“Then stop talking and tell me why you’re here—at whatever time it is.”
“When last I looked I met Casset on the road at three-twenty. I had to gimp through a bunch of woods and climb over a goddamned fence—”
“What?”
“You heard me. A fence. Try it with your foot in cement. … You know, I once won the fifty-yard dash when I was in high school.”
“Cut the digression. What happened?”
“Oh, I hear Webb again.”
“What happened? And while you’re at it, who the hell is this Casset you keep talking about?”
“The only man I trust in Virginia. He and Valentino.”
“Who?”
“They’re analysts, but they’re straight.”
“What?”
“Never mind. Jesus, there are times when I wish I could get pissed—”
“Alex, why are you here?”
Conklin looked up from the bed as he angrily gripped his cane. “I’ve got the books on our Philadelphians.”
“That’s why? Who are they?”
“No, that’s not why. I mean it’s interesting, but it’s not why I’m here.”
“Then why?” asked Jason, crossing to a chair next to a window and sitting down, frowning, perplexed. “My erudite friend from Cambodia and beyond doesn’t climb over fences with his foot in cement at three o’clock in the morning unless he thinks he has to.”
“I had to.”
“Which tells me nothing. Please tell.”
“It’s DeSole.”
“What’s the soul?”
“Not ‘the,’ DeSole.”
“You’ve lost me.”
“He’s the keeper of the keys at Langley. Nothing happens that he doesn’t know about and nothing gets done in the area of research that he doesn’t pass on.”
“I’m still lost.”
“We’re in deep shit.”
“That doesn’t help me at all.”
“Webb again.”
“Would you rather I took a nerve out of your neck?”
“All right, all right. Let me get my breath.” Conklin dropped his cane on the rug. “I didn’t even trust the freight elevator. I stopped two floors below and walked up.”
“Because we’re in deep shit?”
“Yes.”
“Why? Because of this DeSole?”
“Correct, Mr. Bourne. Steven DeSole. The man who has his finger on every computer at Langley. The one person who can spin the disks and put your old virginal Aunt Grace in jail as a hooker if he wants her there.”
“What’s your point?”
“He’s the connection to Brussels, to Teagarten at NATO. Casset learned down in the cellars that he’s the only connection—they even have an access code bypassing everyone else.”
“What does it mean?”
“Casset doesn’t know, but he’s goddamned angry.”
“How much did you tell him?”
“The minimum. That I was working on some possibles and Teagarten’s name came up in an odd way—most likely a diversion or used by someone trying to impress someone else—but I wanted to know who he talked to at the Agency, frankly figuring it was Peter Holland. I asked Charlie to play it out in the dark.”
“Which I assume means confidentially.”
“Ten times that. Casset is the sharpest knife in Langley. I didn’t have to say any more than I did; he got the message. Now he’s also got a problem he didn’t have yesterday.”
“What’s he going to do?”
“I asked him not to do anything for a couple of days and that’s what he gave me. Forty-eight hours, to be precise, and then he’s going to confront DeSole.”
“He can’t do that,” said Bourne firmly. “Whatever these people are hiding we can use it to pull out the Jackal. Use them to pull him out as others like them used me thirteen years ago.”
Conklin stared first down at the floor, then up at Jason Bourne. “It comes down to the almighty ego, doesn’t it?” he said. “The bigger the ego the bigger the fear—”
“The bigger the bait, the bigger the fish,” completed Jason, interrupting. “A long time back you told me that Carlos’s ‘spine’ was as big as his head, which had to be swollen all out of proportion for him to be in the business he’s in. That was true then and it’s true now. If we can get any one of these high government profiles to send a message to him—namely, to come after me, kill me—he’ll jump at it. Do you know why?”
“I just told you. Ego.”
