The Bourne ultimatum

16

The midafternoon sun was suspended, immobile, burning the sky and the land, a ringed globe of fire intent only on scorching everything beneath it. And the alleged “computerized research” offered by the Canadian industrialist Angus McLeod appeared to be confirmed. Although a number of seaplanes flew in to take frightened couples away, the collective attention span of average people after a disturbing event, if certainly longer than two and a half to four minutes, was certainly not more than a few hours. A horrible thing had happened during the predawn storm, an act of terrible vengeance, as they understood it. It involved a single man with a vendetta against old enemies, a killer who had long since fled from the island. With the removal of the ugly coffins, as well as the beached, damaged speedboat, and the soothing words over the government radio along with the intermittent, unobtrusive appearances of the armed guards, a sense of normalcy returned—not total, of course, for there was a mourning figure among them, but he was out of sight and, they were told, would soon leave. And despite the depth of the horrors, as the rumors had them—naturally exaggerated out of all proportion by the hypersuperstitious island natives—the horrors were not theirs. It was an act of violence completely unrelated to them, and, after all, life had to go on. Seven couples remained at the inn.
“Christ, we’re paying six hundred dollars a day—”
“No one’s after us—”
“Shit, man, next week it’s back to the commodities grind, so we’re going to enjoy—”
“No sweat, Shirley, they’re not giving out names, they promised me—”
With the burning, immobile afternoon sun, a small soiled plot of the vast Caribbean playground came back to its own particular ambience, death receding with each application of Bain de Soleil and another rum punch. Nothing was quite as it had been, but the blue-green waters lapped on the beach, enticing the few bathers to walk into them, immersing their bodies in the cool liquid rhythm of wet constancy. A progressively less tentative peace returned to Tranquility Isle.
“There!” cried the hero of France.
“Where?” shouted Bourne.
“The four priests. Walking down the path in a line.”
“They’re black.”
“Color means nothing.”
“He was a priest when I saw him in Paris, at Neuilly-sur-Seine.”
Fontaine lowered the binoculars and looked at Jason. “The Church of the Blessed Sacrament?” he asked quietly.
“I can’t remember. ... Which one is he?”
“You saw him in his priest’s habit?”
“And that son of a bitch saw me. He knew I knew it was him! Which one?”
“He’s not there, monsieur,” said Jean Pierre, slowly bringing the binoculars back to his eyes. “It is another carte de visite. Carlos anticipates; he is a master of geometry. There is no straight line for him, only many sides, many levels.”
“That sounds damned Oriental.”
“Then you understand. It has crossed his mind that you may not be in that villa, and if you are not, he wants you to know that he knows it.”
“Neuilly-sur-Seine—”
“No, not actually. He can’t be sure at the moment. He was sure at the Church of the Blessed Sacrament.”
“How should I play it?”
“How does the Chameleon think he should play it?”
“The obvious would be to do nothing,” answered Bourne, his eyes on the scene below. “And he wouldn’t accept that because his uncertainty is too strong. He’d say to himself, He’s better than that. I could blow him away with a rocket, so he’s somewhere else.”
“I think you’re correct.”
Jason reached down and picked up the hand-held radio from the sill. He pressed the button and spoke. “Johnny?”
“Yes?”
“Those four black priests on the path, do you see them?”
“Yes.”
“Have a guard stop them and bring them into the lobby. Tell him to say the owner wants to see them.”
“Hey, they’re not going into the villa, they’re just passing by offering prayers to the bereaved inside. The vicar from town called and I gave him permission. They’re okay, David.”
“The hell they are,” said Jason Bourne. “Do as I say.” The Chameleon spun around on the stool, looking at the objects in the storage room. He slid off his perch and walked to a bureau with a mirror attached to its top. He yanked the automatic from his belt, smashed the glass, picked up a fragment and brought it to Fontaine. “Five minutes after I leave, flash this every now and then in the window.”
“I shall do so from the side of the window, monsieur.”
“Good thinking.” Jason relented to the point of a brief slight smile. “It struck me that I didn’t really have to suggest that.”
“And what will you do?”
“What he’s doing now. Become a tourist in Montserrat, a roving ‘guest’ at Tranquility Inn.” Bourne again reached down for the radio; he picked it up, pressed the button and gave his orders. “Go to the men’s shop in the lobby and get me three different guayabera jackets, a pair of sandals, two or three wide-brimmed straw hats and gray or tan walking shorts. Then send someone to the tackle shop and bring me a reel of line, hundred-pound test, a scaling knife—and two distress flares. I’ll meet you on the steps up here. Hurry.”
