"I will hear no more, honored Judge!" exclaimed the deputy. "Except to add that your appraisal of my abilities might not be lost on my superiors."

"They will be made clear, I assure you. ... Precisely where did my not too distant and distinguished cousin go?"

"A small out island where the seaplanes must land on the water. Its name is Tranquility Isle and the resort is called Tranquility Inn."

"You will be personally thanked by those above you, be assured of that."

"And I shall personally clear you through customs."

Brendan Patrick Pierre Prefontaine, carrying his suitcase of burnished leather, walked out into the terminal of Blackburne Airport a bewildered man. Bewildered, hell, he was stunned! He could not decide whether to take the next flight back to Boston or to ... his feet were apparently deciding for him. He found himself walking toward a counter beneath a large sea-blue sign with white lettering: INTER-ISLAND AIRWAYS. It couldn't do any harm to inquire, he mused, then he would buy a ticket on the next plane to Boston.

On the wall beyond the counter a list of nearby "Out Isles" was next to a larger column of the well-known Leeward and Windward Islands from St. Kitts and Nevis south to the Grenadines. Tranquility was sandwiched between Canada Cay and Turtle Rock. Two clerks, both young, one black and one white, the former a young woman, the latter a blond-haired man in his early twenties, were talking quietly. The girl approached. "May I help you, sir?"

"I'm not really sure," replied Brendan hesitantly. "My schedule's so unsettled, but it seems I have a friend on Tranquility Isle."

"At the inn, sir?"

"Yes, apparently so. Does it take long to fly over there?"

"If the weather's clear, no more than fifteen minutes, but that would be an amphibious charter. I'm not sure one's available until tomorrow morning."

"Sure, there is, babe," interrupted the young man with small gold wings pinned crookedly on his white shirt. "I'm running over some supplies to Johnny St. Jay pretty soon," he added, stepping forward.

"He's not scheduled for today."

"As of an hour ago he is. Pronto."

At that instant and with those words, Prefontaine's eyes fell in astonishment on two stacks of cartons moving slowly down Inter-Island's luggage carousel toward the exterior loading area. Even if he had the time to debate with himself, he knew his decision was made.

"I'd like to purchase a ticket on that flight, if I may," he said, watching the boxes of Gerber's Assorted Baby Foods and Pampers Medium Diapers disappear into the hold.

He had found the unknown woman with the small male child and the infant.

Routine secondhand inquiries at the Federal Trade Commission confirmed the fact that its chairman, Albert Armbruster, did, indeed, have ulcers as well as high blood pressure and under doctor's orders left the office and returned home whenever discomfort struck him. Which was why Alex Conklin telephoned him after a generally overindulgent lunch-also established-with an "update" of the Snake Lady crisis. As with Alex's initial call, catching Armbruster in the shower, he anonymously told the shaken chairman that someone would be in touch with him later in the day-either at the office or at home. The contact would identify himself simply as Cobra. ("Use all the banal trigger words you can come up with" was the gospel according to St. Conklin.) In the meantime, Armbruster was instructed to talk to no one. "Those are orders from the Sixth Fleet."

"Oh, Christ!"

Thus Albert Armbruster called for his chariot and was driven home in discomfort. Further nausea was in store for the chairman, however, as Jason Bourne was waiting for him.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Armbruster," said the stranger pleasantly as the chairman struggled out of the limousine, the door held open by the chauffeur.

"Yes, what?" Armbruster's response was immediate, unsure.

"I merely said 'Good afternoon.' My name's Simon. We met at the White House reception for the Joint Chiefs several years ago-"

"I wasn't there," broke in the chairman emphatically.

"Oh?" The stranger arched his brows, his voice still pleasant but obviously questioning.

"Mr. Armbruster?" The chauffeur had closed the door and now turned courteously to the chairman. "Will you be needing-"

"No, no," said Armbruster, again interrupting. "You're relieved-I won't need you anymore today ... tonight."

"Same time tomorrow morning, sir?"

"Yes, tomorrow-unless you're told otherwise. I'm not a well man; check with the office."

"Yes, sir." The chauffeur tipped his visored cap and climbed back into the front seat.

"I'm sorry to hear that," said the stranger, holding his place as the limousine's engine was started and the automobile rolled away.

"What? ... Oh, you. I was never at the White House for that damned reception!"

"Perhaps I was mistaken-"

"Yes, well, nice to see you again," said Armbruster anxiously, impatiently, hurrying to the steps that led up to his Georgetown house.

"Then again, I'm quite sure Admiral Burton introduced us-"

"What?" The chairman spun around. "What did you just say.

"This is a waste of time," continued Jason Bourne, the pleasantness gone from his voice and his face. "I'm Cobra."

"Oh, Jesus! ... I'm not a well man." Armbruster repeated the statement in a hoarse whisper, snapping his head up to look at the front of his house, to the windows and the door.

"You'll be far worse unless we talk," added Jason, following the chairman's eyes. "Shall it be up there? In your house?"

"No!" cried Armbruster. "She yaps all the time and wants to know everything about everybody, then blabs all over town exaggerating everything."

"I assume you're talking about your wife."

"All of 'em! They don't know when to keep their traps shut."

"It sounds like they're starved for conversation."

"What...?"

"Never mind. I've got a car down the block. Are you up to a drive?"

"I damn well better be. We'll stop at the drugstore down the street. They've got my prescription on file. ... Who the hell are you?"

"I told you," answered Bourne. "Cobra. It's a snake."

"Oh, Jesus!" whispered Albert Armbruster.

The pharmacist complied rapidly, and Jason quickly drove to a neighborhood bar he had chosen an hour before should one be necessary. It was dark and full of shadows, the booths deep, the banquettes high, isolating those meeting one another from curious glances. The ambience was important, for it was vital that he stare into the eyes of the chairman when he asked questions, his own eyes ice-cold, demanding ... threatening. Delta was back, Cain had returned; Jason Bourne was in full command, David Webb forgotten.

"We have to cover ourselves," said the Cobra quietly after their drinks arrived. "In terms of damage control that means we have to know how much harm each of us could do under the Amytals."

"What the hell does that mean?" asked Armbruster swallowing most of his gin and tonic while wincing and holding his stomach.

"Drugs, chemicals, truth serums."

"What?"

"This isn't your normal ball game," said Bourne, remembering Conklin's words. "We've got to cover all of the bases because there aren't any constitutional rights in this series."

"So who are you?" The chairman of the Federal Trade Commission belched and brought his glass briefly to his lips, his hand trembling. "Some kind of one-man hit team? John Doe knows something, so he's shot in an alley?"

"Don't be ridiculous. Anything like that would be totally counterproductive. It would only fuel those trying to find us, leave a trail-"

"Then what are you talking about?"

"Saving our lives, which includes our reputations and our life-styles."