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iously a dining…room； he could see chairs and a long table in the additional light of a rococo sideboard mirror。 The windows of that dining room with their splendid view of the quaint； rich Parisian street would do。
Bourne reached into his pocket and pulled out the stone； it was barely a quarter the size of the petrol…soaked brick； but it would serve the purpose。 He inched around the corner of the building； cocked his arm； and threw the stone as far as he could above and beyond the saloon。
The crash echoed through the quiet street； it was followed by a series of cracks as the rock clattered across the bonnet of a car and dropped to the pavement。 The two men in the saloon bolted up。 The man next to the driver opened his door； his foot plunging down to the pavement； a gun in his hand。 The driver lowered the window； then switched on the headlights。 The beams shot forward； bouncing back in blinding reflection off the metal and chrome of the car in front。 It was a patently stupid act serving only to point up the fear of the men stationed in Pare Monceau。
Now。 Jason raced across the street； his attention on the two men whose hands were covering their eyes； trying to see through the glare of the reflected light。 He reached the boot of the Bentley； the cobblestone brick under his arm； a match book in his left hand； a cluster of torn…off matches in his right。 He crouched； struck the matches； lowered the brick to the ground； then picked it up by an extended sleeve。 He held the burning matches beneath the petrol…soaked cloth； it burst instantly into flame。
He rose quickly； swinging the brick by the sleeve； and dashed over the kerb； hurling his missile towards the bulging framework of the casement window with all his strength； racing beyond the edge of the building as impact was made。
The crash of shattering glass was a sudden intrusion on the rain…soaked stillness of the street。 Bourne raced to his left across the narrow avenue； then back towards Villiers's block； again finding the shadows he needed。 The fire spread； fanned by the wind from the broken window； leaping up into the willowy backing of the drapes。 Within thirty seconds the room was a flaming oven； the fire magnified by the huge sideboard mirror。 Shouts erupted； windows lighted up nearby； then further down the street； a minute passed and the chaos grew。 The door of the flaming house was yanked open and figures appeared … an elderly man in a nightshirt； a woman in a negligee and one slipper … both in panic。
Other doors opened； other figures emerged； adjusting from sleep to chaos； some racing towards the fire…swept residence a neighbour was in trouble。 Jason ran diagonally across the intersection； one more running figure in the rapidly gathering crowd； he stopped where he had started only minutes before； by the edge of the corner building； and stood motionless； trying to spot Carlos's soldiers。
He had been right； the two men were not the only guards posted in Pare Monceau。 There were four men now； huddling by the saloon； talking rapidly； quietly。 No； five。 Another walked swiftly up the pavement； joining the four。
He heard sirens。 Growing louder； drawing nearer。 The five men were alarmed。 Decisions had to be made； they could not all remain where they were。 Perhaps there were police records to consider。
Agreement。 One man would stay； the fifth man。 He nodded and walked rapidly across the street to Villiers's side。 The others climbed into the saloon； and； as a fire engine careened up the street； it curved out of its parking place and sped past the red behemoth racing in the opposite direction。
One obstacle remained： the fifth man。 Jason rounded the building； spotting him halfway between the corner and Villiers's house。 It was now a question of timing and shock。 Bourne broke into a loping run； similar to that used by the people heading towards the fire； his head angled back towards the corner； running partially backwards； a figure melting into the surrounding pattern； only the direction in conflict。 He passed the man； he had not been noticed … but he would be noticed if he continued to the downstairs gate of Villiers's house and opened it。 The man was glancing back and forth； concerned； bewildered； perhaps frightened by the fact that now he was the only patrol in the street。 He was standing in front of a low railing； another gate； another downstairs entrance to another expensive house in Pare Monceau。
