“The Jackal!” exclaimed the Frenchman. “It is his carte de visite—his calling card. He announces his arrival.”
16
The midafternoon sun was suspended, immobile, burning the sky and the land, a ringed globe of fire intent only on scorching everything beneath it. And the alleged “computerized research” offered by the Canadian industrialist Angus McLeod appeared to be confirmed. Although a number of seaplanes flew in to take frightened couples away, the collective attention span of average people after a disturbing event, if certainly longer than two and a half to four minutes, was certainly not more than a few hours. A horrible thing had happened during the predawn storm, an act of terrible vengeance, as they understood it. It involved a single man with a vendetta against old enemies, a killer who had long since fled from the island. With the removal of the ugly coffins, as well as the beached, damaged speedboat, and the soothing words over the government radio along with the intermittent, unobtrusive appearances of the armed guards, a sense of normalcy returned—not total, of course, for there was a mourning figure among them, but he was out of sight and, they were told, would soon leave. And despite the depth of the horrors, as the rumors had them—naturally exaggerated out of all proportion by the hypersuperstitious island natives—the horrors were not theirs. It was an act of violence completely unrelated to them, and, after all, life had to go on. Seven couples remained at the inn.
“Christ, we’re paying six hundred dollars a day—”
“No one’s after us—”
“Shit, man, next week it’s back to the commodities grind, so we’re going to enjoy—”
“No sweat, Shirley, they’re not giving out names, they promised me—”
With the burning, immobile afternoon sun, a small soiled plot of the vast Caribbean playground came back to its own particular ambience, death receding with each application of Bain de Soleil and another rum punch. Nothing was quite as it had been, but the blue-green waters lapped on the beach, enticing the few bathers to walk into them, immersing their bodies in the cool liquid rhythm of wet constancy. A progressively less tentative peace returned to Tranquility Isle.
“There!” cried the hero of France.
“Where?” shouted Bourne.
“The four priests. Walking down the path in a line.”
“They’re black.”
“Color means nothing.”
“He was a priest when I saw him in Paris, at Neuilly-sur-Seine.”
Fontaine lowered the binoculars and looked at Jason. “The Church of the Blessed Sacrament?” he asked quietly.
“I can’t remember. … Which one is he?”
“You saw him in his priest’s habit?”
“And that son of a bitch saw me. He knew I knew it was him! Which one?”
“He’s not there, monsieur,” said Jean Pierre, slowly bringing the binoculars back to his eyes. “It is another carte de visite. Carlos anticipates; he is a master of geometry. There is no straight line for him, only many sides, many levels.”
“That sounds damned Oriental.”
“Then you understand. It has crossed his mind that you may not be in that villa, and if you are not, he wants you to know that he knows it.”
“Neuilly-sur-Seine—”
“No, not actually. He can’t be sure at the moment. He was sure at the Church of the Blessed Sacrament.”
“How should I play it?”
“How does the Chameleon think he should play it?”
“The obvious would be to do nothing,” answered Bourne, his eyes on the scene below. “And he wouldn’t accept that because his uncertainty is too strong. He’d say to himself, He’s better than that. I could blow him away with a rocket, so he’s somewhere else.”
“I think you’re correct.”
Jason reached down and picked up the hand-held radio from the sill. He pressed the button and spoke. “Johnny?”
“Yes?”
“Those four black priests on the path, do you see them?”
“Yes.”
“Have a guard stop them and bring them into the lobby. Tell him to say the owner wants to see them.”
“Hey, they’re not going into the villa, they’re just passing by offering prayers to the bereaved inside. The vicar from town called and I gave him permission. They’re okay, David.”
“The hell they are,” said Jason Bourne. “Do as I say.” The Chameleon spun around on the stool, looking at the objects in the storage room. He slid off his perch and walked to a bureau with a mirror attached to its top. He yanked the automatic from his belt, smashed the glass, picked up a fragment and brought it to Fontaine. “Five minutes after I leave, flash this every now and then in the window.”
