The Bourne Ultimatum (Jason Bourne 3)

No! Get away from me! You are nothing and I am everything!… Go away, David, for Christ’s sake, go away.

Bourne spun off the path and ran across the harsh, sharp tropical grass toward the side entrance of the inn. Instantly, breathlessly, he cut his pace to a walk at the sight of a figure coming through the door; then upon recognizing the man, he resumed running. It was one of the few members of Tranquility’s staff he remembered and one of the few he wished he could forget. The insufferable snob of an assistant manager named Pritchard, a loquacious bore, albeit hardworking, who never let anyone forget his family’s importance in Montserrat—especially an uncle who was deputy director of immigration, a not so incidental plus for Tranquility Inn, David Webb suspected.

“Pritchard!” shouted Bourne, approaching the man. “Have you got the bandages?”

“Why, sir!” cried the assistant manager, genuinely flustered. “You’re here. We were told you left this afternoon—”

“Oh, shit!”

“Sir?… Such condolences of sorrow so pain my lips—”

“Just keep them shut, Pritchard. Do you understand me?”

“Of course, I was not here this morning to greet you or this afternoon to bid you farewell and express my deepest feelings, for Mr. Saint Jay asked me to work this evening, through the night, actually—”

“Pritchard, I’m in a hurry. Give me the bandages and don’t tell anyone—anyone—that you saw me. I want that very clear.”

“Oh, it is clear, sir,” said Pritchard, handing over the three different rolls of elasticized tape. “Such privileged information is safe with me, as safe as the knowledge that your wife and children were staying here—oh, God forgive me! Forgive me, sir!”

“I will and He will if you keep your mouth shut.”

“Sealed. It is sealed. I am so privileged!”

“You’ll be shot if you abuse the privilege. Is that clear?”

“Sir?”

“Don’t faint, Pritchard. Go down to the villa and tell Mr. Saint Jay that I’ll be in touch with him and he’s to stay there. Have you got that? He’s to stay there.… You, too, for that matter.”

“Perhaps I could—”

“Forget it. Get out of here!”

The talkative assistant manager ran across the lawn toward the path to the east villas as Bourne raced to the door and went inside. Jason climbed the steps two at a time—only years before, it would have been three at a time—and again, out of breath, reached St. Jacques’s office. He entered, closed the door, and quickly went to the closet where he knew his brother-in-law kept several changes of clothing. Both men were approximately the same size—outsized, as Marie claimed—and Johnny had frequently borrowed jackets and shirts from David Webb when visiting. Jason selected the most subdued combination in the closet. Lightweight gray slacks and an all-cotton dark blue blazer; the only shirt in evidence, again tropical cotton, was thankfully short-sleeved and brown. Nothing would pick up or reflect light.

He started to undress when he felt a sharp, hot jolt on the left side of his neck. He looked in the closet mirror, alarmed, then furious at what he saw. The constricting bandage around his throat was deep red with spreading blood. He tore open the box of the widest tape; it was too late to change the dressing, he could only reinforce it and hope to stem the bleeding. He unraveled the elasticized tape around his neck, tearing it after several revolutions, and applied the tiny clamps to hold it in place. It was more inhibiting than ever; it was also an impediment he would put out of his mind.

He changed clothes, pulling the collar of the brown shirt high over his throat and putting the automatic in his belt, the reel of fishing line in the blazer’s pocket.… Footsteps! The door opened as he pressed his back against the wall, his hand on the weapon. Old Fontaine walked in; he stood for a moment, looking at Bourne, then closed the door.

“I’ve been trying to find you, frankly not knowing if you were still alive,” said the Frenchman.

“We’re not using the radios unless we have to.” Jason walked away from the wall. “I thought you got the message.”

“I did and it was right. Carlos may have his own radio by now. He’s not alone, you know. It’s why I’ve been wandering around looking for you. Then it occurred to me that you and your brother-in-law might be up here in his office, a headquarters, as it were.”

“It’s not very smart for you to be walking around out in the open.”

