"It's not so hard, Doctor," laughed the marine, leading Panov to a motorized cart complete with a uniformed driver and a stenciled American flag on the side. "During our descent, the tower radioed the pilot that there was an urgent message for him."

"I thought he went to the bathroom."

"That, too, I believe, sir." The corporal put the suitcase on a rear rack and helped Mo into the cart. "Easy now, Doctor, lift your leg up a little higher."

"That's the other one, not me," protested the psychiatrist. "He's the one without a foot."

"We were told you'd been ill, sir."

"Not in my goddamned legs. ... Sorry, young man, no offense. I just don't like flying in small tubes a hundred and ten miles up in the sky. Not too many astronauts come from Tremont Avenue in the Bronx."

"Hey, you're kidding, Doc!"

"What?"

"I'm from Garden Street, you know, across from the zoo! The name's Fleishman, Morris Fleishman. Nice to meet a fellow Bronxite."

"Morris?" said Panov, shaking hands. "Morris the Marine? I should have had a talk with your parents. ... Stay well, Mo. And thank you for your concern."

"You get better, Doc, and when you see Tremont Avenue again, give it my best, okay?"

"I will, indeed, Morris," replied Morris, raising his hand as the diplomatic cart shot forward.

Four minutes later, escorted by the driver, Panov entered the long gray corridor that was the immigration-free access to France for government functionaries of nations accredited by the Quai d'Orsay. They walked into the large holding lounge where men and women were gathered in small groups, conversing quietly, the sounds of different languages filling the room. Alarmed, Mo saw that Conklin was nowhere in sight; he turned to the driver-escort as a young woman dressed in the neutral uniform of a hostess approached.

"Docteur?" she asked, addressing Panov.

"Yes," replied Mo, surprised. "But I'm afraid my French is pretty rusty if not nonexistent."

"It's of no matter, sir. Your companion requested that you remain here until he returns. It will be no more than a few minutes, he was quite sure. ... Please, sit down. May I bring you a drink?"

"Bourbon with ice, if you'd be so kind," answered Panov, lowering himself into the armchair.

"Certainly, sir." The hostess retreated as the driver placed Mo's suitcase beside him.

"I have to get back to my vehicle," said the diplomatic escort. "You'll be fine here."

"I wonder where my friend went," mused Panov, glancing at his watch.

"Probably to an outside phone, Doctor. They come in here, get messages at the counters, then go like hell into the terminal to find public pay phones; they don't like the ones in here. The Russkies always walk the fastest; the Arabs, the slowest."

"Must be their respective climates," offered the psychiatrist, smiling.

"Don't bet your stethoscope on it." The driver laughed and brought his hand up for an informal salute. "Take care, sir, and get some rest. You look tired."

"Thank you, young man. Good-bye." I am tired, thought Panov as the escort disappeared into the gray corridor. So tired, but Alex was right. If he'd flown here alone, I would never have forgiven him. ... David! We've got to find him! The damage to him could be incalculable-none of them understands. With a single act his fragile, damaged mind could regress years-thirteen years-to where he was a functioning killer, and for him nothing else! ... A voice. The figure above was talking to him. "I'm sorry, forgive me. ... Your drink, Doctor," said the hostess pleasantly. "I debated whether to wake you, but then you moved and sounded as though you were in pain-"

"No, not at all, my dear. Just tired."

"I understand, sir. Sudden flights can be so exhausting, and if they are long and uncomfortable, even worse."

"You touched on all three points, miss," agreed Panov, taking his drink. "Thank you."

"You are American, of course."

"How could you tell? I'm not wearing cowboy boots or a Hawaiian shirt."

The woman laughed charmingly. "I know the driver who brought you in here. He's American security, and quite nice, very attractive."

"Security? You mean like in 'police'?"

"Oh, very much so, but we never use the word. ... Oh, here's your companion coming back inside." The hostess lowered her voice. "May I ask quickly, Doctor? Does he require a wheelchair?"

"Good heavens, no. He's walked like that for years."

"Very well. Enjoy your stay in Paris, sir." The woman left as Alex, limping, weaved around several groups of chattering Europeans to the chair next to Panov. He sat down and leaned forward awkwardly in the soft leather. He was obviously disturbed.

"What's the matter?" asked Mo.

"I just talked to Charlie Casset in Washington."

"He's the one you like, the one you trust, isn't he?"

"He's the best there is when he has personal access, or, at least, human intelligence. When he can see and hear and look for himself, and not simply read words on paper or a computer screen without asking questions."

"Are you, perchance, moving into my territory again, Doctor Conklin?"

"I accused David of that last week and I'll tell you what he told me. It's a free country, and your training notwithstanding, you don't have a franchise on common sense."

"Mea culpa," agreed Panov, nodding. "I gather your friend did something you don't approve of."

"He did something he wouldn't approve of if he had more information on whom he did it with."

"That sounds positively Freudian, even medically imprudent."

"Both are part of it, I guess. He made an outside unsanctioned deal with a man named Dimitri Krupkin at the Russian embassy here in Paris. We'll be working with the local KGB-you, me, Bourne and Marie-if and when we find them. Hopefully, in Rambouillet in an hour or so."

"What are you saying?" asked Mo, astonished and barely audible.

"Long story, short time. Moscow wants the Jackal's head, the rest of him separated from it. Washington can't feed us or protect us, so the Soviets will act as our temporary paterfamilias if we find ourselves in a bind."

Panov frowned, then shook his head as though absorbing very strange information, then spoke. "I suppose it's not your run-of-the-mill development, but there's a certain logic, even comfort, to it."

"On paper, Mo," said Conklin. "Not with Dimitri Krupkin. I know him. Charlie doesn't."

"Oh? He's one of the evil people?"

"Kruppie evil? No, not really-"

"Kruppie?"

"We go way back as young hustlers to Istanbul in the late sixties and Athens after that, then Amsterdam later. ... Krupkin's not malevolent, and he works like a son of a bitch for Moscow with a damn good second-rate mind, better than eighty percent of the clowns in our business, but he's got a problem. He's fundamentally on the wrong side, in the wrong society. His parents should have come over with mine when the Bolsheviks took the throne."

"I forget. Your family was Russian."

"Speaking the language helps with Kruppie. I can nail his nuances. He's the quintessential capitalist. Like the economic ministers in Beijing, he doesn't just like money, he's obsessed with it-and everything that goes with it. Out of sight and out of sanction, he could be bought."

"You mean by the Jackal?"

"I saw him bought in Athens by Greek developers selling additional airstrips to Washington when they knew the Communists were going to throw us out. They paid him to shut up. Then I watched him broker diamonds in Amsterdam between the merchants on the Nieuwmarkt and the dacha-elite in Moscow. We had drinks one night in the Kattengat and I asked him, 'Kruppie, what the fuck are you doing?' You know what he said? He said in clothes I couldn't afford, 'Aleksei, I'll do everything I can to outsmart you, to help the supreme Soviet to gain world dominance, but in the meantime, if you'd like a holiday, I have a lovely house on the lake in Geneva.' That's what he said, Mo."