“On an hour’s notice?”
“Well, chap, our buns could be in a collective sling, if you know what I mean—and your so vital but erratic telephone service does depend on a degree of Crown intervention, if you also know what I mean.”
“Henry, you’re a terrific negotiator. You so politely kick a person so accurately where it hurts. What’s our hero’s name? Quickly, please!”
“Our names are Jean Pierre and Regine Fontaine, Monsieur le Directeur, and here are our passports,” said the soft-spoken. old man inside the immigration officer’s glass-enclosed office, the chief aide of the Crown governor at his side. “My wife can be seen over there,” he added, pointing through the window. “She is talking with the mademoiselle in the white uniform.”
“Please, Monsieur Fontaine,” protested the stocky black immigration official in a pronounced British accent. “This is merely an informal formality, a stamping procedure, if you like. Also to remove you from the inconvenience of so many admirers. Rumors have gone throughout the airport that a great man has arrived.”
“Really?” Fontaine smiled; it was a pleasant smile.
“Oh, but not to be concerned, sir. The press has been barred. We know you want complete privacy, and you shall have it.”
“Really?” The old man’s smile faded. “I was to meet someone here, an associate, you might say, I must consult with confidentially. I hope your most considerate arrangements do not prevent him from reaching me.”
“A small, select group with proper standing and credentials will greet you in Blackburne’s honored-guest corridor, Monsieur Fontaine,” said the Crown governor’s chief aide. “May we proceed? The reception line will be swift, I assure you.”
“Really? That swift?”
It was, less than five minutes actually, but five seconds would have been enough. The first person the Jackal’s courier-killer met was the beribboned Crown governor himself. As the Queen’s royal representative embraced the hero in Gallic style, he whispered into Jean Pierre Fontaine’s ear. “We’ve learned where the woman and her children were taken. We are sending you there. The nurse has your instructions.”
The rest was somewhat anticlimactic for the old man, especially the absence of the press. He had never had his picture in the newspapers except as a felon.
Morris Panov, M.D., was a very angry man, and he always tried to control his very angry moments because they never helped him or his patients. At the moment, however, sitting at his office desk, he was having difficulty curbing his emotions. He had not heard from David Webb. He had to hear from him, he had to talk to him. What was happening could negate thirteen years of therapy, couldn’t they understand that? … No, of course they couldn’t; it was not what interested them; they had other priorities and did not care to be burdened by problems beyond their purview. But he had to care. The damaged mind was so fragile, so given to setbacks, the horrors of the past were so capable of taking over the present. It could not happen with David! He was so close to being as normal as he would ever be (and who the hell was “normal” in this fucked-up world). He could function wonderfully as a teacher; he had near-total recall where his scholarly expertise was called upon, and he was remembering more and more as each year progressed. But it could all blow apart with a single act of violence, for violence was the way of life for Jason Bourne. Damn!
It was crippling enough that they even permitted David to stay around; he had tried to explain the potential damage to Alex, but Conklin had an irrefutable reply: We can’t stop him. At least this way we can watch him, protect him. Perhaps so. “They” did not stint where protection was involved—the guards down the hall from his office and on the roof of the building, to say nothing of a temporary receptionist bearing arms as well as a strange computer, attested to their concern. Still it would be so much better for David if he was simply sedated and flown down to his island retreat, leaving the hunt for the Jackal to the professionals. … Panov suddenly caught himself as the realization swept over him: there was no one more professional than Jason Bourne.
The doctor’s thoughts were interrupted by the telephone, the telephone he could not pick up until all the security procedures were activated. A trace was placed on the incoming call; a scanner determined whether there were intercepts on the line, and finally the identity of the caller was approved by Panov himself. His intercom buzzed; he flipped the switch on his console. “Yes?”
“All systems are cleared, sir,” announced the temporary receptionist, who was the only one in the office who would know. “The man on the line said his name was Treadstone, Mr. D. Treadstone.”
“I’ll take it,” said Mo Panov firmly. “And you can remove whatever other ‘systems’ you’ve got on that machine out there. This is doctor-patient confidentiality.”
“Yes, sir. Monitor is terminated.”
“It’s what? … Never mind.” The psychiatrist picked up the phone and was barely able to keep from shouting. “Why didn’t you call me before this, you son of a bitch!”
“I didn’t want to give you cardiac arrest, is that sufficient?”
“Where are you and what are you doing?”
“At the moment?”
“That’ll suffice.”
“Let’s see, I rented a car and right now I’m a half a block from a town house in Georgetown owned by the chairman of the Federal Trade Commission, talking to you on a pay phone.”
“For Christ’s sake, why?”
“Alex will fill you in, but what I want you to do is call Marie on the island. I’ve tried a couple of times since leaving the hotel but I can’t get through. Tell her I’m fine, that I’m perfectly fine, and not to worry. Have you got that?”
“I’ve got it, but I don’t buy it. You don’t even sound like yourself.”
“You can’t tell her that, Doctor. If you’re my friend, you can’t tell her anything like that.”
“Stop it, David. This Jekyll-and-Hyde crap doesn’t wash anymore.”
“Don’t tell her that, not if you’re my friend.”
“You’re spiraling, David. Don’t let it happen. Come to me, talk to me.”
“No time, Mo. The fat cat’s limousine is parking in front of his house. I’ve got to go to work.”
“Jason!”
The line went dead.
Brendan Patrick Pierre Prefontaine walked down the jet’s metal steps into the hot Caribbean sun of Montserrat’s Blackburne Airport. It was shortly past three o’clock in the afternoon, and were it not for the many thousands of dollars on his person he might have felt lost. It was remarkable how a supply of hundred-dollar bills in various pockets made one feel so secure. In truth, he had to keep reminding himself that his loose change—fifties, twenties and tens—were in his right front trousers pocket so as not to make a mistake and either appear ostentatious or be a mark for some unprincipled hustler. Above all, it was vital for him to keep a low profile to the point of insignificance. He had to insignificantly ask significant questions around the airport regarding a woman and two small children who had arrived on a private aircraft the previous afternoon.
Which was why to his astonishment and alarm he heard the absolutely adorable black female immigration clerk say to him after hanging up a telephone, “Would you be so kind, sir, as to come with me, please?”
Her lovely face, lilting voice and perfect smile did nothing to allay the former judge’s fears. Far too many extremely guilty criminals had such assets. “Is there something wrong with my passport, young lady?”
“Not that I can see, sir.”
“Then why the delay? Why not simply stamp it and allow me to proceed?”
“Oh, it is stamped and entry is permitted, sir. There is no problem.”
“Then why … ?”
“Please come with me, sir.”
They approached a large glass-enclosed cubicle with a sign on the left window, the gold letters announcing the occupant: DEPUTY DIRECTOR OF IMMIGRATION SERVICES. The attractive clerk opened the door and, again smiling, gestured for the elderly visitor to go inside. Prefontaine did so, suddenly terrified that he would be searched, the money found, and all manner of charges leveled against him. He did not know which islands were involved in narcotics, but if this was one of them the thousands of dollars in his pockets would be instantly suspect. Explanations raced through his mind as the clerk crossed to the desk handing his passport to the short, heavyset deputy of immigration. The woman gave Brendan a last bright smile and went out the door, closing it behind her.
“Mr. Brendan Patrick Pierre Prefontaine,” intoned the immigration official reading the passport.
“Not that it matters,” said Brendan kindly but with summoned authority. “However, the ‘Mister’ is usually replaced with ‘Judge’—as I say, I don’t believe it’s relevant under the circumstances, or perhaps it is, I really don’t know. Did one of my law clerks make an error? If so, I’ll fly the whole group down to apologize.”