Robert Ludlum - The Bourne Ultimatum

"So?" St. Jacques frowned in bewilderment.

"So you control your players, telling them what to act out but not why."

"That's what we're doing here and that's what Henry's doing out on the water all around Tranquility."

"Is he? Are we?"

"Hell, yes."

"I thought I was too, but I was wrong. I overestimated a big clever kid doing a simple, harmless job and underestimated a humble, frightened priest who took thirty pieces of silver."

"What are you talking about?"

"Ishmael and Brother Samuel. Samuel must have witnessed the torture of a child through the eyes of Torquemada."

"Turkey who?"

"The point is we don't really know the players. The guards, for instance, the ones you brought to the chapel."

"I'm not a fool, David," protested St. Jacques, interrupting. "When you called for us to surround the place, I took a small liberty and chose two men, the only two I would choose, figuring a pair of Uzis made up for the absence of one man and the four points of the compass. They're my head boys and former Royal Commandos; they're in charge of all the security here and, like Henry, I trust them."

"Henry? He's a good man, isn't he?"

"He's a pain in the ass sometimes, but he's the best in the islands."

"And the Crown governor?"

"He's just an ass."

"Does Henry know that?"

"Sure, he does. He didn't get to be a brigadier on his looks, potbelly and all. He's not only a good soldier, he's a good administrator. He covers for a lot around here."

"And you're certain he hasn't been in touch with the CG."

"He told me he'd let me know before he reached the pompous idiot and I believe him."

"I sincerely hope you're right-because that pompous idiot is the Jackal's contact in Montserrat."

"What? I don't believe it!"

"Believe. It's confirmed."

"It's incredible!"

"No, it's not. It's the way of the Jackal. He finds vulnerability and he recruits it, buys it. There are very few in the gray areas beyond his ability to purchase them."

Stunned, St. Jacques wandered aimlessly to the balcony doors coming to terms with the unbelievable. "I suppose it answers a question a lot of us have asked ourselves. The governor's old-line landed gentry with a brother high up in the Foreign Office who's close to the prime minister. Why at his age was he sent out here, or, maybe more to the point, why did he accept it? You'd think he'd settle for nothing less than Bermuda or the British Virgins. Plymouth can be a stepping-stone, not a final post."

"He was banished, Johnny. Carlos probably found out why a long time ago and has him on a list. He's been doing it for years. Most people read newspapers and books and magazines for diversion; the Jackal pores over volumes of in-depth intelligence reports from every conceivable source he can unearth, and he's unearthed more than the CIA, the KGB, MI-Five and Six, Interpol and a dozen other services even want to think about. ... Those seaplanes flew in four or five times after I got back here from Blackburne. Who was on them?"

"Pilots," answered St. Jacques, turning around. "They were taking people out, not bringing anyone in, I told you that."

"Yes, you told me. Were you watching?"

"Watching who?"

"Each plane when it came in."

"Hey, come on! You had me doing a dozen different things."

"What about the two black commandos? The ones you trust so much."

"They were checking and positioning the other guards, for Christ's sake."

"Then we don't really know who may have come in on those planes, do we? Maybe slipping into the water over the pontoons as they taxied through the reefs-perhaps before the sandbar."

"For God's sake, David, I've known those charter jocks for years. They wouldn't let anything like that happen. No way!"

"You mean it's kind of unbelievable."

"You bet your ass."

"Like the Jackal's contact in Montserrat. The Crown governor."

The owner of Tranquility Inn stared at his brother-in-law. "What kind of world do you live in?"

"One I'm sorry you ever became a part of. But you are now and you'll play by its rules, my rules." A fleck, a flash, an infinitesimal streak of deep red light from the darkness outside! Infrared! Arms extended, Bourne lunged at St. Jacques, propelling him off his feet, away from the balcony doors. "Get out of there!" Jason roared in midair as both crashed to the floor, three successive snaps crackling the space above them as bullets thumped with finality into the walls of the villa.

"What the hell-"

"He's out there and he wants me to know it!" said Bourne, shoving his brother-in-law into the lower molding, crawling beside him, and reaching into the pocket of his guayabera. "He knows who you are, so you're the first corpse, the one he realizes will drive me to the edge because you're Marie's brother-you're family and that's what he's holding over my head. My family!"

"Jesus Christ! What do we do?"

"I do!" replied Jason, pulling the second flare out of his pocket. "I send him a message. The message that tells him why I'm alive and why I will be when he's dead. Stay where you are!" Bourne pulled his lighter out of his right pocket and ignited the flare. Scrambling, he raced across the balcony doors hurling the hissing, blinding missile out into the darkness. Two snaps followed, the bullets ricocheting off the tiled ceiling and shattering the mirror of a dressing table. "He's got a MAC-ten with a silencer," said Medusa's Delta, rolling into the wall, grabbing his inflamed neck as he did so. "I have to get out of here!"

"David, you're hurt!"

"That's nice." Jason Bourne got to his feet and raced to the door; slamming it back, he rushed into the villa's living room, only to face a frowning Canadian physician.

"I heard some noise in there," said the doctor. "Is everything all right?"

"I have to leave. Get to the floor."

"Now, see here! There's blood on your bandage, the sutures-"

"Get your ass on the floor!"

"You're not twenty-one, Mr. Webb-"

"Get out of my life!" shouted Bourne, running to the entrance, letting himself outside, and rushing up the lighted path toward the main complex, suddenly aware of the deafening steel band, its sound amplified throughout the grounds by a score of speakers nailed to the trees.

The undulating cacophony was overwhelming, and that was not to his disadvantage, thought Jason. Angus McLeod had been true to his word. The huge glass-enclosed circular dining room held the few remaining guests and the fewer staff, and that meant the Chameleon had to change colors. He knew the mind of the Jackal as well as he knew his own, and that meant that the assassin would do exactly what he himself would do under the circumstances. The hungry, salivating wolf went into the cave of its confused, rabid quarry and pulled out the prized piece of meat. So would he, shedding the skin of the mythical chameleon, revealing a much larger beast of prey-say, a Bengal tiger-which could rip a jackal apart in his jaws. ... Why were the images important? Why? He knew why, and it filled him with a feeling of emptiness, a longing for something that had passed-he was no longer Delta, the feared guerrilla of Medusa; nor was he the Jason Bourne of Paris and the Far East. The older, much older, David Webb kept intruding, invading, trying to find reason within insanity and violence.

No! Get away from me! You are nothing and I am everything! ... Go away, David, for Christ's sake, go away.

Bourne spun off the path and ran across the harsh, sharp tropical grass toward the side entrance of the inn. Instantly, breathlessly, he cut his pace to a walk at the sight of a figure coming through the door; then upon recognizing the man, he resumed running. It was one of the few members of Tranquility's staff he remembered and one of the few he wished he could forget. The insufferable snob of an assistant manager named Pritchard, a loquacious bore, albeit hardworking, who never let anyone forget his family's importance in Montserrat-especially an uncle who was deputy director of immigration, a not so incidental plus for Tranquility Inn, David Webb suspected.