He looked at his watch. It was 3:37; the day was passing quickly, nervously. He had to hold on! Oh, God, Marie! Where are you?

Conklin put down his glass of flat ginger ale on the scratched, soiled bar of the seedy establishment on 9th Street. He was a regular patron for the simple reason that no one in his professional circles – and what was left of his social one -would ever walk through the filthy glass doors. There was a certain freedom in that knowledge, and the other patrons accepted him, the 'gimp' who always took off his tie the moment he entered, limping his way to a stool by the pinball machine at the end of the bar. And whenever he did, the rocks-glass filled with bourbon was waiting for him. Also, the owner-bartender had no objections to Alex receiving calls at the still-standing antiquated booth against the wall. It was his 'sterile phone', and it was ringing now.

Conklin trudged across the floor, entered the old booth and closed the door. He picked up the phone. 'Yes? he said.

'Is this Treadstone?' asked an odd-sounding male voice.

'I was there. Were you?

'No, I wasn't, but I'm cleared for the file, for the whole mess. '

The voice! thought Alex. How had Webb described it? Anglicized? Mid-Atlantic, refined, certainly not ordinary. It was the same man. The gnomes had been working; they had made progress. Someone was afraid.

'Then I'm sure your memory corresponds with everything I've written down because I was there and I have written it down – written it all down. Facts, names, events, substantiations, back-ups... everything, including the story Webb told me last night . '

'Then I can assume that if anything ugly happened, your voluminous reportage will find its way to a Senate subcommittee or a pack of congressional watchdogs. Am I right?'

'I'm glad we understand each other. '

'It wouldn't do any good,' said the man condescendingly.

'If anything ugly happened, I wouldn't care, would IT

'You're about to retire. You drink a great deal. '

'I didn't always. There's usually a reason for both of those things for a man of my age and competence. Could they be admittedly tied into a certain file?'

'Forget it. Let's talk. '

'Not before you say something a little closer. Treadstone was bandied about here and there; it's not that substantive. '

'All right. Medusa . '

'Stronger,' said Alex. 'But not strong enough. '

'Very well. The creation of Jason Bourne. The Monk. '

'Warmer. '

'Missing funds – unaccounted for and never recovered -estimated to be around five million dollars. Zurich, Paris, and points west . '

'There were rumours. I need a capstone. '

'I'll give it to you. The execution of Jason Bourne. The date was May twenty-third in Tarn Quan... and the same day in New York four years later. On Seventy-first Street. Treadstone 71.'

Conklin closed his eyes and breathed deeply, feeling the hollowness in his throat . 'All right,' he said quietly. 'You're in the circle. '

'I can't give you my name. '

'What are you going to give me?

Two words: Back off. '

'You think I'll accept that?

'You have to,' said the voice, his words precise. 'Bourne is needed where he's going. '

'Bourne?' Alex stared at the phone.

'Yes, Jason Bourne. He can't be recruited in any normal way. We both know that . '

'So you steal his wife from him? Goddamned animals!'

'She won't be harmed. '

'You can't guarantee that! You don't have the controls. You've got to be using second and third parties right now, and if I know my business – and I do – they're probably paid blinds so you can't be traced; you don't even know who they are... My God, you wouldn't have called me if you did. If you could reach them and get the verifications you want, you wouldn't be talking to me!'

The cultured voice paused. 'Then we both lied, didn't we, Mr. Conklin? There was no escape on the woman's part, no call to Webb. Nothing. You went fishing, and so did I, and we both came up with nothing. '

'You're a barracuda, Mr. No-name. '

'You've been where I am, Mr. Conklin. Right down to David Webb... Now; what can you tell me?'

Alex again felt the hollowness in his throat, now joined with a sharp pain in his chest . 'You've lost them, haven't you?' he whispered. 'You've lost her. ''

'Forty-eight hours isn't permanent,' said the voice guardedly.

'But you've been trying like hell to make contact!' accused Conklin. 'You've called in your conduits, the people who hired the blinds, and suddenly they're not there – you can't find them. Jesus, you have lost control! It did go off the wire! Someone walked in on your strategy and you have no idea who it is. He played your scenario and took it away from you!'

'Our safeguards are spread out,' objected the man without the conviction he had displayed during the past moments. 'The best men in the field are working every district . '

'Including McAllister? In Kowloon? Hong Kong?

'You know that?'

'I know. '

'McAllister's a damn fool, but he's good at what he does. And yes, he's there. We're not panicked. We'll recover. '

'Recover what? asked Alex, filled with anger. 'The merchandise? Your strategy's aborted! Someone else is in charge. Why would he give you back the merchandise? You've killed Webb's wife, Mr. No-name! What the hell did you think you Were doing?

'We just wanted to get him over there,' replied the voice defensively. 'Explain things, show him. We need him. ' Then the man resumed his calm delivery. 'And for all we know, everything's still on the wire. Communications are notoriously bad in that part of the world. '

'The ex-culpa for everything in this business. '

'In most businesses, Mr. Conklin... How do you read it? Now I'm the one who's asking – very sincerely. You have a certain reputation. '

'Had, No-name. '

'Reputations can't be taken away or contradicted, only added to, positively or negatively, of course. '

'You're a font of unwarranted information, you know that . '

'I'm also right. It's said you were one of the best. How do you read it?

Alex shook his head in the booth; the air was close, the

noise outside his 'sterile' phone growing louder in the seedy bar on 9th Street . 'What I said before. Someone found out what you people were planning – mounting for Webb – and decided to take over. '

'For God's sake, why?

'Because whoever it is wants Jason Bourne more than you do,' Alex said and hung up.

It was 6:28 when Conklin walked into the lounge at Dulles Airport. He had waited in a taxi down the street from Webb's hotel and had followed David, giving the driver precise instructions. He had been right, but there was no point in burdening Webb with the knowledge. Two grey Plymouths had picked up David's cab and alternately exchanged positions during the surveillance. So be it. One Alexander Conklin might be hanged, and then again, he might not. People at State were behaving stupidly, he had thought as he wrote down the licence numbers. He spotted Webb in a darkened back booth.

'It is you, isn't it? said Alex, dragging his dead foot into the banquette. 'Do blonds really have more fun?

'It worked in Paris. What did you find?'

'I found slugs under rocks who can't find their way up out of the ground. But then they wouldn't know what to do with the sunlight, would they?

'Sunlight's illuminating; you're not. Cut the crap, Alex. I have to get to the gate in a few minutes. ' '

'In short words, they worked out a strategy to get you over to Kowloon. It was based on a previous experience.'

'You can skip that,' said David. 'Why?'

'The man said they needed you. Not you, Webb; they needed Bourne. '

'Because they say Bourne's already there. I told you what McAllister said. Did he go into it?'