A scratch! A scratch in the darkness! He spun, terrified at the tricks being played on his mind. But it was not a trick! There was a diamondlike flash in the air, light bouncing off steel.
A knife was slashing up at his face.
“I would willingly see you die for what you’ve done,” said Marie, staring at Conklin. “And that realization revolts me.”
“Then there’s nothing I can say to you,” replied the CIA man, limping across the room toward the general. “Other decisions could have been made—by him and by you.”
“Could they? Where was he to start? When that man tried to kill him in Marseilles? In the rue Sarrasin? When they hunted him in Zurich? When they shot at him in Paris? And all the while he didn’t know why. What was he to do?”
“Come out! Goddamn it, come out!”
“He did. And when he did, you tried to kill him.”
“You were there! You were with him. You had a memory.”
“Assuming I knew whom to go to, would you have listened to me?”
Conklin returned her gaze. “I don’t know,” he answered, breaking the contact between them and turning to Crawford. “What’s happening?”
“Washington’s calling me back within ten minutes.”
“But what’s happening?”
“I’m not sure you want to hear it. Federal encroachment on state and municipal law-enforcement statutes. Clearances have to be obtained.”
“Jesus!”
“Look!” The army man suddenly bent down to the window. “The truck’s leaving.”
“Someone got through,” said Conklin.
“Who?”
“I’ll find out.” The CIA man limped to the phone; there were scraps of paper on the table, telephone numbers written hastily. He selected one and dialed. “Give me Schumach … please … Schumach? This is Conklin, Central Intelligence. Who gave you the word?”
The dispatcher’s voice on the line could be heard halfway across the room. “What word? Get off my back! We’re on that job and we’re going to finish it! Frankly I think you’re a whacko—”
Conklin slammed down the phone. “Christ … oh, Christ!” His hand trembled as he gripped the instrument. He picked it up and dialed again, his eyes on another scrap of paper. “Petrocelli. Reclamations,” he commanded. “Petrocelli? Conklin again.”
“You faded out. What happened?”
“No time. Level with me. That priority invoice from Agency Controls. Who signed it?”
“What do you mean, who signed it? The top cat who always signs them. McGivern.”
Conklin’s face turned white. “That’s what I was afraid of,” he whispered, as he lowered the phone. He turned to Crawford, his head quivering as he spoke. “The order to GSA was signed by a man who retired two weeks ago.”
“Carlos …”
“Oh, God!” screamed Marie. “The man carrying the blankets, the straps! The way he held his head, his neck. Angled to the right. It was him! When his head hurts, he favors the right. It was Jason! He went inside.”
Alexander Conklin turned back to the window, his eyes focused on the black enameled door across the way. It was closed.
The hand! The skin … the dark eyes in the thin shaft of light. Carlos!
Bourne whipped his head back as the razorlike edge of the blade sliced the flesh under his chin, the eruption of blood streaming across the hand that held the knife. He lashed his right foot out, catching his unseen attacker in the kneecap, then pivoted and plunged his left heel into the man’s groin. Carlos spun, and again the blade came out of the darkness, now surging toward him, the line of assault directly at his stomach. Jason sprang back off the ground, crossing his wrists, slashing downward, blocking the dark arm that was an extension of the handle. He twisted his fingers inward, yanking his hands together, vicing the forearm beneath his blood-soaked neck and wrenched the arm diagonally up. The knife creased the cloth of his field jacket and once above his chest. Bourne spiraled the arm downward, twisting the wrist now in his grip, crashing his shoulder into the assassin’s body, yanking again as Carlos plunged sideways off balance, his arm pulled half out of its socket.
Jason heard the clatter of the knife on the floor. He lurched toward the sound, at the same time reaching into his belt for his gun. It caught on the cloth; he rolled on the floor, but not quickly enough. The steel toe of a shoe crashed into the side of his head—his temple—and shock waves bolted through him. He rolled again, faster, faster, until he smashed into the wall; coiling upward on his knee, trying to focus through the weaving, obscure shadows in the near total darkness. The flesh of a hand was caught in the thin line of light from the window; he lunged at it, his own hands now claws, his arms battering rams. He gripped the hand, snapping it back, breaking the wrist. A scream filled the room.
A scream and the hollow, lethal cough of a gunshot. An icelike incision had been made in Bourne’s upper left chest, the bullet lodged somewhere near his shoulder blade. In agony, he crouched and sprang again, pummeling the killer with a gun into the wall above a sharp-edged piece of furniture. Carlos lunged away as two more muted shots were fired wildly. Jason dove to his left, freeing his gun, leveling it at the sounds in the darkness. He fired, the explosion deafening, useless. He heard the door crash shut; the killer had raced out into the hallway.
Trying to fill his lungs with air, Bourne crawled toward the door. As he reached it, instinct commanded him to stay at the side and smash his fist into the wood at the bottom. What followed was the core of a terrifying nightmare. There was a short burst of automatic gunfire as the paneled wood splintered, fragments flying across the room. The instant it stopped, Jason raised his own weapon and fired diagonally through the door; the burst was repeated. Bourne spun away, pressing his back against the wall; the eruption stopped and he fired again. There were now two men inches from each other, wanting above all to kill each other. Cain is for Charlie and Delta is for Cain. Get Carlos. Trap Carlos. Kill Carlos!
And then they were not inches from each other. Jason heard racing footsteps, then the sounds of a railing being broken as a figure lurched down the staircase. Carlos was racing below; the pig-animal wanted support; he was hurt. Bourne wiped the blood from his face, from his throat, and moved in front of what was left of the door. He pulled it open and stepped out into the narrow corridor, his gun leveled in front of him. Painfully he made his way toward the top of the dark staircase. Suddenly he heard shouts below.
“What the hell you doin’ man? Pete! Pete!”
Two metallic coughs filled the air.
“Joey! Joey!”
A single spit was heard; bodies crashed to a floor somewhere below.
“Jesus! Jesus, Mother of—!”
Two metallic coughs again, followed by a guttural cry of death. A third man was killed.
What had that third man said? Two wiseass stiffs and now four crumbballs. The moving van was a Carlos operation! The assassin had brought two soldiers with him—the first three crumbballs from the shape-up. Three men with weapons, and he was one with a single gun. Cornered on the top floor of the brownstone. Still Carlos was inside. Inside. If he could get out, it would be Carlos who was cornered! If he could get out. Out!
There was a window at the front end of the hallway, obscured by a black shade. Jason veered toward it, stumbling, holding his neck, creasing his shoulder so to blunt the pain in his chest. He ripped the shade from its spindle; the window was small, the glass here, too, thick, prismatic blocks of purple and blue light shooting through it. It was unbreakable, the frame riveted in place; there was no way he could smash a single pane. And then his eyes were drawn below to Seventy-first Street. The moving van was gone! Someone had to have driven it away … one of Carlos’ soldiers! That left two. Two men, not three. And he was on the high ground; there were always advantages on the high ground.
Grimacing, bent partially over, Bourne made his way to the first door on the left; it was parallel to the top of the staircase. He opened it and stepped inside. From what he could see it was an ordinary bedroom: lamps, heavy furniture, pictures on the walls. He grabbed the nearest lamp, ripped the cord from the wall and carried it out to the railing. He raised it above his head and hurled it down, stepping back as metal and glass crashed below. There was another burst of gunfire, the bullets shredding the ceiling, cutting a path in the plaster. Jason screamed, letting the scream fade into a cry, the cry into a prolonged desperate wail, and then silence. He edged his way to the rear of the railing. He waited. Silence.