The Bourne Ultimatum

  “Breakthrough,” said John St. Jacques, staring at Prefontaine. “I’m sorry, Judge, we don’t need you.”

  “What?” Marie sat forward in her chair. “Please, Bro, we need all the help we can get!”

  “Not in this case. We know who hired him.”

  “We do?”

  “Conklin knows; he called it a ‘breakthrough.’ He told me that the man who traced you and the children here used a judge to find you.” The brother nodded across the table at the Bostonian. “Him. It’s why I smashed up a hundred-thousand-dollar boat to get back over here. Conklin knows who his client is.”

  Prefontaine again glanced at the old Frenchman. “Now is the time for ‘Quelle tristesse,’ Sir Hero. I’m left with nothing. My persistence brought me only a sore throat and a burned scalp.”

  “Not necessarily,” interrupted Marie. “You’re the attorney, so I shouldn’t have to tell you. Corroboration is cooperation. We may want you to tell everything you know to certain people in Washington.”

  “Corroboration can be obtained with a subpoena, my dear. Under oath in a courtroom, take my personal as well as my professional word for it.”

  “We won’t be going to court. Ever.”

  “Oh?… I see.”

  “You couldn’t possibly, Judge, not at this juncture. However, if you agree to help us you’ll be well paid.… A moment ago you said that you had strong reasons for wanting to help, reasons that had to be secondary to your own well-being—”

  “Are you by any chance a lawyer, my dear?”

  “No, an economist.”

  “Holy Mary, that’s worse.… About my reasons?”

  “Do they concern your client, the man who hired you to trace us?”

  “They do. His august persona—as in Caesar Augustus—should be trashed. Slippery intellectuality aside, he’s a whore. He had promise once, more than I let him know, but he let it all go by the boards in a flamboyant quest for his own personal grail.”

  “What the hell’s he talking about, Mare?”

  “A man with a great deal of influence or power, neither of which he should have, I think. Our convicted felon here has come to grips with personal morality.”

  “Is that an economist speaking?” asked Prefontaine, once more absently touching the blistered flesh of his neck. “An economist reflecting on her last inaccurate projection that caused inappropriate buying or selling on the stock exchanges, resulting in losses many could afford and many more could not?”

  “My voice was never that important, but I’ll grant you it’s the reflection of a great many others whose projections were, because they never risked, they only theorized. It’s a safe position.… Yours isn’t, Judge. You may need the protection we can provide. What’s your answer?”

  “Jesus, Mary and Joseph, you’re a cold one—”

  “I have to be,” said Marie, her eyes leveled on the man from Boston. “I want you with us, but I won’t beg, I’ll simply leave you with nothing and you can go back to the streets in Boston.”

  “Are you sure you’re not a lawyer—or perhaps a lord high executioner?”

  “Take your choice. Just give me your answer.”

  “Will somebody tell me what the hell is going on here!” yelled John St. Jacques.

  “Your sister,” answered Prefontaine, his gentle gaze on Marie, “has enlisted a recruit. She’s made the options clear, which every attorney understands, and the inevitability of her logic, in addition to her lovely face, crowned by that dark red hair, makes my decision also inevitable.”

  “What …?”

  “He’s opted for our side, Johnny. Forget it.”

  “What do we need him for?”

  “Without a courtroom a dozen different reasons, young man,” answered the judge. “In certain situations, volunteerism is not the best road to take unless one is thoroughly protected beyond the courts.”

  “Is that right, Sis?”

  “It’s not wrong, Bro, but it’s up to Jason—damn it—David!”

  “No, Mare,” said John St. Jacques, his eyes boring into his sister’s. “It’s up to Jason.”

  “Are these names I should be aware of?” asked Prefontaine. “The name ‘Jason Bourne’ was sprayed on the wall of your villa.”

  “My instructions, Cousin,” said the false yet not so false hero of France. “It was necessary.”

  “I don’t understand … any more than I understood the other name, the ‘Jackal,’ or ‘Carlos,’ which you both rather brutally questioned me about when I wasn’t sure whether I was dead or alive. I thought the ‘Jackal’ was fiction.”

