The Bourne ultimatum (27 page)

Conklin reflected on a truth that was forever reconfirmed: the world of global corrupters was in reality a small multilayered neighborhood, geometric in design, the irregular avenues of corruption leading into one another. How could it be otherwise? The residents of those lethal streets had services to offer, their clients were a specific breed—the desperate dregs of humanity. Extort, compromise, kill. The Jackal and the men of Medusa belonged to the same fraternal order. The Brotherhood of I Must Have Mine.

Breakthrough
. But it was a breakthrough Jason Bourne could handle—not David Webb—and Webb was still too much a part of Bourne. Especially since both parts of the same man were over a thousand miles away from Montserrat, the coordinates of death determined by Carlos.
Montserrat
? ... Johnny St. Jacques! The “little brother” who had proved himself in a backwater town in the northern regions of Canada, proved himself beyond the knowledge and the understanding of his family, especially his beloved sister. A man who could kill in anger—who had killed in fury—and who would kill again if the sister he adored and her children were under the Jackal’s gun. David believed in him—Jason Bourne believed in him, which was far more to the point.

Alex looked over at the telephone console, then quickly got out of the chair. He rushed to the desk, sat down, and touched the buttons that rewound the current tape, adjusting it to the spot where he wanted to pick it up. He went forward and back until he heard Gates’s panicked voice.

“...
Good Christ, I paid fifteen thousand
—”

No, not there, thought Conklin. Later.

“...
I can show you the bank withdrawals
—”

Later!

“...
I hired a former judge who has contacts
—”

That’s it. A judge.

“...
They flew to the island of Montserrat
—”

Alex opened the drawer where he kept a sheet of paper with each number he had called during the past two days on the assumption that he might need specific ones quickly. He saw the number in the Caribbean for Tranquility Inn, picked up the phone and dialed. After more rings than seemed necessary, a voice thick with sleep answered.

“Tranquility—”

“This is an emergency,” broke in Conklin. “It’s urgent that I speak with John St. Jacques. Quickly, please.”

“I’m sorry, sir, Mr. St. Jacques isn’t here.”

“I’ve got to find him. I repeat, it’s urgent. Where is he?”

“On the big island—”

“Montserrat?”

“Yes—”

“
Where
? ... My name’s Conklin. He wants to talk to me—he
has
to talk to me.
Please
!”

“A big wind came up from Basse-Terre and all flights are canceled until morning.”

“A what?”

“A tropical depression—”

“Oh, a storm.”

“We prefer a TD, sir. Mr. St. Jacques left a telephone number in Plymouth.”

“What’s your name?” interrupted Alex suddenly. The clerk replied Pritchard and Conklin continued: “I’m going to ask you a very delicate question, Mr. Pritchard. It’s important that you have the right answer, but if it’s the wrong one you must do as I tell you. Mr. St. Jacques will confirm everything I say when I reach him; however, I can’t waste time now. Do you understand me?”

“What is your question?” asked the clerk with dignity. “I’m not a child,
mon
.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“The question, Mr. Conklin. You’re in a hurry.”

“Yes, of course. ... Mr. St. Jacques’s sister and her children, are they in a safe place? Did Mr. St. Jacques take certain precautions?”

“Such as armed guards about the villa and our usual men down on the beach?” said the clerk. “The answer is yes.”

“It’s the right answer.” Alex took a deep breath, his breathing still erratic. “Now, what’s the number where I can reach Mr. St. Jacques?”

The clerk gave it to Conklin, then added, “Many phones are out, sir. It might be well if you left a number here. The wind is still strong, but Mr. Saint Jay will no doubt come over with the first light if he can.”

“Certainly.” Alex rattled off the number of the sterile telephone in the Vienna apartment and had the man in Montserrat repeat it. “That’s it,” said Conklin. “I’ll try Plymouth now.”

“The spelling of your name, please. It is C-o-n-c-h—”

“C-o-n-
k
,” broke in Alex, snapping off the line and instantly dialing the number in the town of Plymouth, the capital of Montserrat. Once again a startled, drowsy voice answered; it was a barely coherent greeting. “Who’s this?” asked Conklin impatiently.

