“Your sister,” answered Prefontaine, his gentle gaze on Marie, “has enlisted a recruit. She’s made the options clear, which every attorney understands, and the inevitability of her logic, in addition to her lovely face, crowned by that dark red hair, makes my decision also inevitable.”
“What … ?”
“He’s opted for our side, Johnny. Forget it.”
“What do we need him for?”
“Without a courtroom a dozen different reasons, young man,” answered the judge. “In certain situations, volunteerism is not the best road to take unless one is thoroughly protected beyond the courts.”
“Is that right, Sis?”
“It’s not wrong, Bro, but it’s up to Jason—damn it—David!”
“No, Mare,” said John St. Jacques, his eyes boring into his sister’s. “It’s up to Jason.”
“Are these names I should be aware of?” asked Prefontaine. “The name ‘Jason Bourne’ was sprayed on the wall of your villa.”
“My instructions, Cousin,” said the false yet not so false hero of France. “It was necessary.”
“I don’t understand … any more than I understood the other name, the ‘Jackal,’ or ‘Carlos,’ which you both rather brutally questioned me about when I wasn’t sure whether I was dead or alive. I thought the ‘Jackal’ was fiction.”
The old man called Jean Pierre Fontaine looked at Marie; she nodded. “Carlos the Jackal is a legend, but he is not fiction. He’s a professional killer now in his sixties, rumored to be ill, but still possessed with a terrible hatred. He’s a man of many faces, many sides, some loved by those who have reasons to love him, others detested by those who consider him the essence of evil—and depending on the view, all have their reasons for being correct. I am an example of one who has experienced both viewpoints, but then my world is hardly yours, as you rightly suggested, St. Thomas of Aquinas.”
“Merci bien.”
“But the hatred that obsesses Carlos grows like a cancer in his aging brain. One man drew him out; one man tricked him, usurped his kills, taking credit for the Jackal’s work, kill after kill, driving Carlos mad when he was trying to correct the record, trying to maintain his supremacy as the ultimate assassin. That same man was responsible for the death of his lover—but one far more than a lover, the woman who was his keel, his beloved since childhood in Venezuela, his colleague in all things. That single man, one of hundreds, perhaps thousands sent out by governments everywhere, was the only one who ever saw his face—as the Jackal. The man who did all this was a product of American intelligence, a strange man who lived a deadly lie every day of his life for three years. And Carlos will not rest until that man is punished … and killed. The man is Jason Bourne.”
Squinting, stunned by the Frenchman’s story, Prefontaine leaned forward over the table. “Who is Jason Bourne?” he asked.
“My husband, David Webb,” replied Marie.
“Oh, my God,” whispered the judge. “May I have a drink, please?”
John St. Jacques called out. “Ronald!”
“Yes, boss-mon!” cried from within the guard whose strong hands had held his employer’s shoulders an hour ago in Villa Twenty.
“Bring us some whisky and brandy, please. The bar should be stocked.”
“Comin’, sir.”
The orange sun in the east suddenly took fire, its rays penetrating what was left of the sea mists of dawn. The silence around the table was broken by the soft, heavily accented words of the old Frenchman. “I am not used to such service,” he said, looking aimlessly beyond the railing of the balcony at the progressively bright waters of the Caribbean. “When something is asked for, I always think the task should be mine.”
“Not anymore,” said Marie quietly, then after a beat, adding, “… Jean Pierre.”
“I suppose one could live with that name. …”
“Why not here?”
“Qu’est-ce que vous dites, madame?”
“Think about it. Paris might not be any less dangerous for you than the streets of Boston for our judge.”
The judge in question was lost in his own aimless reverie as several bottles, glasses and a bucket of ice were brought to the table. With no hesitation, Prefontaine reached out and poured himself an extravagant drink from the bottle nearest him. “I must ask a question or two,” he said emphatically. “Is that proper?”
“Go ahead,” replied Marie. “I’m not sure I can or will answer you, but try me.”
