“Let’s level,” said the youngest St. Jacques sitting down, the water dripping off his body onto the patio. “What kind of trouble is David in? He couldn’t talk on the phone and you were in no shape last night for an extended chat. What’s happened?”
“The Jackal. … The Jackal’s what’s happened.”
“Christ!” exploded the brother. “After all these years?”
“After all these years,” repeated Marie, her voice drifting off.”
“How far has that bastard gotten?”
“David’s in Washington trying to find out. All we know for certain is that he dug up Alex Conklin and Mo Panov from the horrors of Hong Kong and Kowloon.” She told him about the false telegrams and the trap at the amusement park in Baltimore.
“I presume Alex has them all under protection or whatever they call it.”
“Around the clock, I’m sure. Outside of ourselves and McAllister, Alex and Mo are the only two people still alive who know that David was—oh, Jesus, I can’t even say the name!” Marie slammed the coffee mug down on the patio table.
“Easy, Sis.” St. Jacques reached for her hand, placing his on top of hers. “Conklin knows what he’s doing. David told me that Alex was the best—‘field man,’ he called him—that ever worked for the Americans.”
“You don’t understand, Johnny!” cried Marie, trying to control her voice and emotions, her wide eyes denying the attempt. “David never said that, David Webb never knew that! Jason Bourne said it, and he’s back! … That ice-cold calculating monster they created is back in David’s head. You don’t know what it’s like. With a look in those unfocused eyes that see things I can’t see—or with a tone of voice, a quiet freezing voice I don’t know—and I’m suddenly with a stranger.”
St. Jacques held up his free hand telling her to stop. “Come on,” he said softly.
“The children? Jamie … ?” She looked frantically around.
“No, you. What do you expect David to do? Crawl inside a Wing or Ming dynasty vase and pretend his wife and children aren’t in danger—that only he is? Whether you ladies like it or not, we boys still think it’s up to us to keep the big cats from the cave. We honestly believe we’re more equipped. We revert to those strengths, the ugliest of them, of course, because we have to. That’s what David’s doing.”
“When did little brother get so philosophical?” asked Marie, studying John St. Jacques’s face.
“That ain’t philosophy, girl, I just know it. Most men do—apologies to the feminist crowd.”
“Don’t apologize; most of us wouldn’t have it any other way. Would you believe that your big scholarly sister who called a lot of economic shots in Ottawa still yells like hell when she sees a mouse in our country kitchen, and goes into panic if it’s a rat?”
“Certain bright women are more honest than others.”
“I’ll accept what you say, Johnny, but you’re missing my point. David’s been doing so well these last five years, every month just a little bit better than the last. He’ll never be totally cured, we all know that—he was damaged too severely—but the furies, his own personal furies, have almost disappeared. The solitary walks in the woods when he’d come back with hands bruised from attacking tree trunks; the quiet, stifled tears in his study late at night when he couldn’t remember what he was or what he’d done, thinking the worst of himself—they were gone, Johnny! There was real sunlight, do you know what I mean?”
“Yes, I do,” said the brother solemnly.
“What’s happening now could bring them all back, that’s what’s frightening me so!”
“Then let’s hope it’s over quickly.”
Marie stopped, once again studying her brother. “Hold it, little bro, I know you too well. You’re pulling back.”
“Not a bit.”
“Yes, you are. … You and David—I never understood. Our two older brothers, so solid, so on top of everything, perhaps not intellectually but certainly pragmatically. Yet he turned to you. Why, Johnny?”
“Let’s not go into it,” said St. Jacques curtly, removing his hand from his sister’s.
“But I have to. This is my life, he’s my life! There can’t be any more secrets where he’s concerned—I can’t stand any more! … Why you?”
St. Jacques leaned back in the patio chair, his stretched fingers now covering his forehead. He raised his eyes, an unspoken plea in them. “All right, I know where you’re coming from. Do you remember six or seven years ago I left our ranch saying I wanted to try things on my own?”
