13

His hand still on the telephone, Conklin broke out in a sweat. He released the phone and got up from his chair, limping away from the computer, looking back at it, down at it, as if it were some monstrous thing that had taken him into a forbidden land where nothing was as it appeared to be or should be. What had happened? How did Randolph Gates know anything about Montserrat, about Marie and the children? Why?

Alex lowered himself into the armchair, his pulse racing, his thoughts clashing, no judgments emerging, only chaos. He gripped his right wrist with his left hand, his nails digging into his flesh. He had to get hold of himself, he had to think-he had to act! For David's wife and children.

Associations. What were the conceivable associations? It was difficult enough to consider Gates as even unwittingly a part of Medusa, but impossible to think he was also connected to Carlos the Jackal. Impossible! ... Yet both appeared to be; the connections existed. Was Carlos himself part of Swayne's Medusa? Everything they knew about the Jackal would deny it emphatically. The assassin's strength was in his total disassociation with any structured entity, Jason Bourne had proved that thirteen years ago in Paris. No group of people could ever reach him; they could only send out a message and he would reach them. The single organization the international killer for hire permitted was his army of old men, from the Mediterranean to the Baltic, lost misfits, criminals whose impoverished last days were made better by the assassin's largess, fealty unto death demanded and received. Where did-could-a man like Randolph Gates fit in?

He didn't, concluded Alex as the outer limits of his imagination explored an old territory-Be skeptical of the apparent. The celebrated attorney was no more part of Carlos than he was of Medusa. He was the aberration, the flaw in the lens, an otherwise honorable man with a single weakness that had been uncovered by two disparate parties both with extraordinary resources. It was common knowledge that the Jackal could reach into the Sûreté and Interpol, and it took no clairvoyance to assume that Medusa could penetrate the army's G-2. It was the only possible explanation, for Gates had been too controversial, too powerful for too long to function as spectacularly as he did in the courts if his vulnerability was easily uncovered. No, it would take predators like the Jackal and the men of Medusa to bore deep enough to dredge up a secret so devastating as to turn Randolph Gates into a valuable pawn. Clearly, Carlos had gotten to him first.

Conklin reflected on a truth that was forever reconfirmed: the world of global corrupters was in reality a small multilayered neighborhood, geometric in design, the irregular avenues of corruption leading into one another. How could it be otherwise? The residents of those lethal streets had services to offer, their clients were a specific breed-the desperate dregs of humanity. Extort, compromise, kill. The Jackal and the men of Medusa belonged to the same fraternal order. The Brotherhood of I Must Have Mine.

Breakthrough. But it was a breakthrough Jason Bourne could handle-not David Webb-and Webb was still too much a part of Bourne. Especially since both parts of the same man were over a thousand miles away from Montserrat, the coordinates of death determined by Carlos. Montserrat? ... Johnny St. Jacques! The "little brother" who had proved himself in a backwater town in the northern regions of Canada, proved himself beyond the knowledge and the understanding of his family, especially his beloved sister. A man who could kill in anger-who had killed in fury-and who would kill again if the sister he adored and her children were under the Jackal's gun. David believed in him-Jason Bourne believed in him, which was far more to the point.

Alex looked over at the telephone console, then quickly got out of the chair. He rushed to the desk, sat down, and touched the buttons that rewound the current tape, adjusting it to the spot where he wanted to pick it up. He went forward and back until he heard Gates's panicked voice.

"... Good Christ, I paid fifteen thousand-"

No, not there, thought Conklin. Later.

"... I can show you the bank withdrawals-"

Later!

"... I hired a former judge who has contacts-"

That's it. A judge.

"... They flew to the island of Montserrat-"

Alex opened the drawer where he kept a sheet of paper with each number he had called during the past two days on the assumption that he might need specific ones quickly. He saw the number in the Caribbean for Tranquility Inn, picked up the phone and dialed. After more rings than seemed necessary, a voice thick with sleep answered.

"Tranquility-"

"This is an emergency," broke in Conklin. "It's urgent that I speak with John St. Jacques. Quickly, please."

"I'm sorry, sir, Mr. St. Jacques isn't here."

"I've got to find him. I repeat, it's urgent. Where is he?"

"On the big island-"

"Montserrat?"

"Yes-"

"Where? ... My name's Conklin. He wants to talk to me-he has to talk to me. Please!"

"A big wind came up from Basse-Terre and all flights are canceled until morning."

"A what?"

"A tropical depression-"

"Oh, a storm."

"We prefer a TD, sir. Mr. St. Jacques left a telephone number in Plymouth."

"What's your name?" interrupted Alex suddenly. The clerk replied Pritchard and Conklin continued: "I'm going to ask you a very delicate question, Mr. Pritchard. It's important that you have the right answer, but if it's the wrong one you must do as I tell you. Mr. St. Jacques will confirm everything I say when I reach him; however, I can't waste time now. Do you understand me?"

"What is your question?" asked the clerk with dignity. "I'm not a child, mon."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-"

"The question, Mr. Conklin. You're in a hurry."

"Yes, of course. ... Mr. St. Jacques's sister and her children, are they in a safe place? Did Mr. St. Jacques take certain precautions?"

"Such as armed guards about the villa and our usual men down on the beach?" said the clerk. "The answer is yes."

"It's the right answer." Alex took a deep breath, his breathing still erratic. "Now, what's the number where I can reach Mr. St. Jacques?"

The clerk gave it to Conklin, then added, "Many phones are out, sir. It might be well if you left a number here. The wind is still strong, but Mr. Saint Jay will no doubt come over with the first light if he can."

"Certainly." Alex rattled off the number of the sterile telephone in the Vienna apartment and had the man in Montserrat repeat it. "That's it," said Conklin. "I'll try Plymouth now."

"The spelling of your name, please. It is C-o-n-c-h-"

"C-o-n-k," broke in Alex, snapping off the line and instantly dialing the number in the town of Plymouth, the capital of Montserrat. Once again a startled, drowsy voice answered; it was a barely coherent greeting. "Who's this?" asked Conklin impatiently.

"Who the hell is this-are you?" replied an angry English man.

"I'm trying to reach John St. Jacques. It's an emergency, and I was given this number by the desk at Tranquility Inn."

"Good Lord, their phones are intact ... ?"

"Obviously. Please, is John there?"

"Yes, yes, of course. He's across the hall, I'll fetch him. Who shall I say-"

" 'Alex' is good enough."

"Just 'Alex'?"

"Hurry, please!" Twenty seconds later the voice of John St. Jacques filled the line.

"Conklin? Is that you?"

"Listen to me. They know Marie and the children flew into Montserrat."

"We heard that someone was asking questions over at the airport about a woman and two kids-"

"Then that's why you moved them from the house to the inn."