“You will not heed my words, then,” said Fontaine, lowering the binoculars and looking at Jason. “Monsieur le Caméléon goes to work.”
“He goes to work,” replied Bourne, replacing the radio on the sill.
“If you or the Jackal or both of you are killed, others may die, innocent people slaughtered—”
“Not because of me.”
“Does it matter? Does it matter to the victims or their families who is responsible?”
“I didn’t choose the circumstances, old man, they were chosen for me.”
“You can change them, alter them.”
“So can he.”
“He has no conscience—”
“You’re one hell of an authority on that score.”
“I accept the rebuke, but I have lost something of great value to me. Perhaps it’s why I discern a conscience in you—a part of you.”
“Beware the sanctimonious reformer.” Jason started for the door and the beribboned military tunic that hung on an old coatrack alongside the visored officer’s hat. “Among other things he’s a bore.”
“Shouldn’t you be watching the path below while the priests are detained? It will take some time for St. Jacques to get the items you asked for.”
Bourne stopped and turned, his eyes cold on the verbose old Frenchman. He wanted to leave, to get away from this old, old man who talked too much—said too much! But Fontaine was right. It would be stupid not to watch what happened below. An awkward, unusual reaction on the part of someone, an abrupt, startled glance by someone in an unexpected direction—it was the little things, the sudden involuntary, precisely imprecise small motions that so often pointed to the concealed string that was the fuse leading to the explosive trap. In silence, Jason walked back to the window, picked up the binoculars and put them to his face.
A police officer in the tan-and-scarlet uniform of Montserrat approached the procession of four priests on the path; he was obviously as bewildered as he was deferential, nodding courteously as the four gathered together to listen, gesturing politely toward the glass doors of the lobby. Bourne’s eyes shifted within the frame of vision, studying the black features of each cleric, one after another in rapid succession. He spoke quietly to the Frenchman. “Do you see what I see?”
“The fourth one, the priest who was last,” replied Fontaine. “He’s alarmed, but the others are not. He’s afraid.”
“He was bought.”
“Thirty pieces of silver,” agreed the Frenchman. “You’ll go down and take him, of course.”
“Of course not,” corrected Jason. “He’s right where I want him to be.” Bourne grabbed the radio off the sill. “Johnny?”
“Yes? ... I’m in the shop. I’ll be up in a few minutes—”
“Those priests, do you know them?”
“Only the one who calls himself the ‘vicar’; he comes around for contributions. And they’re not really priests, David, they’re more like ‘ministers’ in a religious order. Very religious and very local.”
“Is the vicar there?”
“Yes. He’s always first in line.”
“Good. ... Slight change of plans. Bring the clothes to your office, then go and see the priests. Tell them an official of the government wants to meet them and make a contribution in return for their prayers.”
“What?”
“I’ll explain later. Now hurry up. I’ll see you in the lobby.”
“You mean my office, don’t you? I’ve got the clothes, remember?”
“They’ll come later—roughly a minute later, after I get out of this uniform. Do you have a camera in your office?”
“Three or four of them. Guests are always leaving them behind—”
“Put all of them with the clothes,” interrupted Jason. “Get going!” Bourne shoved the radio into his belt, then changed his mind. He pulled it out and handed it to Fontaine. “Here, you take this. I’ll get another and stay in contact. ... What’s happening down there?”
“Our alarmed priest looks around as they go to the lobby doors. He’s truly frightened now.”
“Where’s he looking?” asked Bourne, grabbing the binoculars.
“That’s of no help. In every direction.”
“Damn!”
“They’re at the doors now.”
“I’ll get ready—”
“I’ll help you.” The old Frenchman got off the stool and went to the coatrack. He removed the tunic and the hat. “If you are about to do what I think you intend doing, try to stay by a wall and don’t turn around. The governor’s aide is somewhat stouter than you and we must bunch the jacket in the back.”
“You’re pretty good at this, aren’t you?” said Jason, holding out his arms so as to be helped into the tunic.
“The German soldiers were always much fatter than we were, especially the corporals and the sergeants—all that sausage, you know. We had our tricks.” Suddenly, as if he had been shot or seized by a convulsion, Fontaine gasped, then lurched in front of Bourne. “Mon Dieu! ... C’est terrible! The governor—”
“What?”