“The gunshots, the spray paint on the wall—my ‘cousin’ here says the red paint and the words were by his instructions—”
“They were, mon ami. The loud firing of the guns as well.”
“Why?”
“Everything must be as it is expected to be. The gunshots were an additional element to draw attention to the event that was to take place.”
“Why?”
“A lesson we learned in the Résistance—not that I was ever a ‘Jean Pierre Fontaine,’ but I did my small part. It was called an accentuation, a positive statement making clear that the underground was responsible for the action. Everyone in the vicinity knew it.”
“Why here?”
“The Jackal’s nurse is dead. There is no one to tell him that his instructions have been carried out.”
“Gallic logic. Incomprehensible.”
“French common sense. Incontestable.”
“Why?”
“Carlos will be here by noon tomorrow.”
“Oh, dear God!”
The telephone rang inside the villa. John St. Jacques lurched out of his chair only to be blocked by his sister, who threw her arm in front of his face and then raced through the doors into the living room. She picked up the phone.
“David?”
“It’s Alex,” said the breathless voice on the line. “Christ, I’ve had this goddamned thing on redial for three hours! Are you all right?”
“We’re alive but we weren’t supposed to be.”
“The old men! The old men of Paris! Did Johnny—”
“Johnny did, but they’re on our side!”
“Who?”
“The old men—”
“You’re not making one damn bit of sense!”
“Yes, I am! We’re in control here. What about David?”
“I don’t know! The telephone lines were cut. Everything’s a mess! I’ve got the police heading out there—”
“Screw the police, Alex!” screamed Marie. “Get the army, the marines, the lousy CIA! We’re owed!”
“Jason won’t allow that. I can’t turn on him now.”
“Well, try this for size. The Jackal will be here tomorrow!”
“Oh, Jesus! I have to get him a jet somewhere.”
“You have to do something!”
“You don’t understand, Marie. The old Medusa surfaced—”
“You tell that husband of mine that Medusa’s history! The Jackal isn’t, and he’s flying in here tomorrow!”
“David’ll be there, you know that.”
“Yes, I do. … Because he’s Jason Bourne now.”
“Br’er Rabbit, this ain’t thirteen years ago, and you just happen to be thirteen years older. You’re not only gonna be useless, you’re gonna be a positive liability unless you get some rest, preferably sleep. Turn off the lights and grab some sack time in that big fancy couch in the living room. I’ll man the phones, which ain’t gonna ring ’cause nobody’s callin’ at four o’clock in the morning.”
Cactus’s voice had faded as Jason wandered into the dark living room, his legs heavy, his lids falling over his eyes like lead weights. He dropped to the couch, swinging his legs slowly, with effort, one at a time, up on the cushions; he stared at the ceiling. Rest is a weapon, battles won and lost … Philippe d’Anjou. Medusa. His inner screen went black and sleep came.
A screaming, pulsating siren erupted, deafening, incessant, echoing throughout the cavernous house like a sonic tornado. Bourne spastically whipped his body around and sprang off the couch, at first disoriented, unsure of where he was and for a terrible moment … of who he was.
“Cactus!” he roared, racing out of the ornate living room into the hallway. “Cactus!” he shouted again, hearing his voice lost in the rapid, rhythmic crescendos of the siren-alarm. “Where are you?”
Nothing. He ran to the door of the study, gripping the knob. It was locked! He stepped back and crashed his shoulder against it, once, twice, a third time with all the speed and strength he could summon. The door splintered, then gave way and Jason hammered his foot against the central panel until it collapsed; he went inside and what he found caused the killing machine that was the product of Medusa and beyond to stare in ice-cold fury. Cactus was sprawled over the desk, under the light of the single lamp, in the same chair that had held the murdered general, his blood forming a pool of red on the blotter—a corpse. … No, not a corpse! The right hand moved, Cactus was alive!
Bourne ran to the desk and gently raised the old man’s head, the shrill, deafening, all-encompassing alarm making communication—if communication were possible—impossible. Cactus opened his dark eyes, his trembling right hand moving down the blotter, his forefinger curved and tapping the top of the desk.