The Bourne ultimatum (19 page)

“Oh?” At his words the stranger’s eyes briefly widened, almost as if there had been recognition that was quickly hidden. “Not at all.”

“
Pardon
, we have met, monsieur?”

“I don’t believe so,” replied the old man in the silly white cap. “But we’ve all heard the rumors. A great French hero is among the guests.”

“Foolishness. The accidents of war when we were all much younger. My name is Fontaine. Jean Pierre Fontaine.”

“Mine’s ... Patrick. Brendan Patrick—”

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, monsieur.” Both men shook hands. “This is a lovely place, is it not?”

“Simply beautiful.” Again the stranger seemed to be studying him, thought Fontaine, yet, oddly enough, avoiding any prolonged eye contact. “Well, I must be on my way,” added the elderly guest in the brand-new white shoes. “Doctor’s orders.”

“
Moi aussi
,” said Jean Pierre, purposely speaking French, which evidently had an effect on the stranger. “
Toujours le médecin à notre âge, n’est-ce pas
?”

“All too true,” replied the old man with the bony legs, nodding and making the gesture of a wave as he turned and walked rapidly up the path.

Fontaine stood motionless watching the receding figure, waiting, knowing it would happen. And then it did. The old man stopped and slowly turned around. From a distance their eyes locked; it was enough. Jean Pierre smiled, then proceeded down the concrete path toward his villa.

It was another warning, he mused, and a far more deadly one. For three things were apparent: first, the elderly guest in the foolish white cap spoke French; second, he knew that “Jean Pierre Fontaine” was in reality someone else—sent to Montserrat by someone else; third ... he had the mark of the Jackal in his eyes.
Mon Dieu
, how like the monseigneur! Engineer the kill, make sure it is done, then remove all physical traces that could lead back to his methods of operation, in particular his private army of old men. No wonder the nurse had said that after his orders were carried out they could remain here in this paradise until his woman died, a date that was imprecise at best. The Jackal’s generosity was not so grand as it appeared; his woman’s death, as well as his own, had been scheduled.

John St. Jacques picked up the phone in his office. “Yes?”

“They have
met
, sir!” said the excited assistant manager at the front desk.

“Who have met?”

“The great man and his illustrious relative from Boston, Massachusetts. I would have called you at once, but there was a mix-up concerning a box of Belgian chocolates—”

“What
are
you talking about?”

“Several minutes ago, sir, I saw them through the windows. They were conferring on the path. My esteemed uncle, the deputy director, was right in all things!”

“That’s nice.”

“The Crown governor’s office will be most pleased, and I’m certain we shall be commended, as will, of course, my brilliant uncle.”

“Good for all of us,” said St. Jacques wearily. “Now we don’t have to concern ourselves about them any longer, do we?”

“Offhand I would say not, sir. ... Except that as we speak the honored judge is walking down the path in haste. I believe he’s coming inside.”

“I don’t think he’ll bite you; he probably wants to thank you. Do whatever he says. There’s a storm coming up from Basse-Terre and we’ll need the CG’s input if the phones go out.”

“I myself shall perform whatever service he requires, sir!”

“Well, there are limits. Don’t brush his teeth.”

Brendan Prefontaine hurried through the door of the circular glass-walled lobby. He had waited until the old Frenchman had turned into the first villa before reversing direction and heading straight for the main complex. As he had done so many times over the past thirty years, he was forced to think quickly on his feet—usually running feet—building plausible explanations that would support a number of obvious possibilities as well as others not so obvious. He had just committed an unavoidable yet stupid error, unavoidable because he was not prepared to give Tranquility Inn’s desk a false name in case identification was required, and stupid because he
had
given a false name to the hero of France. ... Well, not stupid; the similarity of their surnames might have led to unwanted complications where the purpose of his trip to Montserrat was concerned, which was quite simply extortion—to learn what so frightened Randolph Gates that he would part with fifteen thousand dollars, and having learned it perhaps collect a great deal more. No, the stupidity was in not taking the precautionary step he was about to take. He approached the front desk and the tall, slender clerk behind it.

“Good evening,
sir
,” fairly yelled the inn’s employee, causing the judge to look around, grateful that there were very few guests in the lobby. “However I may assist you, be assured of my perfection!”