“The Crown governor!”
“What about him?”
“At the airport, it was so quick, so rapid!” cried the old Frenchman. “And everything that has happened, my woman, the killing— Still, it is unforgivable of me!”
“What are you talking about?”
“That man in the villa, the military officer whose uniform you wear. He’s his aide!”
“We know that.”
“What you do not know, monsieur, is that my very first instructions came from the Crown governor.”
“Instructions?”
“From the Jackal! He is the contact.”
“Oh, my God,” whispered Bourne, rushing to the stool where Fontaine had put the radio. He took a deep breath as he picked it up, his thoughts racing, control imperative. “Johnny?”
“For Christ’s sake, my arms are full and I’m on my way to the office and those goddamned monks are in the lobby waiting for me! What the hell do you want now?”
“Take it easy and listen very carefully. How well do you know Henry?”
“Sykes? The CG’s man?”
“Yes. I’ve met him a few times but I don’t know him, Johnny.”
“I know him very well. You wouldn’t have a house and I wouldn’t have Tranquility Inn if it wasn’t for him.”
“Is he in touch with the governor? I mean right now, is he keeping the CG posted about what’s going on here. Think, Johnny. It’s important. There’s a phone in that villa; he could be in contact with Government House. Is he?”
“You mean with the CG himself?”
“With anyone over there.”
“Believe me, he’s not. Everything’s so quiet not even the police know what’s going on. And as far as the CG is concerned, he’s only been given the vaguest scenario, no names, nothing, only a trap. He’s also out on his boat and doesn’t want to know a damn thing until it’s all over. ... Those were his orders.”
“I’ll bet they were.”
“Why do you ask?”
“I’ll explain later. Hurry up!”
“Will you stop saying that?”
Jason put down the radio and turned to Fontaine. “We’re clear. The governor isn’t one of the Jackal’s army of old men. He’s a different kind of recruit, probably like that lawyer Gates in Boston—just bought or frightened, no soul involved.”
“You’re certain? Your brother-in-law is certain?”
“The man’s out on his boat. He was given a bare-bones outline but that’s all, and his orders were that he’s not to be told anything else until it’s all over.”
The Frenchman sighed. “It’s a pity my mind is so old and so filled with salt. If I had remembered, we could have used him. Come, the jacket.”
“How could we have used him?” asked Bourne, again holding out his arms.
“He removed himself to the gradins—how is it said?”
“The bleachers. He’s out of the game, only an observer.”
“I’ve known many like him. They want Carlos to lose; he wants Carlos to lose. It’s his only way out, but he’s too terrified to raise a hand against the Jackal.”
“Then how could we turn him?” Jason buttoned the tunic as Fontaine manipulated the belt and the cloth behind him.
“Le Caméléon asks such a question?”
“I’ve been out of practice.”
“Ah, yes,” said the Frenchman, yanking the belt firmly. “That man I’ve appealed to.”
“Just shut up. ... How?”
“Très simple, monsieur. We tell him the Jackal already knows he’s turned—I tell him. Who better than the monseigneur’s emissary?”
“You are good.” Bourne held in his stomach as Fontaine turned him around, pressing the lapels and the ribbons of the jacket.
“I’m a survivor, neither better nor worse than others—except with my woman. Then I was better than most.”
“You loved her very much, didn’t you?”
“Love? Oh, I imagine that’s taken for granted although rarely expressed. Perhaps it’s the comfort of being familiar, although, again, hardly with grand passion. One does not have to finish a sentence to be understood, and a look in the eyes will bring on laughter without a word being said. It comes with the years, I suppose.”
Jason stood motionless for a moment, staring strangely at the Frenchman. “I want the years you had, old man, I want them very, very much. The years I’ve had with my ... woman ... are filled with scars that won’t heal, can’t heal, until something inside is changed or cleansed or goes away. That’s the way it is.”
“Then you are too strong, or too stubborn or too stupid! ... Don’t look at me that way. I told you, I’m not afraid of you, I’m not afraid of anyone any longer. But if what you say is true, that this is the way things really are with you, then I suggest you leave aside all thoughts of love and concentrate on hatred. Since I cannot reason with David Webb, I must prod Jason Bourne. A Jackal filled with hate must die, and only Bourne can kill him. ... Here are your hat and sunglasses. Stay against a wall or you’ll look like a military peacock, your khaki tail raised for the purpose of passing merde.”
