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〃Now you are inscrutable。〃
〃Not at all；〃 protested Bernardine as the firemen hosed down the flames of the van； their efforts augmented by giant extinguishers。 〃Send your people into each building； inquiring if everything is all right； explaining that the authorities have determined the terrible events on the boulevard were criminally oriented。 The crisis has passed； there is no further alarm。〃
〃But is that true？〃
〃It's what we want them to believe。〃 An ambulance stormed into the street followed by two additional patrol cars； all the sirens at maximum volume。 From the rue d'Alésia； apartment dwellers had gathered at both corners； many in hastily pulled…on street attire…trousers and undershirts…while others were in night clothes…frayed bathrobes and worn slippers。 Noting that the Jackal's van was now a smoldering mass of twisted steel and shattered glass； Bernardine continued： 〃Give the crowds time to satisfy their morbid viewing； then send men to disperse them。 In an hour or so； when the rubble is under control and the bodies carted away； proclaim loudly to your police detachment that the emergency is over； ordering all but one man back to the precinct。 That man is to remain here on duty until the debris is cleared from the boulevard。 He is also to be instructed not to interfere with anyone leaving the buildings； is that clear？〃
〃Not for a moment。 You said that someone might be hiding…〃
〃I know what I said；〃 pressed the former Deuxième consultant。 〃It changes nothing。〃
〃You will stay here； then？〃
〃Yes。 I will move slowly； inconspicuously； around the area。〃
〃I see。 。。。 What about the police report？ And my report？〃
〃Use some of the truth； not all of it； of course。 Word was passed to you…informer's name withheld…that an act of violence related to the Bureau's narcotics division was to take place on the boulevard Lefebvre at precisely this hour。 You mandeered a police contingent and found nothing； but shortly thereafter your highly professional instincts sent you back beyond the time span； unfortunately too late to stop the carnage。〃
〃I might even be mended；〃 said the associate； suddenly frowning； wary。 〃And your report？〃 he asked quietly。
〃We'll see if one is necessary； won't we？〃 replied the newly reinstated Deuxième consultant。
The medical team wrapped the bodies of the victims and placed them in the ambulance as a wrecker hoisted what was left of the destroyed vehicle into the huge attached dumpster。 The crew swept the street； several remarking that they should not sweep too thoroughly or no one would recognize the Lefebvre。 A quarter of an hour later the job was finished； the wrecker departed； the lone patrolman joining the crew to be dropped off at the nearest police phone several blocks away。 It was well past four o'clock in the morning； and soon the dawn would light up the sky over Paris； preceding the boisterous human carnival below。 Now； however； the only signs of life on the boulevard Lefebvre were five lighted windows in the row of stone buildings controlled by Carlos the Jackal。 Inside those rooms were men and women for whom sleep was not permitted。 They had work to do for their monseigneur。
Bourne sat on the pavement； his legs outstretched； his back against the inside wall of a storefront across from the building where the frightened yet argumentative baker and the indignant nun had confronted the police。 Bernardine was in a similar recess several hundred feet away； opposite the first building where the Jackal's van had stopped for its condemned cargo。 Their agreement was firm： Jason would follow and take by force whoever left first from any building； the old Deuxième veteran would follow whoever left second； ascertain his or her destination； but make no contact。 Bourne's judgment was that either the baker or the nun would be the assassin's messenger； so he had selected the north end of the row of stone houses。
He was partially right； but he had not anticipated an embarrassment of personnel and conveyances。 At 5：17； two bicycles ridden by nuns in full habits and white hats wheeled up from the south side of the boulevard； ringing the muted bells on their handlebars as they stopped in front of the house that was supposedly the quarters of the Magdalen Sisters of Charity。 The door opened and three additional nuns； each carrying a bicycle； walked out and down the brick steps to join their charitable sisters。 They discreetly mounted their saddles and the procession started up the street； the one consoling fact for Jason was that Carlos's indignant nun took up the single rear position。 Not knowing how it would happen； knowing only that it would happen； Bourne lurched out of the storefront and ran across the dark boulevard。 As he reached the shadows of the deserted lot adjacent to the Jackal's house； another door opened。 He crouched； watching the overweight irate baker waddle rapidly down his brick steps and head south。 Bernardine had his work cut out for him； too； thought Jason as he got to his feet and ran after his procession of cycling nuns。
Paris traffic is an endless enigma regardless of the hour of day or night。 It also provides palpable excuses for anyone wishing to be early or late； or having arrived at the right destination or the wrong one。 In a phrase； Parisians behind a steering wheel embody the last civilized vestiges of lethal abandon…possibly outdone by their counterparts in Rome or Athens。 And so it was for the Magdalen Sisters of Charity； especially for the officious superior hen on the single rear point。 At an intersection of the rue Lecourbe in Montparnasse； a congestion of produce trucks prevented her from keeping up with her religious colleagues。 Benignly she waved them on and abruptly turned into a narrow side street； suddenly pedaling faster than before。 Bourne； his wound from Tranquility Isle now pulsating throughout his neck； did not increase his pace； he did not have to。 The white…lettered blue sign on the building fronting the street read IMPASSE； a dead end； there was no other way out。
He found the bicycle chained to an extinguished street lamp and waited in the darkness of a doorway no more than fifteen feet away。 He raised his hand and touched the warm moistness of the bandage around his neck； the bleeding was slight。 With luck； no more than one suture had burst。 。。。 Oh； Christ； his legs were tired…no； 〃tired〃 was inadequate。 They ached with the pain that came with unused and abused muscles； the rhythmic strides of jogging； even running； were no preparation for lurching or weaving； or for violently sudden stops and starts。 He leaned against the stone； breathing heavily； his eyes on the bicycle； trying to suppress a thought that kept recurring with infuriating regularity： only a few short years ago； he would never have noticed the disfort in his legs。 There would have been none。
The sound of an unlatched bolt broke the stillness of the predawn narrow street； followed rapidly by the grating noise of a heavy door being opened。 It was the entrance to the flat in front of the chained bicycle。 His back against the wall； Jason removed the gun from his belt and watched the woman in the nun's habit rush to the lamppost。 She fumbled with a key in the d