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hores at the banks of Bern。 Marie glanced over her shoulder as she walked through the gate； he nodded； waited until she had disappeared； then turned and started for the Swiss Air Lounge。 George P。 Washburn had a reservation on the 4。30 plane to Orly。
They would meet later at a cafe Marie remembered from visits during her Oxford days。 It was called Au Coin de Cluny on the boulevard Saint…Michel； several blocks from the Sorbonne。 If by any chance it was no longer there； Jason would find her around nine o'clock on the steps of the Cluny Museum。
Bourne would be late； nearby but late。 The Sorbonne had one of the most extensive libraries in all Europe and somewhere in that library were back issues of newspapers。 University libraries were not subject to the working hours of government employees； students used them during the evenings。 So would he as soon as he reached Paris。 There was something he had to learn。
Every day I read the newspapers。 In three languages。 Six months ago a man was killed； his death reported on the front page of each of those newspapers。 So said a fat man in Zurich。
He left his suitcase at the library cloakroom and walked to the first floor； turning left towards the arch that led to the huge reading room。 The Chambre des Journals was in this annexe； the newspapers on spindles placed in racks； the issues going back precisely one year from the day's date。
He walked along the racks； counting back six months； lifting off the first ten weeks' worth of papers beyond that date a half a year ago。 He carried them to the nearest vacant table and without sitting down flipped through from front page to front page； issue to issue。
Great men had died in their beds； while others had made pronouncements； the dollar had fallen； gold risen； strikes had crippled； and governments had vacillated between action and paralysis。 But no name had been killed who warranted headlines； there was no such incident … no such assassination。
Jason returned to the racks and went back further。 Two weeks； twelve weeks； twenty weeks。 Nearly eight months。 Nothing。
Then it struck him； he had gone back in time； not forward from that date six months ago。 An error could be made in either direction； a few days or a week； even two。 He returned the spindles to the racks； and pulled out the papers from four and five months ago。
Airplanes had crashed and revolutions had erupted bloodily； holy men had spoken only to be rebuked by other holy men； poverty and disease had been found where everyone knew they could be found； but no man of consequence had been killed。
He started on the last spindle； the mists of doubt and guilt clearing with each turn of a page。 Had a sweating fat man in Zurich lied？ Was it all a lie？ All lies？ Was he somehow living a nightmare that could vanish with。。。
AMBASSADEUR LELAND EST MORT A MARSEILLES！
The thick block letters of the headline exploded off the page hurting his eyes。 It was not imagined pain； not invented pain； but a sharp ache that penetrated his sockets and seared through his head。 His breathing stopped； his eyes rigid on the name； LELAND。 He knew it； he could picture the face； actually picture it。 Thick brows beneath a wide forehead； a blunt nose centred between high cheekbones and above curiously thin lips topped by a perfectly groomed grey moustache。 He knew the face； he knew the man。 And the man had been killed by a single shot from a high…powered rifle fired from a waterfront window。 Ambassador Howard Leland had walked down a Marseilles pier at five o'clock in the afternoon。 His head had been blown off。
Bourne did not have to read the second paragraph to know that Howard Leland had been Admiral H。 R。 Leland； United States Navy； until an interim appointment as Director of Naval Intelligence preceded his ambassadorship to the Quai d'Orsay in Paris。 Nor did he have to reach the body of the article where motives for the assassination were speculated upon to know them； he knew them。 Leland's primary function in Paris was to dissuade the French government from authorizing massive arms sales … in particular fleets of Mirage jets … to Africa and the Middle East。 To an astonishing degree he had succeeded； angering interested parties at all points in the Mediterranean。 It was presumed that he had been killed for his interference； a punishment which served as a warning to others。 Buyers and sellers of death were not to be hindered。
And the seller of death who had killed him would have been paid a great deal of money； far from the scene； all traces buried。
