As the enormous jet raced down the runway and with a thump lumbered off the ground into the air, the old "hero of France"-whose only heroics he could recall from the Résistance were based on theft, survival, insults to his woman, and staying out of whatever army or labor force that might draft him-reached into his pocket for his papers. The passport had his picture duly inserted, but that was the only item he recognized. The rest-name, date and place of birth, occupation-all were unfamiliar, and the attached list of honors, well, they were formidable. Totally out of character, but in case anyone should ever refer to them, he had better restudy the "facts" so he could at least nod in self-effacing modesty. He had been assured that the individual originally possessing the name and the achievements had no living relatives and few friends, and had disappeared from his apartment in Marseilles supposedly on a world trip from which he presumably would not return.
The Jackal's courier looked at the name-he must remember it and respond whenever it was spoken. It should not be difficult, for it was such a common name. And so he repeated it silently to himself over and over again.
Jean Pierre Fontaine, Jean Pierre Fontaine, Jean Pierre ...
A sound! Sharp, abrasive. It was wrong, not normal, not part of a hotel's routine noise of hollow drumming at night. Bourne grabbed the weapon by his pillow and rolled out of bed in his shorts, steadying himself by the wall. It came again! A single, loud knock on the bedroom door of the suite. He shook his head trying to remember. ... Alex? I'll knock once. Jason lurched half in sleep to the door, his ear against the wood.
"Yes?"
"Open this damn thing before somebody sees me!" came Conklin's muffled voice from the corridor. Bourne did so and the retired field officer limped quickly into the room, treating his cane as if he loathed it. "Boy, are you out of training!" he exclaimed as he sat on the foot of the bed. "I've been standing there tapping for at least a couple of minutes."
"I didn't hear you."
"Delta would have; Jason Bourne would have. David Webb didn't."
"Give me another day and you won't find David Webb."
"Talk. I want you better than talk!"
"Then stop talking and tell me why you're here-at whatever time it is."
"When last I looked I met Casset on the road at three-twenty. I had to gimp through a bunch of woods and climb over a goddamned fence-"
"What?"
"You heard me. A fence. Try it with your foot in cement. ... You know, I once won the fifty-yard dash when I was in high school."
"Cut the digression. What happened?"
"Oh, I hear Webb again."
"What happened? And while you're at it, who the hell is this Casset you keep talking about?"
"The only man I trust in Virginia. He and Valentino."
"Who?"
"They're analysts, but they're straight."
"What?"
"Never mind. Jesus, there are times when I wish I could get pissed-"
"Alex, why are you here?"
Conklin looked up from the bed as he angrily gripped his cane. "I've got the books on our Philadelphians."
"That's why? Who are they?"
"No, that's not why. I mean it's interesting, but it's not why I'm here."
"Then why?" asked Jason, crossing to a chair next to a window and sitting down, frowning, perplexed. "My erudite friend from Cambodia and beyond doesn't climb over fences with his foot in cement at three o'clock in the morning unless he thinks he has to."
"I had to."
"Which tells me nothing. Please tell."
"It's DeSole."
"What's the soul?"
"Not 'the,' DeSole."
"You've lost me."
"He's the keeper of the keys at Langley. Nothing happens that he doesn't know about and nothing gets done in the area of research that he doesn't pass on."
"I'm still lost."
"We're in deep shit."
"That doesn't help me at all."
"Webb again."
"Would you rather I took a nerve out of your neck?"
"All right, all right. Let me get my breath." Conklin dropped his cane on the rug. "I didn't even trust the freight elevator. I stopped two floors below and walked up."
"Because we're in deep shit?"
"Yes."
"Why? Because of this DeSole?"
"Correct, Mr. Bourne. Steven DeSole. The man who has his finger on every computer at Langley. The one person who can spin the disks and put your old virginal Aunt Grace in jail as a hooker if he wants her there."
"What's your point?"
"He's the connection to Brussels, to Teagarten at NATO. Casset learned down in the cellars that he's the only connection-they even have an access code bypassing everyone else."
"What does it mean?"
"Casset doesn't know, but he's goddamned angry."
"How much did you tell him?"
"The minimum. That I was working on some possibles and Teagarten's name came up in an odd way-most likely a diversion or used by someone trying to impress someone else-but I wanted to know who he talked to at the Agency, frankly figuring it was Peter Holland. I asked Charlie to play it out in the dark."
"Which I assume means confidentially."
"Ten times that. Casset is the sharpest knife in Langley. I didn't have to say any more than I did; he got the message. Now he's also got a problem he didn't have yesterday."
"What's he going to do?"
"I asked him not to do anything for a couple of days and that's what he gave me. Forty-eight hours, to be precise, and then he's going to confront DeSole."
"He can't do that," said Bourne firmly. "Whatever these people are hiding we can use it to pull out the Jackal. Use them to pull him out as others like them used me thirteen years ago."
Conklin stared first down at the floor, then up at Jason Bourne. "It comes down to the almighty ego, doesn't it?" he said. "The bigger the ego the bigger the fear-"
"The bigger the bait, the bigger the fish," completed Jason, interrupting. "A long time back you told me that Carlos's 'spine' was as big as his head, which had to be swollen all out of proportion for him to be in the business he's in. That was true then and it's true now. If we can get any one of these high government profiles to send a message to him-namely, to come after me, kill me-he'll jump at it. Do you know why?"
"I just told you. Ego."
"Sure, that's part of it, but there's something else. It's the respect that's eluded Carlos for more than twenty years, starting with Moscow cutting him loose and telling him to get lost. He's made millions, but his clients have mainly been the crud of the earth. For all the fear he's engendered he still remains a punk psychopath. No legends have been built around him, only contempt, and at this stage it's got to be driving him close to the edge. The fact that he's coming after me to settle a thirteen-year-old score supports what I'm saying. ... I'm vital to him-his killing me is vital-because I was the product of our covert operations. That's who he wants to show up, show that he's better than all of us put together."
"It could also be because he still thinks you can identify him."
"I thought that at first, too, but after thirteen years and nothing from me-well, I had to think again."
"So you moved into Mo Panov's territory and came up with a psychiatric profile."
"It's a free country."
"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 hid
ing."
"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."
7
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?"
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