“Who the hell is
this
—are
you
?” replied an angry English man.

“I’m trying to reach John St. Jacques. It’s an emergency, and I was given this number by the desk at Tranquility Inn.”

“Good Lord, their phones are intact ... ?”

“Obviously.
Please
, is John there?”

“Yes, yes, of course. He’s across the hall, I’ll fetch him. Who shall I say—”

“ ‘Alex’ is good enough.”

“Just ‘Alex’?”

“Hurry, please!” Twenty seconds later the voice of John St. Jacques filled the line.

“
Conklin
? Is that
you
?”

“Listen to me. They know Marie and the children flew into Montserrat.”

“We heard that someone was asking questions over at the airport about a woman and two kids—”

“Then that’s why you moved them from the house to the inn.”

“That’s right.”

“Who was asking questions?”

“We don’t know. It was done by telephone. ... I didn’t want to leave them, even for a few hours, but I had a command appearance at Government House, and by the time that son-of-a-bitch Crown governor showed up, the storm hit.”

“I know. I talked to the desk and got this number.”

“That’s one consolation; the phones are still working. In weather like this they usually don’t, which is why we suck up to the Crown.”

“I understand you’ve got guards—”

“You’re goddamned right!” cried St. Jacques. “The trouble is I don’t know what to look for except strangers in boats or on the beach, and if they don’t stop and identify themselves satisfactorily, my orders are to shoot!”

“I may be able to help—”

“Go ahead!”

“We got a break—don’t ask how; it’s from outer space but that doesn’t matter, it’s real. The man who traced Marie to Montserrat used a judge who had contacts, presumably in the islands.”

“A
judge
?” exploded the owner of Tranquility Inn. “My God, he’s
there
! Christ, he’s there! I’ll kill that
scum
bastard—”

“
Stop
it, Johnny! Get hold of yourself—
who’s
there?”

“A judge, and he insisted on using a different
name
! I didn’t think anything about it—a couple of whack-a-doo old men with similar names—”

“
Old men
? ... Slow down, Johnny, this is important. What two old men?”

“The one you’re talking about is from Boston—”

“
Yes
!” confirmed Alex emphatically.

“The other flew in from Paris—”

“
Paris
? Jesus
Christ
! The old men of Paris!”

“What ... ?”

“The Jackal! Carlos has his
old men
in place!”

“Now,
you
slow down, Alex,” said St. Jacques, his breathing audible. “Now
you
be clearer.”

“There’s no time, Johnny. Carlos has an army—
his
army—of old men who’ll die for him,
kill
for him. There won’t be any strangers on the beach, they’re already
there
! Can you get back to the island?”

“Somehow, yes! I’ll call my people over there. Both those pieces of garbage will be thrown into the cisterns!”

“
Hurry
, John!”

f
f
f

St. Jacques pressed down the small bar of the old telephone, released it, and heard the forever-pulsating dial tone. He spun the numbers for the inn on Tranquility Isle.

“
We are sorry
,” said the recorded voice. “
Due to weather conditions the lines are down to the area you are calling. Government is working very hard to restore communications. Please try your call later. Have a good day
.”

John St. Jacques slammed the phone down with such force that he broke it in two. “A
boat
!” he screamed. “Get me a
drug
boat!”

“You’re crazy,” objected the aide to the Crown governor across the room. “In these swells?”

“A sea streak, Henry!” said the devoted brother, reaching into his belt and slowly pulling out an automatic. “Or I’ll be forced to do something I don’t even want to think about, but I’ll get a boat.”

“I simply can’t believe this, chap.”

“Neither can I, Henry. ... I mean it, though.”

Jean Pierre Fontaine’s nurse sat at her dressing table in front of the mirror and adjusted her tightly knotted blond hair under the black rain hat. She looked at her watch, recalling every word of the most unusual telephone call she had received several hours ago from Argenteuil in France, from the great man who made all things possible.

“There is an American attorney who calls himself a judge staying near you.”

“I know of no such person, monseigneur.”