Zurich。 A messenger to a legless man； another to a fat man in a crowded restaurant off the Falkenstrasse。
Zurich。
Marseilles。
Jason closed his eyes； the pain now intolerable。 He had been picked up at sea five months ago； his port…of…origin assumed to have been Marseilles。 And if Marseilles； the waterfront had been his escape route； a boat hired to take him into the vast expanse of Mediterranean。 Everything fitted too well； each piece of the puzzle sculpted into the next。 How could he know the things he knew if he were not that seller of death from a window on the Marseilles waterfront？
He opened his eyes； pain inhibiting thought； but not all thought； one decision as clear as anything in his limited memory。 There would be no rendezvous in Paris with Marie St Jacques。
Perhaps one day he would write her a letter； saying the things he could not say now。 If he was alive and could write a letter； he could not write one now。 There could be no written words of thanks or love； no explanations at all； she would wait for him and he would not e to her。 He had to put distance between them； she could not be involved with a seller of death。 She had been wrong； his worst fears accurate。
Oh； God。 He could picture Howard Leland's face； and there was no photograph on the page in front of him！ The front page with the terrible headline that triggered so much； confirmed so many things。 The date。 Thursday； 26 August。 Marseilles。 It was a day he would remember as long as he could remember for the rest of his convoluted life。
Thursday； 26 August。。。
Something was wrong。 What was it？ What was it？ Thursday？。。。 Thursday meant nothing to him。 The twenty…sixth of August？。。。 The twenty…sixth It could not be the twenty…sixth！ The twenty…sixth was wrong！ He had heard it over and over again。 Washburn's diary … his patient's journal。 How often had Washburn gone back over every fact； every phrase； every day and point of progress？ Too many times to count Too many times not to remember！
You were brought to my door on the morning of Tuesday； August twenty…fourth； at precisely eight…twenty o'clock。 Your condition was。。。
Tuesday； 24 August。
August 24。
He was not in Marseilles on the twenty…sixth！ He could not have fired a rifle from a window on the waterfront。 He was not the seller of death in Marseilles； he had not killed Howard Leland！
Six months ago a man was killed。。。 But it was not six months； it was close to six months but not six months。 And he had not killed that man； he was half dead in an alcoholic's house on lie de Port Noir。
The mists were clearing； the pain receding。 A sense of elation filled him； he had found one concrete lie！ If there was one there could be others！
Bourne looked at his watch； it was quarter past nine。 Marie had left the cafe； she was waiting for him on the steps of the Cluny Museum。 He replaced the spindles in their racks； then started towards the large cathedral door of the reading room； a man in a hurry。
He walked up the boulevard Saint…Michel； his pace accelerating with each stride。 He had the distinct feeling that he knew what it was to have been given a reprieve from hanging and he wanted to share that rare experience。 For a time he was out of the violent darkness； beyond the crashing waters； he had found a moment of sunlight … like the moments and the sunlight that had filled a room in a village inn … and he had to reach the one who had given them to him。 Reach her and hold her and tell her there was hope。
He saw her on the steps； her arms folded against the March wind that swept off the boulevard。 At first； she did not see him； her eyes searching the tree…lined street。 She was restless； anxious； an impatient woman afraid she would not see what she wanted to see； frightened that it would not be there。
Ten minutes' ago he would not have been。
She saw him。 Her face became radiant； the smile emerged and it was filled with life She rushed to him as he raced up the steps towards her。 They came together and for a moment neither said anything； warm and alone on the Saint…Michel。
'I waited and waited；' she breathed finally。 'I was so afraid； so worried。 Did anything happen？ Are you all right？'
'I'm fine。 Better than I've been in a long time。'
'What？'
He held her by the shoulders。' 〃Six months ago a man was killed。。。〃 Remember？' The joy left her eyes。 'Yes； I remember。' 'I didn't kill him；' said Bourne。 'I couldn't have。'
They found a small hotel in the crowded centre of Montparnasse。 The lobby and the rooms were threadbare； but there was a pretence to forgotten elegance that gave it an air of timelessness。 It was a quiet resting place set down in the middle of a carnival； hanging onto its