“No, I do not wish to fight and don’t you press it. I’m not that old and you’re not that good, young man. Leave the tray and come with me. I’ll explain to Mr. St. Jacques, who, I remind you, is my brother—my wife’s brother. To hell with it, come on!”
“What do you want me to do, sir?” asked the steward, getting to his feet and following Jason.
“Listen to me,” said Bourne, stopping and turning on the steps above the first-floor landing. “Go ahead of me into the lobby and walk to the front door. Empty ashtrays or something and look busy, but keep glancing around. I’ll come out in a few moments and you’ll see me go over and talk to Saint Jay and four priests, who’ll be with him—”
“Priests?” interrupted the astonished Ishmael. “Men of the cloth, sir? Four of them? What they doing here, mon? More bad things happen? The obeah?”
“They came here to pray so the bad things will stop—no more obeah. But what’s important to me is that I must speak to one of them alone. When they leave the lobby, this priest I have to see may break away from the others to be by himself … or possibly to meet someone else. Do you think you could follow him without his seeing you?”
“Would Mr. Saint Jay tell me to do that?”
“Suppose I have him look over at you and nod his head.”
“Then I can do it. I am faster than the mongoose and, like the mongoose, I know every foot trail on Tranquility. He goes one way, I know where he’s going and will be there first. … But how will I know which priest? More than one may go off by himself.”
“I’ll talk to all four separately. He’ll be the last one.”
“Then I will know.”
“That’s pretty fast thinking,” said Bourne. “You’re right; they could separate.”
“I think good, mon. I am fifth in my class at ’Serrat’s Technical Academy. The four ahead of me are all girls, so they don’t have to work.”
“That’s an interesting observation—”
“In five or six years I’ll have the money to attend the university in Barbados!”
“Maybe sooner. Go on now. Walk into the lobby and head for the door. Later, after the priests leave, I’ll come out looking for you, but I won’t be in this uniform, from any distance you won’t know me. If I don’t find you, meet me in an hour— Where? Where’s a quiet place?”
“Tranquility Chapel, sir. The path in the woods above the east beach. No one ever goes there, even on the Sabbath.”
“I remember it. Good idea.”
“There is a remaining subject, sir—”
“Fifty dollars, American.”
“Thank you, sir!”
Jason waited by the door for ninety seconds, then opened it barely an inch. Ishmael was in place by the entrance, and he could see John St. Jacques talking with the four priests several feet to the right of the front desk. Bourne tugged at his jacket, squared his shoulders in military fashion, and walked out into the lobby toward the priests and the owner of Tranquility Inn.
“It’s an honor and a privilege, Fathers,” he said to the four black clerics as a surprised and curious St. Jacques watched him. “I’m new here in the islands and I must say I’m very impressed. The government is particularly pleased that you saw fit to help calm our troubled waters,” continued Jason, his hands clasped firmly behind his back. “For your efforts, the Crown governor has authorized Mr. St. Jacques here to issue you a check in the amount of one hundred pounds for your church—to be reimbursed by the treasury, of course.”
“It is such a magnificent gesture, I hardly know what to say,” intoned the vicar, his high lilting voice sincere.
“You could tell me whose idea it was,” said the Chameleon. “Most touching, most touching, indeed.”
“Oh, I cannot take the credit, sir,” replied the vicar, looking, as the two others did, at the fourth man. “It was Samuel’s. Such a good and decent leader of our flock.”
“Good show, Samuel.” Bourne stared briefly, his eyes penetrating, at the fourth man. “But I should like to thank each of you personally. And know your names.” Jason went down the line shaking the three hands and quietly exchanging pleasantries. He came to the last priest, whose eyes kept straying away from his. “Of course I know your name, Samuel,” he said, his voice even lower, barely audible. “And I should like to know whose idea it was before you took the credit.”
“I don’t understand you,” whispered Samuel.
“Certainly you do—such a good and decent man—you must have received another very generous contribution.”
“You mistake me for someone else, sir,” mumbled the fourth priest, his dark eyes for an instant betraying deep fear.
