The Bourne Ultimatum jb-3

by Robert Ludlum

  "Over to the inn until we think of something else. There's only one road and my own Tonton Macoute patrols it. No one gets in or out. Mrs. Cooper will help you with Alison. Hurry!"

  The telephone started ringing again as Marie dashed through the bedroom door. St. Jacques raced down the steps to the pool extension, reaching it as Mrs. Cooper once more stepped out of the kitchen. "It's Government House over in 'Serrat, Mr. John."

  "What the hell do they want...?"

  "Shall I ask them?"

  "Never mind, I'll get it. Help my sister with the kids and pack everything they brought with them into the Rover. They're leaving right away!"

  "Oh, a bad time pity, mon. I was just getting to know the little babies."

  " 'Bad time pity' is right," mumbled St. Jacques, picking up the telephone. "Yes?"

  "Hello, John?" said the chief aide to the Crown governor, a man who had befriended the Canadian developer and helped him through the maze of the colony's Territorial Regulations.

  "Can I call you back, Henry? I'm kind of harried at the moment."

  "I'm afraid there's no time, chap. This is straight from the Foreign Office. They want our immediate cooperation, and it won't do you any harm, either."

  "Oh?"

  "It seems there's an old fellow and his wife arriving on Air France's connecting flight from Antigua at ten-thirty and Whitehall wants the red-carpet treatment. Apparently the old boy had a splendid war, with a slew of decorations, and worked with a lot of our chaps across the Channel."

  "Henry, I'm really in a hurry. What's any of this got to do with me?"

  "Well, I rather assumed you might have more of an idea about that than we do. Probably one of your rich Canadian guests, perhaps a Frenchie from Montreal who came out of the Résistance and who thought of you-"

  "Insults will only get you a bottle of superior French Canadian wine. What do you want?"

  "Put up our hero and his lady in the finest accommodations you've got, with a room for the French-speaking nurse we've assigned to them."

  "On an hour's notice?"

  "Well, chap, our buns could be in a collective sling, if you know what I mean-and your so vital but erratic telephone service does depend on a degree of Crown intervention, if you also know what I mean."

  "Henry, you're a terrific negotiator. You so politely kick a person so accurately where it hurts. What's our hero's name? Quickly, please!"

  "Our names are Jean Pierre and Regine Fontaine, Monsieur le Directeur, and here are our passports," said the soft-spoken. old man inside the immigration officer's glass-enclosed office, the chief aide of the Crown governor at his side. "My wife can be seen over there," he added, pointing through the window. "She is talking with the mademoiselle in the white uniform."

  "Please, Monsieur Fontaine," protested the stocky black immigration official in a pronounced British accent. "This is merely an informal formality, a stamping procedure, if you like. Also to remove you from the inconvenience of so many admirers. Rumors have gone throughout the airport that a great man has arrived."

  "Really?" Fontaine smiled; it was a pleasant smile.

  "Oh, but not to be concerned, sir. The press has been barred. We know you want complete privacy, and you shall have it."

  "Really?" The old man's smile faded. "I was to meet someone here, an associate, you might say, I must consult with confidentially. I hope your most considerate arrangements do not prevent him from reaching me."

  "A small, select group with proper standing and credentials will greet you in Blackburne's honored-guest corridor, Monsieur Fontaine," said the Crown governor's chief aide. "May we proceed? The reception line will be swift, I assure you."

  "Really? That swift?"

  It was, less than five minutes actually, but five seconds would have been enough. The first person the Jackal's courier-killer met was the beribboned Crown governor himself. As the Queen's royal representative embraced the hero in Gallic style, he whispered into Jean Pierre Fontaine's ear. "We've learned where the woman and her children were taken. We are sending you there. The nurse has your instructions."

  The rest was somewhat anticlimactic for the old man, especially the absence of the press. He had never had his picture in the newspapers except as a felon.