“Sure, that’s part of it, but there’s something else. It’s the respect that’s eluded Carlos for more than twenty years, starting with Moscow cutting him loose and telling him to get lost. He’s made millions, but his clients have mainly been the crud of the earth. For all the fear he’s engendered he still remains a punk psychopath. No legends have been built around him, only contempt, and at this stage it’s got to be driving him close to the edge. The fact that he’s coming after me to settle a thirteen-year-old score supports what I’m saying. … I’m vital to him—his killing me is vital—because I was the product of our covert operations. That’s who he wants to show up, show that he’s better than all of us put together.”
“It could also be because he still thinks you can identify him.”
“I thought that at first, too, but after thirteen years and nothing from me—well, I had to think again.”
“So you moved into Mo Panov’s territory and came up with a psychiatric profile.”
“It’s a free country.”
“Compared with most, yes, but where’s all this leading us?”
“Because I know I’m right.”
“That’s hardly an answer.”
“Nothing can be false or faked,” insisted Bourne, leaning forward in the armchair, his elbows on his bare knees, his hands clasped. “Carlos would find the contrivance; it’s the first thing he’ll look for. Our Medusans have to be genuine and genuinely panicked.”
“They’re both, I told you that.”
“To the point where they’d actually consider making contact with someone like the Jackal.”
“That I don’t know—”
“That we’ll never know,” broke in Jason, “until we learn what they’re hiding.”
“But if we start the disks spinning at Langley, DeSole will find out. And, if he’s part of whatever the hell it is, he’ll alert the others.”
“Then there’ll be no research at Langley. I’ve got enough to go on anyway, just get me addresses and private telephone numbers. You can do that, can’t you?”
“Certainly, that’s low-level. What are you going to do?”
Bourne smiled and spoke quietly, even gently. “How about storming their houses or sticking needles in their asses between the appetizers and the entrées?”
“Now I hear Jason Bourne.”
“So be it.”
7
Marie St. Jacques Webb greeted the Caribbean morning by stretching in bed and-looking over at the crib several feet away. Alison was deep in sleep, which she had not been four or five hours ago. The little dear had been a basket case then, so much so that Marie’s brother Johnny had knocked on the door, walked cowardly inside, and asked if he could do anything, which he profoundly trusted he could not.
“How are you at changing a nasty diaper?”
“I don’t even want to think about it,” said St. Jacques, fleeing.
Now, however, she heard his voice through the shutters outside. She also knew that she was meant to hear it; he was enticing her son, Jamie, into a race in the pool and speaking so loudly he could be heard on the big island of Montserrat. Marie literally crawled out of bed, headed for the bathroom, and four minutes later, ablutions completed, her auburn hair brushed and, wearing a bathrobe, walked out through the shuttered door to the patio overlooking the pool.
“Well, hi there, Mare!” shouted her tanned, dark-haired, handsome younger brother beside her son in the water. “I hope we didn’t wake you up. We just wanted to take a swim.”
“So you decided to let the British coastal patrols in Plymouth know about it.”
“Hey, come on, it’s almost nine o’clock. That’s late in the islands.”
“Hello, Mommy. Uncle John’s been showing me how to scare off sharks with a stick!”
“Your uncle is full of terribly important information that I hope to God you’ll never use.”
“There’s a pot of coffee on the table, Mare. And Mrs. Cooper will make you whatever you like for breakfast.”
“Coffee’s fine, Johnny. The telephone rang last night—was it David?”
“Himself,” replied the brother. “And you and I are going to talk. … Come on, Jamie, up we go. Grip the ladder.”
“What about the sharks?”
“You got ’em all, buddy. Go get yourself a drink.”
“Johnny!”
“Orange juice, there’s a pitcher in the kitchen.” John St. Jacques walked around the rim of the pool and up the steps to the bedroom patio as his nephew raced into the house.
Marie watched her brother approach, noting the similarities between him and her husband. Both were tall and muscular; both had in their strides an absence of compromise, but where David usually won, Johnny more often than not lost, and she did not know why. Or why David had such trust in his younger brother-in-law when the two older St. Jacques sons would appear to be more responsible. David—or was it Jason Bourne?—never discussed the question in depth; he simply laughed it off and said Johnny had a streak in him that appealed to David—or was it Bourne?