  The old man called Jean Pierre Fontaine looked at Marie; she nodded. “Carlos the Jackal is a legend, but he is not fiction. He’s a professional killer now in his sixties, rumored to be ill, but still possessed with a terrible hatred. He’s a man of many faces, many sides, some loved by those who have reasons to love him, others detested by those who consider him the essence of evil—and depending on the view, all have their reasons for being correct. I am an example of one who has experienced both viewpoints, but then my world is hardly yours, as you rightly suggested, St. Thomas of Aquinas.”

  “Merci bien.”

  “But the hatred that obsesses Carlos grows like a cancer in his aging brain. One man drew him out; one man tricked him, usurped his kills, taking credit for the Jackal’s work, kill after kill, driving Carlos mad when he was trying to correct the record, trying to maintain his supremacy as the ultimate assassin. That same man was responsible for the death of his lover—but one far more than a lover, the woman who was his keel, his beloved since childhood in Venezuela, his colleague in all things. That single man, one of hundreds, perhaps thousands sent out by governments everywhere, was the only one who ever saw his face—as the Jackal. The man who did all this was a product of American intelligence, a strange man who lived a deadly lie every day of his life for three years. And Carlos will not rest until that man is punished … and killed. The man is Jason Bourne.”

  Squinting, stunned by the Frenchman’s story, Prefontaine leaned forward over the table. “Who is Jason Bourne?” he asked.

  “My husband, David Webb,” replied Marie.

  “Oh, my God,” whispered the judge. “May I have a drink, please?”

  John St. Jacques called out. “Ronald!”

  “Yes, boss-mow!” cried from within the guard whose strong hands had held his employer’s shoulders an hour ago in Villa Twenty.

  “Bring us some whisky and brandy, please. The bar should be stocked.”

  “Comin’, sir.”

  The orange sun in the east suddenly took fire, its rays penetrating what was left of the sea mists of dawn. The silence around the table was broken by the soft, heavily accented words of the old Frenchman. “I am not used to such service,” he said, looking aimlessly beyond the railing of the balcony at the progressively bright waters of the Caribbean. “When something is asked for, I always think the task should be mine.”

  “Not anymore,” said Marie quietly, then after a beat, adding, “… Jean Pierre.”

  “I suppose one could live with that name.…”

  “Why not here?”

  “Qu’est-ce que vous dites, madame?”

  “Think about it. Paris might not be any less dangerous for you than the streets of Boston for our judge.”

  The judge in question was lost in his own aimless reverie as several bottles, glasses and a bucket of ice were brought to the table. With no hesitation, Prefontaine reached out and poured himself an extravagant drink from the bottle nearest him. “I must ask a question or two,” he said emphatically. “Is that proper?”

  “Go ahead,” replied Marie. “I’m not sure I can or will an swer you, but try me.”

  “The gunshots, the spray paint on the wall—my ‘cousin’ here says the red paint and the words were by his instructions—”

  “They were, mon ami. The loud firing of the guns as well.”

  “Why?”

  “Everything
must be as it is expected to be. The gunshots were an additional element to draw attention to the event that was to take place.”

  “Why?”

  “A lesson we learned in the Résistance—not that I was ever a ‘Jean Pierre Fontaine,’ but I did my small part. It was called an accentuation, a positive statement making clear that the underground was responsible for the action. Everyone in the vicinity knew it.”

  “Why here?”

  “The Jackal’s nurse is dead. There is no one to tell him that his instructions have been carried out.”

  “Gallic logic. Incomprehensible.”

  “French common sense. Incontestable.”

  “Why?”

  “Carlos will be here by noon tomorrow.”

  “Oh, dear God!”

  The telephone rang inside the villa. John St. Jacques lurched out of his chair only to be blocked by his sister, who threw her arm in front of his face and then raced through the doors into the living room. She picked up the phone.

  “David?”

  “It’s Alex,” said the breathless voice on the line. “Christ, I’ve had this goddamned thing on redial for three hours! Are you all right?”

  “We’re alive but we weren’t supposed to be.”

  “The old men! The old men of Paris! Did Johnny—”

  “Johnny did, but they’re on our side!”

  “Who?”

