The Bourne ultimatum

9

Brendan Patrick Pierre Prefontaine was again astonished. Though he had no reservation, the front desk of Tranquility Inn treated him like a visiting celebrity, then only moments after he had secured a villa told him that he already had a villa and asked How was the flight from Paris? Confusion descended for several minutes as the owner of Tranquility Inn could not be reached for consultation; he was not at his residence, and if he was on the premises he could not be found. Ultimately hands were thrown up in frustration and the former judge from Boston was taken to his lodgings, a lovely miniature house overlooking the Caribbean. By accident, hardly by design, he had reached into the wrong pocket and given the manager behind the desk a fifty-dollar American bill for his courtesy. Prefontaine instantly became a man to be reckoned with; fingers snapped and palms hit bells rapidly. Nothing was too splendid for the bewildering stranger who had suddenly flown in on the seaplane from Montserrat. ... It was the name that had thrown everyone behind Tranquility’s front desk into confusion. Could such a coincidence be possible? ... Still the Crown governor— Err on the safe side. Get the man a villa.
Once settled, his casual clothes distributed in the closet and the bureau, the craziness continued. A chilled bottle of Chateau Carbonnieux ’78 accompanied fresh-cut flowers, and a box of Belgian chocolates arrived, only to have a confused room-service waiter return to remove them, apologizing for the fact that they were for another villa down the line—or up the line—he thought, mon.
The judge changed into Bermuda shorts, wincing at the sight of his spindly legs, and put on a subdued paisley sport shirt. White loafers and a white cloth cap completed his tropical outfit; it would be dark soon and he wanted a stroll. For several reasons.

“I know who Jean Pierre Fontaine is,” said John St. Jacques, reading the register behind the front desk, “he’s the one the CG’s office called me about, but who the hell is B. P. Prefontaine?”
“An illustrious judge from the United States,” declared the tall black assistant manager in a distinct British accent. “My uncle, the deputy director of immigration, phoned me from the airport roughly two hours ago. Unfortunately, I was upstairs when the confusion arose, but our people did the right thing.”
“A judge?” asked the owner of Tranquility Inn as the assistant manager touched St. Jacques’s elbow, gesturing for him to move away from the desk and the clerks. Both men did so. “What did your uncle say?”
“There must be total privvissy where our two distinguished guests are concerned.”
“Why wouldn’t there be? What does that mean?”
“My uncle was very discreet, but he did allow that he watched the honored judge go to the Inter-Island counter and purchase a ticket. He further permitted himself to say that he knew he had been right. The judge and the French war hero are related and wish to meet confidentially on matters of great import.”
“If that was the case, why didn’t the honored judge have a reservation?”
“There appear to be two possible explanations, sir. According to my uncle, they were originally to meet at the airport but the Crown governor’s reception line precluded it.”
“What’s the second possibility?”
“An error may have been made in the judge’s own offices in Boston, Massachusetts. According to my uncle, there was a brief discussion regarding the judge’s law clerks, how they are prone to errors and if one had been made with his passport, he’d fly them all down to apologize.”
“Then judges are paid a lot more in the States than they are in Canada. He’s damned lucky we had space.”
“It’s the summer season, sir. We usually have available space during these months.”
“Don’t remind me. ... All right, so we’ve got two illustrious relatives who want to meet privately but go about it in a very complicated way. Maybe you should call the judge and tell him what villa Fontaine is in. Or Prefontaine—whichever the hell it is.
“I suggested that courtesy to my uncle, sir, and he was most adamant. He said we should do and say absolutely nothing. According to my uncle, all great men have secrets and he would not care to have his own brilliant deduction revealed except by the parties themselves.”
“Beg your pardon?”
“If such a call were made to the judge, he would know the information could only come from my uncle, the deputy director of Montserrat’s immigration.”
“Christ, do whatever you want, I’ve got other things on my mind. ... Incidentally, I’ve doubled the patrols on the road and the beach.”
“We’ll be stretched thin, sir.”
“I’ve shifted a number off the paths. I know who’s here, but I don’t know who may want to get in here.”
“Do we expect trouble, sir?”
John St. Jacques looked at the assistant manager. “Not now,” he said. “I’ve been out checking every inch of the grounds and the beach. By the way, I’ll be staying with my sister and her children in Villa Twenty.”