Without speaking, Bourne adjusted the visored hat and sunglasses, walked to the door and let himself out. He crossed to the solid wood staircase and started rapidly down, nearly colliding with a white jacketed black steward carrying a tray out of the second-floor exit. He nodded to the young man, who backed away, allowing him to proceed, when a quiet, ziplike noise along with a sudden movement caught in the corner of his eyes caused him to turn. The waiter was pulling an electronic beeper out of his pocket! Jason spun around, lurching up the steps, his hands lunging into the youngster’s body, ripping the device out of his grip as the tray crashed to the floor of the landing. Straddling the youth, with one hand on the beeper and the other grasping the steward’s throat, he spoke breathlessly, quietly. “Who had you do this? Tell me!”
“Hey, mon, I fight you!” cried the youngster, writhing, freeing his right hand and smashing a fist into Bourne’s left cheek. “We don’t want no bad mon here! Our boss-mon the best! You don’t scare me!” The steward crashed his knee into Jason’s groin.
“You young son of a bitch!” cried Le Caméléon, slapping the youngster’s face back and forth while grabbing his aching testicles with his left hand. “I’m his friend, his brother! Will you cut it out? ... Johnny Saint Jay’s my brother! In-law, if it makes any goddamned difference!”
“Oh?” said the large, youthful, obviously athletic steward, a touch of resentment in his wide, embarrassed brown eyes. “You are the mon with Boss Saint Jay’s sister?”
“I’m her husband. Who the f*ck are you?”
“I am first head steward of the second floor, sir! Soon I will be on the first floor because I am very good. I am also a very fine fighter—my father taught me, although he is old now, like you. Do you wish to fight more? I think I can beat you! You have gray in your hair—”
“Shut up! ... What’s the beeper all about?” asked Jason, holding up the small brown plastic instrument as he crawled off the young waiter.
“I don’t know, mon—sir! Bad things have happened. We are told that if we see men running on the staircases we should press the buttons.”
“Why?”
“The lifts, sir. Our very fast elevators. Why would guests use the stairs?”
“What’s your name?” asked Bourne, replacing his hat and, sunglasses.
“Ishmael, sir.”
“Like in Moby Dick?”
“I do not know such a person, sir.”
“Maybe you will.”
“Why?”
“I’m not sure. You’re a very good fighter.”
“I see no connection, mon—sir.”
“Neither do I.” Jason got to his feet. “I want you to help me, Ishmael. Will you?”
“Only if your brother permits it.”
“He will. He is my brother.”
“I must hear it from him, sir.”
“Very good. You doubt me.”
“Yes, I do, sir,” said Ishmael, getting to his knees and reassembling the tray, separating the broken dishes from the whole ones. “Would you take the word of a strong man with gray in his hair who runs down the stairs and attacks you and says things anyone could say? ... If you wish to fight, the loser must speak the truth. Do you wish to fight?”
“No, I do not wish to fight and don’t you press it. I’m not that old and you’re not that good, young man. Leave the tray and come with me. I’ll explain to Mr. St. Jacques, who, I remind you, is my brother—my wife’s brother. To hell with it, come on!”
“What do you want me to do, sir?” asked the steward, getting to his feet and following Jason.
“Listen to me,” said Bourne, stopping and turning on the steps above the first-floor landing. “Go ahead of me into the lobby and walk to the front door. Empty ashtrays or something and look busy, but keep glancing around. I’ll come out in a few moments and you’ll see me go over and talk to Saint Jay and four priests, who’ll be with him—”
“Priests?” interrupted the astonished Ishmael. “Men of the cloth, sir? Four of them? What they doing here, mon? More bad things happen? The obeah?”
“They came here to pray so the bad things will stop—no more obeah. But what’s important to me is that I must speak to one of them alone. When they leave the lobby, this priest I have to see may break away from the others to be by himself ... or possibly to meet someone else. Do you think you could follow him without his seeing you?”
“Would Mr. Saint Jay tell me to do that?”
“Suppose I have him look over at you and nod his head.”
“Then I can do it. I am faster than the mongoose and, like the mongoose, I know every foot trail on Tranquility. He goes one way, I know where he’s going and will be there first. ... But how will I know which priest? More than one may go off by himself.”
“I’ll talk to all four separately. He’ll be the last one.”
“Then I will know.”
