“Tranquility—”
“This is an emergency,” broke in Conklin. “It’s urgent that I speak with John St. Jacques. Quickly, please.”
“I’m sorry, sir, Mr. St. Jacques isn’t here.”
“I’ve got to find him. I repeat, it’s urgent. Where is he?”
“On the big island—”
“Montserrat?”
“Yes—”
“Where? … My name’s Conklin. He wants to talk to me—he has to talk to me. Please!”
“A big wind came up from Basse-Terre and all flights are canceled until morning.”
“A what?”
“A tropical depression—”
“Oh, a storm.”
“We prefer a TD, sir. Mr. St. Jacques left a telephone number in Plymouth.”
“What’s your name?” interrupted Alex suddenly. The clerk replied Pritchard and Conklin continued: “I’m going to ask you a very delicate question, Mr. Pritchard. It’s important that you have the right answer, but if it’s the wrong one you must do as I tell you. Mr. St. Jacques will confirm everything I say when I reach him; however, I can’t waste time now. Do you understand me?”
“What is your question?” asked the clerk with dignity. “I’m not a child, mon.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“The question, Mr. Conklin. You’re in a hurry.”
“Yes, of course. … Mr. St. Jacques’s sister and her children, are they in a safe place? Did Mr. St. Jacques take certain precautions?”
“Such as armed guards about the villa and our usual men down on the beach?” said the clerk. “The answer is yes.”
“It’s the right answer.” Alex took a deep breath, his breathing still erratic. “Now, what’s the number where I can reach Mr. St. Jacques?”
The clerk gave it to Conklin, then added, “Many phones are out, sir. It might be well if you left a number here. The wind is still strong, but Mr. Saint Jay will no doubt come over with the first light if he can.”
“Certainly.” Alex rattled off the number of the sterile telephone in the Vienna apartment and had the man in Montserrat repeat it. “That’s it,” said Conklin. “I’ll try Plymouth now.”
“The spelling of your name, please. It is C-o-n-c-h—”
“C-o-n-k,” broke in Alex, snapping off the line and instantly dialing the number in the town of Plymouth, the capital of Montserrat. Once again a startled, drowsy voice answered; it was a barely coherent greeting. “Who’s this?” asked Conklin impatiently.
“Who the hell is this—are you?” replied an angry English man.
“I’m trying to reach John St. Jacques. It’s an emergency, and I was given this number by the desk at Tranquility Inn.”
“Good Lord, their phones are intact … ?”
“Obviously. Please, is John there?”
“Yes, yes, of course. He’s across the hall, I’ll fetch him. Who shall I say—”
“ ‘Alex’ is good enough.”
“Just ‘Alex’?”
“Hurry, please!” Twenty seconds later the voice of John St. Jacques filled the line.
“Conklin? Is that you?”
“Listen to me. They know Marie and the children flew into Montserrat.”
“We heard that someone was asking questions over at the airport about a woman and two kids—”
“Then that’s why you moved them from the house to the inn.”
“That’s right.”
“Who was asking questions?”
“We don’t know. It was done by telephone. … I didn’t want to leave them, even for a few hours, but I had a command appearance at Government House, and by the time that son-of-a-bitch Crown governor showed up, the storm hit.”
“I know. I talked to the desk and got this number.”
“That’s one consolation; the phones are still working. In weather like this they usually don’t, which is why we suck up to the Crown.”
“I understand you’ve got guards—”
“You’re goddamned right!” cried St. Jacques. “The trouble is I don’t know what to look for except strangers in boats or on the beach, and if they don’t stop and identify themselves satisfactorily, my orders are to shoot!”
“I may be able to help—”
“Go ahead!”
“We got a break—don’t ask how; it’s from outer space but that doesn’t matter, it’s real. The man who traced Marie to Montserrat used a judge who had contacts, presumably in the islands.”
“A judge?” exploded the owner of Tranquility Inn. “My God, he’s there! Christ, he’s there! I’ll kill that scum bastard—”
“Stop it, Johnny! Get hold of yourself—who’s there?”
“A judge, and he insisted on using a different name! I didn’t think anything about it—a couple of whack-a-doo old men with similar names—”
“Old men? … Slow down, Johnny, this is important. What two old men?”