The hero of World War II’s Résistance known as Jean Pierre Fontaine walked slowly up the concrete path toward the last villa overlooking the sea. It was similar to the others, with walls of pink stucco and a red tiled roof, but the surrounding lawn was larger, the bordering shrubbery taller and denser. It was a place for prime ministers and presidents, foreign secretaries and secretaries of state, men and women of international stature seeking the peace of pampered isolation.
Fontaine reached the end of the path where there was a four-foot-high white stuccoed wall and beyond it the impenetrable overgrown slope of the hill leading down to the shoreline. The wall itself extended in both directions, curving around the hill below the villas’ balconies, at once demarcation and protection. The entrance to Villa Twenty was a pink wrought-iron gate bolted into the wall. Beyond the gate the old man could see a small child running about the lawn in a bathing suit. In moments a woman appeared in the frame of the open front door.
“Come on, Jamie!” she called out. “Time for dinner.”
“Has Alison eaten, Mommy?”
“Fed and asleep, darling. She won’t yell at her brother.”
“I like our house better. Why can’t we go back to our house, Mommy?”
“Because Uncle John wants us to stay here. ... The boats are here, Jamie. He can take you fishing and sailing just like he did last April during the spring vacation.”
“We stayed at our house then.”
“Yes, well, Daddy was with us—”
“And we had lots of fun driving over in the truck!”
“Dinner, Jamie. Come along now.”
Mother and child went into the house and Fontaine winced thinking about his orders from the Jackal, the bloody executions he was sworn to carry out. And then the child’s words came back to him. Why can’t we go back to our house, Mommy? ... We stayed at our house then. And the mother’s answers: Because Uncle John wants us to stay here. ... Yes, well, Daddy was with us then.
There might be any number of explanations for the brief exchange he had overheard, but Fontaine could sense warnings quicker than most men, for his life had been filled with them. He sensed one now, and for that reason an old man would take a number of walks late at night for “circulatory purposes.”
He turned from the wall and started down the concrete path so absorbed in thought that he nearly collided with a guest at least his own age wearing a foolish-looking little white cap and white shoes.
“Excuse me,” said the stranger, sidestepping out of Fontaine’s way.
“Pardon, monsieur!” exclaimed the embarrassed hero of France, unconsciously slipping into his native tongue. “Je regrette—that is to say, it is I who must be excused.”
“Oh?” At his words the stranger’s eyes briefly widened, almost as if there had been recognition that was quickly hidden. “Not at all.”
“Pardon, we have met, monsieur?”
“I don’t believe so,” replied the old man in the silly white cap. “But we’ve all heard the rumors. A great French hero is among the guests.”
“Foolishness. The accidents of war when we were all much younger. My name is Fontaine. Jean Pierre Fontaine.”
“Mine’s ... Patrick. Brendan Patrick—”
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, monsieur.” Both men shook hands. “This is a lovely place, is it not?”
“Simply beautiful.” Again the stranger seemed to be studying him, thought Fontaine, yet, oddly enough, avoiding any prolonged eye contact. “Well, I must be on my way,” added the elderly guest in the brand-new white shoes. “Doctor’s orders.”
“Moi aussi,” said Jean Pierre, purposely speaking French, which evidently had an effect on the stranger. “Toujours le médecin à notre age, n’est-ce pas?”
“All too true,” replied the old man with the bony legs, nodding and making the gesture of a wave as he turned and walked rapidly up the path.
Fontaine stood motionless watching the receding figure, waiting, knowing it would happen. And then it did. The old man stopped and slowly turned around. From a distance their eyes locked; it was enough. Jean Pierre smiled, then proceeded down the concrete path toward his villa.
It was another warning, he mused, and a far more deadly one. For three things were apparent: first, the elderly guest in the foolish white cap spoke French; second, he knew that “Jean Pierre Fontaine” was in reality someone else—sent to Montserrat by someone else; third ... he had the mark of the Jackal in his eyes. Mon Dieu, how like the monseigneur! Engineer the kill, make sure it is done, then remove all physical traces that could lead back to his methods of operation, in particular his private army of old men. No wonder the nurse had said that after his orders were carried out they could remain here in this paradise until his woman died, a date that was imprecise at best. The Jackal’s generosity was not so grand as it appeared; his woman’s death, as well as his own, had been scheduled.

