"Theyre holding to the story of Oval Office renovation, which has supposedly been going on at the White House for a couple of weeks, thus eliminating the tours. If they need it, theyve got a mocked-up schedule from the Army Corps of Engineers as well as one from an outside construction company."

"Will that wash?"

"Whos going to contradict it? The timing was right; the President was upstairs with his family, and the explosion was a lot louder inside than outside."

"People were killed, Tye, and that was all d.a.m.ned messy!"

"The Secret Service moves quickly and they knew exactly what to do." A waitress approached; amenities were exchanged as the ap.r.o.ned woman opened the bottle of wine. "Thanks," said Tyrell. "Well order later."

"So thats that," said the major, watching Hawthorne drink most of his wine in several swallows, the lines of weary exhaustion all too apparent on his face.

"Thats that," agreed Tyrell. "Its not the end of it, you know, its only the beginning. Before long the leaks will begin and the news will spread to the crazies everywhere. 'How close they came, how she nearly pulled it off! The cry of 'Ashkelon will probably be replaced by 'Bajaratt-remember Bajaratt... otherwise known as Dominique-Dominique Montaigne." Hawthornes voice trailed off as he refilled his gla.s.s. "I hope weve learned something," he added, barely above a whisper.

"What would that be?"

"Know every G.o.dd.a.m.ned link in your secret chain of command, everyone whos accountable, or throw the whole thing out. Go public."

"Wouldnt that create confusion, even hysteria?"

"I dont think so, and Ive thought about it. In war, an imminent bombing raid is announced by sirens and searchlights, and by and large the citizens calmly go to the shelters, knowing that those trained for the event will do their best to protect them, protect the interests of the country. Its not that much different, but it could be a h.e.l.l of a deterrent.... Suppose the FBI, in conjunction with the CIA, had held a nationally televised press conference-an alert, actually-declaring that a woman and a young man, entering the country illegally, were on a mission from the Baaka Valley ... et cetera, et cetera. Do you think Dominique"-Hawthorne paused, breathing deeply while gripping his gla.s.s-"Bajaratt could have gotten away with Palm Beach or New York? I doubt it; somewhere an enterprising reporter would have made the connection, at least asked questions that went beyond a carefully constructed background. Its possible one or two did; a man from The Miami Herald, and a red-headed specialist in dirt named Reilly."

"You may be right. About going public, I mean."

"Whether I am or not, that was my recommendation this afternoon.... Id like another bottle of wine." Tyrell signaled the waitress, pointing at the ice bucket; she nodded, and walked to the outside bar.

"Did you ..." Cathy began gently, "did you tell them who Bajaratt was?"

"No," replied Hawthorne quickly, raising his clouded, tired eyes, locking them with Catherines. "There was no reason to, and every reason not to. Shes gone, whatever demons that drove her gone with her. Her traces were strictly to the Baaka Valley; everything else was a cover that could damage people who were used-just as I was used."

"Im not arguing with you," said Cathy, placing her hand on his arm. "I think you made the right decision. Please, dont be angry."

"I apologize, Im not angry-G.o.d knows, not with you. I just want to get back to the charter business and watch a boat cut through the water again."

"Its a good life, isnt it?"

"The ultimate 'balm of Gilead, as my erudite father and brother would say." Hawthorne smiled, no appeal for sympathy in his expression.

"Yes, I guess it is," said Cathy, seeing beneath Tyrells facade. "Still, Im sorry, so very sorry for everything thats happened to you."

"So am I, but theres no point in belaboring it, is there? Apparently I have a talent for attracting, or being attracted to, women who get killed-for the wrong reasons or the right ones. If I could bottle it, a lot of divorces might be prevented."

"Thats not a very nice thing to say, and I dont believe for an instant that you mean it."

"I dont. Im just not feeling very nice, okay? The dej vu has come around once too often.... But I dont want to talk about me-Im sick of me, very sick of me. I want to talk about you."

"Why?"

"Weve been over that. Because Im interested, because I care,"

"Again, why, Commander Hawthorne? Because youve been hurt-desperately hurt, Ill give you that-and Im here, a person who cares for you, someone you can turn to as you did with your Dominique?"

"If you think that, Major," said Tyrell stiffly, moving back his chair and starting to rise, "this conversation is over."

"Sit down, you a.s.s!"

"What?"

"You just said the words I wanted to hear, you d.a.m.n fool."

"What the h.e.l.l did I say?"