“I’d rather be assured of your keeping your voice down, young man.”

“I shall
whisper
,” said the clerk inaudibly.

“What did you say?”

“How may I help you?” intoned the man, now sotto voce.

“Let’s just talk quietly, all right?”

“Certainly. I am so very privileged.”

“You are?”

“Of course.”

“Very well,” said Prefontaine. “I have a favor to ask of you—”

“Anything!”

“
Shhh
!”

“Naturally.”

“Like many men of advanced age I frequently forget things, you can understand that, can’t you?”

“A man of your wisdom I doubt forgets anything.”

“What? ... Never mind. I’m traveling incognito, you
do
know what I mean.”

“Most assuredly, sir.”

“I registered under my name, Prefontaine—”

“You certainly did,” interrupted the clerk. “I
know
.”

“It was a mistake. My office and those I’ve told to reach me expect to ask for a ‘Mr. Patrick,’ my middle name. It’s harmless subterfuge to allow me some much needed rest.”

“I
understand
,” said the clerk confidentially, leaning over the counter.

“You do?”

“Of course. If such an eminent person as yourself were known to be a guest here, you might find little rest. As
another
, you must have complete privvissy! Be assured, I understand.”

“ ‘Privvissy’? Oh, good Lord. ...”

“I shall myself alter the directory, Judge.”

“Judge ... ? I said nothing about being a judge.” Consternation was apparent on the man’s embarrassed face. “A slip born of wishing to serve you, sir.”

“And of something else—some
one
else.”

“On my word, no one here other than the owner of Tranquility Inn is aware of the confidential nature of your visit, sir,” whispered the clerk, again leaning over the counter. “All is total privvissy!”

“Holy Mary, that asshole at the airport—”

“My astute uncle,” continued the clerk, overriding and not hearing Prefontaine’s soft monotone, “made it completely clear that we were privileged to be dealing with illustrious men who required total confidentiality. You see, he called me in that spirit—”

“All right, all right, young man, I understand now and appreciate everything you’re doing. Just make sure that the name is changed to Patrick, and should anyone here inquire about me, he or she is to be given that name. Do we understand each other?”

“With clairvoyance, honored Judge!”

“I hope not.”

Four minutes later the harried assistant manager picked up the ringing telephone. “Front desk,” he intoned, as if giving a benediction.

“This is Monsieur Fontaine in Villa Number Eleven.”

“Yes, sir. The honor is mine ... ours ... everyone’s!”

“
Merci
. I wondered if you might help me. I met a charming American on the path perhaps a quarter of an hour ago, a man about my own age wearing a white walking cap. I thought I might ask him for an apéritif one day, but I’m not sure I heard his name correctly.”

He was being tested
, thought the assistant manager.
Great men not only had secrets but concerned themselves with those guarding them
. “I would have to say from your description, sir, that you met the very charming Mr. Patrick.”

“Ah, yes, I believe that was the name. An Irish name, indeed, but he’s American, is he not?”

“A very
learned
American, sir, from Boston, Massachusetts. He’s in Villa Fourteen, the third west of yours. Simply dial seven-one-four.”

“Yes, well, thank you so much. If you see Monsieur Patrick, I’d prefer you say nothing. As you know, my wife is not well and I must extend the invitation when it is comfortable for her.”

“I would never say
anything
, great sir, unless told to do so. Where you and the learned Mr. Patrick are concerned, we follow the Crown governor’s confidential instructions to the letter.”

“You do? That’s most commendable. ...
Adieu
.”

He had done it! thought the assistant manager, hanging up the phone. Great men understood subtleties, and he had been subtle in ways his brilliant uncle would appreciate. Not only with the instant offering of the Patrick name, but, more important, by using the word “learned” which conveyed that of a scholar—or a
judge
. And, finally, by stating that he would not say anything without the Crown governor’s instructions. By the use of subtlety he had insinuated himself into the confidentiality of great men. It was a breathtaking experience, and he must call his uncle and share their combined triumph.