  “The old men—”

  “You’re not making one damn bit of sense!”

  “Yes, I am! We’re in control here. What about David?”

  “I don’t know! The telephone lines were cut. Everything’s a mess! I’ve got the police heading out there—”

  “Screw the police, Alex!” screamed Marie. “Get the army, the marines, the lousy CIA! We’re owed!”

  “Jason won’t allow that. I can’t turn on him now.”

  “Well, try this for size. The Jackal will be here tomorrow!”

  “Oh, Jesus! I have to get him a jet somewhere.”

  “You have to do something!”

  “You don’t understand, Marie. The old Medusa surfaced—”

  “You tell that husband of mine that Medusa’s history! The Jackal isn’t, and he’s flying in here tomorrow!”

  “David’ll be there, you know that.”

  “Yes, I do.… Because he’s Jason Bourne now.”

  “Br’er Rabbit, this ain’t thirteen years ago, and you just happen to be thirteen years older. You’re not only gonna be useless, you’re gonna be a positive liability unless you get some rest, preferably sleep. Turn off the lights and grab some sack time in that big fancy couch in the living room. I’ll man the phones, which ain’t gonna ring ’cause nobody’s callin’ at four o’clock in the morning.”

  Cactus’s voice had faded as Jason wandered into the dark living room, his legs heavy, his lids falling over his eyes like lead weights. He dropped to the couch, swinging his legs slowly, with effort, one at a time, up on the cushions; he stared at the ceiling. Rest is a weapon, battles won and lost … Philippe d’Anjou. Medusa. His inner screen went black and sleep came.

  A screaming, pulsating siren erupted, deafening, incessant, echoing throughout the cavernous house like a sonic tornado. Bourne spastically whipped his body around and sprang off the couch, at first disoriented, unsure of where he was and for a terrible moment … of who he was.

  “Cactus!” he roared, racing out of the ornate living room into the hallway. “Cactus!” he shouted again, hearing his voice lost in the rapid, rhythmic crescendos of the siren-alarm. “Where are you?”

  Nothing. He ran to the door of the study, gripping the knob. It was locked! He stepped back and crashed his shoulder against it, once, twice, a third time with all the speed and strength he could summon. The door splintered, then gave way and Jason hammered his foot against the central panel until it collapsed; he went inside and what he found caused the killing machine that was the product of Medusa and beyond to stare in ice-cold fury. Cactus was sprawled over the desk, under the light of the single lamp, in the same chair that had held the murdered general, his blood forming a pool of red on the blotter—a corpse.… No, not a corpse! The right hand moved, Cactus was alive!

  Bourne ran to the desk and gently raised the old man’s head, the shrill, deafening, all-encompassing alarm making communication—if communication were possible—impossible. Cactus opened his dark eyes, his trembling right hand moving down the blotter, his forefinger curved and tapping the top of the desk.

  “What is it?” yelled Jason. The hand kept moving back toward the edge of the blotter, the tapping more rapid. “Below? Underneath?” With minuscule—nearly imperceptible—motions of his head, Cactus nodded in the affirmative. “Under the desk!” shouted Bourne, beginning to understand. He knelt down to the right of Cactus and felt under the thin top drawer, then to the side—He found it! A button. Again gently, he moved the heavy rolling chair inches to the left and centered his eyes on the button. Beneath it, in tiny white letters on a black plastic strip, was the answer.

  Aux. Alarm

  Jason pressed the button; instantly the shrieking pandemonium was cut off. The ensuing silence was nearly as deafening, the adjustment to it nearly as terrifying.

  “How were you hit?” asked Bourne. “How long ago?… If you can talk, just whisper, no energy at all, do you understand?”

  “Oh, Br’er, you’re too much,” whispered Cactus, in pain. “I was a black cabdriver in Washington, man. I’ve been here before. It ain’t fatal, boy, I gotta slug in the upper chest.”