"That Im not Dominique, or Bajaratt, or whatever her name was. And Im not the ghost of your Ingrid.... Im me!"

"I never thought otherwise-"

"I had to hear it."

"Oh, Christ!" said Hawthorne, sitting down and leaning back in the chair. "What do you want me to say?"

"Offer a suggestion or two, maybe. The President himself ordered the air force to give me an unlimited furlough, for my recuperation, which the doctors say will take three or four months."

"I understand Poole turned his leave down," Tyrell said.

"He didnt have anywhere to go, Tye. The air force, computers and all, are his life. Thats Jackson, not necessarily me."

Hawthorne slowly moved forward in his chair and leaned over the table, his eyes again leveled with Cathys. "My G.o.d," he said softly. "Do I see someone else crawling out of that uniform? Maybe a young kid who wanted to be an anthropologist?"

"I dont know. The services are crying for early retirements, the country cant afford the military status quo. I just dont know."

"But did you know that the Caribbean is loaded with undiscovered anthropological mysteries? For example, the lost colonies of the Ciboney and Couri Indians, traced from the islands back through the Guianas and down to the Amazon. And the primitive Arawaks, whose laws to keep a civilized peace were a couple of hundred years ahead of their time. Or the warrior Carib nation, at one time covering most of the Lesser Antilles, who perfected guerrilla tactics so well, the Spanish conquistadores ran like h.e.l.l to stay out of their way ... and also to stay away from their evening barbecues, where the kings men would naturally be the main entrees. Von Clausewitz would have approved, both strategically and psychologically.... It all happened long before the slave trade; whole spread-out civilizations held together by huge drums and war canoes and leaders who meted out justice from island to island, like the traveling judges in the Old West when they werent drunk or dishonest. Those few centuries are so fascinating and so little is really known."

"Good Lord, youre the one who should study them. You get really wound up."

"Oh, no, Im the sort who sits around a fire and listens to the stories, I dont study. But you could."

"Id have to go back to school, to a university."

"There are some great ones, from Martinique to Puerto Rico; and Im told some of the finest anthropologists are teaching in them. Its a place to start, Cathy."

"Youre probably making that up ... but are you saying-"

"Yes, Major, Im saying come back with me. Were not children, either of us, well know if its right given some time. Lets face it, our personal agendas arent overcrowded, so whats a few months? Where would you go, back to the farm?"

"Maybe for a couple of days. After that Dad would point me to the barn to clean up the cows. And G.o.d knows my agendas a clean slate."

"Why not give it a try, Cath? Youre a free agent; you can always walk away."

"I like it when you call me Cath-"

"Lieutenant Poole has his insights."

"Yes, he does. Give me your telephone number."

"Is that all I get?"

"No, it isnt, Commander. Ill be there, my darling."

"Thank you, Major."

They both smiled, the smiles growing into quiet laughter as each reached for the others hand.

For Jeffrey, Shannon, and James

Ever a joy!

Read on for an excerpt from Robert Ludlums

The Bourne Ident.i.ty

1.

The trawler plunged into the angry swells of the dark, furious sea like an awkward animal trying desperately to break out of an impenetrable swamp. The waves rose to goliathan heights, crashing into the hull with the power of raw tonnage; the white sprays caught in the night sky cascaded downward over the deck under the force of the night wind. Everywhere there were the sounds of inanimate pain, wood straining against wood, ropes twisting, stretched to the breaking point. The animal was dying.

Two abrupt explosions pierced the sounds of the sea and the wind and the vessels pain. They came from the dimly lit cabin that rose and fell with its host body. A man lunged out of the door grasping the railing with one hand, holding his stomach with the other.

A second man followed, the pursuit cautious, his intent violent. He stood bracing himself in the cabin door; he raised a gun and fired again. And again.

The man at the railing whipped both his hands up to his head, arching backward under the impact of the fourth bullet. The trawlers bow dipped suddenly into the valley of two giant waves, lifting the wounded man off his feet; he twisted to his left, unable to take his hands away from his head. The boat surged upward, bow and midships more out of the water than in it, sweeping the figure in the doorway back into the cabin; a fifth gunshot fired wildly. The wounded man screamed, his hands now lashing out at anything he could grasp, his eyes blinded by blood and the unceasing spray of the sea. There was nothing he could grab, so he grabbed at nothing; his legs buckled as his body lurched forward. The boat rolled violently leeward and the man whose skull was ripped open plunged over the side into the madness of the darkness below.

