“I understand,” said the clerk confidentially, leaning over the counter.
“You do?”
“Of course. If such an eminent person as yourself were known to be a guest here, you might find little rest. As another, you must have complete privvissy! Be assured, I understand.”
“ ‘Privvissy’? Oh, good Lord. …”
“I shall myself alter the directory, Judge.”
“Judge … ? I said nothing about being a judge.” Consternation was apparent on the man’s embarrassed face. “A slip born of wishing to serve you, sir.”
“And of something else—someone else.”
“On my word, no one here other than the owner of Tranquility Inn is aware of the confidential nature of your visit, sir,” whispered the clerk, again leaning over the counter. “All is total privvissy!”
“Holy Mary, that asshole at the airport—”
“My astute uncle,” continued the clerk, overriding and not hearing Prefontaine’s soft monotone, “made it completely clear that we were privileged to be dealing with illustrious men who required total confidentiality. You see, he called me in that spirit—”
“All right, all right, young man, I understand now and appreciate everything you’re doing. Just make sure that the name is changed to Patrick, and should anyone here inquire about me, he or she is to be given that name. Do we understand each other?”
“With clairvoyance, honored Judge!”
“I hope not.”
Four minutes later the harried assistant manager picked up the ringing telephone. “Front desk,” he intoned, as if giving a benediction.
“This is Monsieur Fontaine in Villa Number Eleven.”
“Yes, sir. The honor is mine … ours … everyone’s!”
“Merci. I wondered if you might help me. I met a charming American on the path perhaps a quarter of an hour ago, a man about my own age wearing a white walking cap. I thought I might ask him for an apéritif one day, but I’m not sure I heard his name correctly.”
He was being tested, thought the assistant manager. Great men not only had secrets but concerned themselves with those guarding them. “I would have to say from your description, sir, that you met the very charming Mr. Patrick.”
“Ah, yes, I believe that was the name. An Irish name, indeed, but he’s American, is he not?”
“A very learned American, sir, from Boston, Massachusetts. He’s in Villa Fourteen, the third west of yours. Simply dial seven-one-four.”
“Yes, well, thank you so much. If you see Monsieur Patrick, I’d prefer you say nothing. As you know, my wife is not well and I must extend the invitation when it is comfortable for her.”
“I would never say anything, great sir, unless told to do so. Where you and the learned Mr. Patrick are concerned, we follow the Crown governor’s confidential instructions to the letter.”
“You do? That’s most commendable. … Adieu.”
He had done it! thought the assistant manager, hanging up the phone. Great men understood subtleties, and he had been subtle in ways his brilliant uncle would appreciate. Not only with the instant offering of the Patrick name, but, more important, by using the word “learned” which conveyed that of a scholar—or a judge. And, finally, by stating that he would not say anything without the Crown governor’s instructions. By the use of subtlety he had insinuated himself into the confidentiality of great men. It was a breathtaking experience, and he must call his uncle and share their combined triumph.
Fontaine sat on the edge of the bed, the telephone in its cradle yet still in his hand, staring at his woman out on the balcony. She sat in her wheelchair, her profile to him, the glass of wine on the small table beside the chair, her head bent down in pain. … Pain! The whole terrible world was filled with pain! And he had done his share inflicting it; he understood that and expected no quarter, but not for his woman. That was never part of the contract. His life, yes, of course, but not hers, not while she had breath in her frail body. Non, monseigneur. Je refuse! Ce nest pas le contrat!
So the Jackal’s army of very old men now extended to America—it was to be expected. And an old Irish American in a foolish white cap, a learned man who for one reason or another had embraced the cult of the terrorist, was to be their executioner. A man who had studied him and pretended to speak no French, who had the sign of the Jackal in his eyes. Where you and the learned Mr. Patrick are concerned, we follow the instructions of the Crown governor. The Crown governor who took his instructions from a master of death in Paris.