“Certainly. I think you broke both Mom’s and Dad’s hearts. Let’s face it, you were always kind of the favorite—”
“I was always the kid!” interrupted the youngest St. Jacques. “Playing out some moronic Bonanza where my thirty-year-old brothers were blindly taking orders from a pontificating, bigoted French Canadian father whose only smarts came with his money and his land.”
“There was more to him than that, but I won’t argue—from a ‘kid’s’ viewpoint.”
“You couldn’t, Mare. You did the same thing, and sometimes you didn’t come home for over a year.”
“I was busy.”
“So was I.”
“What did you do?”
“I killed two men. Two animals who’d killed a friend of mine—raped her and killed her.”
“What?”
“Keep your voice down—”
“My God, what happened?”
“I didn’t want to call home, so I reached your husband … my friend, David, who didn’t treat me like a brain-damaged kid. At the time it seemed like a logical thing to do and it was the best decision I could have made. He was owed favors by his government, and a quiet team of bright people from Washington and Ottawa flew up to James Bay and I was acquitted. Self-defense, and it was just that.”
“He never said a word to me—”
“I begged him not to.”
“So that’s why. … But I still don’t understand!”
“It’s not difficult, Mare. A part of him knows I can kill, will kill, if I think it’s necessary.”
A telephone rang inside the house as Marie stared at her younger brother. Before she could get her voice back, an elderly black woman emerged from the door to the kitchen. “It’s for you, Mr. John. It’s that pilot over on the big island. He says it’s real important, mon.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Cooper,” said St. Jacques, getting out of the chair and walking rapidly down to an extension phone by the pool. He spoke for several moments, looked up at Marie, slammed down the telephone and rushed back up to his sister. “Pack up. You’re getting out of here!”
“Why? Was that the man who flew us—”
“He’s back from Martinique and just learned that someone was asking questions at the airport last night. About a woman and two small children. None of the crews said anything, but that may not last. Quickly.”
“My God, where will we go?”
“Over to the inn until we think of something else. There’s only one road and my own Tonton Macoute patrols it. No one gets in or out. Mrs. Cooper will help you with Alison. Hurry!”
The telephone started ringing again as Marie dashed through the bedroom door. St. Jacques raced down the steps to the pool extension, reaching it as Mrs. Cooper once more stepped out of the kitchen. “It’s Government House over in ’Serrat, Mr. John.”
“What the hell do they want … ?”
“Shall I ask them?”
“Never mind, I’ll get it. Help my sister with the kids and pack everything they brought with them into the Rover. They’re leaving right away!”
“Oh, a bad time pity, mon. I was just getting to know the little babies.”
“ ‘Bad time pity’ is right,” mumbled St. Jacques, picking up the telephone. “Yes?”
“Hello, John?” said the chief aide to the Crown governor, a man who had befriended the Canadian developer and helped him through the maze of the colony’s Territorial Regulations.
“Can I call you back, Henry? I’m kind of harried at the moment.”
“I’m afraid there’s no time, chap. This is straight from the Foreign Office. They want our immediate cooperation, and it won’t do you any harm, either.”
“Oh?”
“It seems there’s an old fellow and his wife arriving on Air France’s connecting flight from Antigua at ten-thirty and Whitehall wants the red-carpet treatment. Apparently the old boy had a splendid war, with a slew of decorations, and worked with a lot of our chaps across the Channel.”
“Henry, I’m really in a hurry. What’s any of this got to do with me?”
“Well, I rather assumed you might have more of an idea about that than we do. Probably one of your rich Canadian guests, perhaps a Frenchie from Montreal who came out of the Résistance and who thought of you—”
“Insults will only get you a bottle of superior French Canadian wine. What do you want?”
“Put up our hero and his lady in the finest accommodations you’ve got, with a room for the French-speaking nurse we’ve assigned to them.”