“I shall do so from the side of the window, monsieur.”
“Good thinking.” Jason relented to the point of a brief slight smile. “It struck me that I didn’t really have to suggest that.”
“And what will you do?”
“What he’s doing now. Become a tourist in Montserrat, a roving ‘guest’ at Tranquility Inn.” Bourne again reached down for the radio; he picked it up, pressed the button and gave his orders. “Go to the men’s shop in the lobby and get me three different guayabera jackets, a pair of sandals, two or three wide-brimmed straw hats and gray or tan walking shorts. Then send someone to the tackle shop and bring me a reel of line, hundred-pound test, a scaling knife—and two distress flares. I’ll meet you on the steps up here. Hurry.”
“You will not heed my words, then,” said Fontaine, lowering the binoculars and looking at Jason. “Monsieur le Caméléon goes to work.”
“He goes to work,” replied Bourne, replacing the radio on the sill.
“If you or the Jackal or both of you are killed, others may die, innocent people slaughtered—”
“Not because of me.”
“Does it matter? Does it matter to the victims or their families who is responsible?”
“I didn’t choose the circumstances, old man, they were chosen for me.”
“You can change them, alter them.”
“So can he.”
“He has no conscience—”
“You’re one hell of an authority on that score.”
“I accept the rebuke, but I have lost something of great value to me. Perhaps it’s why I discern a conscience in you—a part of you.”
“Beware the sanctimonious reformer.” Jason started for the door and the beribboned military tunic that hung on an old coatrack alongside the visored officer’s hat. “Among other things he’s a bore.”
“Shouldn’t you be watching the path below while the priests are detained? It will take some time for St. Jacques to get the items you asked for.”
Bourne stopped and turned, his eyes cold on the verbose old Frenchman. He wanted to leave, to get away from this old, old man who talked too much—said too much! But Fontaine was right. It would be stupid not to watch what happened below. An awkward, unusual reaction on the part of someone, an abrupt, startled glance by someone in an unexpected direction—it was the little things, the sudden involuntary, precisely imprecise small motions that so often pointed to the concealed string that was the fuse leading to the explosive trap. In silence, Jason walked back to the window, picked up the binoculars and put them to his face.
A police officer in the tan-and-scarlet uniform of Montserrat approached the procession of four priests on the path; he was obviously as bewildered as he was deferential, nodding courteously as the four gathered together to listen, gesturing politely toward the glass doors of the lobby. Bourne’s eyes shifted within the frame of vision, studying the black features of each cleric, one after another in rapid succession. He spoke quietly to the Frenchman. “Do you see what I see?”
“The fourth one, the priest who was last,” replied Fontaine. “He’s alarmed, but the others are not. He’s afraid.”
“He was bought.”
“Thirty pieces of silver,” agreed the Frenchman. “You’ll go down and take him, of course.”
“Of course not,” corrected Jason. “He’s right where I want him to be.” Bourne grabbed the radio off the sill. “Johnny?”
“Yes? … I’m in the shop. I’ll be up in a few minutes—”
“Those priests, do you know them?”
“Only the one who calls himself the ‘vicar’; he comes around for contributions. And they’re not really priests, David, they’re more like ‘ministers’ in a religious order. Very religious and very local.”
“Is the vicar there?”
“Yes. He’s always first in line.”
“Good. … Slight change of plans. Bring the clothes to your office, then go and see the priests. Tell them an official of the government wants to meet them and make a contribution in return for their prayers.”
“What?”
“I’ll explain later. Now hurry up. I’ll see you in the lobby.”
“You mean my office, don’t you? I’ve got the clothes, remember?”
“They’ll come later—roughly a minute later, after I get out of this uniform. Do you have a camera in your office?”
“Three or four of them. Guests are always leaving them behind—”
“Put all of them with the clothes,” interrupted Jason. “Get going!” Bourne shoved the radio into his belt, then changed his mind. He pulled it out and handed it to Fontaine. “Here, you take this. I’ll get another and stay in contact. … What’s happening down there?”