of values is constant. Gold simply is not brass or iron; who among you can deny it? Slide fourteen, if you please!"
The darkness again. Now .
He yanked the woman up, pushing her forward, toward the stage. They were within three feet of the edge.
" Cosa succede? What is the matter, please? Slide fourteen!"
It had happened! The projector was jammed again; the darkness was extended again. And there on the stage in front of them, above them, was the red glow of the exit sign. Jason gripped the girl's arm viciously. "Get up on that stage and run to the exit! I'm right behind you; you stop or cry out, I'll shoot."
"For God's sake, let me go!"
"Not yet." He meant it; there was another exit somewhere, men waiting outside for the target from Marseilles. "Go on! Now ."
The St. Jacques woman got to her feet and ran to the stage. Bourne lifted her off the floor, over the edge, leaping up as he did so, pulling her to her feet again.
The blinding light of the projector shot out, flooding the screen, washing the stage. Cries of surprise and Page 57
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
derision came from the audience at the sight of two figures, the shouts of the indignant Bertinelli heard over the din.
"E insoffribile! Ci sono comunisti qui!"
And there were other sounds--three--lethal, sharp, sudden. Cracks of a muted weapon--weapons; wood splintered on the molding of the proscenium arch. Jason hammered the girl down and lunged toward the shadows of the narrow wing space, pulling her behind him.
"Da ist er! Da oben!"
"Schnell! Der projektor!"
A scream came from the center aisle of the hall as the light of the projector swung to the right, spilling into the wings--but not completely. Its beam was intercepted by receding upright flats that masked the offstage area; light, shadow, light, shadow . And at the end of the flats, at the rear of the stage, was the exit. A high, wide metal door with a crashbar against it.
Glass shattered; the red light exploded, a marksman's bullet blew out the sign above the door. It did not matter; he could see the gleaming brass of the crashbar clearly. The lecture hall had broken out in pandemonium. Bourne grabbed the woman by the cloth of her blouse, yanking her beyond the flats toward the door. For an instant she resisted; he slapped her across the face and dragged her beside him until the crashbar was above their heads. Bullets spat into the wall to their right; the killers were racing down the aisles for accurate sightlines. They would reach them in seconds, and in seconds other bullets, or a single bullet, would find its mark. There were enough shells left, he knew that. He had no idea how or why he knew, but he knew . By sound he could visualize the weapons, extract the clips, count the shells. He smashed his forearm into the crashbar of the exit door. It flew open and he lunged through the opening, dragging the kicking St. Jacques woman with him.
"Stop it!" she screamed. "I won't go any farther! You're insane! Those were gunshots!"
Jason slammed the large metal door shut with his foot. "Get up!"
"No!"
He lashed the back of his hand across her face. "Sorry, but you're coming with me. Get up! Once we're outside, you have my word. I'll let you go." But where was he going now? They were in another tunnel, but there was no carpet, no polished doors with lighted signs above them. They were in some sort of deserted loading area; the floor was concrete, and there were two pipe-framed freight dollies next to him against the wall. He had been right: exhibits used on the stage of Suite Seven had to be trucked in, the exit door high enough and wide enough to accommodate large displays. The door! He had to block the door! Marie St. Jacques was on her feet; he held her as he grabbed the first dolly, pulling it by its frame in front of the exit door, slamming it with his shoulder and knee until it was lodged against the metal. He looked down; beneath the thick
The darkness again. Now .
He yanked the woman up, pushing her forward, toward the stage. They were within three feet of the edge.
" Cosa succede? What is the matter, please? Slide fourteen!"
It had happened! The projector was jammed again; the darkness was extended again. And there on the stage in front of them, above them, was the red glow of the exit sign. Jason gripped the girl's arm viciously. "Get up on that stage and run to the exit! I'm right behind you; you stop or cry out, I'll shoot."
"For God's sake, let me go!"
"Not yet." He meant it; there was another exit somewhere, men waiting outside for the target from Marseilles. "Go on! Now ."
The St. Jacques woman got to her feet and ran to the stage. Bourne lifted her off the floor, over the edge, leaping up as he did so, pulling her to her feet again.
The blinding light of the projector shot out, flooding the screen, washing the stage. Cries of surprise and Page 57
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
derision came from the audience at the sight of two figures, the shouts of the indignant Bertinelli heard over the din.
"E insoffribile! Ci sono comunisti qui!"
And there were other sounds--three--lethal, sharp, sudden. Cracks of a muted weapon--weapons; wood splintered on the molding of the proscenium arch. Jason hammered the girl down and lunged toward the shadows of the narrow wing space, pulling her behind him.
"Da ist er! Da oben!"
"Schnell! Der projektor!"
A scream came from the center aisle of the hall as the light of the projector swung to the right, spilling into the wings--but not completely. Its beam was intercepted by receding upright flats that masked the offstage area; light, shadow, light, shadow . And at the end of the flats, at the rear of the stage, was the exit. A high, wide metal door with a crashbar against it.
Glass shattered; the red light exploded, a marksman's bullet blew out the sign above the door. It did not matter; he could see the gleaming brass of the crashbar clearly. The lecture hall had broken out in pandemonium. Bourne grabbed the woman by the cloth of her blouse, yanking her beyond the flats toward the door. For an instant she resisted; he slapped her across the face and dragged her beside him until the crashbar was above their heads. Bullets spat into the wall to their right; the killers were racing down the aisles for accurate sightlines. They would reach them in seconds, and in seconds other bullets, or a single bullet, would find its mark. There were enough shells left, he knew that. He had no idea how or why he knew, but he knew . By sound he could visualize the weapons, extract the clips, count the shells. He smashed his forearm into the crashbar of the exit door. It flew open and he lunged through the opening, dragging the kicking St. Jacques woman with him.
"Stop it!" she screamed. "I won't go any farther! You're insane! Those were gunshots!"
Jason slammed the large metal door shut with his foot. "Get up!"
"No!"
He lashed the back of his hand across her face. "Sorry, but you're coming with me. Get up! Once we're outside, you have my word. I'll let you go." But where was he going now? They were in another tunnel, but there was no carpet, no polished doors with lighted signs above them. They were in some sort of deserted loading area; the floor was concrete, and there were two pipe-framed freight dollies next to him against the wall. He had been right: exhibits used on the stage of Suite Seven had to be trucked in, the exit door high enough and wide enough to accommodate large displays. The door! He had to block the door! Marie St. Jacques was on her feet; he held her as he grabbed the first dolly, pulling it by its frame in front of the exit door, slamming it with his shoulder and knee until it was lodged against the metal. He looked down; beneath the thick
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