“That’s pretty fast thinking,” said Bourne. “You’re right; they could separate.”
“I think good, mon. I am fifth in my class at ’Serrat’s Technical Academy. The four ahead of me are all girls, so they don’t have to work.”
“That’s an interesting observation—”
“In five or six years I’ll have the money to attend the university in Barbados!”
“Maybe sooner. Go on now. Walk into the lobby and head for the door. Later, after the priests leave, I’ll come out looking for you, but I won’t be in this uniform, from any distance you won’t know me. If I don’t find you, meet me in an hour— Where? Where’s a quiet place?”
“Tranquility Chapel, sir. The path in the woods above the east beach. No one ever goes there, even on the Sabbath.”
“I remember it. Good idea.”
“There is a remaining subject, sir—”
“Fifty dollars, American.”
“Thank you, sir!”
Jason waited by the door for ninety seconds, then opened it barely an inch. Ishmael was in place by the entrance, and he could see John St. Jacques talking with the four priests several feet to the right of the front desk. Bourne tugged at his jacket, squared his shoulders in military fashion, and walked out into the lobby toward the priests and the owner of Tranquility Inn.
“It’s an honor and a privilege, Fathers,” he said to the four black clerics as a surprised and curious St. Jacques watched him. “I’m new here in the islands and I must say I’m very impressed. The government is particularly pleased that you saw fit to help calm our troubled waters,” continued Jason, his hands clasped firmly behind his back. “For your efforts, the Crown governor has authorized Mr. St. Jacques here to issue you a check in the amount of one hundred pounds for your church—to be reimbursed by the treasury, of course.”
“It is such a magnificent gesture, I hardly know what to say,” intoned the vicar, his high lilting voice sincere.
“You could tell me whose idea it was,” said the Chameleon. “Most touching, most touching, indeed.”
“Oh, I cannot take the credit, sir,” replied the vicar, looking, as the two others did, at the fourth man. “It was Samuel’s. Such a good and decent leader of our flock.”
“Good show, Samuel.” Bourne stared briefly, his eyes penetrating, at the fourth man. “But I should like to thank each of you personally. And know your names.” Jason went down the line shaking the three hands and quietly exchanging pleasantries. He came to the last priest, whose eyes kept straying away from his. “Of course I know your name, Samuel,” he said, his voice even lower, barely audible. “And I should like to know whose idea it was before you took the credit.”
“I don’t understand you,” whispered Samuel.
“Certainly you do—such a good and decent man—you must have received another very generous contribution.”
“You mistake me for someone else, sir,” mumbled the fourth priest, his dark eyes for an instant betraying deep fear.
“I don’t make mistakes, your friend knows that. I’ll find you, Samuel. Maybe not today, but surely tomorrow or the day after that.” Bourne raised his voice as he released the cleric’s hand. “Again, the government’s profound thanks, Fathers. The Crown is most grateful. And now I must be on my way; a dozen telephone calls should be answered. ... Your office, St. Jacques?”
“Yes, of course, General.”
Inside the office, Jason took out his automatic and tore off the uniform as he separated the pile of clothing Marie’s brother had brought for him. He slipped on a pair of knee-length gray Bermuda walking shorts, chose a red-and-white-striped guayabera jacket, and the widest-brimmed straw hat. He removed his socks and shoes, put on the sandals, stood up and swore. “Goddamn it!” He kicked off the sandals and shoved his bare feet back into his heavy rubber-soled shoes. He studied the various cameras and their accessories, choosing the lightest but most complicated, and crossed the straps over his chest. John St. Jacques walked into the room carrying a small hand-held radio.
“Where the hell did you come from? Miami Beach?”
“Actually, a little north—say, Pompano. I’m not that gaudy. I won’t stand out.”
“Actually, you’re right. I’ve got people out there who’d swear you were old-time Key West conservative. Here’s the radio.”
“Thanks.” Jason put the compact instrument into his breast pocket.
“Where to now?”
“After Ishmael, the kid I had you nod at.”
“Ishmael? I didn’t nod at Ishmael, you simply said I should nod my head at the entrance.”
“Same thing.” Bourne squeezed the automatic under his belt beneath the guayabera and looked at the equipment brought from the tackle shop. He picked up the reel of one-hundred-test line and the scaling knife, placing both in his pockets, then opened an empty camera case and put the two distress flares inside. It was not everything he wanted, but it was enough. He was not who he was thirteen years ago and he was not so young even then. His mind had to work better and faster than his body, a fact he reluctantly accepted. Damn!
