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r made the man； thought Brendan； but they certainly helped to convince dubious underlings。 At Logan's information desk he was told that three airlines out of Boston serviced the island of Montserrat。 He asked which counter was the nearest and then bought a ticket for the next available flight。 Brendan Patrick Pierre Prefontaine naturally flew first class。
The Air France steward rolled the wheelchair slowly； gently through the ramp and onto the 747 jet in Paris's Orly Airport。 The frail woman in the chair was elderly and overly made…up with an imbalance of rouge； she wore an outsized feather hat made of Australian cockatoo。 She might have been I a caricature except for the large eyes beneath the bangs of gray hair imperfectly dyed red…eyes alive and knowing and filled with humor。 It was as if she were saying to all who observed her； Forget it； mes amis； he likes me this way and that's all I care about。 I don't give a pile of merde about you or your opinions。 The he referred to the old man walking cautiously beside her； every now and then touching her shoulder； lovingly as well as perhaps for balance； but in the touch there was a volume of poetry that was theirs alone。 Closer inspection revealed a sporadic welling of tears in his eyes that he promptly wiped away so she could not see them。
〃Il est ici； mon capitaine；〃 announced the steward to the senior pilot； who greeted his two preboarding passengers at the aircraft's entrance。 The captain reached for the woman's left hand and touched his lips to it； then stood erect and solemnly saluted the balding gray…haired old man with the small Legion d'honneur medal in his lapel。
〃It is an honor； monsieur；〃 said the captain。 〃This aircraft is my mand； but you are my mander。〃 They shook hands and the pilot continued。 〃If there's anything the crew and I can do to make the flight most fortable for you； don't hesitate to ask； monsieur。〃
〃You're very kind。〃
〃We are all beholden…all of us； all of France。〃
〃It was nothing； really…〃
〃To be singled out by Le Grand Charles himself as a true hero of the Résistance is hardly nothing。 Age cannot dull such glory。〃 The captain snapped his fingers； addressing three stew ardesses in the still…empty first…class cabin。 〃Quickly； mesdemoiselles！ Make everything perfect for a brave warrior of France and his lady。〃
So the killer with many aliases was escorted to the wide bulkhead on the left； where his woman was gently transferred from the wheelchair to the seat on the aisle； his was next to the window。 Their trays were set up and a chilled bottle of Cristal was brought in their honor and for their enjoyment。 The captain raised the first glass and toasted the couple； he returned to the flight deck as the old woman winked at her man； the wink wicked and filled with laughter。 In moments； the passengers began boarding the plane； a number of whom glancing appreciatively at the elderly 〃man and wife〃 in the front row。 For the rumors had spread in the Air France lounge。 A great hero 。。。 Le Grand Charles himself 。。。 In the Alps he held off six hundred Boche…or was it a thousand？
As the enormous jet raced down the runway and with a thump lumbered off the ground into the air； the old 〃hero of France〃…whose only heroics he could recall from the Résistance were based on theft； survival； insults to his woman； and staying out of whatever army or labor force that might draft him…reached into his pocket for his papers。 The passport had his picture duly inserted； but that was the only item he recognized。 The rest…name； date and place of birth； occupation…all were unfamiliar； and the attached list of honors； well； they were formidable。 Totally out of character； but in case anyone should ever refer to them； he had better restudy the 〃facts〃 so he could at least nod in self…effacing modesty。 He had been assured that the individual originally possessing the name and the achievements had no living relatives and few friends； and had disappeared from his apartment in Marseilles supposedly on a world trip from which he presumably would not return。
The Jackal's courier looked at the name…he must remember it and respond whenever it was spoken。 It should not be difficult； for it was such a mon name。 And so he repeated it silently to himself over and over again。
Jean Pierre Fontaine； Jean Pierre Fontaine； Jean Pierre 。。。
A sound！ Sharp； abrasive。 It was wrong； not normal； not part of a hotel's routine noise of hollow drumming at night。 Bourne grabbed the weapon by his pillow and rolled out of bed in his shorts； steadying himself by the wall。 It came again！ A single； loud knock on the bedroom door of the suite。 He shook his head trying to remember。 。。。 Alex？ I'll knock once。 Jason lurched half in sleep to the door； his ear against the wood。
〃Yes？〃
〃Open this damn thing before somebody sees me！〃 came Conklin's muffled voice from the corridor。 Bourne did so and the retired field officer limped quickly into the room； treating his cane as if he loathed it。 〃Boy； are you out of training！〃 he exclaimed as he sat on the foot of the bed。 〃I've been standing there tapping for at least a couple of minutes。〃
〃I didn't hear you。〃
〃Delta would have； Jason Bourne would have。 David Webb didn't。〃
〃Give me another day and you won't find David Webb。〃
〃Talk。 I want you better than talk！〃
〃Then stop talking and tell me why you're here…at whatever time it is。〃
〃When last I looked I met Casset on the road at three…twenty。 I had to gimp through a bunch of woods and climb over a goddamned fence…〃
〃What？〃
〃You heard me。 A fence。 Try it with your foot in cement。 。。。 You know； I once won the fifty…yard dash when I was in high school。〃
〃Cut the digression。 What happened？〃
〃Oh； I hear Webb again。〃
〃What happened？ And while you're at it； who the hell is this Casset you keep talking about？〃
〃The only man I trust in Virginia。 He and Valentino。〃
〃Who？〃
〃They're analysts； but they're straight。〃
〃What？〃
〃Never mind。 Jesus； there are times when I wish I could get pissed…〃
〃Alex； why are you here？〃
Conklin looked up from the bed as he angrily gripped his cane。 〃I've got the books on our Philadelphians。〃
〃That's why？ Who are they？〃
〃No； that's not why。 I mean it's interesting； but it's not why I'm here。〃
〃Then why？〃 asked Jason； crossing to a chair next to a window and sitting down； frowning； perplexed。 〃My erudite friend from Cambodia and beyond doesn't climb over fences with his foot in cement at three o'clock in the morning unless he thinks he has to。〃
〃I had to。〃
〃Which tells me nothing。 Please tell。〃
〃It's DeSole。〃
〃What's the soul？〃
〃Not 'the；' DeSole。〃
〃You've lost me。〃
〃He's the keeper of the keys at Langley。 Nothing happens that he doesn't know about and nothing gets done in the area of research that he doesn't pass on。〃
〃I'm still lost。〃
〃We're in deep shit。〃
〃That doesn't help me at all。〃
〃Webb again。〃
〃Would you rather I took a nerve out of your neck？〃
〃All right； all right。 Let me get my breath。〃 Conklin dropped his cane on the rug。 〃I didn't even trust the freight elevator。 I stopped two floors below and walked up。〃
〃Because we're in deep shit？〃
〃Yes。〃
〃Why？ Beca