“I’m not an idiot, monsieur. I would have perished long before now if I were. Wherever I walked I did so with great caution.… In truth, it’s why I made up my mind to find you, assuming you were not dead.”

“I’m not and you found me. What is it? You and the judge are supposed to be in an empty villa somewhere, not wandering around.”

“We are; we were. You see, I have a plan, a stratagème, I believe would interest you. I discussed it with Brendan—”

“Brendan?”

“His name, monsieur. He thinks my plan has merit and he’s a brilliant man, very sagace—”

“Shrewd? Yes, I’m sure he is, but he’s not in our business.”

“He’s a survivor. In that sense we are all in the same business. He thinks there is a degree of risk, but what plan under these circumstances is without risk?”

“What’s your plan?”

“It is a means to trap the Jackal with minimum danger to the other people here.”

“That really worries you, doesn’t it?”

“I told you why, so there’s no reason to repeat it. There are men and women together out there—”

“Go on,” broke in Bourne, irritated. “What’s this strategy of yours, and you’d better understand that I intend to take out the Jackal if I have to hold this whole goddamned island hostage. I’m not in a giving mood. I’ve given too much.”

“So you and Carlos stalk each other in the night? Two crazed middle-aged hunters obsessed with killing each other, not caring who else is killed or wounded or maimed for life in the bargain?”

“You want compassion, go to a church and appeal to that God of yours who pisses on this planet! He’s either got one hell of a warped sense of humor or he’s a sadist. Now either talk sense or I’m getting out of here.”

“I’ve thought this out—”

“Talk!”

“I know the monseigneur, know the way he thinks. He planned the death of my woman and me but not to coincide with yours, not in a way that would detract from the high drama of his immediate victory over you. It would come later. The revelation that I, the so-called hero of France, was in reality the Jackal’s instrument, his creation, would be the final proof of his triumph. Don’t you see?”

Briefly silent, Jason studied the old man. “Yes, I do,” he replied quietly. “Not that I ever figured on someone like you, but that approach is the basis of everything I believe. He’s a megalomaniac. In his head he’s the king of hell and wants the world to recognize him and his throne. By his lights, his genius has been overlooked, relegated to the level of punk killers and Mafia hit men. He wants trumpets and drums, when all he hears are tired sirens and weary questions in police lineups.”

“C’est vrai. He once complained to me that almost no one in America knew who he was.”

“They don’t. They think he’s a character out of novels or films, if they think about him at all. He tried to make up for that thirteen years ago, when he flew over from Paris to New York to kill me.”

“Correction, monsieur. You forced him to go after you.”

“It’s history. What’s all this got to do with now, tonight … your plan?”

“It provides us with a way to force the Jackal to come out after me, to meet with me. Now. Tonight.”

“How?”

“By my wandering around the grounds very much in the open where he or one of his scouts will see me and hear me.”

“Why would that force him to come out after you?”

“Because I will not be with the nurse he had assigned to me. I

will be with someone else, unknown to him, someone who would have no reason at all to kill me.”

Again Bourne looked at the old Frenchman in silence. “Bait,” he said finally.

“A lure so provocative it will drive him into a frenzy until he has it in his possession—has me in his grip so he can question me.… You see, I’m vital to him—more specifically, my death is vital—and everything is timing to him. Precision is his … his diction, how is it said?”

“His byword, his method of operation, I suppose.”

“It is how he has survived, how he has made the most of each kill, each over the years adding to his reputation as the assassin suprême. Until a man named Jason Bourne came out of the Far East … he has never been the same since. But you know all that—”

“I don’t care about all that,” interrupted Jason. “The ‘timing.’ Go on.”

“After I’m gone he can reveal who Jean Pierre Fontaine, the hero of France, really was. An impostor, his impostor, his creation, the instrument of death who was the snare for Jason Bourne. What a triumph for him!… But he cannot do that until I’m dead. Quite simply, it would be too inconvenient. I know too much, too many of my colleagues in the gutters of Paris. No, I must be dead before he has his triumph.”