John St. Jacques picked up the phone in his office. “Yes?”
“They have met, sir!” said the excited assistant manager at the front desk.
“Who have met?”
“The great man and his illustrious relative from Boston, Massachusetts. I would have called you at once, but there was a mix-up concerning a box of Belgian chocolates—”
“What are you talking about?”
“Several minutes ago, sir, I saw them through the windows. They were conferring on the path. My esteemed uncle, the deputy director, was right in all things!”
“That’s nice.”
“The Crown governor’s office will be most pleased, and I’m certain we shall be commended, as will, of course, my brilliant uncle.”
“Good for all of us,” said St. Jacques wearily. “Now we don’t have to concern ourselves about them any longer, do we?”
“Offhand I would say not, sir. ... Except that as we speak the honored judge is walking down the path in haste. I believe he’s coming inside.”
“I don’t think he’ll bite you; he probably wants to thank you. Do whatever he says. There’s a storm coming up from Basse-Terre and we’ll need the CG’s input if the phones go out.”
“I myself shall perform whatever service he requires, sir!”
“Well, there are limits. Don’t brush his teeth.”

Brendan Prefontaine hurried through the door of the circular glass-walled lobby. He had waited until the old Frenchman had turned into the first villa before reversing direction and heading straight for the main complex. As he had done so many times over the past thirty years, he was forced to think quickly on his feet—usually running feet—building plausible explanations that would support a number of obvious possibilities as well as others not so obvious. He had just committed an unavoidable yet stupid error, unavoidable because he was not prepared to give Tranquility Inn’s desk a false name in case identification was required, and stupid because he had given a false name to the hero of France. ... Well, not stupid; the similarity of their surnames might have led to unwanted complications where the purpose of his trip to Montserrat was concerned, which was quite simply extortion—to learn what so frightened Randolph Gates that he would part with fifteen thousand dollars, and having learned it perhaps collect a great deal more. No, the stupidity was in not taking the precautionary step he was about to take. He approached the front desk and the tall, slender clerk behind it.
“Good evening, sir,” fairly yelled the inn’s employee, causing the judge to look around, grateful that there were very few guests in the lobby. “However I may assist you, be assured of my perfection!”
“I’d rather be assured of your keeping your voice down, young man.”
“I shall whisper,” said the clerk inaudibly.
“What did you say?”
“How may I help you?” intoned the man, now sotto voce.
“Let’s just talk quietly, all right?”
“Certainly. I am so very privileged.”
“You are?”
“Of course.”
“Very well,” said Prefontaine. “I have a favor to ask of you—”
“Anything!”
“Shhh!”
“Naturally.”
“Like many men of advanced age I frequently forget things, you can understand that, can’t you?”
“A man of your wisdom I doubt forgets anything.”
“What? ... Never mind. I’m traveling incognito, you do know what I mean.”
“Most assuredly, sir.”
“I registered under my name, Prefontaine—”
“You certainly did,” interrupted the clerk. “I know.”
“It was a mistake. My office and those I’ve told to reach me expect to ask for a ‘Mr. Patrick,’ my middle name. It’s harmless subterfuge to allow me some much needed rest.”
“I understand,” said the clerk confidentially, leaning over the counter.
“You do?”
“Of course. If such an eminent person as yourself were known to be a guest here, you might find little rest. As another, you must have complete privvissy! Be assured, I understand.”
“ ‘Privvissy’? Oh, good Lord. ...”
“I shall myself alter the directory, Judge.”
“Judge ... ? I said nothing about being a judge.” Consternation was apparent on the man’s embarrassed face. “A slip born of wishing to serve you, sir.”
“And of something else—someone else.”
“On my word, no one here other than the owner of Tranquility Inn is aware of the confidential nature of your visit, sir,” whispered the clerk, again leaning over the counter. “All is total privvissy!”
“Holy Mary, that a*shole at the airport—”
“My astute uncle,” continued the clerk, overriding and not hearing Prefontaine’s soft monotone, “made it completely clear that we were privileged to be dealing with illustrious men who required total confidentiality. You see, he called me in that spirit—”
“All right, all right, young man, I understand now and appreciate everything you’re doing. Just make sure that the name is changed to Patrick, and should anyone here inquire about me, he or she is to be given that name. Do we understand each other?”
“With clairvoyance, honored Judge!”
