“Our alarmed priest looks around as they go to the lobby doors. He’s truly frightened now.”
“Where’s he looking?” asked Bourne, grabbing the binoculars.
“That’s of no help. In every direction.”
“Damn!”
“They’re at the doors now.”
“I’ll get ready—”
“I’ll help you.” The old Frenchman got off the stool and went to the coatrack. He removed the tunic and the hat. “If you are about to do what I think you intend doing, try to stay by a wall and don’t turn around. The governor’s aide is somewhat stouter than you and we must bunch the jacket in the back.”
“You’re pretty good at this, aren’t you?” said Jason, holding out his arms so as to be helped into the tunic.
“The German soldiers were always much fatter than we were, especially the corporals and the sergeants—all that sausage, you know. We had our tricks.” Suddenly, as if he had been shot or seized by a convulsion, Fontaine gasped, then lurched in front of Bourne. “Mon Dieu! … C’est terrible! The governor—”
“What?”
“The Crown governor!”
“What about him?”
“At the airport, it was so quick, so rapid!” cried the old Frenchman. “And everything that has happened, my woman, the killing— Still, it is unforgivable of me!”
“What are you talking about?”
“That man in the villa, the military officer whose uniform you wear. He’s his aide!”
“We know that.”
“What you do not know, monsieur, is that my very first instructions came from the Crown governor.”
“Instructions?”
“From the Jackal! He is the contact.”
“Oh, my God,” whispered Bourne, rushing to the stool where Fontaine had put the radio. He took a deep breath as he picked it up, his thoughts racing, control imperative. “Johnny?”
“For Christ’s sake, my arms are full and I’m on my way to the office and those goddamned monks are in the lobby waiting for me! What the hell do you want now?”
“Take it easy and listen very carefully. How well do you know Henry?”
“Sykes? The CG’s man?”
“Yes. I’ve met him a few times but I don’t know him, Johnny.”
“I know him very well. You wouldn’t have a house and I wouldn’t have Tranquility Inn if it wasn’t for him.”
“Is he in touch with the governor? I mean right now, is he keeping the CG posted about what’s going on here. Think, Johnny. It’s important. There’s a phone in that villa; he could be in contact with Government House. Is he?”
“You mean with the CG himself?”
“With anyone over there.”
“Believe me, he’s not. Everything’s so quiet not even the police know what’s going on. And as far as the CG is concerned, he’s only been given the vaguest scenario, no names, nothing, only a trap. He’s also out on his boat and doesn’t want to know a damn thing until it’s all over. … Those were his orders.”
“I’ll bet they were.”
“Why do you ask?”
“I’ll explain later. Hurry up!”
“Will you stop saying that?”
Jason put down the radio and turned to Fontaine. “We’re clear. The governor isn’t one of the Jackal’s army of old men. He’s a different kind of recruit, probably like that lawyer Gates in Boston—just bought or frightened, no soul involved.”
“You’re certain? Your brother-in-law is certain?”
“The man’s out on his boat. He was given a bare-bones outline but that’s all, and his orders were that he’s not to be told anything else until it’s all over.”
The Frenchman sighed. “It’s a pity my mind is so old and so filled with salt. If I had remembered, we could have used him. Come, the jacket.”
“How could we have used him?” asked Bourne, again holding out his arms.
“He removed himself to the gradins—how is it said?”
“The bleachers. He’s out of the game, only an observer.”
“I’ve known many like him. They want Carlos to lose; he wants Carlos to lose. It’s his only way out, but he’s too terrified to raise a hand against the Jackal.”
“Then how could we turn him?” Jason buttoned the tunic as Fontaine manipulated the belt and the cloth behind him.
“Le Caméléon asks such a question?”
“I’ve been out of practice.”
“Ah, yes,” said the Frenchman, yanking the belt firmly. “That man I’ve appealed to.”
“Just shut up. … How?”
“Très simple, monsieur. We tell him the Jackal already knows he’s turned—I tell him. Who better than the monseigneur’s emissary?”
“You are good.” Bourne held in his stomach as Fontaine turned him around, pressing the lapels and the ribbons of the jacket.