“Then he’ll kill you when he sees you.”

“Not until he has his answers, monsieur. Where is his killer nurse? What has happened to her? Did Le Caméléon find her, turn her, do away with her? Have the British authorities got her? Is she on her way to London and MI-Six with all their chemicals, to be turned over at last to Interpol? So many questions.… No, he will not kill me until he learns what he must learn. It may take only minutes to satisfy him, but long before then I trust that you will be at my side insuring my survival, if not his.”

“The nurse? Whoever it is, she’ll be shot.”

“No, not at all. I’ll order her away in anger, out of my sight at the first sign of contact. As I walk with her I shall lament the absence of my new dear friend, the angel of mercy who takes such good care of my wife, wondering out loud, What has happened to her? Where has she gone? Why haven’t I seen her all day? Naturally, I will conceal on my person the radio, activated, of course. Wherever I am taken—for surely one of Carlos’s men will make contact first—I will ask an enfeebled old man’s questions. Why am I going here? Why are we there?… You will follow—in full force, I sincerely hope. If you do so, you’ll have the Jackal.”

Holding his head straight, his neck rigid, Bourne walked to St. Jacques’s desk and sat on the edge. “Your friend, Judge Brendan what’s-his-name, is right—”

“Prefontaine. Although Fontaine is not my true name, we’ve decided it’s all the same family. When the earliest members left Alsace-Lorraine for America in the eighteenth century with Lafayette, they added the Pre to distinguish them from the Fontaines who spread out all over France.”

“He told you that?”

“He’s a brilliant man, once an honored judge.”

“Lafayette came from Alsace-Lorraine?”

“I don’t know, monsieur. I’ve never been there.”

“He’s a brilliant man.… More to the point, he’s right. Your plan has a lot of merit, but there’s also considerable risk. And I’ll be honest with you, Fontaine, I don’t give a damn about the risk you’re taking or about the nurse, whoever it is. I want the Jackal, and if it costs your life or the life of a woman I don’t know, it doesn’t matter to me. I want you to understand that.”

The old Frenchman stared at Jason with amused rheumy eyes and laughed softly. “You are such a transparent contradiction. Jason Bourne would never have said what you just did. He would have remained silent, accepting my proposition without comment but knowing the advantage. Mrs. Webb’s husband, however, must have a voice. He objects and must be heard.” Fontaine suddenly spoke sharply. “Get rid of him, Monsieur Bourne. He is not my protection, not the death of the Jackal. Send him away.”

“He’s gone. I promise you, he’s gone.” The Chameleon sprang up from the desk, his neck frozen in pain. “Let’s get started.”

The steel band continued its deafening assault, but now restricted to the confines of the glass-enclosed lobby and adjacent dining room. The speakers on the grounds were switched off on St. Jacques’s orders, the owner of Tranquility Inn having been escorted up from the unoccupied villa by the two Uzi-bearing former commandos along with the Canadian doctor and the incessantly chattering Mr. Pritchard. The assistant manager was instructed to return to the front desk and say nothing to anyone about the things he had witnessed during the past hour.

“Absolutely nothing, sir. If I am asked, I was on the telephone with the authorities over in ’Serrat.”

“About what?” objected St. Jacques.

“Well, I thought—”

“Don’t think. You were checking the maid service on the west path, that’s all.”

“Yes, sir.” The deflated Pritchard headed for the office door, which had been opened moments before by the nameless Canadian doctor.

“I doubt it would make much difference what he said,” offered the physician as the assistant manager left. “That’s a small zoo down there. The combination of last night’s events, too much sun today and excessive amounts of alcohol this evening, will augur a great deal of guilt in the morning. My wife doesn’t think your meteorologist will have much to say, John.”

“Oh?”

“He’s having a few himself, and even if he’s halfway lucid, there aren’t five sober enough to listen to him.”

“I’d better get down there. We may as well turn it into a minor carnivale. It’ll save Scotty ten thousand dollars, and the more distraction we have, the better. I’ll speak to the band and the bar and be right back.”

