he took it off, placing it at his feet, the soft-brimmed hat on top, and covered both with undergrowth. Then he stepped to the edge of the woods and raced as quietly as possible across the gravel to the drainpipe.
In the shadows he tugged at the fluted metal; it was strongly in place. He reached as high as he could, then sprang up, gripping the pipe, his feet pressed into the wall, pedalling one on top of the other until his left foot was parallel to the first vent. Holding on, he slipped his foot into the recess, and propelled himself further up the drain. He was within eighteen inches of the railing; one surge launched from the vent and he could reach the bottom rung.
Book 3 Chapter Thirty-two
The door crashed open beneath him, white light shooting across the gravel into the woods. A figure plummeted out, weaving to maintain its balance, followed by the white-hatted chef who was screaming.
'You piss-ant! You're drunk, that's what you are! You've been drunk the whole shit-filled night! Pastries all over the dining-room floor... everything a mess. Get out, you'll not get a sou!'
The door was pulled shut, the sound of a bolt unmistakably final. Jason held onto the pipe, arms and ankles aching, rivulets of sweat breaking out on his forehead. The man below staggered backwards, making obscene gestures repeatedly with his right hand for the benefit of the chef who was no longer there. His glazed eyes wandered up the wall, settling on Bourne's face. Jason held his breath as their eyes met; the man stared, then blinked, and stared again. He shook his head, closing his lids, then opened them wide, taking in the sight he was not entirely sure was there. He backed away, lurching into a sideslip and a forward walk, obviously deciding that the apparition halfway up the wall was the result of his pressured labours. He weaved around the corner of the building, a man more at peace with himself for having rejected the foolishness that had assaulted his eyes.
Bourne breathed again, letting his body slump against the wall in relief. But it was only for a moment; the ache in his ankle had descended to his foot, a cramp forming. He lunged, grabbing the iron bar that was the base of the railing with his right hand, whipping his left up from the drainpipe, joining it. He pressed his knees into the tiles and pulled himself slowly up the wall until his head was over the edge of the terrace. It was deserted. He kicked his right leg up to the ledge, his right hand reaching for the wrought-iron top; balanced, he swung over the railing.
He was on a terrace used for dining in the spring and summer months, a tiled floor that could accommodate ten to fifteen tables. In the centre of the wall separating the enclosed section from the terrace were the wide double doors he had seen from the woods. The figures inside were now motionless, standing still, and for an instant Jason wondered whether an alarm had been set off - whether they were waiting for him. He stood immobile, his hand on his gun; nothing happened. He approached the wall, staying in the shadows. Once there, he pressed his back against the wood and edged his way towards the first door until his ringers touched the frame. Slowly, he inched his head up to the pane of glass level with his eyes and looked inside. What he saw was both mesmerizing and not a little frightening. The men were in lines - three separate lines, four men to a line - facing Andre Villiers, who was addressing them. Thirteen men in all, twelve of them not merely standing, but standing at attention. They were old men, but not merely old men; they were old soldiers. None wore uniforms; instead in each lapel they wore ribbons, regimental colours above decorations for valour and rank. And if there was one all-pervasive note about the scene, it, too, was unmistakable. These were men used to command - used to power. It was in their faces, their eyes, in the way they listened - respect rendered but not blindly, judgment ever present. Their bodies were old, but there was strength in that room. Immense strength. That was the frightening aspect. If these men belonged to Carlos, the assassin's resources were not only far-reaching, they were extraordinarily dangerous. For these were not ordinary men; they were