The Bourne ultimatum (14 page)

“Compared with most, yes, but where’s all this leading us?”

“Because I know I’m right.”

“That’s hardly an answer.”

“
Nothing
can be false or faked,” insisted Bourne, leaning forward in the armchair, his elbows on his bare knees, his hands clasped. “Carlos would find the contrivance; it’s the first thing he’ll look for. Our Medusans have to be genuine and genuinely panicked.”

“They’re both, I told you that.”

“To the point where they’d actually
consider
making contact with someone like the Jackal.”

“That I don’t know—”

“That we’ll never know,” broke in Jason, “until we learn what they’re hiding.”

“But if we start the disks spinning at Langley, DeSole will find out.
And
, if he’s part of whatever the hell it is, he’ll alert the others.”

“Then there’ll be no research at Langley. I’ve got enough to go on anyway, just get me addresses and private telephone numbers. You can do that, can’t you?”

“Certainly, that’s low-level. What are you going to do?”

Bourne smiled and spoke quietly, even gently. “How about storming their houses or sticking needles in their asses between the appetizers and the entrées?”

“Now I hear Jason Bourne.”

“So be it.”

Marie St. Jacques Webb greeted the Caribbean morning by stretching in bed and-looking over at the crib several feet away. Alison was deep in sleep, which she had not been four or five hours ago. The little dear had been a basket case then, so much so that Marie’s brother Johnny had knocked on the door, walked cowardly inside, and asked if he could do anything, which he profoundly trusted he could not.

“How are you at changing a nasty diaper?”

“I don’t even want to think about it,” said St. Jacques, fleeing.

Now, however, she heard his voice through the shutters outside. She also knew that she was meant to hear it; he was enticing her son, Jamie, into a race in the pool and speaking so loudly he could be heard on the big island of Montserrat. Marie literally crawled out of bed, headed for the bathroom, and four minutes later, ablutions completed, her auburn hair brushed and, wearing a bathrobe, walked out through the shuttered door to the patio overlooking the pool.

“Well, hi there, Mare!” shouted her tanned, dark-haired, handsome younger brother beside her son in the water. “I hope we didn’t wake you up. We just wanted to take a swim.”

“So you decided to let the British coastal patrols in Plymouth know about it.”

“Hey, come on, it’s almost nine o’clock. That’s late in the islands.”

“Hello, Mommy. Uncle John’s been showing me how to scare off sharks with a stick!”

“Your uncle is full of terribly important information that I hope to God you’ll never use.”

“There’s a pot of coffee on the table, Mare. And Mrs. Cooper will make you whatever you like for breakfast.”

“Coffee’s fine, Johnny. The telephone rang last night—was it David?”

“Himself,” replied the brother. “And you and I are going to talk. ... Come on, Jamie, up we go. Grip the ladder.”

“What about the sharks?”

“You got ’em all, buddy. Go get yourself a drink.”

“
Johnny
!”

“Orange juice, there’s a pitcher in the kitchen.” John St. Jacques walked around the rim of the pool and up the steps to the bedroom patio as his nephew raced into the house.

Marie watched her brother approach, noting the similarities between him and her husband. Both were tall and muscular; both had in their strides an absence of compromise, but where David usually won, Johnny more often than not lost, and she did not know why. Or why David had such trust in his younger brother-in-law when the two older St. Jacques sons would appear to be more responsible. David—or was it Jason Bourne?—never discussed the question in depth; he simply laughed it off and said Johnny had a streak in him that appealed to David—or was it Bourne?

“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.”

“On an hour’s
notice
?”

“Well, chap, our buns could be in a collective sling, if you know what I mean—and your so vital but erratic telephone service does depend on a degree of Crown intervention, if you also know what I mean.”

“Henry, you’re a terrific negotiator. You so politely kick a person so accurately where it hurts. What’s our hero’s name?
Quickly
, please!”

“Our names are Jean Pierre and Regine Fontaine,
Monsieur le Directeur
, and here are our passports,” said the soft-spoken. old man inside the immigration officer’s glass-enclosed office, the chief aide of the Crown governor at his side. “My wife can be seen over there,” he added, pointing through the window. “She is talking with the mademoiselle in the white uniform.”

“Please, Monsieur Fontaine,” protested the stocky black immigration official in a pronounced British accent. “This is merely an informal formality, a stamping procedure, if you like. Also to remove you from the inconvenience of so many admirers. Rumors have gone throughout the airport that a great man has arrived.”

“Really?” Fontaine smiled; it was a pleasant smile.