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By Arthur MacEwan

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Both men converged on Bourne as he backed into the deserted elevator. The madness began. 5 The elevator doors started to close; the man with the hand-held radio was already inside, the shoulders of his armed companion angling between the moving panels, the weapon aimed at Bourne’s head. Jason leaned to his right--a sudden gesture of fear--then abruptly, without warning, swept his left foot off the floor, pivoting, his heel plunging into the armed man’s hand, sending the gun upward, reeling the man backward out of the enclosure.

Then he lay down on the sand, staring at the sky, which progressively grew brighter. The day was being born, and so was he. He walked the narrow stone streets of La Ciotat, going into the shops as much to converse with the clerks as anything else. It was an odd sensation to be part of the human traffic, not an unknown derelict, dragged from the sea. He remembered the captain’s advice and gutturalized his French, allowing him to be accepted as an unremarkable stranger passing through town. Money.

He stretched them across the reeds of grass to dry; he could discard nothing. He removed his undershirt and did the same. Standing there naked on the dune, he felt an odd sense of exhilaration mingled with a hollow pain in the middle of his stomach. The pain was fear, he knew that. He understood the exhilaration, too. He had passed his first test. He had trusted an instinct--perhaps a compulsion--and had known what to say and how to respond. An hour ago he was without an immediate destination, knowing only that Zurich was his objective, but knowing, too, that there were borders to cross, official eyes to satisfy.

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