Jason scrambled across the lawn, his eyes darting everywhere, wondering where the stalking killer was and how the innocent quarry that Cactus had enlisted was evading him. One was experienced, the other not, and Bourne could not permit the latter’s life to be wasted.
It happened! He had been spotted! Two cracks on either side of him, bullets from a silenced pistol slicing the air. He reached the south leg of the paved drive and, racing across it, dived into the foliage. Ripping a flare from his pocket, he put down the weapon, snapped up the flame of his lighter, ignited the fuse and threw the sizzling candle to his right. It landed on the road; in seconds it would spew out the blinding fire. He ran to his left beneath the pine trees toward the rear of the estate, his lighter and the second flare in one hand, the automatic in the other. He was parallel to the kennels; the flare in the road exploded into bluish-white flames. He ignited the second and threw it end over end, arcing it forty yards away to the front of the kennels. He waited.
The second flare burst into sputtering fire, two balls of blinding white light eerily illuminating the house and grounds of the estate’s south side. Three of the dogs began to wail, then made feeble attempts to howl; soon their confused anger would be heard. A shadow. Against the west wall of the white house—it moved, caught in the light between the flare by the kennels and the house. The figure darted for the protection of the shrubbery; it crouched, an immobile but intrusive part of the silhouetted foliage. Was it the killer or the killer’s target, the last “brother” recruited by Cactus?… There was one way to find out, and if it was the former and he was a decent marksman, it was not the best tactic, but still it was the quickest.
Bourne leaped up from the underbrush, yelling in full view as he lunged to his right, at the last half second plunging his foot into the soft dirt and pivoting, lowering his body and diving to his left. “Head for the cabin!” he roared. And he got his answer. Two more spits, two more cracks in the air, the bullets digging up the earth to his right. The killer was good; perhaps not an expert but good enough. A .357 held six shells; five had been fired, but there had been sufficient time to reload the emptied cylinder. Another strategy—quickly!
Suddenly another figure appeared, a man running up the road toward the rear of Flannagan’s cabin. He was in the open—he could be killed!
“Over here, you bastard!” screamed Jason, jumping up and firing his automatic blindly into the shrubbery by the house. And then he got another answer, a welcome one. There was a single spit, a single crack in the air and then no more. The killer had not reloaded! Perhaps he had no more shells—whatever, the primary target was now on the high ground. Bourne raced out of the bushes and across the lawn through the opposing light of the flares; the dogs were now really aroused, the yelps and throated growls of attack becoming louder. The killer ran out of the shrubbery and into the road, racing through shadows toward the front gates. Jason had the bastard, he knew it. The gates were closed, the Medusan was cornered. Bourne roared: “There’s no way out, Snake Lady! Make it easy on yourself—”
A spit, a crack. The man had reloaded while running! Jason fired; the man fell in the road. And as he did so, the intermittent silence of the night was ripped open by the sound of a powerful, racing engine, the vehicle in question speeding up the outside road, its flashing red and blue lights signifying the police. The police! The alarm must have been wired into the Manassas headquarters, a fact that had never occurred to Bourne; he had assumed that such a measure was impossible where Medusa was concerned. It wasn’t logical; the security was internal; no external force could be permitted for Snake Lady. There was too much to learn, too much that had to be kept secret—a cemetery!
The killer writhed in the road, rolling over and over toward the bordering pine trees. There was something clutched in his hand. Jason approached him as two police officers got out of the patrol car beyond the gate. He lashed his foot out, kicking the man’s body, releasing whatever it was in his grip and reaching down to pick it up. It was a leather-bound book, one of a set, like a volume of Dickens or Thackeray, the embossed letters in gold, more for display than for reading. It was crazy! Then he flipped open a page and understood it was not crazy at all. There was no print inside, only the scrawl of handwritten notes on blank pages. It was a diary, a ledger!
There could be no police! Especially not now. He could not allow them to be aware of his and Conklin’s penetration into Medusa. The leather-bound book in his hand could not see the official light of day! The Jackal was everything. He had to get rid of them!
“We got a call, mister,” intoned a middle-aged patrolman walking toward the grilled gate, a younger associate joining him. “HQ said he was uptight as hell. We’re responding, but like I told dispatch, there’ve been some pretty wild parties out here, no criticism intended, sir. We all like a good time now and then, right?”
“Absolutely right, Officer,” replied Jason, trying his utmost to control the painful heaving in his chest, his eyes straying to the wounded killer—he had disappeared! “There was a momentary shortage in electricity that somehow interfered with the telephone lines.”
“Happens a lot,” confirmed the younger patrolman. “Sudden showers and summer heat lightnin’. Someday they’ll put all them cables underground. My folks got a place—”
“The point is,” interrupted Bourne, “everything’s getting back to normal. As you can see, some of the lights in the house are back on.”
“I can’t see nothin’ through them flares,” said the young police officer.
“The general always takes the ultimate precautions,” explained Jason. “I guess he feels he has to,” added Bourne, somewhat lamely. “Regardless, everything’s—as I said—getting back to normal. Okay?”
