Delia squeezed her hand tighter. “Of course he thinks that. Surgeons always want to cut and paste.”

“In this instance, he may be right.”

“We’ll get a second opinion. A third, if necessary.”

“The MRI is clear,” Soraya said. “Even I could see the problem.”

“Hematomas can be self-healing.”

“I suppose this one could have been. Unfortunately, I flew. The trip from Paris exacerbated it, and now...”

Delia saw the fear in Soraya’s eyes. “Now what?”

Soraya took a deep breath and let it out. “Surgical procedures are done on pregnant women only in emergencies because there’s a double risk for the fetus—the anaesthesia and the procedure itself.” Tears glittered in her eyes. “Delia, if something goes wrong—”

“Nothing’s going to go wrong.”

“If something goes wrong,” Soraya persisted, “the mother’s wellbeing comes first. If there are complications, they’ll abort the baby.”

“Ah, Raya.” It was a kind of helpless cry, half submerged in the restaurant clamor.

Then Delia’s face cleared. “But why think like that?”

“I haveto think like that. You know why.”

Delia bent in closer. “Are you absolutely certain?”

“I did the math. Days and menstrual cycles don’t lie, at least mine don’t. There’s no doubt about the father’s identity.”

“Well, then...”

“Right.”

Both women looked up as the waiter appeared tableside. “Have you made your choices, ladies?”

After receiving his latest commission from Dani Amit, Ilan Halevy, known as the Babylonian, flew from Tel Aviv to Beirut on an Argentinian passport, part of a Mossad-created legend. From Beirut he traveled via private aircraft to Sidon, from Sidon to the Dahr El Ahmar encampment by Jeep.

Colonel Ben David was shaving when the Babylonian was shown into his tent. Ben David did not turn, but glanced at the assassin in the mirror before returning to the scrutiny of his bluish jawline. A livid scar of fire-red flesh, barely healed, ran down from the outside corner of Ben David’s left eye to the lobe of his ear. He could have opted for cosmetic surgery but hadn’t.

“Who knows you’re here?” he asked without preamble.

“No one,” the Babylonian said.

“Not even Dani Amit?”

The Babylonian looked at him steadily; he’d already answered this.

Ben David took the straight razor from his skin and nodded as he washed it free of cream and stubble. “All right then. We can talk.”

He carefully dried the razor before he closed it and put it away. Then he took up a towel and wiped his face clean. Only then did he turn to face the Babylonian.

“Killing becomes you.”

A slow smile spread across the Babylonian’s face. “It’s good to see you, too.”

The two men embraced briefly but intensely, then they stepped back and it was as if the intimacy had never happened. They were all business, and their business was deadly serious.

“They’ve sent me after Rebeka.”

Something dark flitted across Ben David’s eyes and was immediately gone.

“I know what that means to you,” the Babylonian said.

“Then you’re the only one.”

“It’s why I’m here.” The Babylonian regarded Ben David with no little curiosity. “What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to follow through on your commission.”

The Babylonian cocked his head. “Really?”

“Yes,” Ben David said. “Really.”

“I know how you feel about the girl.”

“Do you know how I feel about this project?”

“I do,” the Babylonian said. “Of course I do.”

“Then you know my priorities.”

The Babylonian eyed him for a moment. “She must have pissed you off royally.”

Ben David turned away, busying himself with aligning his shaving equipment in regimental order.

After a moment of observing him, the Babylonian said, “You only go OCD when you’re extremely agitated.”

The Colonel froze, pulling his fingers away from the implements.

“Don’t deny it,” the Babylonian said. “I know you too well.”

“And I know you,” Ben David said, turning back to face him. “You’ve never failed at a commission.”

“That’s not, strictly speaking, true.”

“But only you and I know that.”

The Babylonian nodded. “True enough.”

Ben David took a step toward the other. “The thing is, Rebeka has become tangled up with Jason Bourne.”

“Ah,” the Babylonian said. “Dani Amit didn’t inform me of that complication.”

“He doesn’t know.”

The Babylonian eyed Ben David for a moment. “Why didn’t you tell him?”

“Bourne is none of his fucking business.”

“In other words,” the Babylonian said, “Bourne is yourbusiness.”

Ben David took another step toward the assassin. “And now he’s yours, as well.”

“Which is why you brought me here.”

“As soon as I learned about the commission.”

“Yes,” the Babylonian said. “How exactly did you find out about it? So far as I know, only Dani Amit and the Director know.”

A slow smile spread across Colonel Ben David’s face. “It’s better this way,” he said, “for all of us.”

The Babylonian seemed to accept this. “So it’s Bourne you want.”

“Yes.”

“And Rebeka?”

“What about her?” Colonel Ben David said sharply.

“I know how you feel—”

“Keep your eye on what’s important. You cannot give Dani Amit the slightest reason to suspect you. You must fulfill your commission.”

The Babylonian looked on with some sympathy. “This can’t be easy for you.”

“Don’t worry about me,” Ben David snapped. “I’m perfectly fine.”

“And we’re on schedule.”

“To the dot.”

The Babylonian nodded. “I’ll be off then.”

“That would be wise.”

After the assassin was gone, Colonel Ben David stood staring at himself in the mirror. Then he strode over, picked up his straight razor, and threw it. The mirror shattered and, with it, Ben David’s reflection.

4

THE MAN, BIG, BURLY,and round-shouldered, resembled a bear. Clad in a bespoke sharkskin suit that cost more than the yearly salaries of many of his minions, he stood in the sun-splashed Place de la Concorde. The ceaseless clamor of tourists sounded to him like the hammering of a flock of woodpeckers. The endless spiral of traffic surrounding the cement island on which he stood was like death, speeding by always a little out of reach, until the moment when it ran over you, pounding you into the cobbles before speeding onward. He thought of the wasted days of his youth, before he had found himself, before he had discovered how to work his inner strength; time wasted, and now gone forever.

The Place de la Concorde was a favorite meeting place of his when he was in Paris because of its proximity to death, both present and past. It was the place where the guillotine had sliced off the head of Marie Antoinette, among many others, guilty and innocent alike, during France’s notorious Reign of Terror. He liked the sound of that phrase, Règne de la Terreur, in any language.

His head turned and he saw her striding across the wide street on impossibly long legs as the light turned, favoring her. She came hidden within a cloud of tourists, seeing him, but totally ignoring him until she was on the far side of the 3,300-year-old Egyptian obelisk glorifying the reign of Rameses II. Given to France by Mehmet Ali, the Ottoman viceroy in 1829, it had originally marked the entrance to the Temple of Luxor. As such, it was a remarkable historical treasure. The man thought about this as the crowds of tourists ebbed and flowed around it without giving it more than a cursory glance. Every day now the history of the world was being lost, plowed under by the mountains of digital effluvia venting off the Internet, scanned by growing millions on their smartphones or iPads. The lives of Britney Spears, Angelina Jolie, and Jennifer Aniston were of more interest to the new masses than were those of Marcel Proust, Richard Wagner, or Victor Hugo, if they even knew who these august personages were.