  Morris Panov, M.D., was a very angry man, and he always tried to control his very angry moments because they never helped him or his patients. At the moment, however, sitting at his office desk, he was having difficulty curbing his emotions. He had not heard from David Webb. He had to hear from him, he had to talk to him. What was happening could negate thirteen years of therapy, couldn't they understand that? ... No, of course they couldn't; it was not what interested them; they had other priorities and did not care to be burdened by problems beyond their purview. But he had to care. The damaged mind was so fragile, so given to setbacks, the horrors of the past were so capable of taking over the present. It could not happen with David! He was so close to being as normal as he would ever be (and who the hell was "normal" in this fucked-up world). He could function wonderfully as a teacher; he had near-total recall where his scholarly expertise was called upon, and he was remembering more and more as each year progressed. But it could all blow apart with a single act of violence, for violence was the way of life for Jason Bourne. Damn!

  It was crippling enough that they even permitted David to stay around; he had tried to explain the potential damage to Alex, but Conklin had an irrefutable reply: We can't stop him. At least this way we can watch him, protect him. Perhaps so. "They" did not stint where protection was involved-the guards down the hall from his office and on the roof of the building, to say nothing of a temporary receptionist bearing arms as well as a strange computer, attested to their concern. Still it would be so much better for David if he was simply sedated and flown down to his island retreat, leaving the hunt for the Jackal to the professionals. ... Panov suddenly caught himself as the realization swept over him: there was no one more professional than Jason Bourne.

  The doctor's thoughts were interrupted by the telephone, the telephone he could not pick up until all the security procedures were activated. A trace was placed on the incoming call; a scanner determined whether there were intercepts on the line, and finally the identity of the caller was approved by Panov himself. His intercom buzzed; he flipped the switch on his console. "Yes?"

  "All systems are cleared, sir," announced the temporary receptionist, who was the only one in the office who would know. "The man on the line said his name was Treadstone, Mr. D. Treadstone."

  "I'll take it," said Mo Panov firmly. "And you can remove whatever other 'systems' you've got on that machine out there. This is doctor-patient confidentiality."

  "Yes, sir. Monitor is terminated."

  "It's what? ... Never mind." The psychiatrist picked up the phone and was barely able to keep from shouting. "Why didn't you call me before this, you son of a bitch!"

  "I didn't want to give you cardiac arrest, is that sufficient?"

  "Where are you and what are you doing?"

  "At the moment?"

  "That'll suffice."

  "Let's see, I rented a car and right now I'm a half a block from a town house in Georgetown owned by the chairman of the Federal Trade Commission, talking to you on a pay phone."

  "For Christ's sake, why?"

  "Alex will fill you in, but what I want you to do is call Marie on the island. I've tried a couple of times since leaving the hotel but I can't get through. Tell her I'm fine, that I'm perfectly fine, and not to worry. Have you got that?"

  "I've got it, but I don't buy it. You don't even sound like yourself."

  "You can't tell her that, Doctor. If you're my friend, you can't tell her anything like that."

  "Stop it, David. This Jekyll-and-Hyde crap doesn't wash anymore."

  "Don't tell her that, not if you're my friend."

  "You're spiraling, David. Don't let it happen. Come to me, talk to me."

  "No time, Mo. The fat cat's limousine is park
ing in front of his house. I've got to go to work."

  "Jason!"

  The line went dead.

  Brendan Patrick Pierre Prefontaine walked down the jet's metal steps into the hot Caribbean sun of Montserrat's Blackburne Airport. It was shortly past three o'clock in the afternoon, and were it not for the many thousands of dollars on his person he might have felt lost. It was remarkable how a supply of hundred-dollar bills in various pockets made one feel so secure. In truth, he had to keep reminding himself that his loose change-fifties, twenties and tens-were in his right front trousers pocket so as not to make a mistake and either appear ostentatious or be a mark for some unprincipled hustler. Above all, it was vital for him to keep a low profile to the point of insignificance. He had to insignificantly ask significant questions around the airport regarding a woman and two small children who had arrived on a private aircraft the previous afternoon.

  Which was why to his astonishment and alarm he heard the absolutely adorable black female immigration clerk say to him after hanging up a telephone, "Would you be so kind, sir, as to come with me, please?"

  Her lovely face, lilting voice and perfect smile did nothing to allay the former judge's fears. Far too many extremely guilty criminals had such assets. "Is there something wrong with my passport, young lady?"

  "Not that I can see, sir."

  "Then why the delay? Why not simply stamp it and allow me to proceed?"

  "Oh, it is stamped and entry is permitted, sir. There is no problem."