“He is there, nevertheless. Our hero rightfully complains of his presence, and a call to his home in the city of Boston confirms that it is he.”

“His presence here is not desirable, then?”

“His presence there is abominable to me. He pretends to be in my debt—an enormous debt, an event that could destroy him—yet his actions tell me that he’s ungrateful, that he intends to cancel his debt by betraying me, and by betraying me he betrays you.”

“He’s dead.”

“Exactly. In the past he’s been valuable to me, but the past is over. Find him, kill him. Make his death appear to be a tragic accident. ... Finally, since we will not speak until you are back on Martinique, are preparations complete for your last act on my behalf?”

“They are, monseigneur. The two syringes were prepared by the surgeon at the hospital in Fort-de-France. He sends you his devotion.”

“He should. He’s alive, as opposed to several dozen of his patients.”

“They know nothing of his other life in Martinique.”

“I’m aware of that. ... Administer the doses in forty-eight hours, when the chaos has begun to subside. Knowing that the hero was my invention—which I’ll make sure they know—will put a chameleon to shame.”

“All will be done. You’ll be here soon?”

“In time for the shock waves. I’m leaving within the hour and will reach Antigua before it’s noon in Montserrat tomorrow. All things being on schedule, I’ll arrive in time to observe the exquisite anguish of Jason Bourne before I leave my signature, a bullet in his throat. The Americans will then know who has won.
Adieu
.”

The nurse, like an ecstatic suppliant, arched her neck in front of the mirror remembering the mystical words of her omniscient lord. It was nearly time, she thought, opening the dresser drawer and picking out a diamond-clustered wire garrote from among her necklaces, a gift from her mentor. It would be so simple. She had easily learned who the judge was and where he was staying—the old, painfully thin man three villas away. Everything now was precision, the “tragic accident” merely a prelude to the horror that would take place at Villa Twenty in less than an hour. For all of Tranquility’s villas had kerosene lamps in the event of electricity loss and generator malfunction. A panicked old man with loose bowels, or in plain fear, living through such a storm as they were experiencing, might well attempt to light a lamp for additional comfort. How tragic that his upper body would fall into the flowing spilled kerosene, his neck scorched into black tissue, the neck that had been garroted:
Do it
, insisted the echoing voices of her imagination.
You must obey. Without Carlos you would have been a headless corpse in Algeria.

She would do it—she would do it now.

The harsh downpour of the rain on the roof and the windows, and the whistling, roaring wind outside were interrupted by a blinding streak of lightning followed by a deafening crack of thunder.

“Jean Pierre Fontaine” wept silently as he knelt beside the bed, his face inches from his woman’s, his tears falling on the cold flesh of her arm. She was dead, and the note by her white rigid hand said it all:
Maintenant nous deux sommes libres, mon amour
.

They were both free. She from the terrible pain, he from the price demanded by the monseigneur, a price he had not described to her, but one she knew was too horrible to pay. He had known for months that his woman had ready access to pills that would end her life quickly if her living became unendurable; he had frequently, at times frantically, searched for them but he had never found them. Now he knew why as he stared at the small tin of her favorite pastilles, the harmless droplets of licorice she had popped laughingly into her mouth for years.

“Be thankful,
mon cher
, they might be caviar or those expensive drugs the rich indulge in!” They were not caviar but they were drugs, lethal drugs.

Footsteps. The nurse! She had come out of her room, but she could not see his woman! Fontaine pushed himself up from the bed, wiped his eyes as best he could, and hurried to the door. He opened it, stunned by the sight of the woman; she stood directly in front of him, her arm raised, the knuckles of her hand arcing forward to knock.

“
Monsieur
! ... You startled me.”

“I believe we startled each other.” Jean Pierre slipped out, rapidly closing the door behind him. “Regine is finally asleep,” he whispered, bringing his forefinger to his lips. “This terrible storm has kept her up most of the night.”

“But it is sent from heaven for us—for you—isn’t it? There are times when I think the monseigneur can order such things.”

“Then I doubt they come from heaven. It’s not the source of his influence.”

“To business,” interrupted the nurse, not amused and walking away from the door. “Are you prepared?”