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ere deserted. It was the beginning of his final diversion, the rest would be cold mathematics. He removed the tear gas launcher, inserted a canister and spoke to the commando. Turn around. The assassin did so, the barrel of Bourne s gun in front of his eyes. Take this, said Delta . You can hold it with one hand. When I tell you, fire it into the stone to the right of the french doors. The gas will spread, blinding most of those kids. They won t be able to shoot, so don t waste bullets, you haven t got that many. The killer did not at first reply. Instead, he raised his weapon level with Bourne s and aimed it at Jason s head. Now we re one-on-one, Mr Original, said the commando. I told you I could take a bullet in the head. I ve been waiting for it for years. But somehow I don t think you can take the idea of not getting inside that house. There was a sudden roar of voices and yet another fusillade of gunfire as a squad of marines rushed the collapsed side wall. Delta watched, waiting for the instant when the assassin s concentration, would break for that split second. The instant did not come. Instead the commando continued quietly, his voice tense but controlled as he stared at Jason Bourne. They must be expecting an invasion, the silly geese. When in doubt attack, as long as your flanks are covered, isn t that right, Mr Original...? Empty your bag of tricks, Delta. It was Delta , wasn t it? There s nothing left. Bourne cocked the hammer of his automatic. The assassin did the same. Then let s have a feel around, said the commando, his left hand slowly reaching out, softly touching the knapsack strapped on Delta s right hip, their eyes locked. The killer felt the canvas, squeezing the harsh cloth in several places. Again slowly, he withdrew his hand. With all the shalt-nots in the bloody big Book, none ever mentions a lie, does it? Except false witness, of course, which isn t the same. I guess you took the lapse to heart, sport. There s a shell-framed automatic repeater in there and two or three clips, I judge by the curves, holding at least fifty rounds a piece. Forty, to be exact. That s a lot of firepower. That little beast could get me out of here. Give! Or one of us goes right here. Right now. The fifth plastique explosion shook the ground; the startled assassin blinked. It was enough. Bourne s hand shot up, deflecting the killer s gun, crashing his heavy automatic into the commando s left temple with the force of a hammer. Son of a bitch! cried the impostor hoarsely as he fell to his left, Jason s knee on his wrist, the killer s gun wrenched free. You keep begging for a quick demise, Major, said Bourne as pandemonium reached its height within the grounds of the Victorian sterile house. The squad of marines that had charged the collapsed sidewall were ordered to assault the rear of the gardens. You really don t like yourself, do you? But you ve got a good idea. I will empty my bag of tricks. It s almost time now. Bourne removed the straps and upturned his open knapsack. The contents fell on the grass, the flames from the ever-expanding fire on the first floor of the sterile house illuminating them. There was one firebomb and one plastique left, and, as accurately described by the assassin, a hand-held repeating MAC-10 machine pistol that needed only its stock frame and a clip to be inserted in order to fire. He inserted the frame of the lethal weapon, cracked in one of the four clips and shoved the remaining three into his belt. He then released the spring of the launcher, put the canister in place and reset the mechanism. It was ready to go - to save the lives of children, children called to die by the ageing egos of manipulators. The firebomb remained. He knew where to direct it. He lifted it up, tore off the shield, and threw it with all his strength towards the A-framed apex above the french doors. It clung to the wood. It was the moment. He pulled the trigger of the launcher, sending the canister of gas into

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