“The one you’re talking about is from Boston—”
“Yes!” confirmed Alex emphatically.
“The other flew in from Paris—”
“Paris? Jesus Christ! The old men of Paris!”
“What … ?”
“The Jackal! Carlos has his old men in place!”
“Now, you slow down, Alex,” said St. Jacques, his breathing audible. “Now you be clearer.”
“There’s no time, Johnny. Carlos has an army—his army—of old men who’ll die for him, kill for him. There won’t be any strangers on the beach, they’re already there! Can you get back to the island?”
“Somehow, yes! I’ll call my people over there. Both those pieces of garbage will be thrown into the cisterns!”
“Hurry, John!”
f f f
St. Jacques pressed down the small bar of the old telephone, released it, and heard the forever-pulsating dial tone. He spun the numbers for the inn on Tranquility Isle.
“We are sorry,” said the recorded voice. “Due to weather conditions the lines are down to the area you are calling. Government is working very hard to restore communications. Please try your call later. Have a good day.”
John St. Jacques slammed the phone down with such force that he broke it in two. “A boat!” he screamed. “Get me a drug boat!”
“You’re crazy,” objected the aide to the Crown governor across the room. “In these swells?”
“A sea streak, Henry!” said the devoted brother, reaching into his belt and slowly pulling out an automatic. “Or I’ll be forced to do something I don’t even want to think about, but I’ll get a boat.”
“I simply can’t believe this, chap.”
“Neither can I, Henry. … I mean it, though.”
Jean Pierre Fontaine’s nurse sat at her dressing table in front of the mirror and adjusted her tightly knotted blond hair under the black rain hat. She looked at her watch, recalling every word of the most unusual telephone call she had received several hours ago from Argenteuil in France, from the great man who made all things possible.
“There is an American attorney who calls himself a judge staying near you.”
“I know of no such person, monseigneur.”
“He is there, nevertheless. Our hero rightfully complains of his presence, and a call to his home in the city of Boston confirms that it is he.”
“His presence here is not desirable, then?”
“His presence there is abominable to me. He pretends to be in my debt—an enormous debt, an event that could destroy him—yet his actions tell me that he’s ungrateful, that he intends to cancel his debt by betraying me, and by betraying me he betrays you.”
“He’s dead.”
“Exactly. In the past he’s been valuable to me, but the past is over. Find him, kill him. Make his death appear to be a tragic accident. … Finally, since we will not speak until you are back on Martinique, are preparations complete for your last act on my behalf?”
“They are, monseigneur. The two syringes were prepared by the surgeon at the hospital in Fort-de-France. He sends you his devotion.”
“He should. He’s alive, as opposed to several dozen of his patients.”
“They know nothing of his other life in Martinique.”
“I’m aware of that. … Administer the doses in forty-eight hours, when the chaos has begun to subside. Knowing that the hero was my invention—which I’ll make sure they know—will put a chameleon to shame.”
“All will be done. You’ll be here soon?”
“In time for the shock waves. I’m leaving within the hour and will reach Antigua before it’s noon in Montserrat tomorrow. All things being on schedule, I’ll arrive in time to observe the exquisite anguish of Jason Bourne before I leave my signature, a bullet in his throat. The Americans will then know who has won. Adieu.”
The nurse, like an ecstatic suppliant, arched her neck in front of the mirror remembering the mystical words of her omniscient lord. It was nearly time, she thought, opening the dresser drawer and picking out a diamond-clustered wire garrote from among her necklaces, a gift from her mentor. It would be so simple. She had easily learned who the judge was and where he was staying—the old, painfully thin man three villas away. Everything now was precision, the “tragic accident” merely a prelude to the horror that would take place at Villa Twenty in less than an hour. For all of Tranquility’s villas had kerosene lamps in the event of electricity loss and generator malfunction. A panicked old man with loose bowels, or in plain fear, living through such a storm as they were experiencing, might well attempt to light a lamp for additional comfort. How tragic that his upper body would fall into the flowing spilled kerosene, his neck scorched into black tissue, the neck that had been garroted: Do it, insisted the echoing voices of her imagination. You must obey. Without Carlos you would have been a headless corpse in Algeria.