“I don’t make mistakes, your friend knows that. I’ll find you, Samuel. Maybe not today, but surely tomorrow or the day after that.” Bourne raised his voice as he released the cleric’s hand. “Again, the government’s profound thanks, Fathers. The Crown is most grateful. And now I must be on my way; a dozen telephone calls should be answered. … Your office, St. Jacques?”
“Yes, of course, General.”
Inside the office, Jason took out his automatic and tore off the uniform as he separated the pile of clothing Marie’s brother had brought for him. He slipped on a pair of knee-length gray Bermuda walking shorts, chose a red-and-white-striped guayabera jacket, and the widest-brimmed straw hat. He removed his socks and shoes, put on the sandals, stood up and swore. “Goddamn it!” He kicked off the sandals and shoved his bare feet back into his heavy rubber-soled shoes. He studied the various cameras and their accessories, choosing the lightest but most complicated, and crossed the straps over his chest. John St. Jacques walked into the room carrying a small hand-held radio.
“Where the hell did you come from? Miami Beach?”
“Actually, a little north—say, Pompano. I’m not that gaudy. I won’t stand out.”
“Actually, you’re right. I’ve got people out there who’d swear you were old-time Key West conservative. Here’s the radio.”
“Thanks.” Jason put the compact instrument into his breast pocket.
“Where to now?”
“After Ishmael, the kid I had you nod at.”
“Ishmael? I didn’t nod at Ishmael, you simply said I should nod my head at the entrance.”
“Same thing.” Bourne squeezed the automatic under his belt beneath the guayabera and looked at the equipment brought from the tackle shop. He picked up the reel of one-hundred-test line and the scaling knife, placing both in his pockets, then opened an empty camera case and put the two distress flares inside. It was not everything he wanted, but it was enough. He was not who he was thirteen years ago and he was not so young even then. His mind had to work better and faster than his body, a fact he reluctantly accepted. Damn!
“That Ishmael’s a good boy,” said Marie’s brother. “He’s pretty smart and strong as a prize Saskatchewan steer. I’m thinking of making him a guard in a year or so. The pay’s better.”
“Try Harvard or Princeton if he does his job this afternoon.”
“Wow, that’s a wrinkle. Did you know his father was the champion wrestler of the islands? Of course, he’s sort of getting on now—”
“Get the hell out of my way,” ordered Jason, heading for the door. “You’re not exactly eighteen, either!” he added, turning briefly before he let himself out.
“Never said I was. What’s your problem?”
“Maybe it’s the sandbar you never saw, Mr. Security.” Bourne slammed the door as he ran out into the hallway.
“Touchy, touchy.” St. Jacques slowly shook his head as he unclenched his thirty-four-year-old fist.
Nearly two hours had passed and Ishmael was nowhere to be found! His leg locked in place as if crippled, Jason limped convincingly from one end of Tranquility Inn’s property to the other, his eye focused through the mirrored lens of the camera, seeing everything, but no sign of young Ishmael. Twice he had gone up the path into the woods to the isolated square structure of logs, thatched roof and stained glass that was the multidenominational chapel of the resort, a sanctuary for meditation built more for its quaint appearance than for utility. As the young black steward had observed, it was rarely visited but had its place in vacation brochures.
The Caribbean sun was growing more orange, inching its way down toward the water’s horizon. Soon the shadows of sundown would crawl across Montserrat and the out islands. Soon thereafter darkness would come, and the Jackal approved of darkness. But then, so did the Chameleon.
“Storage room, anything?” said Bourne into his radio.
“Rien, monsieur.”
“Johnny?”
“I’m up on the roof with six scouts at all points. Nothing.”
“What about the dinner, the party tonight?”
“Our meteorologist arrived ten minutes ago by boat from Plymouth. He’s afraid to fly. … And Angus tacked a check for ten thousand on the bulletin board, signature and payee to be entered. Scotty was right, all seven couples will be there. We’re a society of who-gives-a-shit after an appropriate few minutes of silence.”