“Oh, not at all, sir—Judge,” replied the uniformed wide-girthed black man with a distinct British accent as he rose from the chair and extended his hand over the desk. “Actually, it is I who may have made the error.”
“Come now, Colonel, we all do occasionally.” Brendan gripped the official’s hand. “Then perhaps I may be on my way? There’s someone here I must meet.”
“That’s what he said!”
Brendan released the hand. “I beg your pardon?”
“I may have to beg yours. … The confidentiality, of course.”
“The what? Could we get to the point, please?”
“I realize that privacy,” continued the official, pronouncing the word as privvissy, “is of utmost importance—that’s been explained to us—but whenever we can be of assistance, we try to oblige the Crown.”
“Extremely commendable, Brigadier, but I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
The official needlessly lowered his voice. “A great man arrived here this morning, are you aware of that?”
“I’m sure many men of stature come to your beautiful island. It was highly recommended to me, in fact.”
“Ah, yes, the privvissy!”
“Yes, of course, the privvissy,” agreed the ex-convict judge, wondering if the official had both his oars in the water. “Could you be clearer?”
“Well, he said he was to meet someone, an associate he had to consult with, but after the very private reception line—no press, of course—he was taken directly to the charter that flew him to the out island, and obviously never met the person he was to confidentially meet. Now, am I clearer?”
“Like Boston harbor in a squall, General.”
“Very good. I understand. Privvissy. … So all our personnel are alerted to the fact that the great man’s friend might be seeking him here at the airport—confidentially, of course.”
“Of course.” Not even a paddle, thought Brendan.
“Then I considered another possibility,” said the official in minor triumph. “Suppose the great man’s friend was also flying to our island for a rendezvous with the great man?”
“Brilliant.”
“Not without logic. Then it struck me to obtain the passenger manifests of all the incoming flights, concentrating, of course, on those in first class, which would be proper for the great man’s associate.”
“Clairvoyance,” mumbled the once and former judge. “And you selected me?”
“The name, my good man! Pierre Prefontaine!”
“My pious, departed mother would no doubt take offense at your omitting the ‘Brendan Patrick.’ Like the French, the Irish are quite sensitive in such matters.”
“But it was the family. I understood that immediately!”
“You did?”
“Pierre Prefontaine! … Jean Pierre Fontaine. I am an expert on immigration procedures, having studied the methods in many countries. Your own name is a fascinating example, most honored Judge. Wave after wave of immigrants flocked to the United States, the melting pot of nations, races and languages. In the process names were altered, combined or simply misunderstood by armies of confused, overworked clerks. But roots frequently survived and thus it was for you. The family Fontaine became Prefontaine in America and the great man’s associate was in reality an esteemed member of the American branch!”
“Positively awesome,” muttered Brendan, eyeing the official as if he expected several male nurses to barge into the room with restraining equipment. “But isn’t it possible that this is merely coincidence? Fontaine is a common name throughout France, but, as I understand it, the Prefontaines were distinctly centered around Alsace-Lorraine.”
“Yes, of course,” said the deputy, again, lowering his voice rather than conceivably winking. “Yet without any prior word whatsoever, the Quai d’Orsay in Paris calls, then the UK’s Foreign Office follows with instructions—a great man is soon to drop out of the sky. Acknowledge him, honor him, spirit him off to a remote resort known for its confidentiality—for that, too, is paramount. The great one is to have total privvissy. … Yet that same great warrior is anxious; he is to confidentially meet with an associate he does not find. Perhaps the great man has secrets—all great men do, you know.”
Suddenly, the thousands of dollars in Prefontaine’s pockets felt very heavy. Washington’s Four Zero clearance in Boston, the Quai d’Orsay in Paris, the Foreign Office in London—Randolph Gates needlessly parting with an extraordinary amount of money out of sheer panic. There was a pattern of strange convergence, the strangest being the inclusion of a frightened, unscrupulous attorney named Gates. Was he an inclusion or an aberration? What did it all mean? “You are an extraordinary man,” said Brendan quickly, covering his thoughts with rapid words. “Your perceptions are nothing short of brilliant, but you do understand that confidentiality is paramount.”
