the shoulder-high row of flowers on Bourne’s left. It was his only escape route, the least illuminated—the collapsed right rear wall.
“Stop him!” shouted Conklin, limping frantically across the patio. “But don’t shoot! Don’t kill him! For Christ’s sake, don’t kill him!”
“Bullshit!” came the reply from someone in the squad of marines by the left rear wall. The assassin, twisting, turning, crouching, his rifle on repeat fire, quickly worked his way toward the broken wall, pinning the guards down by his rapid bursts. The rifle chamber ran out of shells; he threw the weapon down, swinging the murderous machine pistol into place, and started his last race toward the broken wall, spraying the prone contingent of marines. He was there! The darkness beyond was his escape!
“You motherfucker!” It was a teenager’s cry, the voice immature, in torment, but nevertheless lethal. “You killed my buddy! You blew his fucking face off! You’re going to buy it, you shithead!”
A young black marine leaped away from his dead white companion and raced toward the wall as the assassin swung around, vaulting over the stone. Another burst from the killer caught the marine in the shoulder; he lunged to the ground, rolled over twice to his left, and fired four rounds of ammunition.
They were followed by an agonizing, hysterical scream of defiance. It was the scream of death; the assassin, his eyes wide in hatred, fell into the jagged rocks. Major Allcott-Price, formerly of the Royal Commandos, was gone.
Bourne started forward, his weapon raised. Marie ran to the border of the patio, the distance between them no more than a few feet. “Don’t do it, David!”
“I’m not David, lady! Ask your scum-ball friend, we go back a long time. Get out of my way!” Why couldn’t he kill her? One burst, and he was free to do what he had to do! Why?
“All right!” screamed Marie, holding her place. “There is no David, all right? You’re Jason Bourne! You’re Delta! You’re anything you want to be, but you’re also mine! You’re my husband!” The revelation had the impact of a sudden bolt of lightning on the guards who heard it. The officers, their elbows bent, held up their hands—the universal command to hold fire—as they and the men stared in astonishment.
“I don’t know you!”
“My voice is my own. You know it, Jason.”
“A trick! An actress, a mimic! A lie! It’s been done before.”
“And if I look different, it’s because of you, Jason Bourne!”
“Get out of my way or get killed!”
“You taught me in Paris! On the rue de Rivoli, the Hotel Meurice, the newsstand on the corner. Can you remember? The newspapers with the story out of Zurich, my photograph on all the front pages! And the small hotel in the Montparnasse when we were checking out, the concierge reading the paper, my picture in front of his face! You were so frightened you told me to run outside.… The taxi! Do you remember the taxi? On the way to Issy-les-Moulineaux—I’ll never forget that impossible name. ‘Change your hair,’ you said. ‘Pull it up or push it back!’ You said you didn’t care what I did so long as I changed it! You asked me if I had an eyebrow pencil—you told me to thicken my brows, make them longer! Your words, Jason! We were running for our lives and you wanted me to look different, to remove any likeness to the photograph that was all over Europe! I had to become a chameleon because Jason Bourne was a chameleon. He had to teach his lover, his wife! That’s all I’ve done, Jason!”
“No!” cried Delta, drawing the word out into a scream, the mists of confusion enveloping him, sending his mind into the outer regions of panic. The images were there! Rue de Rivoli, the Montparnasse, the taxi. Listen to me. I am a chameleon called Cain and I can teach you many things I do not care to teach you but I must. I can change my color to accommodate the forest, I can shift with the wind by smelling it. I can find my way through natural and man-made jungles. Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, Delta.… Delta is for Charlie and Charlie is for Cain. I am Cain. I am death. And I must tell you who I am and lose you.
“You do remember!” shouted David Webb’s wife.
“A trick! The chemicals—I said the words. They gave you the words! They have to stop me!”
“They gave me nothing! I want nothing from them. I only want my husband! I’m Marie!”
“You’re a lie! They killed her!” Delta squeezed the trigger and the fusillade of bullets exploded the earth at Marie’s feet. Rifles were quickly brought up to firing positions.
“Don’t do it!” screamed Marie, whipping her head over at the marine guards, her eyes glaring, her voice a command. “All right, Jason. If you don’t know me, I don’t want to live. I can’t be plainer than that, my darling. It’s why I understand what you’re doing. You’re throwing your life away because a part of you that’s taken over thinks I’m gone and you don’t want to live without me. I understand that very well because I don’t want to live without you.” Marie took several steps across the grass and stood motionless.
Delta raised the machine gun, the snub-nosed sight on the barrel centering on the gray hair streaked with white. His index finger closed around the trigger. Suddenly, involuntarily, his right hand began to tremble, then his left. The murderous weapon began to waver, at first slowly, back and forth, then faster—in circles—as Bourne’s head swayed in fitful jerks; the trembling spread; his neck began to lose control.
There was a commotion within the gathering crowd at the smoldering ruins of the gate and the guardhouse several hundred feet away. A man struggled; he was held by two marines. “Let me go, you goddamned fools! I’m a doctor, his doctor!” With a surge of strength, Morris Panov broke away and raced across the lawn into the glare of the floodlights. He stopped twenty feet from Bourne.
Delta began to moan; the sound and the rhythm was barbaric. Jason Bourne dropped the weapon … and David Webb fell to his knees weeping. Marie started toward him.
“No!” commanded Panov, his voice quietly emphatic, stopping Webb’s wife. “He has to come to you. He must.”
“He needs me!”
“Not that way. He has to recognize you. David has to recognize you and tell his other self to let him free. You can’t do that for him. He has to do it for himself.”
Silence. Floodlights. Fire.
And like a cringing, beaten child, David Webb raised his head, the tears streaming down his cheeks. Slowly, painfully, he rose to his feet and ran into the arms of his wife.