Jason stopped； taking two rapid sidesteps towards the man； then pivoted； his balance on his left foot； his right lashing out at the fifth man's midsection； pummelling him backwards over the iron rail。 The man shouted as he fell down into the narrow concrete corridor。 Bourne leaped over the railing； the knuckles of his right hand rigid； the heels of both feet pushed forward。 He landed on the man's chest； the impact breaking the ribs beneath him； his knuckles smashing into the man's throat。 Carlos's soldier went limp。 He would regain consciousness long after someone removed him to a hospital。 Jason searched the man； there was a single gun strapped to his chest。 Bourne took it Out and put it into his overcoat pocket。 He would give it to Villiers。
Villiers。 The way was clear。
He climbed the staircase to the second floor。 Halfway up the steps he could see a line of light at the bottom of the bedroom door； beyond that door was an old man who was his only hope。 If ever in his life … remembered and unremembered … he had to be convincing； it was now。 And his conviction was real … there was no room for the chameleon now。 Everything he believed was based on one fact。 Carlos had to e after him。 It was the truth。 It was the trap。
He reached the landing and turned to his left towards the bedroom door。 He paused for a moment trying to dismiss the echo in his chest； it was growing louder； the pounding more rapid。 Part of the truth； not all of it。 No invention； simply omission。
An agreement。。。 a contract。。。 with a group of men … honourable men … who were after Carlos。 That was all Villiers had to know； it was what he had to accept。 He could not be told he was dealing with an amnesiac； for in that loss of memory might be found a man of dishonour。 The legend of St Cyr； Algeria and Normandy would not accept that； not now； here； at the end of his life。
Oh； God； the balance was tenuous！ The line between belief and disbelief so thin。。。 as thin as it was for the man…corpse whose name was not Jason Bourne。
He opened the door and stepped inside； into an old man's private hell。 Outside； beyond curtained windows； the sirens raged and the crowds shouted。 Spectators in an unseen arena； jeering the unknown； oblivious to its unfathomable cause。
Jason closed the door and stood motionless。 The large room was filled with shadows； the only light a bedside table lamp。 His eyes greeted by a sight he wished he did not have to see。 Villiers had dragged a high…backed desk chair across the room and was sitting on it at the foot of the bed； staring at the dead woman sprawled over the covers。 Angelique Villiers's bronzed head was resting on the pillow； her eyes wide； bulging out of their sockets。 Her throat was swollen； the flesh a reddish purple； the massive bruise having spread throughout her neck。 Her body was still twisted； in contrast to the upright head； contorted in furious struggle； her long bare legs stretched out； her hips turned； the negligee torn； her breasts bursting out of the silk … even in death； sensual。 There had been no attempt to conceal the whore。
The old soldier sat like a bewildered child； punished for an insignificant act； the meaningful crime having escaped his tormentor's reasoning and perhaps his own。 He pulled his eyes away from the dead woman and looked at Bourne。
'What happened outside？' he asked in a monotone。
'Men were watching your house。 Carlos's men； five of them。 I started a fire up the street； no one was hurt。 All but one man left； I took him out。'
'You're resourceful； Monsieur Bourne。'
'I'm resourceful；' agreed Jason。 'But they'll be back。 The fire'll be out and they'll e back； before then； if Carlos puts it together； and I think he will。 If he does； he'll send someone in here。 He won't e himself； of course； but one of his guns will be here。 When that man finds you。。。 and her。。。 he'll kill you。 Carlos loses her； but…he still wins。 He wins a second time； he's used you through her and at the end he kills you。 He walks away and you're dead。 People can draw whatever conclusions they like； but I don't think they'll be flattering。'
'You're very precise。 Assured of your judgment'
'I know what I'm talking about。 I'd prefer not to say what I'm going to say； but there's no time for your feelings。'
'I have none left Say what you will。'
'Your wife told you she was French； didn't she？'
'Yes。 From the south。 Her family was from Loures Barouse； near the Spanish border。 She came to Paris years ago。 Lived with an aunt； what of it？'
'Did you ever meet her family？'
'No。'
They didn't e up for your marriage？'
'All things considered； we thought it would be best not to ask them。 The disparity of our ages would have disturbed them。'
'What about the aunt here in Paris？'
'She died before I met Angelique。 What's the point of all