“The children?” she asked, raising her voice to be heard, her eyes on fire.
“Everything’s fine, better than we might have expected. Alex reached the same conclusion about the Jackal as I did. Peter Holland’s flying them all up to a safe house in Virginia, Mrs. Cooper included.”
“Thank God!”
“Thank Alex.” Bourne looked at the pink plastic cup with the thin blue spoon. “What the hell is this? They didn’t have vanilla?”
“It’s a hot fudge sundae. It was meant for the man beside me but he was yelling at his wife, so I took it.”
“I don’t like hot fudge.”
“So yell at your wife. Come on, we’ve got to buy clothes.”
The early afternoon Caribbean sun burned down on Tranquility Inn as John St. Jacques descended the staircase into the lobby carrying a LeSport duffel bag in his right hand. He nodded to Mr. Pritchard, whom he had spoken to over the phone only moments ago, explaining that he was leaving for several days and would be in touch within hours after he reached Toronto. What remained of the staff had been apprised of his sudden, quite necessary departure, and he had full confidence in the executive manager and his valuable assistant, Mr. Pritchard. He assumed that no problems would arise beyond their combined expertise. Tranquility Inn, for all intents and purposes, was virtually shut down. However, Sir Henry Sykes at Government House on the big island should be contacted in the event of difficulties.
“There shall be none beyond my expertise!” Pritchard had replied. “The repair and maintenance crews will work every bit as hard in your absence.”
St. Jacques walked out the glass doors of the circular building toward the first villa on the right, the one nearest the stone steps to the pier and the two beaches. Mrs. Cooper and the two children waited inside for the arrival of the United States Navy long-range seagoing helicopter that would take them to Puerto Rico, where they would board a military jet to Andrews Air Force Base outside Washington.
Through the huge glass windows, Mr. Pritchard watched his employer disappear through the doors of Villa One. At that same moment he heard the growing sounds of a large helicopter’s rotors thumping in the air above the inn. In minutes it would circle the water beyond the pier and descend, awaiting its passengers. Apparently, those passengers heard what he had heard, thought Mr. Pritchard as he saw St. Jacques, gripping his young nephew’s hand, and the insufferably arrogant Mrs. Cooper, who was holding a blanketed infant in her arms, come out of the villa, followed by the two favorite guards carrying their luggage. Pritchard reached below the counter for the telephone that bypassed the switchboard. He dialed.
“This is the office of the deputy director of immigration, himself speaking.”
“Esteemed Uncle—”
“It is you?” broke in the official from Blackburne Airport, abruptly lowering his voice. “What have you learned?”
“Everything is of immense value, I assure you. I heard it all on the telephone!”
“We shall both be greatly rewarded, I have that on the highest authority. They may all be undercover terrorists, you know, St. Jacques himself the leader. It is said they may even fool Washington. What can I pass on, brilliant Nephew?”
“They are being taken to what is called a ‘safe’ house in Virginia. It is known as the Tannenbaum estate and has its own airport, can you believe such a thing?”
“I can believe anything where these animals are concerned.”
“Be sure to include my name and position, esteemed Uncle.”
“Would I do otherwise, could I do otherwise? We shall be the heroes of Montserrat! … But remember, my intelligent Nephew, everything must be kept in utmost secrecy. We are both sworn to silence, never forget that. Just think! We’ve been selected to render service to a great international organization. Leaders the world over will know of our contributions.”
“My heart bursts with pride. … May I know what this august organization is called?”
“Shhh! It has no name; that is part of the secrecy. The money was wired through a bank computer transfer directly from Switzerland; that is the proof.”
“A sacred trust,” added Mr. Pritchard.
“Also well paid, trusted Nephew, and it is only the beginning. I myself am monitoring all aircraft arriving here and sending the manifests on to Martinique, to a famous surgeon, no less! Of course, at the moment all flights are on hold, orders from Government House.”
“The American military helicopter?” asked the awed Pritchard.
“Shhh! It, too, is a secret, everything is secret.”