“I hope not.”

Four minutes later the harried assistant manager picked up the ringing telephone. “Front desk,” he intoned, as if giving a benediction.
“This is Monsieur Fontaine in Villa Number Eleven.”
“Yes, sir. The honor is mine ... ours ... everyone’s!”
“Merci. I wondered if you might help me. I met a charming American on the path perhaps a quarter of an hour ago, a man about my own age wearing a white walking cap. I thought I might ask him for an apéritif one day, but I’m not sure I heard his name correctly.”
He was being tested, thought the assistant manager. Great men not only had secrets but concerned themselves with those guarding them. “I would have to say from your description, sir, that you met the very charming Mr. Patrick.”
“Ah, yes, I believe that was the name. An Irish name, indeed, but he’s American, is he not?”
“A very learned American, sir, from Boston, Massachusetts. He’s in Villa Fourteen, the third west of yours. Simply dial seven-one-four.”
“Yes, well, thank you so much. If you see Monsieur Patrick, I’d prefer you say nothing. As you know, my wife is not well and I must extend the invitation when it is comfortable for her.”
“I would never say anything, great sir, unless told to do so. Where you and the learned Mr. Patrick are concerned, we follow the Crown governor’s confidential instructions to the letter.”
“You do? That’s most commendable. ... Adieu.”
He had done it! thought the assistant manager, hanging up the phone. Great men understood subtleties, and he had been subtle in ways his brilliant uncle would appreciate. Not only with the instant offering of the Patrick name, but, more important, by using the word “learned” which conveyed that of a scholar—or a judge. And, finally, by stating that he would not say anything without the Crown governor’s instructions. By the use of subtlety he had insinuated himself into the confidentiality of great men. It was a breathtaking experience, and he must call his uncle and share their combined triumph.

Fontaine sat on the edge of the bed, the telephone in its cradle yet still in his hand, staring at his woman out on the balcony. She sat in her wheelchair, her profile to him, the glass of wine on the small table beside the chair, her head bent down in pain. ... Pain! The whole terrible world was filled with pain! And he had done his share inflicting it; he understood that and expected no quarter, but not for his woman. That was never part of the contract. His life, yes, of course, but not hers, not while she had breath in her frail body. Non, monseigneur. Je refuse! Ce nest pas le contrat!
So the Jackal’s army of very old men now extended to America—it was to be expected. And an old Irish American in a foolish white cap, a learned man who for one reason or another had embraced the cult of the terrorist, was to be their executioner. A man who had studied him and pretended to speak no French, who had the sign of the Jackal in his eyes. Where you and the learned Mr. Patrick are concerned, we follow the instructions of the Crown governor. The Crown governor who took his instructions from a master of death in Paris.
A decade ago, after five productive years with the monseigneur, he had been given a telephone number in Argenteuil, six miles north of Paris, that he was never to use except in the most extreme emergency. He had used it only once before, but he would use it now. He studied the international codes, picked up the phone and dialed. After the better part of two minutes, a voice answered.
“Le Coeur du Soldat,” said a flat male voice, martial music in the background.
“I must reach a blackbird,” said Fontaine in French. “My identity is Paris Five.”
“If such a request is possible, where can such a bird reach you?”
“In the Caribbean.” Fontaine gave the area code, the telephone number and the extension to Villa Eleven. He hung up the phone and sat despondent on the edge of the bed. In his soul he knew that this might be his and his woman’s last few hours on earth. If so, he and his woman could face their God and speak the truth. He had killed, no question about that, but he had never harmed or taken the life of a person who had not committed greater crimes against others—with a few minor exceptions that might be called innocent bystanders caught in the heat of fire or in an explosion. All life was pain, did not the Scriptures tell us that? ... On the other hand, what kind of God allowed such brutalities? Merde! Do not think about such things! They are beyond your understanding.
The telephone rang and Fontaine grabbed it, pulling it to his ear. “This is Paris Five,” he said.
“Child of God, what can be so extreme that you would use a number you have called only once before in our relationship?”
“Your generosity has been absolute, monseigneur, but I feel we must redefine our contract.”
“In what way?”
“My life is yours to do with as you will, as mercifully as you will, but it does not include my woman.”
“What?”
“A man is here, a learned man from the city of Boston who studies me with curious eyes, eyes that tell me he has other purposes in mind.”
