“Yes,” replied Conklin, his voice so low it was barely audible. “The arrogance of ignorance, it’s your favorite Washington theme; you always make it sound so Oriental. But somewhere along the line you’re going to have to be a little less arrogant yourself. There’s only so much we can do alone.”
“On the other hand, there’s so much that can be loused up if we’re not alone. Look at the progress we’ve made. From zero to double digits in how long—forty-eight, seventy-two hours? Give me the two days, Alex, please. We’re closing in on what this whole thing’s about, what Medusa’s all about. One breakthrough, and we present them with the perfect solution to get rid of me. The Jackal.”
“I’ll do the best I can. Did Cactus reach you?”
“Yes. He’ll call me back and then come out here. I’ll explain later.”
“I should tell you. He and our doctor are friends.”
“I know. Ivan told me. … Alex, I want to get some things over to you—Swayne’s telephone book, his wallet, appointments schedule, stuff like that. I’ll wrap it all up and have one of Cactus’s boys deliver the package to your place, to the security gate. Put everything into your high tech and see what you can find.”
“Cactus’s boys? What are you doing?”
“Taking an item off your agenda. I’m sealing this place up. Nobody’ll be able to get in, but we’ll see who tries.”
“That could be interesting. The kennel people are coming for the dogs around seven in the morning, incidentally, so don’t make the seals too tight.”
“Which reminds me,” interrupted Jason. “Be official again and call the guards on the other shifts. Their services are no longer required, but each will receive a month’s pay by mail in lieu of notice.”
“Who the hell’s going to pay it? There’s no Langley, remember? No Peter Holland and I’m not independently wealthy.”
“I am. I’ll phone my bank in Maine and have them Fed Ex you a cashier’s check. Ask your friend Casset to pick it up at your apartment in the morning.”
“It’s funny, isn’t it?” said Conklin slowly, pensively. “I forgot about your money. I never think about it, actually. I guess I’ve blocked it out of my mind.”
“That’s possible,” added Bourne, a trace of lightness in his voice. “The official part of you may have visions of some bureaucrat coming up to Marie and saying, ‘By the way, Mrs. Webb or Bourne or whoever you are, while you were in the employ of the Canadian government you made off with over five million dollars belonging to mine.’ ”
“She was only brilliant, David—Jason. You were owed every dollar.”
“Don’t press the point, Alex. She claimed at least twice the amount.”
“She was right. It’s why everyone shut up. … What are you going to do now?”
“Wait for Cactus’s call, then make one of my own.”
“Oh?”
“To my wife.”
Marie sat on the balcony of her villa at Tranquility Inn staring out at the moonlit Caribbean, trying with every controlling instinct in her not to go mad with fear. Strangely, perhaps stupidly or even dangerously, it was not the fear of physical harm that consumed her. She had lived in both Europe and the Far East with the killing machine that was Jason Bourne; she knew what that stranger was capable of and it was brutally efficient. No, it wasn’t Bourne, it was David—what Jason Bourne was doing to David Webb. She had to stop it! … They could go away, far away, to some remote safe haven and start a new life with new names, create a world for themselves that Carlos could never penetrate. They had all the money they would ever need, they could do it! It was done all the time—hundreds, thousands of men and women and children whose lives were threatened were shielded by their governments; and if ever a government anywhere had reason to protect a man, that man was David Webb! … Thoughts conceived in frenzy, reflected Marie, getting up from her chair and walking to the balcony’s railing. It would never happen because David could never accept the solution. Where the Jackal was concerned, David Webb was ruled by Jason Bourne and Bourne was capable of destroying his host body. Oh, God, what’s happening to us?
The telephone rang. Marie stiffened, then rushed into the bedroom and picked it up. “Yes?”
“Hello, Sis, it’s Johnny.”
“Oh …”
“Which means you haven’t heard from David.”
“No, and I’m going a little crazy, Bro.”
“He’ll call when he can, you know that.”
“But you’re not calling to tell me that.”
