Tom Cronin stood on a dusty street corner in Karachi's Saddar neighborhood. It had taken two weeks of negotiations to get there. Nine of those fourteen days spent in Pakistan, responding to instructions that all turned out to be tests. Would Cronin come alone? He would. Would a Rapid Response Team be sent if Cronin was detained? It would not. Would he tail Bourne when given the opportunity? He would not. Cronin wondered whether today would be the day that they would actually have a meeting, make some headway. If Bourne wanted to harm him, he certainly could have by now. The big question was: why was Bourne reaching out? What would make him want to come home now? Even Landy hadn't been able to figure it out.

He dropped an empty soda can in the gutter. Was rewarded by the twitter of his cell phone ringing. He answered immediately. He had to admit that he had some disquiet about meeting Jason Bourne face to face, and without his sidearm. Landy had insisted: go in light. Not that a handgun would be enough help him, judging by what they had seen while tracking Bourne back in the winter. Pam had pointed this out to him, just before he left. Thanks for the reassurance…

"Tom Cronin," he said into the cell phone.

"Cross the street and look on the window sill of the shop there."

Cronin started walking. There was a cell phone sitting on the sill.

"Hang up your phone and use the one you see in front of you. Pull the one you're talking on now apart, and chuck the battery in the street."

Cronin did as he was told. In his mind's eye, he saw his GPS location signal go dead on a computer screen in the hub at Langley. The new phone rang in his hand.

"There's a bus approaching the stop on the corner. Get on it." Cronin caught the bus, paid the fare. Scanning his fellow passengers, he did not see Jason Bourne. Pam may call the man David Webb now, but to Cronin the myth was still intact, and Bourne he remained.

He rode several miles before the phone twittered again. "Get off at the next stop. There's a café 10 meters north of the bus stop. Go in and wait for instructions."

When Cronin stepped inside, he saw Bourne immediately, seated at the rearmost table, in a seat that afforded him a view of the entire café, including the back door and the hallway to the restroom. Bourne's eyes were alert, never still. His face did not change as Cronin met them with his own. Cronin walked slowly to the table, sat down.

The two men nodded at each other.

"You're not going to search me?" Cronin asked.

"You're not armed," replied Bourne. Cronin's body language hadn't stopped screaming that fact since he stepped into the street and tossed the soda can.

Not pausing to ponder what his tell had been, Cronin got down to brass tacks. "As we've already confirmed, the kill orders on Jason Bourne and Nicky Parsons have been rescinded. Blackbriar is being dismantled and the operatives brought in for debriefing and re-integration."

"Where does that put David Webb?" Treadstone had been dismantled, too, once upon a time.

"David Webb is a decorated Marine, currently residing abroad. The Agency does not keep track of private citizens such as David Webb." Cronin felt like an ass, delivering that line. His face and body language were completely neutral.

"And Jason Bourne?"

"The Agency has no comment on Jason Bourne pending internal investigation."

David's mind sparked and turned over, moving geometrically, trigonometrically. CIA was apparently unaware of Drächen's existence; every communication he had received from Kim indicated no surveillance. He could melt away after this meeting; just disappear, taking Drächen with him. Fade into the Third World somewhere, never to surface…

Someone always came looking for Jason Bourne, though.

Would she better off without you? asked Jason. Kim could take her home to Iowa, leaving him to disappear forever, alone. Kim would be an excellent mother to her; Drächen would have a large and loving family.

He heard Kim's voice: She has what she needs most if she has you… Marie's words the day he found them on Mykonos: You're her one and only father. The one perfect father for her. His own vow when he began this mission: This is the last time I'll leave her.

David could not, would not, give up his daughter again. There was that picture, too, that soldier. His brother. He wanted to find him. And Kim, Indali... He wanted a shot at sorting it all out; he wanted a shot at a life. He would have to find another way.

The simplicity of Landy's plan appealed. He would need backup, though, for the day that someone at the Company would decide that he owed them something. His mind skipped over the training, and put that on the list of possibles. Perhaps two seconds had passed. He nodded at Cronin. "Go on."

"We are prepared to issue a U.S. passport in your legal name. I'll accompany you to the States, after which you will be free to do what you like, go where you want, within the limits of the law. When you settle, you'll be free to contact the Marine Corps about your pay and retirement benefits. Since you have been abroad, you have accrued substantial back pay."

"And?" What do you want in exchange?

"Pamela Landy asked me to extend her invitation to debriefing at Quantico. But, that's all it is, an invitation." Cronin looked eager.

Smart of Landy, to offer Quantico to a Marine. He had logged some time there already, at The Basic School for officer training; every Marine officer did. He would still turn down the invitation.

He decided to change the subject. "Do you know where Nicky Parsons is?"

"Do you?" Cronin's face became more eager.

"No."

Cronin looked him in the eye, searching, then nodded. He had never interviewed anyone harder to read. He had one last item. He pulled a few pieces of paper out of his case and held them with the air of someone who might need them for reference.

"We've located the remains of Marie Kreutz, and they are now being held at the morgue in Margau, India. The ID was confirmed via dental records." Cronin handed over an autopsy report. David glanced at it. There were photographs of a body on a slab. He caught a glimpse of long hair turning green-grey and melting, blue-tinged flesh. He shoved the folder back across the table towards Cronin. "Pamela Landy has arranged for their return to Germany. We can notify her brother, if you like. Her grandmother died last year."

Kim's techniques were second nature now, and David breathed deeply to quiet the noise in his head, the roiling in his gut.

"We have access to Osprey and C-40 jet aircraft off the USS Carl Vinson in the Persian Gulf for transport," Cronin went on. "The funeral is scheduled for next Saturday, April 23rd, in Hanover."

David sat still, thinking. This was a contingency that he had not anticipated. Bourne gave him a plan. He didn't move, continued to look Cronin square in the eye. "Osprey is fine for the first leg. I want a USMC, 2nd Air Wing detail from the Vinson. They will be in my command, no limits. I'll need a list of refueling sites to plan my coordinates."

He didn't want the C-40: Marie would hate that, he thought.

And the crew and Cronin could bail, leave you to crash. Or just toss you out, Bourne chimed in.

"Commercial flights, Chennai to Hanover. I will meet you at Chennai International on April twenty-first with my cargo, and my party. We'll need four seats; five including you. No one from my party will be searched. No one from my party will surrender sidearms." He sat back.

Cronin sputtered, "What you're asking is unprecedented." His party? Did he have some kind of personal army? Cronin was genuinely incredulous, but he would say yes. Landy's instructions had been clear. Let her convince the Indian authorities to allow firearms aboard a commercial flight.

David was impassive. Everything about this situation was unprecedented. Landy wanted to do something for him; this was what he wanted.

"I'll notify Martin Kreutz," he added, standing to go. "Wait here for no less than 15 minutes before you leave. I'll call your new phone tomorrow for your answer."