Fontaine sat on the edge of the bed, the telephone in its cradle yet still in his hand, staring at his woman out on the balcony. She sat in her wheelchair, her profile to him, the glass of wine on the small table beside the chair, her head bent down in pain. ...
Pain
! The whole terrible world was filled with pain! And he had done his share inflicting it; he understood that and expected no quarter, but not for his woman. That was never part of the contract.
His
life, yes, of course, but not hers, not while she had breath in her frail body.
Non, monseigneur. Je refuse! Ce nest pas le contrat!

So the Jackal’s army of very old men now extended to America—it was to be expected. And an old Irish American in a foolish white cap, a
learned
man who for one reason or another had embraced the cult of the terrorist, was to be their executioner. A man who had studied him and pretended to speak no French, who had the sign of the Jackal in his eyes.
Where you and the learned Mr. Patrick are concerned, we follow the instructions of the Crown governor
. The Crown governor who took his instructions from a master of death in Paris.

A decade ago, after five productive years with the monseigneur, he had been given a telephone number in Argenteuil, six miles north of Paris, that he was never to use except in the most extreme emergency. He had used it only once before, but he would use it now. He studied the international codes, picked up the phone and dialed. After the better part of two minutes, a voice answered.

“Le Coeur du Soldat,” said a flat male voice, martial music in the background.

“I must reach a blackbird,” said Fontaine in French. “My identity is Paris Five.”

“If such a request is possible, where can such a bird reach you?”

“In the Caribbean.” Fontaine gave the area code, the telephone number and the extension to Villa Eleven. He hung up the phone and sat despondent on the edge of the bed. In his soul he knew that this might be his and his woman’s last few hours on earth. If so, he and his woman could face their God and speak the truth. He had killed, no question about that, but he had never harmed or taken the life of a person who had not committed greater crimes against others—with a few minor exceptions that might be called innocent bystanders caught in the heat of fire or in an explosion. All life was pain, did not the Scriptures tell us that? ... On the other hand, what kind of God allowed such brutalities?
Merde
! Do not think about such things! They are beyond your understanding.

The telephone rang and Fontaine grabbed it, pulling it to his ear. “This is Paris Five,” he said.

“Child of God, what can be so extreme that you would use a number you have called only once before in our relationship?”

“Your generosity has been absolute, monseigneur, but I feel we must redefine our contract.”

“In what way?”

“My life is yours to do with as you will, as mercifully as you will, but it does not include my woman.”

“
What
?”

“A man is here, a learned man from the city of Boston who studies me with curious eyes, eyes that tell me he has other purposes in mind.”

“That arrogant fool flew down to Montserrat
himself
? He knows
nothing
!”

“Obviously he does, and I beg you, I shall do as you order me to do, but let us go back to Paris ... I
beg
of you. Let her die in peace. I will ask no more of you.”

“You ask of
me
? I’ve given you my
word
!”

“Then why is this learned man from America here following me with a blank face and inquisitive eyes, monseigneur?”

The deep, hollow roll of a throated cough filled the silence, and then the Jackal spoke. “The great professor of law has transgressed, inserted himself where he should not be. He’s a dead man.”

Edith Gates, wife of the celebrated attorney and professor of law, silently opened the door of the private study in their elegant town house on Louisburg Square. Her husband sat motion less in his heavy leather armchair staring at the crackling fire, a fire he insisted upon despite the warm Boston night outside and the central air conditioning inside.

As she watched him, Mrs. Gates was once again struck by the painful realization that there were ...
things
... about her husband she would never understand. Gaps in his life she could never fill, leaps in his thinking she could not comprehend. She only knew that there were times when he felt a terrible pain and would not share it, when by sharing it he would lessen the burden on himself. Thirty-three years ago a passably attractive young woman of average wealth had married an extremely tall, gangling, brilliant but impoverished law school graduate whose anxiety and eagerness to please had turned off the major firms in those days of the cool, restrained late fifties. The veneer of sophistication and the pursuit of security were valued over a smoldering, wandering first-rate mind of unsure direction, especially a mind inside a head of unkempt hair and a body dressed in clothes that were cheap imitations of J. Press and Brooks Brothers, which appeared even worse because his bank account precluded any additional expenses for alterations and few discount stores carried his size.