"My words are not so well phrased as those of my learned, newfound relative," added the aged hero of France. "But I know the killing must stop; it's what my woman tried to tell me. I am a hypocrite, of course, for I am no stranger to killing, so I shall only say that this kind of killing must stop. There is no business arrangement here, no profit in the kill, only a sick madman's vengeance that demands the unnecessary death of a mother and her children. Where is the profit there? ... No, the Jackal has gone too far. He, too, must now be stopped."

"That's the most cold-blooded fucking reasoning I've ever heard!" cried John St. Jacques by the window.

"I thought your words were very well chosen," said the former judge to the felon from Paris. "Très bien."

"D'accord."

"And I think I'm out of my mind to have anything to do with either of you," broke in Jason Bourne. "But right now I don't have a choice. ... It's eleven-thirty-five, gentlemen. The clock is running."

"The what?" asked Prefontaine.

"Whatever's going to happen will happen during the next two, five, ten or twenty-four hours. I'm flying back to Blackburne Airport, where I'll create a scene, the bereaved husband and father who's gone crazy over the killing of his wife and children. It won't be difficult for me, I assure you; I'll make a hell of a ruckus. ... I'll demand an immediate flight to Tranquility, and when I get here there'll be three pine coffins on the pier, supposedly containing my wife and children."

"Everything as it should be," interrupted the Frenchman. "Bien."

"Very bien," agreed Bourne. "I'll insist that one be opened, and then I'll scream or collapse or both, whatever comes to mind, so that whoever's watching won't forget what they've seen. St. Jacques here will have to control me-be rough, Johnny, be convincing-and finally I'll be taken up to another villa, the one nearest the steps to the beach on the east path. ... Then the waiting begins."

"For this Jackal?" asked the Bostonian. "He'll know where you are?"

"Of course he will. A lot of people, including the staff, will have seen where I was taken. He'll find out, that's child's play for him."

"So you wait for him, monsieur? You think the monseigneur will walk into such a trap? Ridicule!'

"Not at all, monsieur," replied Jason calmly. "To begin with, I won't be there, and by the time he finds that out, I'll have found him."

"For Christ's sake, how?" half shouted St. Jacques.

"Because I'm better than he is," answered Jason Bourne. "I always was."

The scenario went as planned, the personnel at Montserrat's Blackburne Airport still smoldering from the abuse hurled at them by the tall hysterical American who accused them all of murder, of allowing his wife and children to be killed by terrorists-of being willing nigger accomplices of filthy killers! Not only were the people of the island quietly furious, but they were also hurt. Quiet because they understood his anguish, hurt because they could not understand how he could blame them and use such vicious words, words he had never used before. Was this good mon, this wealthy brother of the gregarious Johnny Saint Jay, this rich-rich friend who had put so much money into Tranquility Isle not a friend at all but, instead, white garbage who blamed them for terrible things they had nothing to do with because their skins were dark? It was an evil puzzle, mon. It was part of the madness, the obeah that had crossed the waters from the mountains of Jamaic' and put a curse on their islands. Watch him, brothers. Watch his every move. Perhaps he is another sort of storm, one not born in the south or the east, but whose winds are more destructive. Watch him, mon. His anger is dangerous.

So he was watched. By many-the uninformed, civilians and authorities alike-as a nervous Henry Sykes at Government House kept his word. The official investigation was solely under his command. It was quiet, thorough-and nonexistent.

Bourne behaved far worse on the pier of Tranquility Inn, striking his own brother, the amiable Saint Jay, until the younger man subdued him and had him carried up the steps to the nearest villa. Servants came and went bringing trays of food and drink to the porch. Selected visitors were permitted to pay their condolences, including the chief aide to the Crown governor who wore his full military regalia, a symbol of the Crown's concern. And an old man who knew death from the brutalities of war and who insisted on seeing the bereaved husband and father-he was accompanied by a woman in a nurse's uniform, properly topped by a hat and a dark mourning veil. And two Canadian guests of the hotel, close friends of the owner, both of whom had met the disconsolate man when Tranquility Inn opened with great fireworks several years ago-they asked to pay their respects and offer whatever support or comfort they could. John St. Jacques agreed, suggesting that their visit be brief and to understand that his brother-in-law remained in a corner of the darkened living room, the drapes having been drawn.

"It's all so horrible, so meaningless!" said the visitor from Toronto softly to the shadowed figure in a chair across the room. "I hope you're a religious man, David. I am. Faith helps in such times as these. Your loved ones are in the arms of Christ now."

"Thank you." A momentary breeze off the water rustled the drapes, permitting a narrow shaft of sunlight to flash across the room. It was enough.

"Wait a minute," said the second Canadian. "You're not-good Lord, you're not Dave Webb! Dave has-"

"Be quiet," ordered St. Jacques, standing at the door behind the two visitors.

"Johnny, I spent seven hours in a fishing boat with Dave and I damn well know him when I see him!"

"Shut up," said the owner of Tranquility Inn.

"Oh, dear God!" cried the aide to the Crown governor of Montserrat in a clipped British accent.

"Listen to me, both of you," said St. Jacques, rushing forward between the two Canadians and turning to stand in front of the armchair. "I wish I'd never let you in here, but there's nothing we can do about that now. ... I thought you'd add weight, two more observers, if anyone asked you questions, which they will, and that's exactly what you're going to do. You've been talking to David Webb, consoling David Webb. Do you understand that?"

"I don't understand a damn thing," objected the bewildered visitor who had spoken of the comfort of faith. "Who the hell is he?"

"He's the senior aide to the Crown governor," answered St. Jacques. "I'm telling you this so you will understand-"

"You mean the army brass who showed up in full uniform with a squad of black soldiers?" asked the guest who had fished with David Webb.

"Among his duties is chief military aide-de-camp. He's a brigadier-"

"We saw the bastard leave," protested the fisherman. "From the dining room, we all saw him leave! He was with the old Frenchman and the nurse-"

"You saw someone else leave. Wearing sunglasses."

"Webb ... ?"

"Gentlemen!" The governor's aide rose from the chair, wearing the ill-fitting jacket worn by Jason Bourne when he had flown back to Tranquility from Blackburne Airport. "You are welcome guests on our island but, as guests, you will abide by the Crown's decisions in emergencies. You will either abide by them, or, as we would do in extreme weather, we will be forced to place you in custody."

"Hey, come on, Henry. They're friends. ..."

"Friends do not call brigadiers 'bastards'-"

"You might if you were once a busted corporal, General," inserted the man of faith. "My companion here didn't mean anything. Long before the whole damned Canadian army needed his company's engineers, he was a screwed-up infantry grunt. His company, incidentally. He wasn't too bright in Korea."

"Let's cut the crap," said Webb's fishing companion. "So we've been in here talking to Dave, right?"