“I’m a survivor, neither better nor worse than others—except with my woman. Then I was better than most.”
“You loved her very much, didn’t you?”
“Love? Oh, I imagine that’s taken for granted although rarely expressed. Perhaps it’s the comfort of being familiar, although, again, hardly with grand passion. One does not have to finish a sentence to be understood, and a look in the eyes will bring on laughter without a word being said. It comes with the years, I suppose.”
Jason stood motionless for a moment, staring strangely at the Frenchman. “I want the years you had, old man, I want them very, very much. The years I’ve had with my … woman … are filled with scars that won’t heal, can’t heal, until something inside is changed or cleansed or goes away. That’s the way it is.”
“Then you are too strong, or too stubborn or too stupid! … Don’t look at me that way. I told you, I’m not afraid of you, I’m not afraid of anyone any longer. But if what you say is true, that this is the way things really are with you, then I suggest you leave aside all thoughts of love and concentrate on hatred. Since I cannot reason with David Webb, I must prod Jason Bourne. A Jackal filled with hate must die, and only Bourne can kill him. … Here are your hat and sunglasses. Stay against a wall or you’ll look like a military peacock, your khaki tail raised for the purpose of passing merde.”
Without speaking, Bourne adjusted the visored hat and sunglasses, walked to the door and let himself out. He crossed to the solid wood staircase and started rapidly down, nearly colliding with a white jacketed black steward carrying a tray out of the second-floor exit. He nodded to the young man, who backed away, allowing him to proceed, when a quiet, ziplike noise along with a sudden movement caught in the corner of his eyes caused him to turn. The waiter was pulling an electronic beeper out of his pocket! Jason spun around, lurching up the steps, his hands lunging into the youngster’s body, ripping the device out of his grip as the tray crashed to the floor of the landing. Straddling the youth, with one hand on the beeper and the other grasping the steward’s throat, he spoke breathlessly, quietly. “Who had you do this? Tell me!”
“Hey, mon, I fight you!” cried the youngster, writhing, freeing his right hand and smashing a fist into Bourne’s left cheek. “We don’t want no bad mon here! Our boss-mon the best! You don’t scare me!” The steward crashed his knee into Jason’s groin.
“You young son of a bitch!” cried Le Caméléon, slapping the youngster’s face back and forth while grabbing his aching testicles with his left hand. “I’m his friend, his brother! Will you cut it out? … Johnny Saint Jay’s my brother! In-law, if it makes any goddamned difference!”
“Oh?” said the large, youthful, obviously athletic steward, a touch of resentment in his wide, embarrassed brown eyes. “You are the mon with Boss Saint Jay’s sister?”
“I’m her husband. Who the fuck are you?”
“I am first head steward of the second floor, sir! Soon I will be on the first floor because I am very good. I am also a very fine fighter—my father taught me, although he is old now, like you. Do you wish to fight more? I think I can beat you! You have gray in your hair—”
“Shut up! … What’s the beeper all about?” asked Jason, holding up the small brown plastic instrument as he crawled off the young waiter.
“I don’t know, mon—sir! Bad things have happened. We are told that if we see men running on the staircases we should press the buttons.”
“Why?”
“The lifts, sir. Our very fast elevators. Why would guests use the stairs?”
“What’s your name?” asked Bourne, replacing his hat and, sunglasses.
“Ishmael, sir.”
“Like in Moby Dick?”
“I do not know such a person, sir.”
“Maybe you will.”
“Why?”
“I’m not sure. You’re a very good fighter.”
“I see no connection, mon—sir.”
“Neither do I.” Jason got to his feet. “I want you to help me, Ishmael. Will you?”
“Only if your brother permits it.”
“He will. He is my brother.”
“I must hear it from him, sir.”
“Very good. You doubt me.”
“Yes, I do, sir,” said Ishmael, getting to his knees and reassembling the tray, separating the broken dishes from the whole ones. “Would you take the word of a strong man with gray in his hair who runs down the stairs and attacks you and says things anyone could say? … If you wish to fight, the loser must speak the truth. Do you wish to fight?”