“You quit.”
“If I could have managed better in that twilight zone, I might not have. There’s something to be said for the grape on many occasions.”
“What about his client?”
“Awesome, and our once and former judge was an adjunct professor at Harvard Law, where Gates was a student in two of his classes. No question about it, Prefontaine knows the man. … Trust him, Jason. There’s no reason for him to lie. He was simply after a score.”
“You’re following up on the client?”
“With all the quiet ammunition I can pull out of my personal woodwork. He’s our link to Carlos.. . . The Medusa connection was a false lead, a stupid attempt by a stupid general in the Pentagon to put someone inside Gates’s inner legal circle.”
“You’re sure of that?”
“I am now. Gates is a highly paid consultant to a law firm representing a megadefense contractor under antitrust scrutiny. He wouldn’t even return Swayne’s calls, which, if he did, would make him more stupid than Swayne, which he isn’t.”
“That’s your problem, friend, not mine. If everything goes the way I intend it to go here, I don’t even want to hear about Snake Lady. In fact, I can’t remember ever having heard of it.”
“Thanks for dumping it in my lap—and in a way I guess I mean that. Incidentally, the grammar-school notebook you grabbed from the gunslinger in Manassas has some interesting things in it.”
“Oh?”
“Do you remember those three frequent fliers from the Mayflower’s registry who flew into Philadelphia eight months ago and just happened to be at the hotel at the same time eight months later?”
“Certainly.”
“Their names are in Swayne’s Mickey Mouse loose-leaf. They had nothing to do with Carlos; they’re part of Medusa. It’s a mother lode of disconnected information.”
“I’m not interested. Use it in good health.”
“We will, and very quietly. That notebook’ll be on the most wanted list in a matter of days.”
“I’m happy for you, but I’ve got work to do.”
“And you refuse any help?”
“Absolutely. This is what I’ve been waiting thirteen years for. It’s what I said at the beginning, it’s one on one.”
“High Noon, you goddamn fool?”
“No, the logical extension of a very intellectual chess game, the player with the better trap wins, and I’ve got that trap because I’m using his. He’d smell out any deviation.”
“We trained you too well, scholar.”
“Thank you for that.”
“Good hunting, Delta.”
“Good-bye.” Bourne hung up the phone and looked over at the two pathetically curious old men on the couch. “You passed a sleaze-factored muster, Judge,” he said to Prefontaine. “And you, ‘Jean Pierre,’ what can I say? My own wife, who admits to me that you might very well have killed her without the slightest compunction, tells me that I have to trust you. Nothing makes a hell of a lot of sense, does it?”
“I am what I am, and I did what I did,” said the disgraced attorney with dignity. “But my client has gone too far. His magisterial persona must come to an end in ashes.”
“My words are not so well phrased as those of my learned, newfound relative,” added the aged hero of France. “But I know the killing must stop; it’s what my woman tried to tell me. I am a hypocrite, of course, for I am no stranger to killing, so I shall only say that this kind of killing must stop. There is no business arrangement here, no profit in the kill, only a sick madman’s vengeance that demands the unnecessary death of a mother and her children. Where is the profit there? … No, the Jackal has gone too far. He, too, must now be stopped.”
“That’s the most cold-blooded fucking reasoning I’ve ever heard!” cried John St. Jacques by the window.
“I thought your words were very well chosen,” said the former judge to the felon from Paris. “Très bien.”
“D’accord.”
“And I think I’m out of my mind to have anything to do with either of you,” broke in Jason Bourne. “But right now I don’t have a choice. … It’s eleven-thirty-five, gentlemen. The clock is running.”
“The what?” asked Prefontaine.
“Whatever’s going to happen will happen during the next two, five, ten or twenty-four hours. I’m flying back to Blackburne Airport, where I’ll create a scene, the bereaved husband and father who’s gone crazy over the killing of his wife and children. It won’t be difficult for me, I assure you; I’ll make a hell of a ruckus. … I’ll demand an immediate flight to Tranquility, and when I get here there’ll be three pine coffins on the pier, supposedly containing my wife and children.”
“Everything as it should be,” interrupted the Frenchman. “Bien.”
“Very bien,” agreed Bourne. “I’ll insist that one be opened, and then I’ll scream or collapse or both, whatever comes to mind, so that whoever’s watching won’t forget what they’ve seen. St. Jacques here will have to control me—be rough, Johnny, be convincing—and finally I’ll be taken up to another villa, the one nearest the steps to the beach on the east path. … Then the waiting begins.”
“For this Jackal?” asked the Bostonian. “He’ll know where you are?”
“Of course he will. A lot of people, including the staff, will have seen where I was taken. He’ll find out, that’s child’s play for him.”
“So you wait for him, monsieur? You think the monseigneur will walk into such a trap? Ridicule!’
“Not at all, monsieur,” replied Jason calmly. “To begin with, I won’t be there, and by the time he finds that out, I’ll have found him.”
“For Christ’s sake, how?” half shouted St. Jacques.
“Because I’m better than he is,” answered Jason Bourne. “I always was.”
The scenario went as planned, the personnel at Montserrat’s Blackburne Airport still smoldering from the abuse hurled at them by the tall hysterical American who accused them all of murder, of allowing his wife and children to be killed by terrorists—of being willing nigger accomplices of filthy killers! Not only were the people of the island quietly furious, but they were also hurt. Quiet because they understood his anguish, hurt because they could not understand how he could blame them and use such vicious words, words he had never used before. Was this good mon, this wealthy brother of the gregarious Johnny Saint Jay, this rich-rich friend who had put so much money into Tranquility Isle not a friend at all but, instead, white garbage who blamed them for terrible things they had nothing to do with because their skins were dark? It was an evil puzzle, mon. It was part of the madness, the obeah that had crossed the waters from the mountains of Jamaic’ and put a curse on their islands. Watch him, brothers. Watch his every move. Perhaps he is another sort of storm, one not born in the south or the east, but whose winds are more destructive. Watch him, mon. His anger is dangerous.
So he was watched. By many—the uninformed, civilians and authorities alike—as a nervous Henry Sykes at Government House kept his word. The official investigation was solely under his command. It was quiet, thorough—and nonexistent.
Bourne behaved far worse on the pier of Tranquility Inn, striking his own brother, the amiable Saint Jay, until the younger man subdued him and had him carried up the steps to the nearest villa. Servants came and went bringing trays of food and drink to the porch. Selected visitors were permitted to pay their condolences, including the chief aide to the Crown governor who wore his full military regalia, a symbol of the Crown’s concern. And an old man who knew death from the brutalities of war and who insisted on seeing the bereaved husband and father—he was accompanied by a woman in a nurse’s uniform, properly topped by a hat and a dark mourning veil. And two Canadian guests of the hotel, close friends of the owner, both of whom had met the disconsolate man when Tranquility Inn opened with great fireworks several years ago—they asked to pay their respects and offer whatever support or comfort they could. John St. Jacques agreed, suggesting that their visit be brief and to understand that his brother-in-law remained in a corner of the darkened living room, the drapes having been drawn.
“It’s all so horrible, so meaningless!” said the visitor from Toronto softly to the shadowed figure in a chair across the room. “I hope you’re a religious man, David. I am. Faith helps in such times as these. Your loved ones are in the arms of Christ now.”
“Thank you.” A momentary breeze off the water rustled the drapes, permitting a narrow shaft of sunlight to flash across the room. It was enough.
“Wait a minute,” said the second Canadian. “You’re not—good Lord, you’re not Dave Webb! Dave has—”
“Be quiet,” ordered St. Jacques, standing at the door behind the two visitors.