“That arrogant fool flew down to Montserrat himself? He knows nothing!”
“Obviously he does, and I beg you, I shall do as you order me to do, but let us go back to Paris ... I beg of you. Let her die in peace. I will ask no more of you.”
“You ask of me? I’ve given you my word!”
“Then why is this learned man from America here following me with a blank face and inquisitive eyes, monseigneur?”
The deep, hollow roll of a throated cough filled the silence, and then the Jackal spoke. “The great professor of law has transgressed, inserted himself where he should not be. He’s a dead man.”

Edith Gates, wife of the celebrated attorney and professor of law, silently opened the door of the private study in their elegant town house on Louisburg Square. Her husband sat motion less in his heavy leather armchair staring at the crackling fire, a fire he insisted upon despite the warm Boston night outside and the central air conditioning inside.
As she watched him, Mrs. Gates was once again struck by the painful realization that there were ... things ... about her husband she would never understand. Gaps in his life she could never fill, leaps in his thinking she could not comprehend. She only knew that there were times when he felt a terrible pain and would not share it, when by sharing it he would lessen the burden on himself. Thirty-three years ago a passably attractive young woman of average wealth had married an extremely tall, gangling, brilliant but impoverished law school graduate whose anxiety and eagerness to please had turned off the major firms in those days of the cool, restrained late fifties. The veneer of sophistication and the pursuit of security were valued over a smoldering, wandering first-rate mind of unsure direction, especially a mind inside a head of unkempt hair and a body dressed in clothes that were cheap imitations of J. Press and Brooks Brothers, which appeared even worse because his bank account precluded any additional expenses for alterations and few discount stores carried his size.
The new Mrs. Gates, however, had several ideas that would improve the prospects of their life together. Among them was to lay aside an immediate law career—better none than with an inferior firm, or, God forbid, a private practice with the sort of clients he was bound to attract, namely, those who could not afford established attorneys. Better to use his natural endowments, which were his impressive height and a quick, sponge-like intelligence that, combined with his drive, disposed of heavy academic workloads with ease. Using her modest trust fund, Edith shaped the externals of her man, buying the correct clothes and hiring a theatrical voice coach who instructed his student in the ways of dramatic delivery and effective stage presence. The gangling graduate soon took on a Lincolnesque quality with subtle flashes of John Brown. Too, he was on his way to becoming a legal expert, remaining in the milieu of the university, piling one degree upon another while teaching at the graduate level until the sheer depth of his expertise in specific areas was incontestable. And he found himself sought after by the prominent firms that had rejected him earlier.
The strategy took nearly ten years before concrete results appeared, and while the early returns were not earthshaking, still they represented progress. Law reviews, first minor and then major, began publishing his semi-controversial articles as much for their style as for their content, for the young associate professor had a seductive way with the written word, at once riveting and arcane, by turns flowery and incisive. But it was his opinions, latently emerging, that made segments of the financial community take notice. The mood of the nation was changing, the crust of the benevolent Great Society beginning to crack, the lesions initiated with code words coined by the Nixon boys, such as the Silent Majority and Bums-on-Welfare and the pejorative them. A meanness was rising out of the ground and spreading, and it was more than the perceptive, decent Ford could stop, weakened as he was by the wounds of Watergate; and too much as well for the brilliant Carter, too consumed by minutiae to exercise compassionate leadership. The phrase “... what you can do for your country” was out of fashion, replaced by “what I can do for me.”
Dr. Randolph Gates found a relentless wave on which to ride, a mellifluous voice with which to speak, and a growing acerbic vocabulary to match the dawning new era. In his now refined scholarly opinion—legally, economically and socially—bigger was better, and more far preferable to less. The laws that supported competition in the marketplace he attacked as stifling to the larger agenda of industrial growth from which would flow all manner of benefits for everyone—well, practically everyone. It was, after all, a Darwinian world and, like it or not, the fittest would always survive. The drums went bang and the cymbals clanged and the financial manipulators found a champion, a legal scholar who lent respectability to their righteous dreams of merger and consolidation; buy out, take over and sell off, all for the good of the many, of course.
