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d to the strong coffee and his notebook； every detail had to be exact。
An hour later he finished his espresso； taking a sip of the cognac and spilling the rest on the pavement under the usual soiled red tablecloth。 He left the café and the rue d'Alésia； turning right and walking slowly； as a far older man might walk； toward the boulevard Lefebvre。 The closer he came to the last corner； the more he became aware of the undulating； erratic sounds from apparently different directions。 Sirens！ The two…note sirens of the Paris police！ What had happened？ What was happening？ Jason abandoned his elderly gait and ran to the edge of the building fronting the Lefebvre and the row of old stone houses。 Instantly； he was in shock； fury and astonishment joining together in panic。 What were they doing？
Five patrol cars converged on the row of stone houses； each successively screeching to a halt in front of the structure on the right。 Then a large black police van appeared； swinging directly around to face the two entrances of the building； its searchlight shooting out as a squad of black…uniformed men with automatic weapons leaped into the street and took up crouching attack positions only partially concealed by the patrol cars…an assault was in the making！
Fools。 Goddamned fools！ To give Carlos a warning was to lose the Jackal！ Killing was his profession； escape； his obsession。 Thirteen years ago Bourne had been told that Carlos's huge retreat in the village hills of Vitry…sur…Seine outside Paris had more false walls and concealed staircases than a nobleman's Loire chateau in the time of Louis XIV。 The fact that no one had ever determined which estate it was； or whom it was assigned to； did not vitiate the all too acceptable rumors。 And with three supposedly separated structures on the boulevard Lefebvre； it was also all too acceptable to presuppose hidden underground tunnels linking each to the others。
For Christ's sake； who had done this？ Had a terrible error been made？ Had he and Bernardine been so obtuse as to think the Deuxième or Peter Holland's Paris station of the CIA had overlooked tapping into his Pont…Royal telephone or bribed or enlisted the various relays of operators on the hotel's switchboard？ If so； that obtuseness was rooted in an absolute： it was next to impossible to tap a phone on short notice in a relatively small hotel without being detected。 Technology required a stranger on the premises； and bribe money spread around was countered with larger bribes by the subject under surveillance。 Santos？ Bugs placed in the room by a chambermaid or a bellman？ Not likely。 The huge conduit to the Jackal； especially if he had reneged on their contract； would not expose the Jackal。 Who？ How？ The questions burned into Jason's imagination as he watched in horror and dismay the scene taking place on the boulevard Lefebvre。
〃On police authority； all residents will evacuate the building。〃 The orders over the loudspeaker metallically echoed throughout the street。 〃You have one minute before we take aggressive procedures。〃
What aggressive procedures？ screamed Bourne into the silent void of his mind。 You've lost him。 I've lost him。 Insanity！ Who？ Why？
The door at the top of the brick steps on the left side of the building opened first。 A petrified man； short； obese； in an undershirt； his trousers held up by suspenders； cautiously walked out into the flood of the searchlight； spreading his hands in front of his face and turning his head away from the blinding beam。 〃What is it； messieurs？〃 he cried； his voice tremulous。 〃I am merely a baker…a good baker…but I know nothing about this street except that the rent is cheap！ Is that a crime to the police？〃
〃Our concerns are not with you； monsieur；〃 continued the amplified voice。
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