He felt rushing cold water envelop him, swallowing him, sucking him under, and twisting him in circles, then propelling him up to the surface-only to gasp a single breath of air. A gasp and he was under again.

And there was heat, a strange moist heat at his temple that seared through the freezing water that kept swallowing him, a fire where no fire should burn. There was ice, too; an ice-like throbbing in his stomach and his legs and his chest, oddly warmed by the cold sea around him. He felt these things, acknowledging his own panic as he felt them. He could see his own body turning and twisting, arms and feet working frantically against the pressures of the whirlpool. He could feel, think, see, perceive panic and struggle-yet strangely there was peace. It was the calm of the observer, the uninvolved observer, separated from the events, knowing of them but not essentially involved.

Then another form of panic spread through him, surging through the heat and the ice and the uninvolved recognition. He could not submit to peace! Not yet! It would happen any second now; he was not sure what it was, but it would happen. He had to be there!

He kicked furiously, clawing at the heavy walls of water above, his chest burning. He broke surface, thrashing to stay on top of the black swells. Climb up! Climb up!

A monstrous rolling wave accommodated; he was on the crest, surrounded by pockets of foam and darkness. Nothing. Turn! Turn!

It happened. The explosion was ma.s.sive; he could hear it through the clashing waters and the wind, the sight and the sound somehow his doorway to peace. The sky lit up like a fiery diadem and within that crown of fire, objects of all shapes and sizes were blown through the light into the outer shadows.

He had won. Whatever it was, he had won.

Suddenly he was plummeting downward again, into an abyss again. He could feel the rushing waters crash over his shoulders, cooling the white-hot heat at his temple, warming the ice-cold incisions in his stomach and his legs and....

His chest. His chest was in agony! He had been struck-the blow crushing, the impact sudden and intolerable. It happened again! Let me alone. Give me peace.

And again!

And he clawed again, and kicked again ... until he felt it. A thick, oily object that moved only with the movements of the sea. He could not tell what it was, but it was there and he could feel it, hold it.

Hold it! It will ride you to peace. To the silence of darkness ... and peace.

The rays of the early sun broke through the mists of the eastern sky, lending glitter to the calm waters of the Mediterranean. The skipper of the small fishing boat, his eyes bloodshot, his hands marked with rope burns, sat on the stern gunnel smoking a Gauloise, grateful for the sight of the smooth sea. He glanced over at the open wheelhouse; his younger brother was easing the throttle forward to make better time, the single other crewman checking a net several feet away. They were laughing at something and that was good; there had been nothing to laugh about last night. Where had the storm come from? The weather reports from Ma.r.s.eilles had indicated nothing; if they had he would have stayed in the shelter of the coastline. He wanted to reach the fishing grounds eighty kilometers south of La Seyne-sur-Mer by daybreak, but not at the expense of costly repairs, and what repairs were not costly these days?

Or at the expense of his life, and there were moments last night when that was a distinct consideration.

"Tu es fatigue, hein, mon frere?" his brother shouted, grinning at him. "Va te coucher maintenant. Laisse-moi faire."

"Daccord," the brother answered, throwing his cigarette over the side and sliding down to the deck on top of a net. "A little sleep wont hurt."

It was good to have a brother at the wheel. A member of the family should always be the pilot on a family boat; the eyes were sharper. Even a brother who spoke with the smooth tongue of a literate man as opposed to his own coa.r.s.e words. Crazy! One year at the university and his brother wished to start a compagnie. With a single boat that had seen better days many years ago. Crazy. What good did his books do last night? When his compagnie was about to capsize.

He closed his eyes, letting his hands soak in the rolling water on the deck. The salt of the sea would be good for the rope burns. Burns received while lashing equipment that did not care to stay put in the storm.

"Look! Over there!"

It was his brother, apparently sleep was to be denied by sharp family eyes.

"What is it?" he yelled.

"Port bow! Theres a man in the water! Hes holding on to something! A piece of debris, a plank of some sort."

The skipper took the wheel, angling the boat to the right of the figure in the water, cutting the engines to reduce the wake. The man looked as though the slightest motion would send him sliding off the fragment of wood he clung to; his hands were white, gripped around the edge like claws, but the rest of his body was limp-as limp as a man fully drowned, pa.s.sed from this world.

"Loop the ropes!" yelled the skipper to his brother and the crewman. "Submerge them around his legs. Easy now! Move them up to his waist. Pull gently."

"His hands wont let go of the plank!"