“No, I’m just checking in. I’m stuck over here on the big island and it looks like I’ll be here for a while. I’m at Government House with Henry, waiting for the CG to personally thank me for accommodating the Foreign Office.”
“I don’t understand a word you’re saying—”
“Oh, sorry. Henry Sykes is the Crown governor’s aide who asked me to take care of that old French war hero down the path from you. When the CG wants to thank you, you wait until you’re thanked—when the phones go out, cowboys like me need Government House.”
“You’ve totally lost me, Johnny.”
“A storm out of Basse-Terre will hit in a few hours.”
“Out of whom?”
“It’s a what, but I should be back before then. Have the maid make up the couch for me.”
“John, it’s not necessary for you to stay here. Good heavens, there are men with guns outside the hedge and down on the beach and God knows where else.”
“That’s where they’re going to stay. See you later, and hug the kids for me.”
“They’re asleep,” said Marie as her younger brother hung up. She looked at the phone as she replaced it, unconsciously saying out loud, “How little I know about you, little Bro … our favorite, incorrigible Bro. And how much more does my husband know. Damn the both of you!”
The telephone instantly rang again, stunning her. She grabbed it. “Hello?”
“It’s me.”
“Thank God!”
“He’s out of town, but everything’s fine. I’m fine, and we’re making headway.”
“You don’t have to do this! We don’t have to!”
“Yes, we do,” said Jason Bourne—no evidence of David Webb. “Just know I love you, he loves you—”
“Stop it! It’s happening—”
“I’m sorry, I apologize—forgive me.”
“You’re David!”
“Of course I’m David. I was just joking—”
“No, you weren’t!”
“I was talking to Alex, that’s all. We argued, that’s all!”
“No, it isn’t! I want you back, I want you here!”
“Then I can’t talk any longer. I love you.” The line went dead and Marie St. Jacques Webb fell on the bed, her cries of futility muffled by the blankets.
Alexander Conklin, his eyes red with strain, kept touching the letters and the numbers of his computer, his head turned to the open pages of the ledgers sent over by Bourne from General Norman Swayne’s estate. Two shrill beeps suddenly intruded on the silence of the room. It was the inanimate machine’s robotic signal that another dual reference had been calculated. He checked the entry. R.G. What did it mean? He back-taped and found nothing. He pressed forward, typing like a mindless automaton. Three beeps. He kept punching the irritatingly beige buttons, faster and faster. Four beeps … five … six. Back space—stop—forward. R.G. R.G. R.G. R.G. What the hell was R.G.?
He cross-checked the data with the entries from the three different leather-bound notebooks. A common numeral sprang out in green letters on the screen. 617-202-0011. A telephone number. Conklin picked up the Langley phone, dialed the night watch, and told the CIA operator to trace it.
“It’s unlisted, sir. It’s one of three numbers for the same residence in Boston, Massachusetts.”
“The name, please.”
“Gates, Randolph. The residence is—”
“Never mind, Operator,” interrupted Alex, knowing that he had been given the essential information. Randolph Gates, scholar, attorney for the privileged, advocate of the bigger the better, the biggest the best. How right that Gates should be involved with amassing hundreds of millions in Europe controlled by American interests. … No, wait a moment. It wasn’t right at all, it was wrong! It was completely illogical for the scholarly attorney to have any connection whatsoever to a highly questionable, indeed illegal, operation like Medusa. It did not make sense! One did not have to admire the celebrated legal giant to grant him just about the cleanest record for propriety in the Bar Association. He was a notorious stickler for the most minute points of law, often using those minutiae of his craft to obtain favorable decisions, but no one ever dared question his integrity. So unpopular were his legal and philosophical opinions to the brightest lawyers in the liberal establishment that he would have been gleefully discredited years ago at the slightest hint of impropriety.
Yet here was his name appearing six times in the appointments calendar of a Medusan responsible for untold millions in the nation’s defense expenditures. An unstable Medusan whose apparent suicide was in fact murder.