“Okay by me,” answered the older patrolman, “but I got a message for someone named Webb. He in there?”
“I’m Webb,” said Jason Bourne, alarmed.
“That makes things easier. You’re supposed to call a ‘Mister Conk’ right away. It’s urgent.”
“Urgent?”
“An emergency, we were told. It was just radioed to us.”
Jason could hear the rattling of the fence on the perimeter of Swayne’s property. The killer was getting away! “Well, Officer, the phones are still out here.… Do you have one in your car?”
“Not for personal use, sir. Sorry.”
“But you just said it was an emergency.”
“Well, I suppose since you’re a guest of the general’s I could permit it. If it’s long distance, though, you’d better have a credit card number.”
“Oh, my God.” Bourne unlocked the gate and rushed to the patrol car as the siren-alarm was activated back at the house—activated and then instantly shut off. The remaining brother had apparently found Cactus.
“What the hell was that?” yelled the young policeman.
“Forget it!” screamed Jason, jumping into the car and yanking an all too familiar patrol phone out of its cradle. He gave Alex’s number in Virginia to the police switchboard and kept repeating the phrase: “It’s an emergency, it’s an emergency!”
“Yes?” answered Conklin, acknowledging the police operator.
“It’s me!”
“What happened?”
“Too involved to go into. What’s the emergency?”
“I’ve got you a private jet out of the Reston airport.”
“Reston? That’s north of here—”
“The field in Manassas doesn’t have the equipment. I’m sending a car for you.”
“Why?”
“Tranquility. Marie and the kids are okay; they’re okay! She’s in charge.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Get to Reston and I’ll tell you.”
“I want more!”
“The Jackal’s flying in today.”
“Jesus Christ!”
“Wrap things up there and wait for the car.”
“I’ll take this one!”
“No! Not
unless you want to blow everything. We’ve got time. Wrap it up out there.”
“Cactus … he’s hurt—shot.”
“I’ll call Ivan. He’ll get back in a hurry.”
“There’s one brother left—only one, Alex. I killed the other two—I was responsible.”
“Cut that out. Stop it. Do what you have to do.”
“Goddamn you, I can’t. Someone’s got to be here and I won’t be!”
“You’re right. There’s too much to keep under wraps out there and you’ve got to be in Montserrat. I’ll drive out with the car and take your place.”
“Alex, tell me what happened on Tranquility!”
“The old men … your ‘old men of Paris,’ that’s what happened.”
“They’re dead,” said Jason Bourne quietly, simply.
“Don’t be hasty. They’ve turned—at least I gather the real one turned and the other’s a God-given mistake. They’re on our side now.”
“They’re never on anyone’s side but the Jackal’s, you don’t know them.”
“Neither do you. Listen to your wife. But now you go back to the house and write out everything I should know.… And Jason, I must tell you something. I hope to Christ you can find your solution—our solution—on Tranquility. Because all things considered, including my life, I can’t keep this Medusa on our level much longer. I think you know that.”
“You promised!”
“Thirty-six hours, Delta.”
In the woods beyond the fence a wounded man crouched, his frightened face against the green links. In the bright wash of the headlights, he observed the tall man who had gone into the patrol car and now came out, awkwardly, nervously thanking the policemen. He did not, however, permit them inside.
Webb. The killer had heard the name “Webb.”
It was all they had to know. All Snake Lady had to know.
15
“God, I love you!” said David Webb, leaning into the pay phone in the preboarding room at the private airfield in Reston, Virginia. “The waiting was the worst part, waiting to talk to you, to hear from you that you were all all right.”
“How do you think I felt, darling? Alex said the telephone lines had been cut and he was sending the police when I wanted him to send the whole damned army.”
“We can’t even allow the police, nothing official anywhere at the moment. Conklin’s promised me at least another thirty-six hours.… We may not need that now. Not with the Jackal in Montserrat.”
“David, what happened? Alex mentioned Medusa—”
“It’s a mess and he’s right, he has to go higher up with it. Him, not us. We stay out. Far away out.”
“What happened?” repeated Marie. “What’s the old Medusa got to do with anything?”
“There’s a new Medusa—an extension of the old one, actually—and it’s big and ugly and it kills, they kill. I saw that tonight; one of their guns tried to kill me after thinking he’d killed Cactus and murdering two innocent men.”
“Good God! Alex told me about Cactus when he called me back, but nothing else. How is your Uncle Remus?”
“He’ll make it. The Agency doctor came out and took him and the last brother away.”
“ ‘Brother’?”
“I’ll tell you when I see you.… Conklin’s out there now. He’ll take care of everything and have the telephone fixed. I’ll call him from Tranquility.”
“You’re exhausted—”
“I’m tired, but I’m not sure why. Cactus insisted I get some sleep and I must have had all of twelve minutes.”
“My poor darling.”
“I like the tone of your voice,” said David. “The words even better, except I’m not poor. You took care of that in Paris thirteen years ago.” Suddenly his wife was silent and Webb was alarmed. “What is it? Are you all right?”