“That Ishmael’s a good boy,” said Marie’s brother. “He’s pretty smart and strong as a prize Saskatchewan steer. I’m thinking of making him a guard in a year or so. The pay’s better.”
“Try Harvard or Princeton if he does his job this afternoon.”
“Wow, that’s a wrinkle. Did you know his father was the champion wrestler of the islands? Of course, he’s sort of getting on now—”
“Get the hell out of my way,” ordered Jason, heading for the door. “You’re not exactly eighteen, either!” he added, turning briefly before he let himself out.
“Never said I was. What’s your problem?”
“Maybe it’s the sandbar you never saw, Mr. Security.” Bourne slammed the door as he ran out into the hallway.
“Touchy, touchy.” St. Jacques slowly shook his head as he unclenched his thirty-four-year-old fist.

Nearly two hours had passed and Ishmael was nowhere to be found! His leg locked in place as if crippled, Jason limped convincingly from one end of Tranquility Inn’s property to the other, his eye focused through the mirrored lens of the camera, seeing everything, but no sign of young Ishmael. Twice he had gone up the path into the woods to the isolated square structure of logs, thatched roof and stained glass that was the multidenominational chapel of the resort, a sanctuary for meditation built more for its quaint appearance than for utility. As the young black steward had observed, it was rarely visited but had its place in vacation brochures.
The Caribbean sun was growing more orange, inching its way down toward the water’s horizon. Soon the shadows of sundown would crawl across Montserrat and the out islands. Soon thereafter darkness would come, and the Jackal approved of darkness. But then, so did the Chameleon.
“Storage room, anything?” said Bourne into his radio.
“Rien, monsieur.”
“Johnny?”
“I’m up on the roof with six scouts at all points. Nothing.”
“What about the dinner, the party tonight?”
“Our meteorologist arrived ten minutes ago by boat from Plymouth. He’s afraid to fly. ... And Angus tacked a check for ten thousand on the bulletin board, signature and payee to be entered. Scotty was right, all seven couples will be there. We’re a society of who-gives-a-shit after an appropriate few minutes of silence.”
“Tell me something I don’t know, Bro. ... Out. I’m heading back to the chapel.”
“Glad to hear somebody goes there. A travel bastard in New York said it’d be a nice touch, but I haven’t heard from him since. Stay in touch, David.”
“I will, Johnny,” replied Jason Bourne.
The path to the chapel was growing dark, the tall palms and dense foliage above the beach hastening nature’s process by blocking the rays of the setting sun. Jason was about to turn around and head for the tackle shop and a flashlight when suddenly, as if on photoelectric cue, blue and red floods came alive, shooting their wide circles of light up from the ground into the palms above. For a moment Bourne felt that he had abruptly, too abruptly, entered a lush Technicolor tunnel cut out of tropical forest. It was disorienting, then disturbing. He was a moving, illuminated target in a garishly colored gallery.
He quickly walked into the underbrush beyond the border of floodlights, the nettles of the wild shrubbery stinging his bare legs. He went deeper into the enveloping foliage and continued in the now semidarkness toward the chapel, his pace slow, difficult, the moist branches and vines tangling about his hands and feet. Instinct. Stay out of the light, the gaudy bombastic lights that belonged more properly to an island carnivale.
A blunt sound! A thud that was no part of the shoreline woods. Then the start of a moan growing into a convulsion—stopped, thwarted ... suppressed? Jason crouched and foot by foot broke through the inhibiting, succeeding walls of bush until he could see the thick cathedral door of the chapel. It was partially open, the soft, pulsating glow of the electric candles penetrating the wash of the red and blue floods on the outside path.
Think. Memory. Remember! He had been to the chapel only once before, humorously berating his brother-in-law for spending good money on a useless addition to Tranquility Inn.
At least it’s quaint, St. Jacques had said.
It ain’t, Bro, Marie had replied. It doesn’t belong. This isn’t a retreat.
Suppose someone gets bad news You know, really bad—
Get him a drink, David Webb had said.
Come on inside. I’ve got symbols of five different religions in stained glass, including Shinto.
Don’t show your sister the bills on this one, Webb had whispered.
Inside. Was there a door inside? Another exit? ... No, there was not. Only five or six rows of pews, then a railing of some sort in front of a raised lectern, beneath primitive stained-glass windows done by native artisans.
