"I'll answer that," Alex said. "He'll tell you anything you have to know but no more than that. Also, he won't lie. He'll keep his mouth shut, or tell you he can't tell you, but he won't lie to you."

"That's another thing I wanted to hear." There was a brief knock on the door, and the DCI called out for the visitor to enter. A medium-sized, slightly overweight man with wide eyes magnified behind steel-rimmed glasses walked into the room, closing the door behind him. His casual second glance at the table revealed Alexander Conklin to him; he was obviously startled by the sight of the retired intelligence officer. Instantly, he changed his reaction to one of pleasant surprise, crossing to Conklin's chair, his hand extended.

"Good to see you, old boy. It's been two or three years now, hasn't it?"

"More like four, Steve," replied Alex, shaking hands. "How's the analysts' analyst and keeper of the keys?"

"Not much to analyze or to lock up these days. The White House is a sieve and the Congress isn't much better. I should get half pay, but don't tell anyone."

"We still keep some things to ourselves, don't we?" interrupted the DCI, smiling. "At least from past operations. Perhaps you earned double your pay then."

"Oh, I suspect I did." DeSole nodded his head humorously as he released Conklin's hand. "However, the days of archive custodians and armed transfers to underground warehouses are over. Today it's all computerized photo scans entered by machines from on high. I don't get to go on those wonderful trips any longer with military escorts, pretending I'll be deliciously attacked by Mata Hari. I haven't had a briefcase chained to my wrist since I can't remember when."

"A lot safer that way," said Alex.

"But very little I can tell my grandchildren about, old boy. ... 'What did you do as a big spy, Grandpa?'... 'Actually, in my last years, a great many crossword puzzles, young man.' "

"Be careful, Mr. DeSole," said the DCI, chuckling. "I shouldn't care to put in a recommendation to cut your pay. ... On the other hand, I couldn't, because I don't believe you for an instant."

"Neither do I." Conklin spoke quietly, angrily. "This is a setup," he added, staring at the overweight analyst.

"That's quite a statement, Alex," countered DeSole. "Would you mind explaining it?"

"You know why I'm here, don't you?"

"I didn't know you were here."

"Oh, I see. It just happened to be convenient for you to be 'down the hall' and ready to come in here."

"My office is down the hall. Quite far down, I might add."

Conklin looked at the DCI. "Again, very smooth, sir. Bring in three people you figure I've had no major run-ins with outside of the system itself, three men you've determined I basically trust, so I'll believe whatever's said."

"That's fundamentally accurate, Mr. Conklin, because what you'll hear is the truth. Sit down, Mr. DeSole. ... Perhaps at this end of the table so that our former colleague can study us as we explain to him. I understand it's a technique favored by field officers."

"I haven't a damn thing to explain," said the analyst as he headed for the chair next to Casset. "But in light of our former colleague's somewhat gross remarks, I'd like to study him. ... Are you well, Alex?"

"He's well," answered the deputy director named Valentino. "He's snarling at the wrong shadows but he's well."

"That information couldn't have surfaced without the consent and cooperation of the people in this room!"

"What information?" asked DeSole, looking at the DCI, suddenly widening his large eyes behind his glasses. "Oh, the max-classified thing you asked me about this morning?"

The director nodded, then looked at Conklin. "Let's go back to this morning. ... Seven hours ago, shortly after nine o'clock, I received a call from Edward McAllister, formerly of the State Department and currently chairman of the National Security Agency. I'm told Mr. McAllister was with you in Hong Kong, Mr. Conklin, is that correct?"

"Mr. McAllister was with us," agreed Alex flatly. "He flew undercover with Jason Bourne to Macao, where he was shot up so badly he damn near died. He's an intellectual oddball and one of the bravest men I've ever met."

"He said nothing about the circumstances, only that he was there, and I was to shred my calendar, if need be, but to consider our meeting with you as Priority Red. ... Heavy artillery, Mr. Conklin."

"To repeat. There are heavy reasons for the cannons."

"Apparently. ... Mr. McAllister gave me the precise maximum-classified codes that would clarify the status of the file you're talking about-the record of the Hong Kong operation. I, in turn, gave the information to Mr. DeSole, so I'll let him tell you what he learned."

"It hasn't been touched, Alex," said DeSole quietly, his eyes leveled on Conklin. "As of nine-thirty this morning, it's been in a black hole for four years, five months, twenty-one days, eleven hours and forty-three minutes without penetration. And there's a very good reason why that status is pure, but I have no idea whether you're aware of it or not."

"Where that file is concerned I'm aware of everything!"

"Perhaps, perhaps not," said DeSole gently. "You were known to have a problem, and Dr. Panov is not that experienced where security matters are concerned."

"What the hell are you driving at?"

"A third name was added to the clearance procedures for that official record on Hong Kong. ... Edward Newington McAllister, by his own insistence and with both presidential and congressional authority. He made sure of it."

"Oh, my God," said Conklin softly, hesitantly. "When I called him last night from Baltimore he said it was impossible. Then he said I had to understand for myself, so he'd set up the conference. ... Jesus, what happened?"

"I'd say we'd have to look elsewhere," said the DCI. "But before we do that, Mr. Conklin, you have to make a decision. You see, none of us at this table knows what's in that maximum classified file. ... We've talked, of course, and as Mr. Casset said, we understood that you did a hell of a job in Hong Kong, but we don't know what that job was. We heard the rumors out of our Far East stations which, frankly, most of us believed were exaggerated in the spreading, and paramount among them was your name and that of the assassin Jason Bourne. The scuttlebutt then was that you were responsible for the capture and execution of the killer we knew as Bourne, yet a few moments ago in your anger you used the phrase 'the unknown man who assumed the name of Jason Bourne,' stating that he was alive and in hiding. In terms of specifics, we're at a loss-at least I am, God knows."

"You didn't pull the record out?"

"No," answered DeSole. "That was my decision. As you may or may not know, every invasion of a maximum-classified file is automatically marked with the date and hour of penetration. ... Since the director informed me that there was a large Security Agency flap over an illegal entry, I decided to leave well enough alone. Not penetrated in nearly five years, therefore not read or even known about and consequently not given to the evil people, whoever they are."

"You were covering your ass right down to the last square inch of flesh."

"Most assuredly, Alex. That data has a White House flag on it. Things are relatively stable around here now and it serves no one to ruffle feathers in the Oval Office. There's a new man at that desk, but the former president is still very much alive and opinionated. He'd be consulted, so why risk trouble?"

Conklin studied each face and spoke quietly. "Then you really don't know the story, do you?"

"It's the truth, Alex," said Deputy Director Casset.

"Nothing but, you pain," agreed Valentino, permitting himself a slight smile.

"My word on it," added Steven DeSole, his clear, wide eyes rigid on Conklin.