A decade ago, after five productive years with the monseigneur, he had been given a telephone number in Argenteuil, six miles north of Paris, that he was never to use except in the most extreme emergency. He had used it only once before, but he would use it now. He studied the international codes, picked up the phone and dialed. After the better part of two minutes, a voice answered.
“Le Coeur du Soldat,” said a flat male voice, martial music in the background.
“I must reach a blackbird,” said Fontaine in French. “My identity is Paris Five.”
“If such a request is possible, where can such a bird reach you?”
“In the Caribbean.” Fontaine gave the area code, the telephone number and the extension to Villa Eleven. He hung up the phone and sat despondent on the edge of the bed. In his soul he knew that this might be his and his woman’s last few hours on earth. If so, he and his woman could face their God and speak the truth. He had killed, no question about that, but he had never harmed or taken the life of a person who had not committed greater crimes against others—with a few minor exceptions that might be called innocent bystanders caught in the heat of fire or in an explosion. All life was pain, did not the Scriptures tell us that? … On the other hand, what kind of God allowed such brutalities? Merde! Do not think about such things! They are beyond your understanding.
The telephone rang and Fontaine grabbed it, pulling it to his ear. “This is Paris Five,” he said.
“Child of God, what can be so extreme that you would use a number you have called only once before in our relationship?”
“Your generosity has been absolute, monseigneur, but I feel we must redefine our contract.”
“In what way?”
“My life is yours to do with as you will, as mercifully as you will, but it does not include my woman.”
“What?”
“A man is here, a learned man from the city of Boston who studies me with curious eyes, eyes that tell me he has other purposes in mind.”
“That arrogant fool flew down to Montserrat himself? He knows nothing!”
“Obviously he does, and I beg you, I shall do as you order me to do, but let us go back to Paris … I beg of you. Let her die in peace. I will ask no more of you.”
“You ask of me? I’ve given you my word!”
“Then why is this learned man from America here following me with a blank face and inquisitive eyes, monseigneur?”
The deep, hollow roll of a throated cough filled the silence, and then the Jackal spoke. “The great professor of law has transgressed, inserted himself where he should not be. He’s a dead man.”
Edith Gates, wife of the celebrated attorney and professor of law, silently opened the door of the private study in their elegant town house on Louisburg Square. Her husband sat motion less in his heavy leather armchair staring at the crackling fire, a fire he insisted upon despite the warm Boston night outside and the central air conditioning inside.
As she watched him, Mrs. Gates was once again struck by the painful realization that there were … things … about her husband she would never understand. Gaps in his life she could never fill, leaps in his thinking she could not comprehend. She only knew that there were times when he felt a terrible pain and would not share it, when by sharing it he would lessen the burden on himself. Thirty-three years ago a passably attractive young woman of average wealth had married an extremely tall, gangling, brilliant but impoverished law school graduate whose anxiety and eagerness to please had turned off the major firms in those days of the cool, restrained late fifties. The veneer of sophistication and the pursuit of security were valued over a smoldering, wandering first-rate mind of unsure direction, especially a mind inside a head of unkempt hair and a body dressed in clothes that were cheap imitations of J. Press and Brooks Brothers, which appeared even worse because his bank account precluded any additional expenses for alterations and few discount stores carried his size.
The new Mrs. Gates, however, had several ideas that would improve the prospects of their life together. Among them was to lay aside an immediate law career—better none than with an inferior firm, or, God forbid, a private practice with the sort of clients he was bound to attract, namely, those who could not afford established attorneys. Better to use his natural endowments, which were his impressive height and a quick, sponge-like intelligence that, combined with his drive, disposed of heavy academic workloads with ease. Using her modest trust fund, Edith shaped the externals of her man, buying the correct clothes and hiring a theatrical voice coach who instructed his student in the ways of dramatic delivery and effective stage presence. The gangling graduate soon took on a Lincolnesque quality with subtle flashes of John Brown. Too, he was on his way to becoming a legal expert, remaining in the milieu of the university, piling one degree upon another while teaching at the graduate level until the sheer depth of his expertise in specific areas was incontestable. And he found himself sought after by the prominent firms that had rejected him earlier.