Inside. Someone was inside. Ishmael? A distraught guest of Tranquility? A honeymooner who had sudden, deep reservations embarrassingly too late? He again reached into his breast pocket for the miniaturized radio. He brought it to his lips and spoke softly.
“Johnny?”
“Right here on the roof.”
“I’m at the chapel. I’m going inside.”
“Is Ishmael there?”
“I don’t know. Someone is.”
“What’s wrong, Dave? You sound—”
“Nothing’s wrong,” interrupted Bourne. “I’m just checking in. ... What’s behind the building? East of it.”
“More woods.”
“Any paths?”
“There was one several years ago; it’s overgrown by now. The construction crews used it to go down to the water. ... I’m sending over a couple of guards—”
“No! If I need you, I’ll call. Out.” Jason replaced the radio and, still crouching, stared at the chapel door.
Silence now. No sound at all from inside, no human movement, nothing but the flickering “candlelight.” Bourne crept to the border of the path, removed the camera equipment and the straw hat and opened the case holding the flares. He removed one, inserted it under his belt, and took out the automatic beside it. He reached into the left pocket of his guayabera jacket for his lighter, gripping it in his hand as he got to his feet, and walked quietly, rapidly, to the corner of the small building—this unlikely sanctuary in the tropical woods above a tropical beach. Flares and the means to light them went back long before Manassas, Virginia, he considered, as he inched his way around the corner toward the chapel’s entrance. They went back to Paris—thirteen years ago to Paris, and a cemetery in Rambouillet. And Carlos. ... He reached the frame of the partially opened door and slowly, cautiously moved his face to the edge and looked inside.
He gasped, his breath suspended, the horror filling him as disbelief and fury spread within him. On the raised platform in front of the rows of glistening wood was the young Ishmael, his body bent forward over the lectern, his arms hanging down, his dark face bruised and lacerated, blood trickling out of his mouth onto the floor. The guilt overwhelmed Jason; it was sudden and complete and devastating, the words of the old Frenchman screaming in his ears: Others may die, innocent people slaughtered.
Slaughtered! A child had been slaughtered! Promises were implied, but death had been delivered. Oh, Christ, what have I done? ... What can I do?
Sweat pouring down his face, his eyes barely focusing, Bourne ripped the distress flare out of his pocket, snapped the lighter and, trembling, held it to the red tip. Ignition was instant; the white fire spewed out in white heat, hissing like a hundred angry snakes. Jason threw it into the chapel toward the far end, leaped through the frame, pivoted, and slammed the heavy door shut behind him. He lunged to the floor below the last row, pulled the radio from his pocket and pushed the Send button.
“Johnny, the chapel. Surround it!” He did not wait for St. Jacques’s reply; that there was a voice was enough. The automatic in his hand, the hissing flare continuously erupting as shafts of color shot down from the stained-glass windows, Bourne crept to the far aisle, his eyes moving constantly, seeking out everything he no longer remembered about Tranquility Inn’s chapel. The one place where he could not look again was the lectern that held the body of the child he had killed. ... On both sides of the raised platform were narrow draped archways, like scenic doors on a stage leading to minimum wing space, entrances both left and right. Despite the anguish he felt, there welled up in Jason Bourne a deep sense of satisfaction, even of morbid elation. The lethal game was his for the winning. Carlos had mounted an elaborate trap and the Chameleon had reversed it, Medusa’s Delta had turned it around! Behind one of those two draped archways was the assassin from Paris.
Bourne got to his feet, his back pressed against the right wall, and raised his gun. He fired twice into the left archway, the drapes fluttering with each shot, as he sprang behind the last row, scrambling to the far side, getting to his knees and firing twice more into the archway on the right.
A figure lunged in panic through the drapes, clutching the cloth as it fell forward, the dark red fabric ripped from the hooks, bunched around the target’s shoulders as he fell to the floor. Bourne rushed forward, screaming Carlos’s name, firing again and again until the automatic’s magazine was empty. Suddenly, from above there was an explosion, blowing out a whole section of stained glass high on the left wall. As the colored fragments shot through the air and down onto the floor, a man on a ledge outside moved into the center of the open space above the hissing, blinding flare.
“You’re out of bullets,” said Carlos to the stunned Jason Bourne below. “Thirteen years, Delta, thirteen loathsome years. But now they’ll know who won.”
The Jackal raised his gun and fired.