  "Then why...?"

  "Please come with me, sir."

  They approached a large glass-enclosed cubicle with a sign on the left window, the gold letters announcing the occupant: DEPUTY DIRECTOR OF IMMIGRATION SERVICES. The attractive clerk opened the door and, again smiling, gestured for the elderly visitor to go inside. Prefontaine did so, suddenly terrified that he would be searched, the money found, and all manner of charges leveled against him. He did not know which islands were involved in narcotics, but if this was one of them the thousands of dollars in his pockets would be instantly suspect. Explanations raced through his mind as the clerk crossed to the desk handing his passport to the short, heavyset deputy of immigration. The woman gave Brendan a last bright smile and went out the door, closing it behind her.

  "Mr. Brendan Patrick Pierre Prefontaine," intoned the immigration official reading the passport.

  "Not that it matters," said Brendan kindly but with summoned authority. "However, the 'Mister' is usually replaced with 'Judge'-as I say, I don't believe it's relevant under the circumstances, or perhaps it is, I really don't know. Did one of my law clerks make an error? If so, I'll fly the whole group down to apologize."

  "Oh, not at all, sir-Judge," replied the uniformed wide-girthed black man with a distinct British accent as he rose from the chair and extended his hand over the desk. "Actually, it is I who may have made the error."

  "Come now, Colonel, we all do occasionally." Brendan gripped the official's hand. "Then perhaps I may be on my way? There's someone here I must meet."

  "That's what he said!"

  Brendan released the hand. "I beg your pardon?"

  "I may have to beg yours. ... The confidentiality, of course."

  "The what? Could we get to the point, please?"

  "I realize that privacy," continued the official, pronouncing the word as privvissy, "is of utmost importance-that's been explained to us-but whenever we can be of assistance, we try to oblige the Crown."

  "Extremely commendable, Brigadier, but I'm afraid I don't understand."

  The official needlessly lowered his voice. "A great man arrived here this morning, are you aware of that?"

  "I'm sure many men of stature come to your beautiful island. It was highly recommended to me, in fact."

  "Ah, yes, the privvissy!"

  "Yes, of course, the privvissy," agreed the ex-convict judge, wondering if the official had both his oars in the water. "Could you be clearer?"

  "Well, he said he was to meet someone, an associate he had to consult with, but after the very private reception line-no press, of course-he was taken directly to the charter that flew him to the out island, and obviously never met the person he was to confidentially meet. Now, am I clearer?"

  "Like Boston harbor in a squall, General."

  "Very good. I understand. Privvissy. ... So all our personnel are alerted to the fact that the great man's friend might be seeking him here at the airport-confidentially, of course."

  "Of course." Not even a paddle, thought Brendan.

  "Then I considered another possibility," said the official in minor triumph. "Suppose the great man's friend was also flying to our island for a rendezvous with the great man?"

  "Brilliant."

  "Not without logic. Then it struck me to obtain the passenger manifests of all the incoming flights, concentrating, of course, on those in first class, which would be proper for the great man's associate."

  "Clairvoyance," mumbled the once and former judge. "And you selected me?"

  "The name, my good man! Pierre Prefontaine!"

  "My pious, departed mother would no doubt take offense at your omitting the 'Brendan Patrick.' Like the French, the Irish are quite sensitive in such matters."

  "But it was the family. I understood that immediately!"

  "You did?"

  "Pierre Prefontaine! ... Jean Pierre Fontaine. I am an expert on immigration procedures, having studied the methods in many countries. Your own name is a fascinating example, most honored Judge. Wave after wave of immigrants flocked to the United States, the melting pot of nations, races and languages. In the process names were altered, combined or simply misunderstood by armies of confused, overworked clerks. But roots frequently survived and thus it was for you. The family Fontaine became Prefontaine in America and the great man's associate was in reality an esteemed member of the American branch!"

  "Positively awesome," muttered Brendan, eyeing the official as if he expected several male nurses to barge into the room with restraining equipment. "But isn't it possible that this is merely coincidence? Fontaine is a common name throughout France, but, as I understand it, the Prefontaines were distinctly centered around Alsace-Lorraine."