  “I’ll get a doctor right away—our friend Ivan, incidentally—but if you can, tell me what happened while I move you to the floor and look at the damage.” Jason slowly, carefully lowered the old man off the chair and onto the throw rug beneath the bay window. He tore off Cactus’s shirt; the bullet had gone through the flesh of the left shoulder. With short, swift movements Bourne ripped the shirt into strips and tightly wrapped a primitive bandage around his friend’s chest and between the underarm and the shoulder. “It’s not much,” said Jason, “but it’ll hold you for a while. Go on.”

  “He’s out there, Br’er!” Cactus coughed weakly, lying back on the floor. “He’s got a big mother ’fifty-seven magnum with a silencer; he pinned me through the window, then smashed it and climbed inside.… He—he …”

  “Easy! Don’t talk, never mind—”

  “I gotta. The brothers out there, they ain’t got no hardware. He’ll pick ’em off!… I played deep dead and he was in a hurry—oh, was he in a hurry! Look over there, will ya?” Jason swung his head in the direction of Cactus’s gesture. A dozen or so books had been yanked out of a shelf on the side wall and strewn on the floor. The old man continued, his voice growing weaker. “He went over to the bookcase like in a panic, until he found what he wanted … then to the door, that ’fifty-seven ready for bear, if you follow me.… I figured it was you he was after, that he’d seen you through the window go out to the other room, and I tell ya, I was workin’ my right knee like a runnin’ muskrat ’cause I found that alarm button an hour ago and knew I had to stop him—”

  “Easy!”

  “I gotta tell you … I couldn’t move my hands ’cause he’d see me, but my knee hit that sucker and the siren damn near blew me out of the chair.… The honky bastard fell apart. He slammed the door, locked it, and beat his way out of here back through the window.” Cactus’s neck arched back, the pain and the exhaustion overtaking him. “He’s out there, Br’er Rabbit—”

  “That’s enough!” ordered Bourne as he cautiously reached up, snapping off the desk lamp, leaving the dim light from the hallway through the shattered door as the only illumination. “I’m calling Alex; he can send the doctor—”

  Suddenly, from somewhere outside, there was a high-pitched scream, a roar of shock and anguish Jason knew only too well. So did Cactus, who whispered, his eyes shut tight: “He got one. That fucker got one of the brothers!”

  “I’m reaching Conklin,” said Jaso
n, pulling the phone off of the desk. “Then I’ll go out and get him.… Oh, Christ! The line’s out—it’s been cut!”

  “That honky knows his way around here.”

  “So do I, Cactus. Stay as quiet as you can. I’ll be back for you—”

  There was another scream, this lower, more abrupt, an expulsion of breath more than a roar.

  “May sweet Jesus forgive me,” muttered the old black man painfully, meaning the words. “There’s only one brother left—”

  “If anyone should ask forgiveness, it’s me,” cried Bourne, his voice guttural, half choking. “Goddamn it! I swear to you, Cactus, I never thought, never even considered, that anything like this would happen.”

  “ ’Course you didn’t. I know you from back to the old days, Br’er, and I never heard of you asking anyone to risk anything for you.… It’s always been the other way around.”

  “I’m going to pull you over,” interrupted Jason, tugging on the rug, maneuvering Cactus to the right side of the desk, the old man’s left hand close enough to reach the auxiliary alarm. “If you hear anything or see anything or feel anything, turn on the siren.”

  “Where are you going? I mean how?”

  “Another room. Another window.”

  Bourne crept across the floor to the mutilated door, lurched through it and ran into the living room. At the far end was a pair of French doors that led to an outside patio; he recalled seeing white wrought-iron lawn furniture on the south end of the house when he was with the guards. He twisted the knob and slipped outside, pulling the automatic from his belt, shutting the right door, and crouching, making his way to the shrubbery at the edge of the grass. He had to move quickly. Not only was there a third life in the balance, a third unrelated, unwarranted death, but a killer who could be his shortcut to the crimes of the new Medusa, and those crimes were his bait for the Jackal! A diversion, a magnet, a trap … the flares—part of the equipment he had brought with him to Manassas. The two emergency “candles” were in his left rear pocket, each six inches long and bright enough to be seen for miles; ignited together yet spaced apart they would light up Swayne’s property like two searchlights. One in the south drive, the other by the kennels, possibly waking the drugged dogs, bewildering them, infuriating them—Do it! Hurry.