Randolph Gates was summoned, and he ran into their arms with alacrity, stunning one courtroom after another with his elocutionary gymnastics. He had made it, but Edith Gates was not sure what it all meant. She had envisioned a comfortable living, naturally, but not millions, not the private jets flying all over the world, from Palm Springs to the South of France. Nor was she comfortable when her husband’s articles and lectures were used to support causes that struck her as unrelated or patently unfair; he waved her arguments aside, stating that the cases in point were legitimate intellectual parallels. Above everything, she had not shared a bed or a bedroom with her husband in over six years.
She walked into the study, abruptly stopping as he gasped, swerving his head around, his eyes glazed and filled with alarm.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“You always knock. Why didn’t you knock? You know how it is when I’m concentrating.”
“I said I’m sorry. Something’s on my mind and I wasn’t thinking.”
“That’s a contradiction.”
“Thinking about knocking, I mean.”
“What’s on your mind,” asked the celebrated attorney as if he doubted his wife had one.
“Please don’t be clever with me.”
“What is it, Edith?”
“Where were you last night?”
Gates arched his brows in mock surprise. “My God, are you suspicious? I told you where I was. At the Ritz. In conference with someone I knew years ago, someone I did not care to have at my house. If, at your age, you want confirmation, call the Ritz.”
Edith Gates was silent for a moment; she simply looked at her husband. “My dear,” she said, “I don’t give a damn if you had an assignation with the most voluptuous whore in the Combat Zone. Somebody would probably have to give her a few drinks to restore her confidence.”
“Not bad, bitch.”
“In that department you’re not exactly a stud, bastard.”
“Is there a point to this colloquy?”
“I think so. About an hour ago, just before you came home from your office, a man was at the door. Denise was doing the silver, so I answered it. I must say he looked impressive; his clothes were terribly expensive and his car was a black Porsche—”
“And?” broke in Gates, lurching forward in the chair, his eyes suddenly wide, rigid.
“He said to tell you that le grand professeur owed him twenty thousand dollars and ‘he’ wasn’t where he was supposed to be last night, which I assumed was the Ritz.”
“It wasn’t. Something came up. ... Oh, Christ, he doesn’t understand. What did you say?”
“I didn’t like his language or his attitude. I told him I hadn’t the vaguest idea where you were. He knew I was lying, but there wasn’t anything he could do.”
“Good. Lying’s something he knows about.”
“I can’t imagine that twenty thousand is such a problem for you—”
“It’s not the money, it’s the method of payment.”
“For what?”
“Nothing.”
“I believe that’s what you call a contradiction, Randy.”
“Shut up!”
The telephone rang. Gates lunged up from the chair and stared at it. He made no move to go to the desk; instead, he spoke in a guttural voice to his wife. “Whoever it is, you tell him I’m not here. ... I’m away, out of town—you don’t know when I’ll be back.”
Edith walked over to the phone. “It’s your very private line,” she said as she picked it up on the third ring. “The Gates residence,” began Edith, a ploy she had used for years; her friends knew who it was, others did not matter to her any longer. “Yes. ... Yes? I’m sorry, he’s away and we don’t know when he’ll return.” Gates’s wife looked briefly at the phone, then hung up. She turned to her husband. “That was the operator in Paris. ... It’s strange. Someone was calling you, but when I said you weren’t here, she didn’t even ask where you could be reached. She simply got off the line—very abruptly.”
“Oh, my God!” cried Gates, visibly shaken. “Something happened ... something’s gone wrong, someone lied!” With those enigmatic words the attorney whipped around, and raced across the room, fumbling in his trousers pocket. He reached a section of the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves where the center of the chest-high shelf had been converted into a safe-like cupboard, a carved wooden door superimposed on the brown steel. In panic, as an afterthought stunned him further, he spun around and screamed at his wife. “Get out of here! Get out, get out, get out!”
Edith Gates walked slowly to the study door, where she turned to her husband and spoke quietly. “It all goes back to Paris, doesn’t it, Randy? Seven years ago in Paris. That’s where something happened, isn’t it? You came back a frightened man, a man with a pain you won’t share.”
“Get out of here!” shrieked the vaunted professor of law, his eyes wild.
Edith went out the door, closing it behind her but not releasing the knob, her hand twisted so the latch would not close. Moments later she opened it barely a few inches and watched her husband.
The shock was beyond anything she could imagine. The man she had lived with for thirty-three years, the legal giant who neither smoked nor drank a drop of alcohol, was plunging a hypodermic needle into his forearm.