“I will hear no more, honored Judge!” exclaimed the deputy. “Except to add that your appraisal of my abilities might not be lost on my superiors.”
“They will be made clear, I assure you. … Precisely where did my not too distant and distinguished cousin go?”
“A small out island where the seaplanes must land on the water. Its name is Tranquility Isle and the resort is called Tranquility Inn.”
“You will be personally thanked by those above you, be assured of that.”
“And I shall personally clear you through customs.”
Brendan Patrick Pierre Prefontaine, carrying his suitcase of burnished leather, walked out into the terminal of Blackburne Airport a bewildered man. Bewildered, hell, he was stunned! He could not decide whether to take the next flight back to Boston or to … his feet were apparently deciding for him. He found himself walking toward a counter beneath a large sea-blue sign with white lettering: INTER-ISLAND AIRWAYS. It couldn’t do any harm to inquire, he mused, then he would buy a ticket on the next plane to Boston.
On the wall beyond the counter a list of nearby “Out Isles” was next to a larger column of the well-known Leeward and Windward Islands from St. Kitts and Nevis south to the Grenadines. Tranquility was sandwiched between Canada Cay and Turtle Rock. Two clerks, both young, one black and one white, the former a young woman, the latter a blond-haired man in his early twenties, were talking quietly. The girl approached. “May I help you, sir?”
“I’m not really sure,” replied Brendan hesitantly. “My schedule’s so unsettled, but it seems I have a friend on Tranquility Isle.”
“At the inn, sir?”
“Yes, apparently so. Does it take long to fly over there?”
“If the weather’s clear, no more than fifteen minutes, but that would be an amphibious charter. I’m not sure one’s available until tomorrow morning.”
“Sure, there is, babe,” interrupted the young man with small gold wings pinned crookedly on his white shirt. “I’m running over some supplies to Johnny St. Jay pretty soon,” he added, stepping forward.
“He’s not scheduled for today.”
“As of an hour ago he is. Pronto.”
At that instant and with those words, Prefontaine’s eyes fell in astonishment on two stacks of cartons moving slowly down Inter-Island’s luggage carousel toward the exterior loading area. Even if he had the time to debate with himself, he knew his decision was made.
“I’d like to purchase a ticket on that flight, if I may,” he said, watching the boxes of Gerber’s Assorted Baby Foods and Pampers Medium Diapers disappear into the hold.
He had found the unknown woman with the small male child and the infant.
8
Routine secondhand inquiries at the Federal Trade Commission confirmed the fact that its chairman, Albert Armbruster, did, indeed, have ulcers as well as high blood pressure and under doctor’s orders left the office and returned home whenever discomfort struck him. Which was why Alex Conklin telephoned him after a generally overindulgent lunch—also established—with an “update” of the Snake Lady crisis. As with Alex’s initial call, catching Armbruster in the shower, he anonymously told the shaken chairman that someone would be in touch with him later in the day—either at the office or at home. The contact would identify himself simply as Cobra. (“Use all the banal trigger words you can come up with” was the gospel according to St. Conklin.) In the meantime, Armbruster was instructed to talk to no one. “Those are orders from the Sixth Fleet.”
“Oh, Christ!”
Thus Albert Armbruster called for his chariot and was driven home in discomfort. Further nausea was in store for the chairman, however, as Jason Bourne was waiting for him.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Armbruster,” said the stranger pleasantly as the chairman struggled out of the limousine, the door held open by the chauffeur.
“Yes, what?” Armbruster’s response was immediate, unsure.
“I merely said ‘Good afternoon.’ My name’s Simon. We met at the White House reception for the Joint Chiefs several years ago—”
“I wasn’t there,” broke in the chairman emphatically.
“Oh?” The stranger arched his brows, his voice still pleasant but obviously questioning.
“Mr. Armbruster?” The chauffeur had closed the door and now turned courteously to the chairman. “Will you be needing—”
“No, no,” said Armbruster, again interrupting. “You’re relieved—I won’t need you anymore today … tonight.”
“Same time tomorrow morning, sir?”
“Yes, tomorrow—unless you’re told otherwise. I’m not a well man; check with the office.”