“Then it is a very loud and apparent secret, my esteemed Uncle. People are on the beach watching it now.”
“What?”
“It’s here. Mr. Saint Jay and the children are boarding as we speak. Also that dreadful Mrs. Cooper—”
“I must call Paris at once,” interrupted the immigration officer, disconnecting the line.
“Paris?” repeated Mr. Pritchard. “How inspiring! How privileged we are!”
“I didn’t tell him everything,” said Peter Holland quietly, shaking his head as he spoke. “I wanted to—I intended to—but it was in his eyes, in his own words actually. He said that he’d louse us up in a minute if it would help Bourne and his wife.”
“He would, too.” Charles Casset nodded; he sat in the chair in front of the director’s desk, a computer printout of a long-buried classified file in his hand. “When you read this you’ll understand. Alex really did try to kill Bourne in Paris years ago—his closest friend and he tried to put a bullet in his head for all the wrong reasons.”
“Conklin’s on his way to Paris now. He and Morris Panov.”
“That’s on your head, Peter. I wouldn’t have done it, not without strings.”
“I couldn’t refuse him.”
“Of course you could. You didn’t want to.”
“We owed him. He brought us Medusa—and from here on, Charlie, that’s all that concerns us.”
“I understand, Director Holland,” said Casset coldly. “And I assume that due to foreign entanglements you’re working backwards into a domestic conspiracy that should be incontestably established before you alert the guardians of domestic accord, namely, the Federal Bureau.”
“Are you threatening me, you lowlife?”
“I certainly am, Peter.” Casset dropped the ice from his expression, replacing it with a calm, thin smile. “You’re breaking the law, Mr. Director. … That’s regrettable, old boy, as my predecessors might have said.”
“What the hell do you want from me?” cried Holland.
“Cover one of our own, one of the best we ever had. I not only want it, I insist upon it.”
“If you think I’m going to give him everything, including the name of Medusa’s law firm on Wall Street, you’re out of your fucking mind. It’s our keystone!”
“For God’s sake, go back into the navy, Admiral,” said the deputy director, his voice level, again cold, without emphasis. “If you think that’s what I’m suggesting, you haven’t learned very much in that chair.”
“Hey, come on, smart ass, that’s pretty close to insubordination.”
“Of course it is, because I’m insubordinate—but this isn’t the navy. You can’t keelhaul me, or hang me from the yardarm, or withhold my ration of rum. All you can do is fire me, and if you do, a lot of people will wonder why, which wouldn’t do the Agency any good. But that’s not necessary.”
“What the hell are you talking about, Charlie?”
“Well, to begin with, I’m not talking about that law firm in New York because you’re right, it is our keystone, and Alex with his infinite imagination would probe and threaten to the point where the shredding begins and our paper trail here and abroad ends.”
“I had something like that in mind—”
“Then again you were right,” interrupted Casset, nodding. “So we keep Alex away from our keystone, as far away from us as possible, but we give him our marker. Something tangible he can plug into, knowing its value.”
Silence. Then Holland spoke. “I don’t understand a word you’re saying.”
“You would if you knew Conklin better. He knows now that there’s a connection between Medusa and the Jackal. What did you call it? A self-fulfilling prophecy?”
“I said the strategy was so perfect it was inevitable and therefore self-fulfilling. DeSole was the unexpected catalyst who moved everything ahead of schedule—him and whatever the hell happened down in Montserrat. … What’s this marker of yours, this tangible item of value?”
“The string, Peter. Knowing what he knows, you can’t let Alex bounce around Europe like a loose cannon any more than you could give him the name of that law firm in New York. We need a pipeline to him so we have some idea what he’s up to—more than an idea, if we can manage it. Someone like his friend Bernardine, only someone who can also be our friend.”
“Where do we find such a person?”
“I have a candidate—and I hope we’re not being taped.”
“Count on it,” said Holland with a trace of anger. “I don’t believe in that crap and this office is swept every morning. Who’s the candidate?”