“What do you mean?”

“I can feel it. Like an animal that senses the approach of distant thunder. It’s inside of you; it’s the fear.”

“That’s not very clear.”

“It is to me. Perhaps you wouldn’t understand. The Jackal’s challenger, the man of many appearances, the Chameleon—the killer known as Jason Bourne—was not given to fear, we are told, only a great bravado that came from his strength.”

Jason smiled grimly, in contradiction. “Then you were told a lie,” he said softly. “A part of that man lives with a kind of raw fear few people have ever experienced.”

“I find that hard to believe, monsieur—”

“Believe. I’m he.”

“Are you, Mr. Webb? It’s not difficult to piece things together. Do you force yourself to assume your other self because of this fear?”

David Webb stared at the old man. “For God’s sake, what choice do I have?”

“You could disappear for a time, you and your family. You could live peacefully, in complete security, your government would see to-it.”

“He’d come after me—after us—wherever we were.”

“For how long? A year? Eighteen months? Certainly less than two years. He’s a sick man; all Paris—my Paris—knows it. Considering the enormous expense and complexity of the current situation—these events designed to trap you—I would suggest that it’s Carlos’s last attempt. Leave, monsieur. Join your wife in Basse-Terre and then fly thousands of miles away while you can. Let him go back to Paris and die in frustration. Is it not enough?”

“No. He’d come after me, after us! It’s got to be settled here, now.”

“I will soon join my woman, if such is to be, so I can disagree with certain people, men like you, for instance, Monsieur le Caméléon, whom I would have automatically agreed with before. I do so now. I think you can go far away. I think you know that you can put the Jackal in a side pocket and get on with your life, altered only slightly for a while, but you won’t do it. Something inside stops you; you cannot permit yourself a strategic retreat, no less honorable for its avoidance of violence. Your family is safe but others may die, but even that doesn’t stop you. You have to win—”

“I think that’s enough psychobabble,” interrupted Bourne, bringing the binoculars again to his eyes, concentrating on the scene below beyond the windows.

“That’s it, isn’t it?” said the Frenchman, studying Le Caméléon, his binoculars still at his side. “They trained you too well, instilled in you too completely the person you had to become. Jason Bourne against Carlos the Jackal and Bourne must win, it’s imperative that he win.… Two aging lions, each pitted against the other years ago, both with a burning hatred created by far-off strategists who had no idea what the consequences would be. How many have lost their lives because they crossed your converging paths? How many unknowing men and women have been killed—”

“Shut up!” cried Jason as flashing images of Paris, even peripherally of Hong Kong, Macao and Beijing—and most recently last night in Manassas, Virginia—assaulted his fragmented inner screen. So much death!

Suddenly, abruptly, the door of the dark storage room opened and Judge Brendan Prefontaine walked rapidly, breathlessly inside. “He’s here,” said the Bostonian. “One of St. Jacques’s patrols, a three-man unit a mile down the east shoreline, couldn’t be reached by radio. St. Jacques sent a guard to find them and he just returned—then ran away himself. All three were killed, each man with a bullet in his throat.”

“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?”

“Our alarmed priest looks around as they go to the lobby doors. He’s truly frightened now.”

“Where’s he looking?” asked Bourne, grabbing the binoculars.

“That’s of no help. In every direction.”

“Damn!”

“They’re at the doors now.”

“I’ll get ready—”

“I’ll help you.” The old Frenchman got off the stool and went to the coatrack. He removed the tunic and the hat. “If you are about to do what I think you intend doing, try to stay by a wall and don’t turn around. The governor’s aide is somewhat stouter than you and we must bunch the jacket in the back.”

“You’re pretty good at this, aren’t you?” said Jason, holding out his arms so as to be helped into the tunic.

“The German soldiers were always much fatter than we were, especially the corporals and the sergeants—all that sausage, you know. We had our tricks.” Suddenly, as if he had been shot or seized by a convulsion, Fontaine gasped, then lurched in front of Bourne. “Mon Dieu!… C’est terrible! The governor—”

“What?”

“The Crown governor!”

“What about him?”

“At the airport, it was so quick, so rapid!” cried the old Frenchman. “And everything that has happened, my woman, the killing—Still, it is unforgivable of me!”

“What are you talking about?”

“That man in the villa, the military officer whose uniform you wear. He’s his aide!”

“We know that.”

“What you do not know, monsieur, is that my very first instructions came from the Crown governor.”

“Instructions?”

“From the Jackal! He is the contact.”

“Oh, my God,” whispered Bourne, rushing to the stool where Fontaine had put the radio. He took a deep breath as he picked it up, his thoughts racing, control imperative. “Johnny?”

“For Christ’s sake, my arms are full and I’m on my way to the office and those goddamned monks are in the lobby waiting for me! What the hell do you want now?”

“Take it easy and listen very carefully. How well do you know Henry?”

“Sykes? The CG’s man?”

“Yes. I’ve met him a few times but I don’t know him, Johnny.”

“I know him very well. You wouldn’t have a house and I wouldn’t have Tranquility Inn if it wasn’t for him.”

“Is he in touch with the governor? I mean right now, is he keeping the CG posted about what’s going on here. Think, Johnny. It’s important. There’s a phone in that villa; he could be in contact with Government House. Is he?”

“You mean with the CG himself?”

“With anyone over there.”

“Believe me, he’s not. Everything’s so quiet not even the police know what’s going on. And as far as the CG is concerned, he’s only been given the vaguest scenario, no names, nothing, only a trap. He’s also out on his boat and doesn’t want to know a damn thing until it’s all over.… Those were his orders.”

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“I’ll bet they were.”

“Why do you ask?”

“I’ll explain later. Hurry up!”

“Will you stop saying that?”

Jason put down the radio and turned to Fontaine. “We’re clear. The governor isn’t one of the Jackal’s army of old men. He’s a different kind of recruit, probably like that lawyer Gates in Boston—just bought or frightened, no soul involved.”

“You’re certain? Your brother-in-law is certain?”

“The man’s out on his boat. He was given a bare-bones outline but that’s all, and his orders were that he’s not to be told anything else until it’s all over.”

The Frenchman sighed. “It’s a pity my mind is so old and so filled with salt. If I had remembered, we could have used him. Come, the jacket.”

“How could we have used him?” asked Bourne, again holding out his arms.

“He removed himself to the gradins—how is it said?”

“The bleachers. He’s out of the game, only an observer.”

“I’ve known many like him. They want Carlos to lose; he wants Carlos to lose. It’s his only way out, but he’s too terrified to raise a hand against the Jackal.”

“Then how could we turn him?” Jason buttoned the tunic as Fontaine manipulated the belt and the cloth behind him.

“Le Caméléon asks such a question?”

“I’ve been out of practice.”

“Ah, yes,” said the Frenchman, yanking the belt firmly. “That man I’ve appealed to.”

“Just shut up.… How?”

“Très simple, monsieur. We tell him the Jackal already knows he’s turned—I tell him. Who better than the monseigneur’s emissary?”

“You are good.” Bourne held in his stomach as Fontaine turned him around, pressing the lapels and the ribbons of the jacket.

“I’m a survivor, neither better nor worse than others—except with my woman. Then I was better than most.”

“You loved her very much, didn’t you?”

“Love? Oh, I imagine that’s taken for granted although rarely expressed. Perhaps it’s the comfort of being familiar, although, again, hardly with grand passion. One does not have to finish a sentence to be understood, and a look in the eyes will bring on laughter without a word being said. It comes with the years, I suppose.”

Tags: Robert Ludlum, Eric Van Lustbader Jason Bourne Thriller
Source: readsnovelonline.net