  "Yes, of course," said the deputy, again, lowering his voice rather than conceivably winking. "Yet without any prior word whatsoever, the Quai d'Orsay in Paris calls, then the UK's Foreign Office follows with instructions-a great man is soon to drop out of the sky. Acknowledge him, honor him, spirit him off to a remote resort known for its confidentiality-for that, too, is paramount. The great one is to have total privvissy. ... Yet that same great warrior is anxious; he is to confidentially meet with an associate he does not find. Perhaps the great man has secrets-all great men do, you know."

  Suddenly, the thousands of dollars in Prefontaine's pockets felt very heavy. Washington's Four Zero clearance in Boston, the Quai d'Orsay in Paris, the Foreign Office in London-Randolph Gates needlessly parting with an extraordinary amount of money out of sheer panic. There was a pattern of strange convergence, the strangest being the inclusion of a frightened, unscrupulous attorney named Gates. Was he an inclusion or an aberration? What did it all mean? "You are an extraordinary man," said Brendan quickly, covering his thoughts with rapid words. "Your perceptions are nothing short of brilliant, but you do understand that confidentiality is paramount."

  "I will hear no more, honored Judge!" exclaimed the deputy. "Except to add that your appraisal of my abilities might not be lost on my superiors."

  "They will be made clear, I assure you. ... Precisely where did my not too distant and distinguished cousin go?"

  "A small out island where the seaplanes must land on the water. Its name is Tranquility Isle and the resort is called Tranquility Inn."

  "You will be personally thanked by those above you, be assured of that."

  "And I shall personally clear you through customs."

  Brendan Patrick Pierre Prefontaine, carrying his suitcase of burnished leather, walked
out into the terminal of Blackburne Airport a bewildered man. Bewildered, hell, he was stunned! He could not decide whether to take the next flight back to Boston or to ... his feet were apparently deciding for him. He found himself walking toward a counter beneath a large sea-blue sign with white lettering: INTER-ISLAND AIRWAYS. It couldn't do any harm to inquire, he mused, then he would buy a ticket on the next plane to Boston.

  On the wall beyond the counter a list of nearby "Out Isles" was next to a larger column of the well-known Leeward and Windward Islands from St. Kitts and Nevis south to the Grenadines. Tranquility was sandwiched between Canada Cay and Turtle Rock. Two clerks, both young, one black and one white, the former a young woman, the latter a blond-haired man in his early twenties, were talking quietly. The girl approached. "May I help you, sir?"

  "I'm not really sure," replied Brendan hesitantly. "My schedule's so unsettled, but it seems I have a friend on Tranquility Isle."

  "At the inn, sir?"

  "Yes, apparently so. Does it take long to fly over there?"

  "If the weather's clear, no more than fifteen minutes, but that would be an amphibious charter. I'm not sure one's available until tomorrow morning."

  "Sure, there is, babe," interrupted the young man with small gold wings pinned crookedly on his white shirt. "I'm running over some supplies to Johnny St. Jay pretty soon," he added, stepping forward.

  "He's not scheduled for today."

  "As of an hour ago he is. Pronto."

  At that instant and with those words, Prefontaine's eyes fell in astonishment on two stacks of cartons moving slowly down Inter-Island's luggage carousel toward the exterior loading area. Even if he had the time to debate with himself, he knew his decision was made.

  "I'd like to purchase a ticket on that flight, if I may," he said, watching the boxes of Gerber's Assorted Baby Foods and Pampers Medium Diapers disappear into the hold.

  He had found the unknown woman with the small male child and the infant.

  8

  Routine secondhand inquiries at the Federal Trade Commission confirmed the fact that its chairman, Albert Armbruster, did, indeed, have ulcers as well as high blood pressure and under doctor's orders left the office and returned home whenever discomfort struck him. Which was why Alex Conklin telephoned him after a generally overindulgent lunch-also established-with an "update" of the Snake Lady crisis. As with Alex's initial call, catching Armbruster in the shower, he anonymously told the shaken chairman that someone would be in touch with him later in the day-either at the office or at home. The contact would identify himself simply as Cobra. ("Use all the banal trigger words you can come up with" was the gospel according to St. Conklin.) In the meantime, Armbruster was instructed to talk to no one. "Those are orders from the Sixth Fleet."