The Bourne Supremacy

you,' said Jason. 'One's in a clump over there and I hope the other can swim.'

Those men are- Who are you?

'I think you know,' Bourne had answered. 'Go to the back of the ferry and stay there. If you take one step forward before we dock, you'll never take another.'

'Oh, God, you are-'

'I wouldn't finish that, if I were you.'

The second name was accompanied by an unlikely address, a restaurant in Causeway Bay that specialized in classic French food. According to Yao Ming's brief notes, the man acted as the manager but was actually the owner, and a number of the waiters were as adept with guns as they were with trays. The contact's home address was not known; all his business was done at the restaurant, and it was suspected that he had no permanent residence. Bourne had returned to the Peninsula, discarded his jacket and hat and walked rapidly through the crowded lobby to the elevator; a well-dressed couple had tried not to show their shock at his appearance. He had smiled and muttered apologetically.

'A company treasure hunt. It's kind of silly, isn't it.'

In his room, he had permitted himself a few moments to be David Webb again. It was a mistake; he could not stand the suspension of Bourne's train of thought. I'm him again. I have to be. He knows what to do. I don't! He had showered the filth of the Walled City and the oppressive humidity of the Star Ferry off him, shaved away the shadow on his face and dressed for a late French dinner.

'I'll find him, Marie! I swear to Christ 'I'll find him! It was David Webb's promise, but it was Jason Bourne who shouted in fury.

The restaurant looked more like an exquisite rococo dining palace on Paris's Boulevard Montaigne than a one-storey structure in Hong Kong. Intricate chandeliers hung from the ceiling, the tiny bulbs dimmed; encased candles flickered on tables with the purest linen and the finest silver and crystal.

'I'm afraid we have no tables this evening, monsieur,' the maitre said. He was the only Frenchman in evidence.

'I was told to ask for Jiang Yu and say it was urgent,' Bourne had replied, showing a $100 bill, American. 'Do you think he might find something, if this finds him?

7 will find it, monsieur.' The maitre subtly shook Jason's hand, receiving the money. 'Jiang Yu is a fine member of our small community, but it is I who select. Comprenez-vous? 'Absolument.'

'Bien! You have the face of an attractive, sophisticated man. This way, please, monsieur.'

The dinner was not to be had; events occurred too quickly. Within minutes after the arrival of his drink, a slender Chinese in a black suit had appeared at his table. If there was anything odd about him, thought David Webb, it was in the darker colour of his skin and the larger slope of his eyes. Malaysian was in his bloodline. Stop it commanded Bourne. That doesn't do us any good!

'You asked for me? said the manager, his eyes searching the face that looked up at him. 'How can I be of service? 'By sitting down first.' 'It is most irregular to sit with guests, sir.' 'Not really.' Not if you own the place. Please. Sit down.' 'Is this another tiresome intrusion by the Bureau of Taxation? If so, I hope you enjoy your dinner, which you will pay for. My records are quite clear and quite accurate.'

'If you think I'm British, you haven't listened to me. And if by "tiresome" you mean that a half a million dollars is boring, then you can get the hell out of my sight and I'll enjoy my meal.' Bourne leaned back in the booth and sipped his drink with his left hand. His right was hidden.

'Who sent you? asked the Oriental of mixed blood, as he sat down.

'Move away from the edge.' I want to talk very quietly.' 'Yes, of course.' Jiang Yu inched his way directly opposite Bourne. 'I must ask. Who sent you?

'I must ask,' said Jason, 'do you like American movies? Especially our Westerns?'

'Of course. American films are beautiful, and I admire the movies of your old West most of all. So poetic in retribution, so righteously violent. Am I saying the correct words?

'Yes, you are. Because right now you're in one.'

'I beg your pardon?

'I have a very special gun under the table. It's aimed between your legs.' Within the space of a second, Jason held back the cloth, pulled up the weapon so the barrel could be seen, and immediately shoved the gun back into place. 'It has a silencer that reduces the sound of a forty-five to the pop of a Champagne cork, but not the impact. Liao jie mu?'

'Liao jie...' said the Oriental, rigid, breathing deeply in fear. 'You are with Special Branch?

'I'm with no one but myself.4

There is no half million dollars, then?

There's whatever you consider your life is worth.'

'Why me?'

'You're on a list,' Bourne had answered truthfully.

'For execution? whispered the Chinese, gasping, his face contorted.

'That depends on you.'

'I must pay you not to kill me?

'In a sense, yes.'

'I don't carry half a million dollars in my pockets! Nor here on the premises!'

'Then pay me something else.'

'What! How much! You confuse me!' 'Information instead of money.'

'What information? asked the Chinese as his fear turned into panic. 'What information would I have? Why come to me?

'Because you've had dealings with a man I want to find. The one for hire who calls himself Jason Bourne.'

'No! Never did it happen!'

The Oriental's hands began to tremble. The veins in his throat throbbed, and his eyes for the first time strayed from Jason's face. The man had lied.

'You're a liar,' said Bourne quietly, pushing his right arm farther underneath the table as he leaned forward. 'You made the connection in Macao.'

'Macao, yes\ But no connection. I swear on the graves of my family for generations!'

'You're very close to losing your stomach and your life. You were sent to Macao to reach him!'

'I was sent, but I did not reach him!'

'Prove it to me. How were you to make contact?

The Frenchman. I was to stand on the top steps of the burned-out Basilica of St Paul on the Calcada. I was to wear a black kerchief around my neck and when a man came up to me - a Frenchman - and remarked about the beauty of the ruins, I was to say the following words: "Cain is for Delta." If he replied, "And Carlos is for Cain", I was to accept him as the link to Jason Bourne. But I swear to you, he never-'

Bourne did not hear the remainder of the man's protestations. Staccato explosions erupted in his head; his mind was thrown back. Blinding white light filled his eyes, the crashing sounds unbearable. Cain is for Delta and Carlos is for Cain... Cain is for Delta! Delta One is Cain! Medusa moves; the snake sheds his skin. Cain is in Paris and Carlos will be his! They were the words, the codes, the challenges hurled at the Jackal. I am Cain and I am superior and I am here! Come find me, Jackal! I dare you to find Cain for he kills better than you do. You'd better find me before I find you, Carlos. You're no match for Cain!

Good God! Who halfway across the world would know those words - could know them? They were locked away in the deepest archives of covert operations! They were a direct connection to Medusa!

Bourne had nearly squeezed the trigger of the unseen automatic, so sudden was the shock of this incredible revelation. He removed his index finger, placing it around the trigger housing; he had come close to killing a man for revealing extraordinary information. But how! How could it have happened! Who was the conduit to the new 'Jason Bourne' that knew such things?