“I’m not sure,” answered Marie softly, but with a strength that was the result of thought, not feeling. “You say this new Medusa is big and ugly and it tried to kill you—they tried to kill you.”
“They didn’t.”
“Yet they, or it, wanted you dead. Why?”
“Because I was there.”
“You don’t kill a man because he was at someone’s house—”
“A lot happened at that house tonight. Alex and I penetrated its circle of secrets and I was seen. The idea was to bait the Jackal with a few rich and all too famous bandits from the old Saigon who would hire him to come after me. It was a hell of a strategy but it spiraled out of control.”
“My God, David, don’t you understand? You’re marked! They’ll come after you themselves!”
“How can they? The hit man from Medusa who was there never saw my face except while I was running in shadows, and they have no idea who I am. I’m a nonperson who’ll simply disappear.… No, Marie, if Carlos shows up and if I can do what I know I can do in Montserrat, we’ll be free. To borrow a phrase, ‘free at last.’ ”
“Your voice changes, doesn’t it?”
“My what does which?”
“It really does. I can tell.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Jason Bourne. “I’m being signaled. The plane’s here. Tell Johnny to keep those two old men under guard!”
The whispers spread through Montserrat like rolling pockets of mist. Something terrible had happened on the out island of Tranquility.… “Bad times, mon.” … “The evil obeah come across the Antilles from Jamaic’ and there was death and madness.” … “And blood on the walls of death, mon, a curse put on the family of an animal.” … “Sshh! There was a cat mother and two cat children …!”
And there were other voices.… “Dear God, keep it quiet! It could ruin what tourism we’ve built!” … “Never anything like this before—an isolated incident, obviously drug-related, brought over from another island!” … “All too true, mon! I hear it was a madman, his body filled with dope.” … “I’m told a fast boat running like the wind of a hurricane took him out to sea. He’s gone!” … “Keep it quiet, I say! Remember the Virgins? The Fountainhead massacre? It took them years to recover. Quiet!”
And a single voice. “It’s a trap, sir, and if successful, as we believe it will be, we’ll be the talk of the West Indies, the heroes of the Caribbean. It’ll be positively mahvelous for our image. Law and order and all that.”
“Thank heavens! Was anyone actually killed?”
“One person, and she was in the act of taking another’s life.”
“She? Good God, I don’t want to hear another word until it’s all over.”
“It’s better that you not be available for comment.”
“Damned good idea. I’ll go out on the boat; the fish are running well after the storm.”
“Excellent, sir. And I’ll stay in radio contact with developments.”
“Perhaps you shouldn’t. Anything can be picked up out there.”
“I only meant so as to advise you when to return—at the appropriate moment to make a most advantageous appearance. I’ll fill you in, of course.”
“Yes, of course. You’re a good man, Henry.”
“Thank you, Crown Governor.”
It was ten o’clock in the morning and they held each other fiercely, but there was no time for talk, only the brief comfort of being together, safe together, secure in the knowledge that they knew things the Jackal did not know and that knowledge gave them an enormous advantage. Still, it was only an advantage, not a guarantee, not where Carlos was concerned. And both Jason and John St. Jacques were adamant: Marie and the children were being flown south to Guadeloupe’s Basse-Terre island. They would stay there with the Webbs’ regal maid, Mrs. Cooper, all under guard until they were called back to Montserrat. Marie objected, but her objections were met with silence; her husband’s orders were delivered abruptly, icily.
“You’re leaving because I have work to do. We won’t discuss it any further.”
“It’s Switzerland again … Zurich again, isn’t it, Jaso
n?”
“It’s whatever you like,” replied Bourne, now preoccupied as the three of them stood at the base of the dock, two seaplanes bobbing in the water only yards apart at the far end. One had brought Jason directly to Tranquility from Antigua; the other was fueled for the flight to Guadeloupe with Mrs. Cooper and the children already inside. “Hurry up, Marie,” added Bourne. “I want to go over things with Johnny and then grill those two old scumballs.”
“They’re not scumballs, David. Because of them we’re alive.”
“Why? Because they blew it and had to turn to save their asses?”
“That’s not fair.”
“It’s fair until I say otherwise, and they’re scum until they convince me they’re not. You don’t know the Jackal’s old men, I do. They’ll say anything, do anything, lie and snivel to hell and back, and if you turn the other way, they’ll shove a knife in your spine. He owns them—body, mind and what’s left of their souls.… Now get to the plane, it’s, waiting.”
“Don’t you want to see the children, tell Jamie that—”
“No, there isn’t time! Take her out there, Johnny. I want to check the beach.”
“There’s nothing I haven’t checked, David,” said St. Jacques, his voice on the edge of defiance.
“I’ll tell you whether you have or not,” shot back Bourne, his eyes angry as he started across the sand, adding in a loud voice without looking around, “I’m going to have a dozen questions for you, and I hope to Christ you can answer them!”
St. Jacques tensed, taking a step forward but stopped by his sister. “Leave it alone, Bro,” said Marie, her hand on his arm. “He’s frightened.”
“He’s what? He’s one nasty son of a bitch is what he is!”