“We may not be here,” said Bourne as his brother-in-law left and a strapping young black woman in a complete nurse’s uniform walked out of St. Jacques’s private bathroom into the office. At the sight of her, old Fontaine approached.

“Very good, my child, you look splendid,” said the Frenchman. “Remember now, I’ll be holding your arm as we walk and talk, but when I squeeze you and raise my voice, telling you to leave me alone, you’ll do as I say, correct?”

“Yes, sir. I am to hurry away quite angry with you for being so unnice.”

“That’s it. There’s nothing to be afraid of, it’s just a game. We want to talk with someone who’s very shy.”

“How’s the neck?” asked the doctor, looking at Jason, unable to see the bandage beneath the brown shirt.

“It’s all right,” answered Bourne.

“Let’s take a look at it,” said the Canadian, stepping forward.

“Thanks but not now, Doctor. I suggest you go downstairs and rejoin your wife.”

“Yes. I thought you’d say that, but may I say something very quickly?”

“Very quickly.”

“I’m a doctor and I’ve had to do a great many things I didn’t like doing and I’m sure this is in that category. But when I think of that young man and what was done to him—”

“Please,” broke in Jason.

“Yes, yes, I understand. Nevertheless, I’m here if you need me, I just wanted you to know that.… I’m not terribly proud of my previous statements. I saw what I saw and I do have a name and I’m perfectly willing to testify in a court of law. In other words, I withdraw my reluctance.”

“There’ll be no courts, Doctor, no testimony.”

“Really? But these are serious crimes!”

“We know what they are,” interrupted Bourne. “Your help is greatly appreciated, but nothing else concerns you.”

“I see,” said the doctor, staring curiously at Jason. “I’ll go, then.” The Canadian went to the door and turned. “You’d better let me check that neck later. If you’ve got a neck.” The doctor left and Bourne turned to Fontaine.

“Are we ready?”

“We’re ready,” replied the Frenchman, smiling pleasantly at the large, impos

ing, thoroughly mystified young black woman. “What are you going to do with all the money you’re earning tonight, my dear?”

The girl giggled shyly, her broad smile alive with bright white teeth. “I have a good boyfriend. I’m going to buy him a fine present.”

“That’s lovely. What’s your boyfriend’s name?”

“Ishmael, sir.”

“Let’s go,” said Jason firmly.

The plan was simple to mount and, like most good strategies, however complex, simple to execute. Old Fontaine’s walk through the grounds of Tranquility Inn had been precisely mapped out. The trek began with Fontaine and the young woman returning to his villa presumably to look in on his ill wife before his established, medically required evening stroll. They stayed on the lighted main path, straying now and then across the floodlit lawns but always visible, a crotchety old man supposedly walking wherever his whims led him, to the annoyance of his companion. It was a familiar sight the world over, an enfeebled, irascible septuagenarian taunting his keeper.

The two former Royal Commandos, one rather short, the other fairly tall, had selected a series of stations between the points where the Frenchman and his “nurse” would turn and head in different directions. As the old man and the girl proceeded into the next planned leg, the second commando bypassed his colleague in darkness to the next location, using unseen routes only they knew or could negotiate, such as that beyond the coastline wall above the tangled tropical brush that led to the beach below the villas. The black guards climbed like two enormous spiders in a jungle, crawling swiftly, effortlessly from branch and rock to limb and vine, keeping pace with their two charges. Bourne followed the second man, his radio on Receive, the angry words of Fontaine pulsating through the static.

Where is that other nurse? That lovely girl who takes care of my woman? Where is she? I haven’t seen her all day! The emphatic phrases were repeated over and over again with growing hostility.

Jason slipped. He was caught! He was behind the coastal wall, his left foot entangled in thick vines. He could not pull his leg loose—the strength was not there! He moved his head—his shoulders—and the hot flashes of pain broke out on his neck. It is nothing. Pull, yank, rip!… His lungs bursting, the blood now drenching his shirt, he worked his way free and crawled on.