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〃Get the hell out of my way；〃 ordered Jason； heading for the door。 〃You're not exactly eighteen； either！〃 he added； turning briefly before he let himself out。
〃Never said I was。 What's your problem？〃
〃Maybe it's the sandbar you never saw； Mr。 Security。〃 Bourne slammed the door as he ran out into the hallway。
〃Touchy； touchy。〃 St。 Jacques slowly shook his head as he unclenched his thirty…four…year…old fist。
Nearly two hours had passed and Ishmael was nowhere to be found！ His leg locked in place as if crippled； Jason limped convincingly from one end of Tranquility Inn's property to the other； his eye focused through the mirrored lens of the camera； seeing everything； but no sign of young Ishmael。 Twice he had gone up the path into the woods to the isolated square structure of logs； thatched roof and stained glass that was the multidenominational chapel of the resort； a sanctuary for meditation built more for its quaint appearance than for utility。 As the young black steward had observed； it was rarely visited but had its place in vacation brochures。
The Caribbean sun was growing more orange； inching its way down toward the water's horizon。 Soon the shadows of sundown would crawl across Montserrat and the out islands。 Soon thereafter darkness would e； and the Jackal approved of darkness。 But then； so did the Chameleon。
〃Storage room； anything？〃 said Bourne into his radio。
〃Rien； monsieur。〃
〃Johnny？〃
〃I'm up on the roof with six scouts at all points。 Nothing。〃
〃What about the dinner； the party tonight？〃
〃Our meteorologist arrived ten minutes ago by boat from Plymouth。 He's afraid to fly。 。。。 And Angus tacked a check for ten thousand on the bulletin board； signature and payee to be entered。 Scotty was right； all seven couples will be there。 We're a society of who…gives…a…shit after an appropriate few minutes of silence。〃
〃Tell me something I don't know； Bro。 。。。 Out。 I'm heading back to the chapel。〃
〃Glad to hear somebody goes there。 A travel bastard in New York said it'd be a nice touch； but I haven't heard from him since。 Stay in touch； David。〃
〃I will； Johnny；〃 replied Jason Bourne。
The path to the chapel was growing dark； the tall palms and dense foliage above the beach hastening nature's process by blocking the rays of the setting sun。 Jason was about to turn around and head for the tackle shop and a flashlight when suddenly； as if on photoelectric cue； blue and red floods came alive； shooting their wide circles of light up from the ground into the palms above。 For a moment Bourne felt that he had abruptly； too abruptly； entered a lush Technicolor tunnel cut out of tropical forest。 It was disorienting； then disturbing。 He was a moving； illuminated target in a garishly colored gallery。
He quickly walked into the underbrush beyond the border of floodlights； the nettles of the wild shrubbery stinging his bare legs。 He went deeper into the enveloping foliage and continued in the now semidarkness toward the chapel； his pace slow； difficult； the moist branches and vines tangling about his hands and feet。 Instinct。 Stay out of the light； the gaudy bombastic lights that belonged more properly to an island carnivale。
A blunt sound！ A thud that was no part of the shoreline woods。 Then the start of a moan growing into a convulsion…stopped； thwarted 。。。 suppressed？ Jason crouched and foot by foot broke through the inhibiting； succeeding walls of bush until he could see the thick cathedral door of the chapel。 It was partially open； the soft； pulsating glow of the electric candles penetrating the wash of the red and blue floods on the outside path。
Think。 Memory。 Remember！ He had been to the chapel only once before； humorously berating his brother…in…law for spending good money on a useless addition to Tranquility Inn。
At least it's quaint； St。 Jacques had said。
It ain't； Bro； Marie had replied。 It doesn't belong。 This isn't a retreat。
Suppose someone gets bad news You know； really bad…
Get him a drink； David Webb had said。
e on inside。 I've got symbols of five different religions in stained glass； including Shinto。
Don't show your sister the bills on this one； Webb had whispered。
Inside。 Was there a door inside？ Another exit？ 。。。 No； there was not。 Only five or six rows of pews； then a railing of some sort in front of a raised lectern； beneath primitive stained…glass windows done by native artisans。
Inside。 Someone was inside。 Ishmael？ A distraught guest of Tranquility？ A honeymooner who had sudden； deep reservations embarrassingly too late？ He again reached into his breast pocket for the miniaturized radio。 He brought it to his lips and spoke softly。
〃Johnny？〃
〃Right here on the roof。〃
〃I'm at the chapel。 I'm going inside。〃
〃Is Ishmael there？〃
〃I don't know。 Someone is。〃
〃What's wrong； Dave？ You sound…〃
〃Nothing's wrong；〃 interrupted Bourne。 〃I'm just checking in。 。。。 What's behind the building？ East of it。〃
〃More woods。〃
〃Any paths？〃
〃There was one several years ago； it's overgrown by now。 The construction crews used it to go down to the water。 。。。 I'm sending over a couple of guards…〃
〃No！ If I need you； I'll call。 Out。〃 Jason replaced the radio and； still crouching； stared at the chapel door。
Silence now。 No sound at all from inside； no human movement； nothing but the flickering 〃candlelight。〃 Bourne crept to the border of the path； removed the camera equipment and the straw hat and opened the case holding the flares。 He removed one； inserted it under his belt； and took out the automatic beside it。 He reached into the left pocket of his guayabera jacket for his lighter； gripping it in his hand as he got to his feet； and walked quietly； rapidly； to the corner of the small building…this unlikely sanctuary in the tropical woods above a tropical beach。 Flares and the means to light them went back long before Manassas； Virginia； he considered； as he inched his way around the corner toward the chapel's entrance。 They went back to Paris…thirteen years ago to Paris； and a cemetery in Rambouillet。 And Carlos。 。。。 He reached the frame of the partially opened door and slowly； cautiously moved his face to the edge and looked inside。
He gasped； his breath suspended； the horror filling him as disbelief and fury spread within him。 On the raised platform in front of the rows of glistening wood was the young Ishmael； his body bent forward over the lectern； his arms hanging down； his dark face bruised and lacerated； blood trickling out of his mouth onto the floor。 The guilt overwhelmed Jason； it was sudden and plete and devastating； the words of the old Frenchman screaming in his ears： Others may die； innocent people slaughtered。
Slaughtered！ A child had been slaughtered！ Promises were implied； but death had been delivered。 Oh； Christ； what have I done？ 。。。 What can I do？
Sweat pouring down his face； his eyes barely focusing； Bourne ripped the distress flare out of his pocket； snapped the lighter and； trembling； held it to the red tip。 Ignition was instant； the white fire spewed out in white heat； hissing like a hundred angry snakes。 Jason threw it into the chapel toward the far end； leaped through the frame； pivoted； and slammed the